You make me feel like dancing...

Some days all you need is a fabulous pair of hardcore headphones, an iPod and an empty house. You can be alone without being lonely and let’s face it...how often would you dance around the house with a spectator.

They say ‘sing like no-one can hear you and dance as though no-one is watching’; this is one of the best bits of advice – I believe in this 100%. Nothing can cheer me up the way that singing my heart out and dancing around like a pogo-stick can.

If you’ve ever watched Love Actually you would have seen Hugh Grant dancing round rather fantastically to the pointer sisters ‘jump’.  Ok, so it all ends rather awkwardly when he is discovered, but up until that time he is having a bloody good time this what you need.

Forget the bad memories, ignore the good ones and for the next half an hour think only about random body movements and shimmying past your front window; listen only to your favourite ‘dance like a loon’ songs. I promise it will cheer you up immensely – and hey, think of the calories you would have burnt whilst doing so – Cadburys anyone?

My Dance like a loon playlist

(I had to alphabetise, because I couldn’t arrange by preference)

Ain’t got no, I got life – Nina Simone

Ballroom Blitz – Sweet

Black Betty – Ram Jam

Boogieman – The Hellfreaks

City of Angels – The Distillers

Crazy Bitch - Buck Cherry

Death by Diamonds and Pearls – Band of Skulls

Finders Keepers – Tom Stormy Trio feat Rhythm Sophie

Immigrant Song – Led Zepplin

Never you Mind – Semisonic

Pencil Full of Lead – Paulo Nutini

Sabotage – Beastie Boys

Seven Nation Army – White Stripes

Sexy Silk – Jesse J

That Man – Caro Emerald

Zombies Ate Her Brain – The Creepshow

No, I'm not thankful!

At the ripe old age of twenty eight (minus three days), I am yet to find it flattering when I get id'd. I am also yet to remember to carry my drivers license. These two factors equal a very annoyed Nu and a large amount of unnecessary outings.

Last year I was id'd, and of course I had a noticeable lack of photo id. As a last ditch attempt, I decided to raise my fringe and show my wrinkles...it worked! Although on reflection I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

Well today I had gone into town solely on the hunt for disarrano. I got to the till, and all was fine until the dreaded question 'do you have id?'. No I don't have any id! I am nearly thirty! I have a mortgage, three cats, I'm getting a divorce and I apparently have enough wrinkles to disprove any teenage notions! No I do not have id! Do you?

This is the second time that this has happened to me in the past three months. Why do they never ask me when I have id? And why do they laugh and say how I should be thankful? I'm not laughing and I'm sure as hellfire not thankful. I am outraged.

I have now stomped down to the seafront, purchased a cinnamon donut (no id required there) and I'm now sitting on the jetty, wind tousling my hair, sun bleaching my eyes and with cinnamon everywhere. I don't believe this is a successful protest, but hey, I do like a good distraction :)

Twist ties – the impatient person’s nemesis.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am by far, the most impatient person on this planet. I can’t help it, there is something in me that states that everything should be done yesterday. I believe this stems back to the Christmas’ of my childhood. What sadist decided that sprog’s toys should not only be encased by vacuum sealed plastic, but should then also be ‘twist-tied’ onto the most pointless piece of tiny cardboard. Oh, and did I mention batteries? Batteries on Christmas Day. So many toys, so little batteries. Yup, I am definitely impatient, and yes, it stems from Christmas (not that I would have changed a thing – best Christmas’ ever).

Wow, getting distracted in the first paragraph – thats a new low for me.

FOCUS

Ok, so I moved into my house two months ago (on the 25^th to be exact), and since then I have stripped and decorated my bedroom, installed central heating, installed a bathroom, painted the kitchen and installed a bike structure for Velma (my vespa). My home is starting to look very Nu-like.

However, everything that I have done or tried to do in relation to my house has been delayed, and for an impatient person, that is no fun what so ever. It all started when I first purchased my home – it was meant to be such a swift move, I was moving into an empty house and I was selling to first time buyers, and yet my move took nearly five months. To say that I was a nightmare, was putting it mildly.

Since then, my central heating leaked, my builder fell of his ladder and broke his wrist, and today, I ordered my bedroom carpet, it was all agreed for Saturday, so I moved all of my furniture out of my bedroom (I must state here and now, that I am not at all a minimalist, so this task alone was not a quick one) and pulled up my old carpet. Thirty minutes later I get a call from the Carpet people saying that the carpet is out of stock and they arn’t sure when it will be back in again. So I now cannot access my drawers, my wardrobes and I have a carpetless floor (not in a nice polished floorboard way either).

Oh the curse of the impatient! 

FREE CHOCOLATE SEX

Got your attention huh? 

