Karma,karma,karma-chameleon

Every so often, I believe the universe likes to remind you that ‘you could be better’. It’s like when you see hemp wearing do-good-ers giving up their evenings or weekends to raise money for charity…in the rain...on crutches. The cynical side of me likes to think that they are getting paid for such activities, but what if they aren’t? Not only does that make me a bad person for not doing the same, but for also being so negative to a genuine good soul.

I had my bank account cloned a few years ago, and out of the blue a lovely do-good-er from the local branch called my mobile to advise that some transactions had gone through my account, and they wanted to ensure that they had been made by me. Fair enough, I thought, off we go, and so the questions began…

Do-good-er: Have you given to the Alziehiemers society?
Me: Ummm, No.
Do-good-er: Have you given to the Oxfam?
Me: Ummm, No.
Do-good-er: Have you given to the RSPCA?
Me: Ummm, No. Oh wait, yes…ah, not by my bank, no.
Do-good-er: Have you given to NSPCC?
Me: God no, I really hate children…sorry I mean no.
Do-good-er: Have you given to Red Cross?
Me: Ok, so I think we have discovered that I am a bad person, now what about my bank account…

Yes, of course I was grateful that the bank had stopped my money being taken, but surely I am due bad karma for begrudging the charities the money…bar children charities, I much prefer animals and let’s face it, I really don’t like sprogs.

Of course, these gentle nudges don’t have to come from good sources, they can be prompted by not-so-good occurrences. For example, Burglary. Bear with me, I am going somewhere with this…

When I lived in my last home, someone attempted to burgle my house, but luckily they realised I was at home and hot footed it back out of my kitchen door. The police arrived promptly and asked me to go over the house to tell them what had been taken (sheer miracle – nothing had been), but as they went around the rooms with me, the PC entered and said ‘Oh no, they’ve been in here’ and indicated to the mess hurled on the armchair. I looked over to investigate the damage, only to realise the ‘disturbance’ she referred to, was my washing that I hadn’t yet hung up. Unable to admit my slovenliness, I simply nodded with my lips grimaced over a teeth bitten tongue. You see ‘could do better’.


On a similar strain, whenever himself and I order takeaway he either has to come with me to collect it, or he has to be the one to answer the door to them. I feel that getting take away is such a guilty action, as though the delivery oik is playing out the most scornful thoughts as he stands in my doorway for a whole 20 seconds. I have only ever answered the door to take away once and generally it played out as the following:

Ding Dong
Me: Hello
Delivery Oik smiles, sais nothing but hands me the boxes of munch.
Delivery Oik’s thoughts: Oh, so you are able to walk outside of your living room to the doorway, but not to the kitchen then?!
Me: Horrible night isn’t it?
The delivery Oik smiles again and nods before requesting the payment.
Delivery Oik’s thoughts: Yes, it is a horrible night, but what would you know? I’m the one zipping around on a 50cc scooter in the rain. How horrible can your night be? You in your warm slippers, central heating and doctor who on the tv…
I hand over the money, avec tip, just in case, this peep show like activity is actually playing out in real life similarly to the storyline in my mind.
Me: Well Thank you very much, have a good evening.
Delivery Oik’s thoughts: What kind of stupid smug woman are you? Have a good night? I am bound to get a cold, and trench foot by the evenings end, that’s if I haven’t got it already. Oh yes, I#ll have a lovely night, delivering food to people like you to lazy to turn on an oven – AN OVEN, not even an open fire! How hard can it be? Oh I hope your food is cold (but not too cold, because I’ll get in trouble and then that means I’ll have to come back here again you cant-cook-complainer.
Delivery Oik replies ‘you too’, smiles and then walks back out into the rain and onto his soggy seated moped.

Yes. That is exactly how take away played out – and yes, I do feel insanely guilty. See, delivery oiks are the universe’s way of telling me ‘you could do better’ and the devil’s way of responding ‘Ahh, but is better really worth it, with cooking skills such as yours – after all , we all burn down here’.

I feel as though this entry should end with a poignant morale, but let’s face it – I can’t quite be bothered to 'do better'.

With a moo moo here and a quack quack there

Of all the useful conversations I have in a day, the final one of the day was not one of them, but it was however the most amusing. As Himself and I fell asleep last night we started on the pet list that we wish to expand on. It always starts with the want for a dog - mine usually goes down the bearded collie route called 'Spider', whilst Himself sways towards an Alsation or Husky called 'Wolf' (or Greywind, but that just sounds like a title for flatulent geriatrics). Last night we ventured into the territory of farm animals and amused ourselves for a good hour coming up with names for each notion. Now, we laid there pretty darn chuffed with ourselves, so I figured I should share them...

Cows
Cow-aline
Cow-rol
Simon Cow (yes, we went there)

Ducks
Duck Berry
Duck Cherry

Chickens
Lady Cluck
Hen-rietta

Goats
Billy 

Sheep
Chop
Mint Sauce 
Baar-bara  

...and so the list continues. Anyhoo, I guess the point of this entry is to say 'Thank god we arn't having children!'

