Interesting Carlisle

When I'm asked - and I've been asked a few times - how Carlisle was, my first-thought answer is interesting.
We spent Saturday wandering around Talkin Tarn because the boat hire place was closed for only one day this month and, of course, that day was this Saturday. So we walked around it instead and attempted to educate ourselves on the subject of British birds. However, we got immaturely distracted by their "rude" names like the good 7yr olds we're not. The hilarity was continued into the Farm Shop on our discovery of this delectable spoonerism. We finished our day with a walk along... wait for it... Hadrian's Wall!! * to a backwards village with a backwards pub. They only sold wine in those tiny, useless bottles and the barmaid asked if I'd like "Chardonnay or Stowells?" Seriously?? How can a barmaid not know her wines??

So, I think you'd agree that that was a rather interesting day, right?

The evening was fun, and far too alcohol-fuelled. We'd only had one soft drink all day and that was a glass of juice with breakfast. After that it had been wine and more wine, followed by a bottle of wine each in Wetherspoons because, as I mentioned before, it's their "Wine Festival" and it seemed rude not to take them up on their kind offer of nice wine for half the usual price. At some point in the evening I decided I needed to present Hinny with her first 23rd birthday gift; a fluorescent pink light saber.

The night then descended into a search for Carlisle's finest take-away pizza, and an argument with a friend who was horribly patronising. But it's what always happens when we're drunk; she patronises me (because she always thinks she's more sober than I am) and I resent her for it. So I should probably have learnt to live with it by now. However, I woke up still feeling resentful; a similar feeling to how I woke up last time I got drunk with these best friends of mine.



* What even is Hadrian's Wall?? I mean, I know it's a wall, and I'm guessing it was built by a Roman to keep the Scotts out, or something along those lines... but, well, it's not particularly tall so I don't reckon many kilted warriors would be particularly perturbed by it, and it's not even on the Scottish border! I'm sure I learnt about it at school once...

How does he do it to me?

This weekend I received a txt that made my heart skip a beat. Palmer got in touch. I've not seen him in over a year. He's just, I don't know; one person that I cannot help but go weak at the knees for. We have silly amounts of history.

You see, I've always put him on an incredibly high pedestal, and I know I shouldn't. I compare everyone to him and can honestly say that I would cheat on most of my ex-boyfriends with him (except Steve). I stupidly think he's too good for me and I'm the luckiest girl alive when he chooses to be with me. That's really unhealthy, isn't it?? But that's what's stopped me from really giving myself to him... Physically, I'm his. We have fantastic sex and I can't stop myself from absolutely melting every time I see him or hear from him. But emotionally... I'm very reserved. I find it hard to relax and be totally myself when he's around because I have an insane need to impress him.

Well, he's just come back from Kosovo and wanted to know if I'll be around this week for us to have a catch up. I, of course, have jumped at the chance to see him again. And now... I really can't wait to see his beautiful face again!
Except this time I'm hoping it'll be different. I'm hoping I'll be different and attempt to actually be myself. I need to realise that he's not all that and that if he doesn't like me for me then he's not worth it.

Why are girls always attracted to the guys that screw them over? He has definitely messed me around repeatedly in the past and yet I'll still happily go back to him... WHY? Because he's hot, damn good in bed, makes me feel special when we're together... ?!?!?!

Speedy.

I have 4minutes before my lunchbreak ends, and I'm going away for the weekend so I feel a speedy update is necessary!

I did it again: I went out last night and drank lots. It was Becca's last night in Leamington so it just had to be done! Wetherspoons are in the middle of their Wine Festival at the moment, so a very nice bottle of Chablis was rather cheap. We had 3. As well as the rather expensive bottle of Pinot in the Sausage to kick start the night.

I'm not too hungover... just tired!
But, no rest for the wicked. Hannah is picking me up after work and we're driving to Carlisle. Yep, the other end of the country. It's a friend's birthday so we're surprising her; she thinks I'm going up next weekend. I am, but I'm going this weekend too! Why not? I have nothing keeping me in Leamington at weekends any more. Not now my friends have fled back to uni!