Well, those three words are the most used when drawing in an audience. If you had a notice board of notices (as opposed to a noticeboard of cuttlefish...oh, I do like to point out the obvious), if any had FREE, CHOCOLATE, or SEX as the heading, you will grab readers far more than any other words. They don’t have to be together – that would make this a whole other kind of website.

I guess at this point you are wondering where this entry is leading, well, I love smart advertising. During three minutes of utter dross, every so often, something grabs my interest – and that is when a company has truly excelled during their thirty second slot. The media market is pretty huge, and fiercely competitive, and that’s why branding is so important. 

My favourite branding has to be Virgin.

 Their marketing strategy is genius and relies on the one of the three attention grabbers...SEX; when Virgin Atlantic advertised their individual entertainment screens for Virgin Atlantic, they didn’t go down the tech-y route, oh no, they did this:

It’s so smart. I think as a company Virgin are at the cutting edge of brand, image and marketing. Take my dad for example, he spends his three minutes of ad breaks, shaking his head and wittering ‘what was that all about’...oh and tutting...he does like to tut, but we all know that as soon as Frankie Goes to Hollywood starts up, his focus will not divert from the screen for the next thirty seconds. Like I say, genius.

However, it was not Virgin that inspired this post – it was the British Heart Foundation. Ok you are now sitting there thinking ‘I don’t know a BHF advert’, let me alternate it’s introduction, by throwing in Vinnie Jones, The Beegees and 'hands only life saving skills'. Penny dropped? Well, if not this may help: 

http://www.bhf.org.uk/heart-health/life-saving-skills.aspx

Working in the NHS, I spend many a day talking about mandatory training – which includes CPR. So this advert particularly caught my attention for it’s brilliance. Not only does it make the process simpler, but it also uses the beat of music to demonstrate the rhythm. 

I know many different tunes that nurses use to keep the rhythm and I have to say ‘Staying Alive’ is sheer genius (and for a rockabilly such as myself to say such a thing, that really is high praise indeed). In the community I know that two songs are used regularly (ooh, now regularly...when you say this out loud, do you pronounce it as it’s written or do you say REG-U-LY? I always bounce the L’s and say REG-U-LAR-LY which I believe to be correct, however, I have told otherwise) ‘Nellie the Elephant’ and ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ – both of which could create very negative fall outs, so as much as I hate The BeeGees this is the clear winner by far.

Oh, and if you didn’t notice the title of the campaign, it’s called HARD AND FAST...

...Yes, I could have gone down the FREE and CHOCOLATE (Mmmm Cabury’s) route for this entry, but hey, you have made the end of this entry – so SEX clearly works.

Top hats and T-shirts

As a girl who lives in swing dresses and longs for past-time glamour, there is no surprise that I was attracted to ‘The Artist’. I have wanted to see it for weeks, and finally today, I did. I adore old films and love black and white movies, and although filmed in the modern day, with a modern cast in a modern studio, it was actually quite brilliant. It’s not often that I do one thing at once, I always have two things going on (atleast in the brain if not physically), but I was utterly transfixed. Whilst watching ‘The Artist’, you are transported back to the twenties, when women were women, and men...well...the men wore top hats...ooh I do love a top hat; oh and shirts not t-shirts, but actual shirts. Which, of course, got me thinking about our attire nearly one hundred years on.

I love the fashion of the old world – people used to really make an effort; I hate that people don’t do that now. Men live in t-shirts and women go out in public wearing jogging bottoms (I don’t even own a pair of jogging bottoms, let alone would ever consider wearing them out of the house). When you look at old photo’s taken in the 1920s/1930s you could see that women were truly beautiful, and I mean really beautiful – no fake tan, no gel nails, and certainly no vajazzles – not that I have seen those kind of photos. In one hundred years from now, what do we have that would echo such opulence? 

TAKE ME OUT of my misery

There are many things that I try to get my head around in the search of TV entertainment, as a result of this I have suffered through 10 minutes of ‘Britain’s got talent’, I have endured 20 minutes of the ‘X-factor’ and this weekend I attempted to sit through the drudgery that is ‘Take me out’. I failed epically. I could not even last one break between adverts. This is not something that I say lightly, but I would rather attend a ‘Steps’ concert than watch this drivel again...and trust me, I really hate ‘Steps’.

Is this really the best Saturday night has to offer? Seriously?

If you haven’t seen it – then you can be thankful for large mercies. It generally consists of single males strutting like preposterous peacocks, thirty woman (who look like they should appear on an equally hi-brow show such as ‘The Only Way Is Essex’ or ‘Desperate Scousewives’) and their impressive ability to turn off of a light – yes, their ma’s must be so proud.

I can’t work out which sex comes off worse – the embarrassingly wooden males (haha, yes I do realise what I just said) or the just plain embarrassing females. I really hate cheesy males, and you really don’t get any cheesier than the host of this abomination – let the whoopee see the cushion? Seriously, did you actually say that?