It may seem crazy, but it all went down that way

I have to open this entry with the fact that my best friend, when finding out this information, responded with ‘nice try, but I don’t believe you’, this was further supported with her telling her boyfriend that she was convinced I was on drugs. So if that doesn’t set the tone for this entry I have no idea what does.

So, the Saturday before last began like any other. Himself and I awoke, had breakfast and spent the day in the garden topping up the tans (well, I was tanning, he was lobster transforming). The Creepshow had an extra gig lined up in Camden (yes, I had travelled the length of the UK only 5 days previous to see them) and so we had planned to head up to London late afternoon to partake once more. About 3pm, we started to get changed in preparation for said gig. About fifteen post shower minutes later and Himself gets a text from an unknown number…this unknown number just so happened to belong to Sean ‘Sickboy’ (the double-bass player) from non-other than The Creepshow, and like with all unknown numbers belonging to major Canadian musicians - this unknown number asked if the band could stay at mine after the gig.

Of course…of course; my favourite band, who I was utterly ecstatic about just seeing live – let alone meeting the week before, are now asking to crash at my house – What part of that would possibly seem surreal?

Now doing what any rather untidy home owner would do (with only 45 minutes to tidy her house in preparation of famous people arriving), I then spent the next seven minutes bouncing up and down (yes – I have learnt over the past month, I am a most definite ‘bouncer’) laughing like a loon. Then the brain kicked in saying you now only have 38 minutes to tidy up, to which the rest of my body decided that instead of tidying I should spend the time phoning people to tell them how surreal my Saturday was. And to think people don’t think that I’m logical? With about 20 minutes remaining, I finally focus and deploy Himself to retrieve extra bedding from the bestie, whilst I wrestled with the spare bed. Turns out when excited everything takes twice as long to do, and yet you get it done in half the time – try figuring that sentence out…

By the time I have any idea of what is happening I am sitting on the train on the way in to London – it is only then that I realised that I hadn’t got changed and was in fact heading towards a Psychobilly gig in a white strawberry dress and yellow stripy cardigan. Not the usual colour scheme I have to admit. Oh, and just to really support my ‘hey I’m cool’ image, I managed to drop my sandwich down me the moment the train pulled away! Well done special girl. 

We made it to the London Underworld pretty quickly, Himself had been texting Sean throughout the journey, and he had informed us to give our names in at the door to get tickets. That alone I thought was pretty awesome, but when we realised we had backstage admittance, well, I can only say what happened next was only received by dogs, because I most certainly was not ‘eek-ing’ at a human frequency.

I have to just stop and explain the taking stock moment that occurred between the arrival and the band taking to the stage. You see, there I was, with a backstage pass to my favourite bands gig, with my wonderful boyfriend who was on the phone to his best friend who had just played to 500 people at Bloodstock.  Yes, there is no wonder the bestie had trouble believing this, I have trouble believing this.

As the band took to the stage, the crowd filled the room. Not being the tallest ‘being in the world, I have to say, there wasn’t too much I could see, when all of a sudden, we realised that we had backstage passes – I didn’t need to stare the coat seams on the guy in front, we could watch it from backstage. Off we bounded to the back of the Underworld (oh, just to clarify Underworld is the venue – not Hades abode), and with one flash of the wrist band, we found ourselves standing on the side of the stage. Best place in the whole venue, and you could see people watching us, trying to figure out who an earth the couple  where to bag that position and why an earth was she wearing a white strawberry dress.

The band were amazing. The crowd chanted, bounced and moshed their way through in the pit, whilst I happily danced my little feet off, singing my heart out at the side of the stage. Being in the state of shock that I was the previous Monday, the gig was blurry with the memory somewhat scatty. However, that Saturday I could hear every word and savour ever song. It was phenomenal. I have to say, when it had been announced in July that Sarah was leaving and that she had been replaced, I was unsure how easily she would be replaced, and with all respect, Sarah is perfect in Walk off the Earth, but Kenda totally smashed it joining The Creepshow. Her voice is staggering – she is so small and tiny and then she belts out the most astonishing raspy sounds…and she’s an absolute sweetheart to boot. 

Himself and I had headed outside the venue at the end of the gig – only to realise the band was still inside. Not a problem for important people such as ourselves. As the hordes exited and found themselves ushered towards the exit, with one flash of the super-wrist and we gained entry back inside. Very smug. It was weird to see the room which had previously been fit to bursting moments earlier, now empty.

Once all instruments had been loaded into the van, the band named a pub (which to be fair neither of us natives had heard of, but followed anyway) and there we found ourselves – drinking in one of those too-cool to have a name outside-bars drinking with my favourite ever band. The nerves had slowly started to dissipate – this could be vodka related to be perfectly fair and I began to enjoy just ‘hanging out’. Yeh-uh! I loved the fact that I got to see my idols as regular people. Drinking, laughing and joking.  The Rev and Daniel, had an on-going joke which was repeated many a time throughout the night – each time the rev explaining it…just in case we missed it the first five times ;p

By the time we all (yes, I can say we – as in me, himself and the best band ever – that is a collective ‘we’ woohoo) it had to be said I was pretty tiered, and so were they. As some chatted, others dosed, whilst I fought every urge to fall asleep (despite my head happily nesting on himself and my eyelids slumping heavily over my eyeballs).  Partly because I didn’t want to miss anything, partly because I was awfully concerned about drooling or snoring in front of rock stars…because let’s face it, I honestly didn’t have enough cool points to risk it.  In hindsight, I really shouldn’t have worried about losing cool points that night as the next morning I had severe bed hair (no not bed hair – front room floor with pillow made from clean washing hair). No hairbrush and I couldn’t get into my bathroom for love nor money. Each attempt to gain WC entry was thwarted, thus leaving me with no makeup, huge hair and a considerably full bladder. Yup – I am that cool.