Please don’t get me wrong, I totally understand that if you had intellectual types, salt of the earth type people or those who would chose brain over brawn, the show would not rake in the ratings that it does, but are we not selling our women slightly short? We moan when men don’t see past boobs and butts, and yet, here we have a show of thirty females doing exactly that and when the deal maker is: one of the two final girls changed her name from ‘gemma’ you really can see the depths of the contestants.

But hey, why stop at the contestants...

When you view the forums about this show, it really does say it all. You have the fanatics with such extensive use of the English language, that their spelling extends to: ‘I yusd to injoy thes tely pogram wen it wuz on’ and then you have the people who actually have a brain cell with an actual grasp of the spoken word: ‘It's slightly ironic that you consider people who don't like this show to be 'sad' and in need of a life. Anybody with half a functioning brain cell would be able to fathom it's actually the other way around. Staying in on a Saturday night to watch an intellectually devoid television show with absolutely no redeeming qualities? Yeah, those who avoid it like the plague are definitely in need of a life. You could spend the time it takes to watch this garbage to actually go and learn how to construct a sentence. Perhaps you could work on your spelling, too? I doubt you'd do that though, because Take Me Out is on! Hurrrr duuuurrr.’

No further evidence required.

The world is shallow enough; nine years olds are stressing about designer labels, teenagers feel the need to point out fat people in the street, and too easily individuals are written off because they do not fit the cookie cutter mould of the world. Do we really need yet another idiotic dating show enhancing brainless-brawn and dizzy desperates? Where did I leave the remote?

Blue is the colour of Autumn and Winter…and apparently today.

Today is actually titled ‘Blue Monday’, so if you have suffered with a severe bout of the January Blues so far this year, you stand no chance of smiling today – but take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. My advice (I never take my advice, I just give it freely) stay under the duvet, reach for the Cadburys and stick on a Disney film (although, not Bambi…that will make you feel even worse); well, that is unless you have to go to work – hmm, well in that case, well, hmmm, nope, I’ve got nothing, you should probably stop reading this and get your butt in to gear.

So, January is meant to be the most miserable month of the whole year; like most things however, I tend to disagree with this status quo. I always love January. It’s the start of a new year, there is plenty of bargain hunting to be achieved and the month is ends on a high with my birthday. What is there not to like about January?

I have come to the conclusion that really simple things make me happy; although, don’t get me wrong, these simple things run alongside mega indulgent things, I haven’t reached all out hippy-ness just yet.  So whilst the world is moping in the month of misery, I thought I would turn ‘polly-anna’ for this entry.

Here it is, the definitive top five things that make Nu smile.

1) Rain and Thunderstorms

Ooh, I adore a good thunderstorm. I love the feel of the wind whipping through my hair as it thrashes around my face, I love the drama of thunder and excitedly counting elephants, whilst waiting for the lightning to dance it’s way across the sky, to the almighty thunderous drum beat. Ah, and I love it when the rain falls so heavily that it looks like ‘movie rain’. Big sheets of thick droplets sploshing on the pavement and then the pools at the side of the road rise up and splash the kerb as driver’s boat past. Yes, just thinking of it makes me smile *looks outside hopefully – sunshine and pure blue sky*

2) Dancing in an empty house

I love turning up my stereo and dancing around my empty house like a loon – not entirely dissimilar to Hugh Grant in Love Actually…although, mortifyingly enough, I believe my dancing is worse…but hey, it makes me smile.  If you are dancing alone, you can geek off as much as you like as no-one will see…well that’s what I like to tell myself anyway. I have recently learnt that through the brilliant invention of a double jack lead, I can connect my iphone, to my stereo system. This pleased me greatly – the effect is slight ruined when dancing to the limited (although very useful) iphone speaker.

3) My Cats

Whenever I come home, they are there waiting by the door to greet me. After dinner, we each take our usual spot on the sofa, and then when it’s bedtime, they know to make it upstairs before I close the door. Animals are far nicer than people. They love you unconditionally, they don’t hold a grudge, and never answer back (well, actually one of my cats does, but I may have brought that on myself by naming her MeowMeow).

4) My Bestie

I only met my best friend about eighteen months ago, but I cannot imagine my life without her. She is beautiful, smart and always knows how to make me smile. I’m the kind of person to take on the world, and then half way through, I  realise the colossus project I have taken on – this is when she will turn up on my doorstep with a paintbrush, prop me up and drown me with vodka ;o) I love seeing myself through her eyes – whether it’s as a sexy mermaid or a complete drama queen, she has really moulded who I am and I can’t not smile at that.

5) Orcas

There is something truly breath taking about an Orca. I don’t know whether it’s their elegance, intelligence or sheer size, but they make me happy. I have been lucky enough to see a number of real-life killer whales when in America, and nothing compares, but it leaves you wanting more. If anyone ever wins the lottery, and wants to make me smile, I don’t want a house, I don’t want a flashy car, I would just like very much to go to Norway or Iceland and go whale watching, (topped off with the northern lights).

So, stop moping and randomly hunting the internet – go forth into the world and be happy.

HAPPY BLUE MONDAY 

Are our Sprogs unhappy? Seriously?

This morning in the news, an article stating that half a million children are unhappy. This follows on perfectly from my rant the other day about an eight year old having a mobile phone. Children of Britain aren’t unhappy, they are spoilt and greedy. When I was growing up I didn’t have a computer in my room, I didn’t have a mobile phone and I only received my £1 pocket money if I did the chores. One parent confirmed that their offspring is in possession of a PSP, PS3, XBOX, Computer and a Blackberry and still moans that he has nothing to do.

I used to hate it when ‘hims’ would pull the ‘3^rd world’ guilt trip on me, but when it comes to sprogs, I totally believe this trip is essential. Kids in Africa have to go to work at the age of five, they are not always lucky enough to go to school and they certainly do not have the luxuries that British children have, and yet they find a way to be contented – so I’m sorry, but my heartstrings remain completely untugged by the thought of British kids with the wrong trainers, too much time on their hands or too little pocket money.

* places soapbox on the floor and steps up on to it *.

I have to confess, I have as much maternal instinct as a telephone pole - ‘my name is Nu and I probably do hate your children’. I unfortunately do believe that parents can no longer be ‘parents’ without fear of being reprimanded. This crazy PC world we live in, is all about parents and children being friends, that children should not be told off for drawing on the wall paper because they are expressing their creativity, oh and my personal favourite, not telling school kids that they have failed a test, but telling them that they were pass-resistant. When I was growing up, I knew that if I misbehaved in a supermarket, I would be told off. If I pulled a hissy fit saying that I wanted two toys instead of one, I would end up with nothing. I always knew that my parents loved me, that they would do anything for me, but at the end of the day they where the boss; this does not mean by any stretch of the imagination that I wasn’t a petit-bugger, because I was, but as time went on, I finally started to connect the dots and realised what the ‘rents said was pretty much the end of that conversation (…well, this was until I hit my teens anyway – but then all bets are off as a widely acknowledged rule).

My friends three year old rules her house – he decides that he does not wish to attend the school she has enrolled him in and declares that he is off to his childminder; he instructs her, that she will not be taking the birthday cakes, that she’s brought, into work, as he wants to give them to his school friends and in addition to these little gems, he likes to announce that she should lose weight because ‘mummy has a fat bum’ (this last one is the most outrageous thing I have ever heard, as my friend has a figure to die for…and even if she didn’t, why would a three year old know this?).  Not having children, not wanting children and generally being sprogaphobic I can’t really get my head around this. He is three! What does he know at that age?

On the news today they were saying about making the decisions with your child and yes, for some things I can see the logic in this, but seriously there is one brutal fact that the world is missing – the parent is the adult!!!

If everybody is different, are we not all the same?

Are we echoes of examples, or are we our own print? I love to believe that I’m an original, that I am my own person who dances to my own beat; but I guess, when it really boils down to it, every choice that we make, every attribute of who we are, is provided by another. So truth be told, that yes, we are all individual, and no fingerprint is like another, but all fingerprints, are, at the end of the day, fingerprints. So by everyone being different are we all not the same?

If you were to meet me, you would notice that I have bright red hair tied with a scarf or a ribbon. You would observe that I would be wearing a jive dress of the fifties persuasion. If you looked on my iphone you would see that I listen to Metal, Indie, Rockabilly and a whole lot of vintage mixes including jive and swing; In my bag I keep a camera and a leather journal where ever I am. If we went out for dinner, you’d notice that I love onion rings, but hate onions, you’d probably laugh at the fact that I generally hate milk, but order a strawberry milkshake, and if the conversation arose, I would tell you how I am terrified of needles and yet you would see I have two tattoos.

What would you make of me? Am I an intriguing contradiction, or am I just like someone else you know?

My clothes are inspired by fashions of 50 years ago, my hair is from a tv character in my childhood and one of my tattoos is based on the outlook of a mythical creature. You see, when you break it down, every part of me is an imprint from somebody else.  When I think of all the silly phrases I use on a day to day basis, I think of all the other people who have started to adopt such phrases into their own vocab  -  that’s my imprint on them.

When I think of all the people who make me who I am, I guess I can’t be original, I can’t be my own person - at best, I can be a mixing pot of pre-existing ingredients.