Anyway the morning that followed was all very bizarre (not that the rest of the week was normal). Rock stars in my garden, rock stars drinking tea, rock stars stroking (or attempting to in Meows case) kitties and himself making mounds and mounds of bacon sandwiches. By the time the band left, a few neighbours were in the street, watching the mass exodus into the large green van crammed into our tiny road – they of course knew not who the band consisted of, they had no idea how in my world Southchurch would never seem the same again or the wonderment of my week.

If you are still reading this almighty content, then hats off to you. This entry is hardly the usual fluffy ramblings of Nu, but it is a milestone marker of my life. Do you know, I have only been in my home since December 2011, but I have more happy memories in the past 8 months than the 5 years in my last abode – and let’s face it, Rock stars never stayed in Pitsea, but then neither did Himself, and imagine how dark a place my world would be otherwise.

Rock and Roll Sweetheart

You know those moments in life when things are going amazingly and its as though everything you had wanted and more happens - you find that your dreams are fulfilled; but then you learn that that's all it ever was...a dream. You see, actually the bell that you hear in the background is not a musical accompaniment it is in fact the alarm buzzer, and that shout out of your name didn't come from the rock stars mic as you had previously believed, but is actually your other half waking you telling you that you need to get up because your now running rather late. Well, this Monday was the most amazing night ever, and when I woke up on Tuesday morning, I nervously looked to my boyfriend for some form of confirmation that I hadn't created the memory in my dreams and I am astonished (and ecstatic) to confirm that this actually happened!

Lets start at the very beginning, apparently its a very good place to start .

Nearly three months ago about 1am one sunday morning my boyfriend (who is going to need a tag and as a result I have decided to write him as Himself and I drove home from his gig in Colchester and I was babbling (because I babble alot) about my favourite band 'The Creepshow'. He wasn't too aware of them, but had remembered seeing something about them on his friends Facebook profile (yes - I know how much I hate Facebook, but in this instance I'm pretty chuffed) and said his friend from Aberdeen was hosting their gig in Scotland. I don't remember the exact reaction, but I think it involved me bouncing up and down like a crazy saying in very fast succession 'canwegocanwegocanwegocanwego?' and bless his heart the brilliant man said yes. So 2am in the morning and I am booking flights to Scotland.

So, this week was the week of the gig and so on Sunday morning we left the sunny world of Essex and began our journey t'up north. Cue Sunday evening, hanging out in a hotel balcony...oh hang on - first I need to tell you about this hotel. We had taken three wrong turns and had pulled into a wrong hotel coming away saying 'thought it was too nice'. Eventually we found the sign for the hotel but as we pulled into the carpark of Beamers and Lexus' we decided this was even posher than the first hotel and no, this too must be the wrong hotel - so we drove back out. Turns out, that was the hotel, and the chandelier and grand piano entrance was the opening to our hotel...not a bad start for our first holiday.

Right, now I can get back to hanging out on the hotel balcony, when out of the blue  Himself decides to say 'I was going to tell you this tomorrow, but I want to tell you now that your going to meet the band and you can be there before the gig for the sound check'. After telling him he best not be joking, the super babble began once more and the bouncing recommenced.

You can only imagine what I was like by the time Monday afternoon came around - except from after all the chipmunk babbling, I was so crazily excited that I couldn't even string a sentence together - each time I tempted to speak all that could come out sounded like a Chip or Dale on helium...eventually the power of speech left me all together.

Lots of wine and a fair bit of vodka later (when in Scotland and all that) and the band arrive. As speech had left me, I figured I could play a cool-mute. Except for when this cool mute decided to lean on the bar door, rather than the doorframe and found herself falling backwards through the doorway - luckily nobody had noticed, but internally I could feel my inner cool-person (what does one call their inner cool person? I feel like she should be called something like Ethel or Maude?) shake her head, role her eyes and tut repeatedly at me. 

The band all rolled out of a green van and the grand unloading began. Himself took in some equipment, whilst I ran the scenario through my mind - if I carried in a guitar, would that make me like 'baby' in Dirty Dancing 'I carried a guitar'.

Himself returned saying that I should go and talk to them. Now, I am under no illusion that I'm cool and when nervous, I tend to blurt out ridiculous replies, but as began to eye him a response, he had already grabbed my hand and was half way through telling the Rev McGinty how I much I loved the band and that we had travelled the length of the country to see them, to which the Rev thanked me and being the bright spark that I am, I responded with 'thank you' back. At this point my inner cool person (aka Ethel or Maude) raised her palms to the sky and stomped off into the shadows leaving me to my own geeky devices - a worry event I admit.