Today I have had a conversation that I have been dreading for at least two weeks. I have been battling myself to establish what are MY opinions on a subject. You see for so long, I have had something to carry with me, something that has scarred my insides – but has it scarred me because I believe it’s bad or because it is bad? I was quite rightly told that I am different person, to that whose experience I have been caught up with, and yes, I am a different person, but as demonstrated earlier in this entry, can you really be that different?

I was about to ask ‘how many times have I been told that if it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger’  - but in all honesty, I heard it so many times last year, that I’ve lost count. Everytime that I heard this ridiculous statement, I would sit there thinking ‘it doesn’t make you stronger -  it marks you, it scars you, it damages you and it sure as hell changes you glass to a half-empty consistency’.

At the moment, I am desperately holding onto two things.

A)     The fact that everyone is different.

Just because I am echo, doesn’t mean I have to endure the same outcome. The past doesn’t have to predict the future. What may mean the downfall for one, does not have to be the downfall for another.

B)      The hope that people do change.

Change is huge, and it’s not just one side that would need to do it. If Person A did something that Person B hated, it wouldn’t just be Person A who would need to change to suit Person B, but also Person B, to change the thoughts of who Person A actually is.

Two of my friends stopped smoking last year, they both decided to give up cigarettes at the same time; one was doing it for herself, the other was doing it for her family. Six months on, and one of them has not smoked since; she looks back and doesn’t miss it, doesn’t need it, and has closed that attribute of who she is – changed her fingerprint. The other, couldn’t give it up, even though to begin with she wanted to. She initially puffed away secretly, knowing how people would react, but now, she smokes openly, she doesn’t want to give up, it’s who she is – engraining the fingerprint.

Do you open yourself to the possibility of something great, or do you protect yourself from the possibility that one day your Achilles heel would be struck? 

Apple, Brooklyn and Norbert Dessentrangle

Admittedly, you cannot choose the name you are born with. Whether you like it or not, you are going to be stuck with it for atleast sixteen years of your life – and yes, you can change it when you marry, or via deed poll, but come on, you will still always be known by your original name to those who knew you prior to the new nametag.
 
Some names are genuinely unlucky – I have known both a Richard Smears, and a Richard Seaman…think about it. There we go; poor guys never stood a chance really. Then you get unfortunate names like Ethel, Gertrude and Englebert. My bestie’s brother works with someone called Artilla – I guess that caused some problems in the playground too.
 
I always think of a Michael McIntyre sketch, when he is talking about taking his sons to the park. He was asked by an old lady what his youngest was called, and he replied ‘Hitler’. It always makes me smile; not because I condone Hitler, or would name anything after him, but it’s the sheer point of the matter. When people have mini-sprogs, they must be regularly asked what they are called (why I have no idea – people must be at a loss for any other source of conversation), the enquirer can hardly turn round and say ‘Poor little mini-sprog. Why would you inflict such a ridiculous name on him/her’.
 
So what do these poorly named unfortunates do?
 
Well, they buy haulage companies and plaster their names across their fleet of lorries, so that they can spread the joy across the country and give sad people like me something to giggle at.
 
For example, Norbert Dessentrangle. Norbert – your life can’t have been easy, your parents can’t have thought things through too well, but why did you decide to plaster your name on bright red lorries? Was it not bad enough that you are called such an unfortunate name, that you decided to inflict it on your workforce as well?
 

Is 'Die Facebook Die' too harsh for a title?

Communication in the 21^st century should be so very simple – especially when there are so many ways to liaise. It’s not like in the past, when you would have to write a letter, give it to a horse back rider to travel the perilous journey across the pre-tarmac UK. So why is it, that when people ask ‘Do you have Face book?’ and I reply ‘no’, they look at me with sheer horror, wondering how an earth they can possibly keep in contact without FB? I used to work in a gigantic office, that was being closed and everyone made redundant – keen to stay in contact, I would be asked on a regular occasion by social butterflies this question, and of course, the response was always negative, to which I would be responded to with ‘Oh’.

Let me clarify this here and now – I do not have Facebook. I do not want Facebook. I will never want Facebook. I happen to like the fact that, Jamie who I went to pre-school with, cannot view my Friday night photo’s. I adore the fact that Catherine, who hates my guts, cannot relish as my info falls from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘suddnely single’. Gossip gets around easily enough. Why would I wish to generate more of it? If you want to stay in touch, you can always phone me (admittedly, I dislike text too, but at least I will try to text you when I think of it)

I could understand people’s perplexity if there was no other form of communication, but we live in a time where everyone and I mean EVERYONE has a mobile phone. A friend of mine recently brought her son a mobile for his eighth birthday – HE’S EIGHT, who is he going to call? What eight year old requires a mobile? At eight years old, I pined for a care bear, and let’s face it, if I’d been given a phone, I would have only put it in a dress imagining it as ‘Cyber-Barbie’.