Himself then walks me over to 'Sickboy' and Kenda and introduces me, asking if it's ok to get a photo - to which the lovely people responded by popping me in the middle to pose. I'm not too sure hat happened after that...I think I went into some form of geeky coma, because the next thing I remember was the soundcheck - where I so desperately wanted to take a photo. However, being unsure of the protocol and cool-people etiquette wasn't so sure about doing. Again, luckily  Himself's brain cells still functioned perfectly and he took a photo of me with the band in the background. I can't quite convey how surreal this all was for me and the photos are actually essential for my belief of the event. 

For Himself,who is used to performing at his own gigs, the world of other bandness isn't anything too out of the norm - but as I get starstruck watching my very own boyfriend on the stage, I truly didn't stand a chance of a Nonchalant-Nu in the company of my favourite band of all time.

It felt like an age before The Creepshow actually took to the stage that evening. The starter band, just kept playing 'one more song'. Now ordinarily, I am sure they are lovely, but as it stood, it was like that nightmare where you are trying to get somewhere and keep getting delayed. I even contemplated flicking the trip-switch to get them off the stage, but luckily, contemplation was as far as I actioned...see I can be well behaved if the right carrot is dangled.

When the band took their places on the stage,  Himself and I took to ours - slap bang in the middle in the front row, and apart from some spinny dancing, that is pretty much where I rooted myself for the next hour. In fact, when people tried muscling in on my position, I was swept back to the front row by  Himself  and his friends. 

All concerns I had over the band not living up to my expectations instantly dissipated. I was mesmerised from start to finish. Oh and whilst I’m talking about exceeding expectations, I should also mention at this point that Kenda (the lead singer) not only held my hand whilst on stage, but also jumped down into the crowd and danced with me. Hell yeah, that happened. At that point, my life could not have been any cooler, or so I thought. 

You see, moments later, thanks to my brilliant boyfriend and his fabulous friend an amazing turn of events occurred. The Rev McGinty took to the mic and asked into the crowd a 'Nic from Essex'. At this point I sourly thought 'Lucky cow', but then the brain cells started to connect and slowly my limbs began to move, and my hands rose into the air. That lucky cow was me. The Rev dedicated not only my favourite song to me, but also the entire set in my honour. It was such an amazing moment, I didn't even recognise my own name, even writing this now, it feels as though my memory belongs to a move, because lets face it, it’s pretty mind-blowing.

So just to clarify, as I know this is being typed via a chipmonk memory - not only did I get to see my favourite band play live, I also got to meet them, have them dance with me during the set, dedicate  my favourite song to me and have the gig in my name. Oh Ethel / Maude, you should have stuck around, because by all stretches of the imagination - that is damn cool!

I wanted to write this entry in so much detail, but the details arn’t there, because my mind was so utterly dumbfounded. What I do know is that every time I think of Monday I get the most heart warming feeling and the most insane dopey grin. I have to say that yes, I am smiling because of my favourite band, but I smile even wider for the man who made it possible. 

A year ago, if you had told me how my life be right now, I would never have believed you. In the past year I have wished on so many stars to find my happiness - and today when I looked at the clock at 11:11, I had nothing to wish for. I have found my happiness and so much more. I said to my mum the other day that Monday was the best day of my life, and she said that I was wrong, and that it wasn’t – she said the best day of my life was when I met  Himself...and you know what? Mother knows best, it truly was.

If I title this entry using the lyric 'love can build a bridge', it is possible that I may even out goof myself...

As certain as it is that the fifties had the best fashion, it is a known fact to anyone who knows me that I do like a bit of romance in my world.  I’m not a girly girl (bar my lack of trouser ownership), but I love the idea of love.  Simple.  I like reading about ‘grande passions’, I like romantic movies and yes rose tinted glasses make me happy - so this morning I decided to pop them on whilst reading through the headlines. Now the headlines today began with a rather gloomy focus on the murdered father and his three children, the Olympics security (or lack of) and a Miami Cannibal – now I know that my boyfriend would much rather focus on the Cannibal option, but luckily I was alone on the train, leaving the story selection to my choice. Anyhoo, I digress, I came across a story about the padlocks on the Parisian bridges the Pont des Arts, Passerelle Léopold-Sédar-Senghor and the Pont de l'Archevêché.

You see, couples go to the bridges and lock a padlock to the railings or nearby tree, to signify their love or to make a wish. Although the story focused on Paris ( I mean, most romantic capital would edge the locational bets), it’s also happening in Rome and now even London. I think it stems from Fengyuan in Taiwan, where love padlocks are affixed to an overpass at the city's train station - these locks are known as "wish locks" and local legend holds that the magnetic field generated by trains passing underneath will cause energy to accumulate in the locks and fulfill the wishes. Now as much as I like the thought of magick, after a week of commuting via train to and from work, I am certainly not convinced that trains make your wishes come true. Especially when yesterday, the train was not only late, but also leaking.

Instead I decided to look for a more romantic story to attach to the notion. Rome had its own explanation saying that the ritual of affixing love padlocks to the bridge Ponte Milvio can be attributed to the book I Want You by Italian author Federico Moccia. Aha - now I was getting somewhere, an italian book called ‘I want you’ is more romantic than a taiwanese train, but as I have not read the book, I was still not satisfied…and then I found out about the Most Ljubavi. This bridge is in Serbia, and based on the padlocks appearing upon it is now called the ‘Bridge of Love’. Aha – this was a good start.

The story attached to the Serbian Padlocks go back to World War 2 – not the most romantic setting, but bear with me. There was a woman called Nada, and she fell in love with a Serbian officer named Relja. The couple got engaged, but then war broke out and Relja was posted to Greece, whilst in Greece he fell in love with another woman and broke off their engagement. The story says that Nada never got over the sadness and died of a broken heart. The young girls from her village of Vrnjacka Banja wanted to protect their hearts and began writing the names of their loved ones on padlocks and locked them onto the railings of the bridge where Nada and Relja used to meet.

So it turns out my romantic story, was not actually romantic – in fact it was tragically sad. I guess it makes the locks more poignant though – because life does change, and so do people, but, whether or not the ‘owners of the locks’ love lasts or not, is kind of irrelevant in my mind, it’s how they felt at that moment in time. You see, although I like to argue whether or not it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all, when you are in love and have your loved returned, well those moments make the markers of your life, and I like the idea of passers-by knowing that for that exact moment in time, the unity was unbreakable.

The couple in the modern day story, threw one key into the river under the bridge, and brought the other key with them home to the UK. The key is kept with their will for the story to live on. Now, this all seems a little far-fetched, as just like with the scrawling on the Abbey Road sign, it is a little naive (even for a romantic like me) to believe the lock will stay there. You see in Paris, Canada, Florence, Dublin and Germany the councils have already been working to remove the padlocks because they detract from the architecture…but in a weird twist of fate, I believe that by having them there, you are adding to the romance of the city – which is more than any naked bridge can hope to do alone.

There you have it, rose tinted glasses on a Tuesday morning. Oh and if you wish to read the full article about the love locks – here it is: www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2172901/The-lock-love-For-years-couples-world-left-padlocks-bridges-tokens-love-Now-Britons-unlocking-inner-passions-too.html

1.       Oh and just in case said boyfriend ever stumbles across my blog – this is the cannibal story, for his own amusement:  www.dailymail.co.uk/.../Revealed-Miami-cannibal-Rudy-Eugene-met-victim-horrifying-attack.html

When you wear lapels like a swell, isn't that swell

I have decided that in my own rather twisted way, I can be quite stylish. This is both flattering and concerning. Ok, before I sound completely egotistical I shall explain… firstly my stylish décor was complimented by two random strangers passing my home. They liked the bunting, door sign and house name that they felt the need to knock on my door to tell me so. Flattering because my teapot bunting is appreciated, concerning as they were kind of, well, old. Hmmm.
Ok, second endorsement; pretty much occurs when I’m at a bar, when drunken women like to compliment my dress or outfit. Flattering because they like my choice of apparel, concerning because they are drunk, white stiletto wearing oranges. I was complimented at work for my ‘interesting’ style… flattering because my quirky style is noted, concerning because it was called ‘interesting’…a worrying terminology I am sure you’ll agree. Well then, that is all of the context setting I plan to do for this entry.

Now, I have never been one to follow a crowd, I like to be my own person and generally dance to my own tune. I like the idea of inspiring people, but if you instigate a wave of nu-like people, does that mean I become more like others – thus defeating my purpose?

Last year, the bestie started buying into the vintage world and joined me in my 50’s frockery and hair fleurs (a look that she totally rocks and looks amazing in) which is all rather fabulous. Then my mum decided she too was going to find her inner nic-ness and joined the world of swing dresses earlier this year (which I have to say also look stunning). The latest addition to my vintage va-vooms is my sister, who has recently purchased my favourite designers style of halterneck fabulousness (I can’t comment on how this looks, because I am yet to see it on, but I can pretty much guess it will look lovely). Now, lets apply the flattering / concerning quota…

I adore the fact that I can influence other peoples wardrobes, I mean, poor lemmings can only dream of such influence as they follow whatever vacuous Barbie is featured in The Sun gossip pages, so in that respect am flattered, but part of me is a little concerned that with so many me’s, I may become less of a me and more of a them. Not that I don’t want to be a them, because these three woman are all utterly fabulous, but I like being anything but ordinary, ridiculously that is who I am and if I’m not me, then who am I?

Now if this entry was a Monty Python sketch, I would be interrupted at this point because this is getting ‘too silly’, so I am going to shhh now, as I am losing my mind by trying to establish if I am losing me…Yes, you can tell that I have had huge concerns on my mind today…grey matter clearly not taxed enough – or far too much thinking time spent commuting…must reach over and grab the abandoned ‘Times’ on the seat across from me to make self at least look like I have a molocum of sense.

Baby you can drive my car

...because I sure as hell don't want to.

After 10 years of bikerism, I had the inkling to sell out and conform. By this I don't mean getting a black helmet instead of a pink one, nor do I mean getting a Harley instead of my Vespa, nothing as acceptable as the aforementioned. Oh no. I mean learning to drive a crazy four wheeled death trap (also known as a car). 