Ok, so I return my focus to modern day mobiles, which let’s face it, are so much more essential tHAN their ‘ringo’ ancestors. I mean, you too can read your emails, the newspaper, check out your horoscope, take photos, shazam a new and exiciting track, text your friends...oh and make calls for when you’re feeling utterly retro. Let’s face it, we could survive leaving home without our lunch, our purse, even on occasion our keys, but five minutes away from the office, if you have forgotten your phone, you get a sick sinking feeling, followed by the dilemma of making the 30 mile round trip to retrieve your social stylo. It’s a tough fact; apparently modern day humans do not fare well when working through a whole eight hours, without hearing that oh so desired ‘vrrrr vrrrrr’ sound.  

On reflection, I may have digressed from my original rant. Right, back to my loathed relationship (or lack of) with Facebook. Why do you need to tell the world that you are making toast? Why must you put photos of your friend’s half drunk cocktail and what is this nonsense of writing on peoples walls? I would be royally p*ssed off, if some bugger came round and wrote on my wall (Or, come to think about it, if someone I hadn’t spoken to in years, came an poked me in the ribcage whilst I was out shopping one Saturday).

And why, for the love of god, would you go out somewhere with someone, and spend your time communicating to each other via the internet? I mean, I can just about get my head around internet dating, but I cannot fathom for a second, why, when sitting next to someone, you wouldn’t just talk to them...you know the old fashioned way, with your mouth and this crazy thing called your voice??

My bestie was telling me today how on her neighbours Facebook pages, ‘Neighbour A’ had written ‘Out at Nando’s with B’ on their status, to which ‘Neighbour B’ had written ‘Out for dinner with A’ on their own status. Oh, and to make matters even worse  - ‘A’ then responded ‘likes this’ to ‘B’, and ‘B’ put ‘likes this’ to ‘A’. Seriously, is this the world that we live in now? What if you were having a rubbish time? Instead of the ‘emergency phone call’ or ‘early morning start’ excuse, is it modern day etiquette to respond to such headline with ‘dislikes this’?

Please answer me this, why does everyone want to be your Facebook friend? A friend of mine has 679 friends on his Facebook; does he speak to them all? No, not a chance. He probably speaks to 30 of them, so why does he want all of these randomers knowing that he is making toast? And, School people...are their lives so very sad that they want to be your friend over a decade since knowing you? Take the hint; if I didn’t stay in contact with you, it was for a reason. I didn’t want to know you. Why dress this up, by allowing them access into your world?

That then leads to another dilemma how do you delete people from your facebook world? My bestie has been testing the ‘plenty of fish’ waters with internet dating. It starts off with emailing via the site, then adding each other on Facebook, before the final stage of eventually meeting. Now, once you’ve met, if things go badly, you are stuck with this rotten fish knowing your business, perving over your photos, or just generally appearing on your screen, as a constant reminder of an ill-advised adventure; but can you really just de-friend them? In the real world, we just stop talking to people, on the Facebook world there is apparently bad-feeling generated by such removal; part of me wants to scream ‘YOU DON’T LIKE THEM, SO WHY DO YOU CARE IF THEY ARE UPSET’ (plus, in many cases, it’s not like your seen them in the past decade anyway), but I admit, surely it isn’t really necessary to have it written for the world to see that ‘C de-friended G’?

Now, slightly off point, but I am going to rant this, as it’s along the theme. Bestie went out on a date at the weekend. It didn’t go well. She didn’t like him, half as much in the flesh as she thought she would – not that she minded, because after a row of bad dates, she hadn’t raised her thoughts too high. Anyhoo, four days after the date, he hadn’t text, called, mailed or even facebooked her. Day five however, she receives to invites in her inbox to attend a gig, and watch a musical. Had he decided that he wanted to see her again? Nope, he had done a group invite to everyone on his facebook. Awkward! Needless to say, she is going to remove him from her friend list.

Oh, and finally, you know what else I hate? My photo being plastered on the internet. It’s fine if I’m looking glam, and I’ve been in charge of forwarding the image (It’s a universally known fact, that you never forward photo’s when you aren’t looking your best) - if I have let someone have my photo, then I guess, that’s me saying ‘yup I look ok’, but it’s not those snaps that make it up there; it’s the ones, where you are half way through sneezing, blinking, or the type that are taken from a really bad angle (yes, it’s the angle, my belly cannot be that big...right?) that makes you look 6 months pregnant...which for a child hater such as myself, proves for some rather difficult answer generations.

Right I’m done. I guess the jist of this entry, if you hadn’t picked up on it so far...

...is that I really like strawberries. 