You know how you always felt drawn to driving a car? Well I was always drawn towards bikes. I have never (and will never) want to drive a car. No matter how much people like to sell the benefits,it just doesn't excite or inspire me. No, I am perfectly happy on two wheels. Unfortunately, society has other ideas and car driving is a requirement. A very annoying requirement. 

I then have two options - do I learn in a manual or automatic? If I learnt in an automatic I could learn far quicker, pass my test sooner, but it also means that I cannot get my vintage car. Where as if I learn in a manual it will take longer, be harder and...well take longer is the general bone of contention. I'm not a patient person. Everything that I do, needs doing yesterday. I am also a perfectionist. So the process of getting things wrong and taking a long time about it is not something that pleases me. 

I have just got back from my second lesson...have I enjoyed myself? Nope. Do I remember any of it? Nope. Was I deliriously happy to get back to my bike? YES YES YES! Bikes make sense to me - cars do not. 

I can do the gear changing,that's easy, but the whole steering thing is a hassle. Why do you have to learn to do it properly? Lets face it, the minute I pass,I will do it my own way anyway. I think that's the bit that frustrates me - no-one drives like they should, so why carry on the pretence that I will? If I manage to do the manoeuvre my way - why do I have to learn it your way?

If I could drive my way - this learning lark wouldn't be so fraustrating - admittedly, it would be slightly hit or miss (hahaha - literally) but...darn it, I do not have the patience to abide by other peoples rules.  

When I and my mother would disagree, to get my way I would run from her to him

Sunday shoppers scurry in and out of card shops for their last minute ‘fathers day’ cards, I don’t know who should own more guilt - the card companies or the offspring who forgot to prepare. Being the green hat thinker that I am, I hate having to conform; I dislike being told what to do and how to think. Mothers day, Fathers day, Valentines day – they don’t have the meaning that they should – you aren’t celebrating the person because you want to, you are doing it because Hallmark have told you that for this 1 day out of 365, you should put a year’s worth of thought into 24 hours. Well, yes, I did buy my dad a card, and yes, I have brought him a present, but Dad, this is also for you.

Although my style, my (hmmm shall we say) life choices, my music taste and my general ‘nu-like’ mannerisms are an echo of my aunt, you can see that I am most certainly a combination of my parents.  People always recognise my mum’s personality in me; they notice my sarcasm, my humour, my passion, my strength and yes, my stubbornness – and they see that these traits all come from my mum. But, without my dad, I wouldn’t be the character that I am today. How many women would spend their weekends doing DIY? Climbing ladders, putting up shelves, changing plugs? My dad is ‘do-er’, and I want him to know that he has taught me well (but that is not to say that his assistance is unrequited – because let’s face it, I am incredibly easily distracted).

Now firstly, let you me tell you about my dad. He’s not very tall, he’s not a distinctive dresser, you won’t find him down the pub or watching football, if you saw him on the dance floor he would be rocking out to his own ‘dad-like’ moves, if you passed him in the street, I doubt you would even notice him – but in spite of you passing him by, you know what? He’s the best dad that anyone could ever ask for, and my world is a better place, because no matter how old I am, where I am living, who I am with, or who I become, I will always be my daddy’s girl.

I know I can be a bad influence on my dad. Even now, I get him in trouble. It was always the case of asking dads permission before asking mums, because they would always provide a united front, so if dad said yes, mum had to go with it. I know that my dad is always there for me, whether this means taxi-cabbing, garden hacking, washing machine plumbing, loft ladder testing or trips to ASDA, he’s only ever a phone call away.

Shortly after moving into my first house, I was home alone one evening, when two people tried their luck and entered my kitchen whilst I was upstairs. I barricaded myself in the bedroom, and shakily grabbed the phone. Any logical person would have dialled the police, but I called my dad (who then told me to call the police). The police came, and so did my dad – armed with...i think it was a spade or at least the handle of one! For this paragraph just picture the full on spade...because, my dad is like the avenger...but with a spade! You see it started in my teen years, when I was seeing some guy, who decided to turn up at my parent’s house after a night of clubbing to see if I was awake. He threw some pebbles to the window to wake me up – genius...had it been my window and not my parents. This was the first formation of my dad and the powerful weapon ‘the spade’.

My mum and dad are how parents should be. They have always done everything for my sister and I and put us before anything else – this is not to say that they spoilt us, or let us get away with murder, nope, had there been a naughty step back then, I would have found myself seated upon it for many an hour. I guess, the point I am making is that my mum and dad are a partnership and my dad isn’t one of those dads who sit on the side line, he is in all of my memories. I remember the old moped that he used to ride, and every so often I was allowed to ride with him as he came down the drive – it was only about 7 ft, but I loved it. I used to love the smell of the bike gloves, because they smelled of my dad. Even now, when I smell fresh ink it reminds me of when he would come home after being at work all day.

I also remember my dad being dressed up as Mickey Mouse for my birthday whilst my mum sweated underneath a ‘snowman’ costume. My mum used to help out at the school all the time, she would teach sewing, and reading, she would come on school trips. When I was in year six, my dad came on a school trip to Maldon. He knew all about boats and looking back I am so pleased that he went – even if I didn’t show it at the time (I had just got together with a boy called Jamie and was way more excited about my first kiss, than my dad’s knowledge of knots).

My dad has watched my grow into the woman I am today – this can’t have been easy. I know that I have tested his patience on more than one occasion (as he has mine) - I remember him threatening to sleep outside my bedroom door when my first boyfriend came to stay. My dad and I share the same temper and we may find we disagree on many a thing, but he has been there every step of the way, and he’s rescued me from myself so many times over the past year, I can never repay him. So, this blog is to say, that I don’t say it enough, but ‘Dad, for all that you are, and all that you do, I am truly grateful and I love you very much’

Happy Fathers Day.

I saw a mouse! Where? There on the stair! Where on the stair? Right there!

When I was young (which, some may say was rather a long time ago) my mum and dad gave my sister and I hamsters for Christmas. One of my fondest memories is returning home one afternoon with my dad and sister, to find my mum sitting on the floor with the paddling pool in the middle of our lounge (void of water I hasten to add) with a highly... well, some would say stressed, some would say bemused expression. You see our two female hamsters, were not quite ‘sold as seen’. Turns out Sophie (I was a big BFG fan) was an unfortunately named male, and Petal , well, she was still female, and had happily popped out an array of mini-hamsters. Of course, Sprog and I were delighted, my parents less so...my mum in particular disagreement based on the fact she had to catch the little buggers as the climbed the chimney breast, and escaped through the bars of the cage.

A decade later and I was still a lover of cute and fluffy animals. Hims and I lived in a tiny one bedroom flat at this time of my life, and based on the no cats/dogs rule one Saturday, Hims finally gave in a gave me a little Russian hamster who I named ‘Oogie’. Oogie was awesome...if not crazily small...and insanely fast. She lived quite happily in a ridiculously oversized tanky-like thing...a tanky like thing that had a broken latch towards the later years...a broken latch that Oogie decided to take advantage of. Should’ve called her Houdini,  as one day she just vanished. I was slightly convinced that she had gone into the rubbish sack and I had thrown her away...this led to a very sad Nu.

2.30am one Sunday morning and Hims woke me up saying the Oogie had run past him in the lounge. Now, before I got my hopes up, I had to remind myself this was the man who would wake me up during random nights (whilst he continued to sleep) to tell me that ‘sandwiches taste better in the Sahara, because there are no buildings around’. Turned however, on this occasion, he was awake.

One hacked up sofa later and Oogie was returned. Turns out she had made a lovely den inside Hims’ brother’s couch that was on loan to us at the time. Oogie was fine for her adventure, the couch less so.  However, after that point no more mini critters was a general rule between us.

 

This was a rule I planned to keep. Having three cats, it isn’t an argument that I needed to have with myself. I have no desire to have mini-critters in my house or my life now. Unfortunately, life had other ideas...and this morning whilst doing some sever house cleaning (yes, lesson learnt here!) I went to the cupboard under the stairs to move my crisps from under the stairs into a basket in the kitchen. Except I didn’t find the crisps that I had left there. Oh no, I found nibbled empty packets. 24 packs of empty packets.

I don’t think I live alone anymore.

I can’t hear any squeaking, I bravely flash lit my cupboard but luckily did not see any movement, but the crisps didn’t shred and eat themselves. Having three cats, I should just unleash their almighty claws and let them catch dinner, but I hate to think of the mice suffering, equally though, I hate to think of random rodents in my house. I decided to google how long mice can survive in a home...turns out quite a while, turns out they breed quite quickly too. Hummpf! The joys of an old house. I know you can get the nice mouse traps, that just capture them for re-release, but how many traps does one need? and where does one release them to? Are they like homing pidgeons? Do you get homing mice? Have decided at this point to barricade the cupboard door and keep instructing my pride of chats to meow loudly as they pass the hall way – luckily MeowMeow is called her name for a reason and doesn't need much persuasion.

On the plus side, this event has reminded me of a song that my grandpa used to sing when I was little.

Devil's Spawn

I have been told on occasion, that I am a little ‘quirky’, and on even more occasions that I’m just plain weird. This isn’t because of my 50’s dresses and bright red hair, it’s not down to my pink vespa with rainbow flowers, it’s not even to do with the fact that I don’t own a single pair of trousers...nope it’s because of the following statement that I am about to confirm here in black and white.

I HATE SPROGS. In fact I hate them with a passion.

I don’t like the way that they look, I can’t stand the way that they sound, when they scream it makes me want to do the same, and the supposedly ‘cute’ habits, you know the really ‘charming’ things like running around naked, singing, mispronouncing their R’s – it all just gets on my wick.

At this point, I am going to perform an astonishing mind reading activity – you see as you read this you are thinking ‘what is wrong with you?’, well dear reader, nothing, nothing is wrong with me, I just don’t like children, similar to the way that you don’t like cockroaches. To which you are now thinking ‘you can’t compare cockroaches to babies – they are adorable’, and now I will reply with the simple question – ‘Are they? Are they really?’ Because, I don’t find it adorable when they sit behind me on a plane kicking my chair, I don’t find them adorable when they get the hiccups and spit up weird white foamy goo, nor do I find it adorable when the fling popcorn at my hair during a trip to the cinema. So now you are going to pull out your big guns, because, you sprog lovers adore this final statement, you say it with such utter confidence – because this is the real doozey of a response ‘But you was a child once’. There you go. You said it. And all I need to say to that is... EXACTLY! But before you start getting out the holy water, you need to hear me out (because let’s face it, I get to hear your arguments time and time again).