Dazed and Confused - Not just 'Zeplin lyrics

Many things complex me in the world, like – how do people run gracefully? Why is ‘definitely’ so hard to spell first time? And how comes my hammer keeps disappearing? Oh, I should point out at this point that I’m decorating – I don’t just randomly carry a hammer. Sorry digression again. The thing however that vexes me the most, is modern day dating. There is just so much to know, so much to do, and so much NOT to do. It’s utterly exhausting.

Oh my god. I actually just ‘googled’ dating and there are 743,000,000 results. Christ! If there are that many sites dedicated to the topic, no wonder it’s such a minefield. Who decided that dating should not only a fine-art but also a sport? What happened to plain old ‘boy meets girl’? What happened to the dizzy headrush of falling in love? Why must you pretend to un-interested and unavailable?

Pre-‘Hims’, dating was so simple. You went out dancing, you were bought a drink, shared a kiss, arranged to meet again, and then became an item. Simple. Now however, it’s a multitude of crucial decisions:

Firstly we are talking timelines. It used to be wait three days before communicating, but now, if you wait three days you are pretty much dead in the water. Some say you should arrange a future date before the first date has ended, others say wait a day before even thanking them for a nice evening. Why are there so many rules? If I have had a good time, I am likely to text them when I get in, to say thank you…is that really bad dating logic, or is it just good manners? Do manners even come into play?

Secondly, you need to choose your communiqué of preference - do you text, email, phone, or what is this poke-lark? Surely Poke-ing someone is further down the line?

Then you have to speak the lingo – I mean what is the difference between seeing and dating? I thought seeing and dating would be the same thing, oh foolish mortal. Apparently, seeing is the first stage, dating is the second. How many stages must one complete? And, what is dating? Is dating exclusive? How much time does one invest in each stage?

Does one want to be dated?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder ...but I am still rather shallow

I love to loathe shallow people, but I guess when it comes to it, I have to stand up and be counted – my name is Nu, and I have the depth of a half filled paddling pool. I mean it’s not like I’m completely void (I get choked up watching comic relief), but when it comes to picking a new partner...I have to admit, I suffer completely from ‘book cover’ syndrome.

The saying is ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ and you know what? There really is, but what they don’t mention is that these fish are either lacking hair, on the wrong side of fifty or even worse, open conversations with ‘your fit’. I can tell you now, they can totally be flung back out there.

When my husband left me (I shall call him ‘Hims’ from now on in), I had almighty visions, of being alone with a mass of cats (this vision isn’t completely far from the truth). Ooh random question: if I had three dogs why wouldn’t I be the crazy dog lady? Sorry I digress. Anyhoo, I had this 'alone' vision, thinking I would never catch another man’s attention, I would never be asked out again, or bought a drink or share a kiss, but the world turns, time heals and I have definitely shared kisses.

I do believe the more you get to know someone, the more their physical appearance changes. You could meet a beautiful Adonis who is so rotten inside that his god-like beauty begins to tarnish, and equally you can find someone who isn’t going to appear on a cK advert, but over time you begin to notice things you never did before – they become more and more to your taste (either that, or you brainwash them into becoming your taste).

When I first met 'Hims' he was most definitely not my type. He was very dark and 'metally' (not 'metally' as in escaped from the wizard of oz tin-man metally, but 'metally' as in Dying Fetus and Nile metally). Men of my past (I use the term ‘men’ loosely) had been quite surfy and tended to ere towards the indie male variety – not entirely dissimilar to ‘shaggy’ from Scooby Doo.  ‘Hims’ was good looking, don’t get me wrong, but he wouldn’t have initially stopped me in my tracks. However, as time went on, my view began to change. For someone who had hated moustaches and beards, I suddenly found myself mortified when he shaved them off. I began to like his hair longer and longer...and all of a sudden he was one of the most beautiful people I knew.

When we split, I was told to write a list of traits that I wanted from a new man...unbeknownst to me, I began to list everything about my husband, this was a very strange even, as before I had met him the whole facial fluff and rockabilly-get-up would not have featured too heavily. I stopped myself, and realised that maybe it wasn’t him who changed in appearance, but me who changed with preference.

The truth is, I don’t want another like ‘Hims’. I still have a particular penchant for facial hair and a masculine frame, but the new 'Hims' doesn't need to be an echo of the old ‘Hims’. 

It’s nearly six months on since ‘Hims’ left me. During this time, I have dated a mixture of men, ranging from man-ho’s to psychos. I haven’t met another who I can claim to be ‘the one’, or even ‘the second one’, and on reflection, this is because the men who have influenced my dating world are all of a similar type.

So maybe my moment of enlightenment (regarding changing my preference) was wrong...or was it?