I Hate Sprogs when I’m Shopping

If there is one thing that I hate more than people with ‘push-tram egos’ it’s the Sprogs that have escaped from the confines of their push trams. Let’s take this one topic at a time. Why, in a crowded shopping centre do people with pushtrams believe that because they have a buggy, they have superiority over all other shoppers? You know the type, they see that everyone else is patiently allowing passers through, but they don’t wait to the side like everyone else, oh no – they charge through the middle, steam rollering any innocent bystander with their mama&paper buggy of bruises! Oh, and why, do they have to be left right in front of what I wish to look at? Can’t you move it so that it’s in your way and not mine? After all, it was you that should have had a headache...not me.

Ok, so if it’s not the parents it’s the escapee sprogs – and this always happens when Christmas shopping. The sprog is harness free and out in the wild (well Lakeside shopping centre at least), they have a toy car or truck, that they are happily shooting across the shop floor, I say happily, I mean happily until you trip over it and land painfully on the polished floor moments before you hear the crunch of tomy plastic underneath your spine. The scream and wails that follow do not come from you and your slipped disk, but from the bright red banshee demon that is frantically thrashing its arms across the floor retrieving the rogue wheel that has burst from its body and is now rolling under the counter.

I Hate Sprogs when I’m on Holiday

Planes – Screaming, Kicking, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ - Need I say more?

If cats and dogs have to be kept in hold - surely the same rule should apply to under 21's

I Hate Sprogs when I’m having a Day Out

Not being the most mature grown up in the world, I still like doing things that I did when I was a kid – going to see the dinosaurs at the natural history museum, feeding the elephants at Colchester Zoo or seeing the sharks at the London Aquarium. What I do not like is how parents shove their sprogs in front of me. Why do they do this? Why would I want to let your sprog infront of me? Unlike myself, they haven’t paid their entry fee and let’s face it, they have many more years in their life than what I have, so why should I let them queue jump? If I hadn’t wanted to feed the heffalump, I wouldn’t have joined the queue – as contrary to my British heritage, I’m not a lover of waiting in queues for no apparent reason.

I am a photographer. I always have a camera with me. So when I go to London Aquarium and it’s shark feeding time, you can pretty much understand that there is a reason why I have been sitting in front of the glass for the past 15 minutes. A few years ago, I had the perfect shot lined up. The shark was perfectly posed in front of my lens, she had just opened her mouth to eat, and then just as I pressed the shutter, some hell demon popped the back of its head in front of my lens and blocked the shot. By the time my anger had dissipated, and my vision returned, the shark had eaten and exited, the sprog had happily hopped off, leaving me staring in disbelief at my shot-less camera and the smeary jam hand print that was left against the glass. I am sure there is a reason Richard Attenborough goes to such anti-human locations, and it’s not entirely for the cinematography.  

I Hate Sprogs when I’m at a Restaurant

I come out to dinner to relax & kickback – I do not come here to play babysitter to your sprog that is running back and forth around the restaurant. I don’t like eating in front of strangers as a rule, so I really really don’t find it amusing to be gawped at by the sprog that has attached itself (literally) to my table. If am a at a diner style restaurant, I don’t want to see bouncing brats on the spongy leather as they jump up and (and I don’t want to see their dinner as it reappears down their t-shirt). Oh, and no, I don’t decide to go out to dinner to listen to you and your sprog arguing over the fact that if he doesn’t eat his veg he won’t get any dessert. If you want a night off from your little darlings, do the right thing and leave them at home. Do not take them out and inflict them on the rest of society...we will have to deal with them in ten years time anyway when they turn teenagers.

Oh and don’t even get me started on teenagers...

I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it...

Every so often, you get amazingly good news. Good news could be a text, a letter, a lottery ticket, or it could occur in an early morning conversation. I am crazily excited, because in the early hours of this morning, I learnt the most awesome news...The Creepshow are coming to the UK. I have been wanting to see this band FOREVER.  Have even been thinking about going to Canada this year just to go to their gig. I love this band.

I am a Psychobilly. Which if you haven’t heard of this music genre, it takes Rockabilly music (50’s style rock n roll) and put a darker kick into it. It’s often linked with punk...not that I see myself as a punk...Psychobilly, in my world and definition, is like taking zombies and kitting them out with a double bass. Haha, yes that is the technical term. Anyhoo, The Creepshow - they are very much like the ‘Horrorpops’, but that comparison is like saying Galaxy is like Cadburys (just to clarify, Cadburys whips the backside of Galaxy). 

So, The Creepshow are coming to the UK in two months time, and I am so thrilled that I practically need peeling off the ceiling. I am, and always have been a bit of a music snob, not as bad as some people I know, but I am pretty black and white – I either love a band, or I don’t. The first time I heard The Creepshow, I remember being musically swept off of my feet - have a complete crush on Sarah Sin, and I cannot wait, to hear these guys live. This is my gig of a lifetime.