When I look over my ‘type’, I haven’t really changed my preference since my college days. I still like the long haired, tattooed, bad-boy rock-gods and yet, that cannot work, because even if my type hasn’t changed - I have; my needs have changed, my outlook has changed and my Friday night desires have changed (whether I wanted them to or not). If you keep on doing what you’ve always done, you will keep on getting what you have always got. Ten years ago, I wanted someone who will dance with me at the local nightclub, drink with me until we are both in a drunken stooper and make me compilation CD’s of obscure bands that I had never heard of, and although I still want to dance, and drink, and discover new music, I also want to have someone to talk to, someone to make decisions with me and to sit alongside. Wow, what do you know - I have changed; so my type really should too.

Yes, I admit that I'm pretty shallow, but I can also learn to broaden my horizons and that means I can also explore more. Men don’t have to be six foot five, they don’t have to have tattoos... and as long as they don’t wear pink shirts around me and they aren't follicley challenged, I can give it a go and who knows what my type will evolve to.

Roll on the year of discovery. 

New Year, New Nu.

Welcome to 2012 and here's hoping for a happy new year. 

I love New Years day, I'm a complete child, but I adore the fact that I get to drive people mad with the 'I haven't (enter activity) since last year' all day...well for at least part of it. So far today, I can say 'I haven't drunk vodka since last year', I can say 'I haven't fought with my sister since last year' and I can say 'I haven't eaten chocolate since last year' (oh, I don't love that...must rectify immediately, where did I leave those Cadbury fingers?). 

A New Year, is like a new start. It's a clear conscience, and an eraser of last year’s bad memories. So, with that logic, I can say 'I haven't had my heart broken since last year', 'I haven't cried, since last year', and slightly more painfully 'I haven't had a husband since last year'.

Hmmm, Ok, so it doesn't erase memories, but it does give the opportunity to start again. Life is an adventure, and you never truly know what’s going to happen next. So, I've decided, if I can't look forward, I may as well leave some breadcrumbs when looking back. 

Sorry, where are my manners?

Hi, my name is Nu, I'm just about the on the younger side of 30, I am from the South East of England, and I live in a crumbling Victorian house that I love beyond belief. I have lived in my home, for the grand total of five weeks, but you know what? It's where I'm meant to be, and I never want to leave it. My best friend thinks that I am insane. I left a modern house that was structurally secure, for my new home, which has not only rising damp and cracked chimneys but also has crumbling ceilings. I loved this house from the moment I saw it; before I even set foot over the threshold, I knew it was where I was meant to be. 

Although I live alone, I don't live on my own. I live with my pride of cats, who I don't believe love our new home as much as I do; this logic is based on the room wrecking they achieve whilst I'm out at work. My cats tend to rule the roost. People say 'Dogs have masters, Cats have support staff' and you know what, it's totally true. They certainly know how to wrap me around their paws; with a 3:1 ratio, I am slightly outnumbered, so I guess I have to go with the majority rule. My god, I sound like a crazy cat woman.

I had my cat collection in my previous life. I don't mean past life, I mean, my world before my husband walked out. I'm not sure if my announcement of divorce reinforces or minimizes the 'crazy cat lady' title. I guess I'll leave that entry for you. 

There are many words in the English language that just aren’t pleasing to observe  – whether they are written down, spoken out loud...words like the mucus, phlegm and divorce.

You see out of the blue, my husband told me he was unhappy and that he had been sad for a long time...well it was a bit more than that...he told me that he was moving out, and when I say that he told me, I mean that he text me...my husband out of the blue, text me to say he wanted a divorce... the most ironic thing about the whole situation was that in the decade we had been together, he never had credit on his mobile.

To say I was shocked was little bit more than an understatement...divorce is something that happened to forty or fifty year olds, not twenty seven year olds, and yet there I was, heading towards the front of ‘divorcee hill’. We’d been together nine years; we had a house, the pride of cats, and an immense raspberry bush, and yet for the later part of 2011, I found myself ‘suddenly single’.

I had spent a third of my life being my husbands other half...we did everything together, and all of a sudden...it was just me. It was like that ‘stuck on you’ film when the twins are separated...they had been leaning on each other for so long, that take the other one away and you fall over...well I most certainly fell over.

Whilst I was down, I realised that there are three things in life that you really truly need to get through divorce, the first was Cadburys (copoious amounts of...preferably dairy milk...not the fruit and nut variety...don’t waste chocolate space with alien add ins), the second was my friends n family and the third... Bridget Jones, after all if she could do it, so could I (... those three things are not necessary in the right order, just so you know).

 After a while I got back up again, and although it hurt like hell and it took an almighty amount of aspirin, late night phone calls and a rainforest amount of tissues...I made it. I got my life back.

I have a new home and new life ahead of me. I plan to use this blog to capture my adventures, and maybe learn from my mistakes...although, to be honest, I've never been good at learning lessons, so I don't see that changing anytime soon.

So here it is - for the sake of Auld Lang Syne.