I really really want bed. But I'm in charge of Playdoh this afternoon... I could do with some ProPlus, but it gives me the shakes. I wish my body could handle caffeine!

I've fallen in love with Rugby.

A few weeks ago, Becca and I were out and on one of our drunken rampages. I told her that my friend's brother happens to live with half of Warwick University's rugby team. He has some very hot housemates... Unfortunately, he wasn't in Leamington at the time, so we went on a mission to find rugby players that night, regardless. Literally "Hello, do you play rugby? No? Bye! ... Hello! Do you play rugby...?" etc.
We came across two guys who claimed they were on the team, both good looking, but both said they didn't know my friend's brother. We danced the night away with them, content that we'd fulfilled our mission.

The week after the girls were out for a friend's birthday. I couldn't make it, but I lived the night through photos. They'd bumped into one of the rugby players again and birthday girl had pulled him! ...and then he'd told her he was 18 and played for Warwick School rugby team!! From this night on, he was known as Rugby because we didn't know his name (and the birthday girl was renamed Paedophile).
The next week they saw him again, except he didn't recognise any of them! Not even Paedophile! But in their drunken state my friends screamed Rugby! at him, and he made a swift exit...

Last night, we saw him again! And again, he didn't recognise us. He now just sees us as a strange group of girls that shout Rugby! and take photos of him...
I was just flicking through these photos, and discovered that he's worn the same t-shirt every night. Strange, no?

So, he doesn't play rugby for a university team.
He's not even old enough to go to university.
He only has one t-shirt.
He's not called Rugby.
He thinks we're insane.
He brings so much joy to my life! I love him!

No regrets!

It must have been a good night, because there are a whole hoard of badly taken, paparazzi-style photos already on Facebook. Good times, eh?

I'm going to do something I shouldn't...

This whole "World Of Work" I appear to have been inadvertently baptised into, is leaving me with little else in my life. Starting work at 8.30am means I'm exhausted by the time I get home at 4pm. I'm unable to keep my eyes open past the Ten O'clock News!

So tonight I'm rebelling. I'm bringing back the student-style Mid-Afternoon Nap, followed by student-style Midweek Drinking. Just don't tell my Mum.

Tomorrow I may be a horrible mess. I may spend all morning constantly yawning. I may have hangover breath which, hopefully, will be so laced with vodka it'll knock the kids out with one exhale.

But... I need to do it for my sanity! My journal has descended into whines about children and plasters and family! Where are the boy-dramas? Where are the videos of me singing drunken kareoke? Where are the posts about recent shopping trips to buy over-priced, but beautiful, clothes? This was supposed to be my year out to enjoy myself... and I won't let it turn into my year out to become a housewife!

Angry Voice

Ugh, bad day! It was bound to be a bad day after the long, awful weekend I've just had. I'll rant about that later.

This morning:
A mother tried to cause trouble because apparently I'd used the wrong type of plaster on Friday when her daughter cut her knee. How was I supposed to know there was a right and wrong type? I just got the child thrown at me with blood oozing through her tights and told "She might need sorting out, have a look." So I sorted her out.

Today I was told to keep an eye on the 4yr olds playing outside all morning. When it came to Tidy-Up Time I had to use my Angry Voice because bratty boys were fighting with broomsticks. Then when it was tidy one of them kicked over a pile of (neatly stacked) bricks. The class teacher appeared, turned to me and said "You do know it's Tidy-Up Time, don't you?" staring at the heap of bricks at my feet.

I hate Foundation. I hate the 4yr olds. Give them to me when they know left from right and right from wrong.


Updated 5pm:
To top it all off, I discovered a note in my handbag from my mother with "helpful" suggestions on what I should do in the classroom this afternoon . Would the School Secretary normally give a Classroom Assistant lessons on how to do her job?
Not only am I living with my parents, but I'm working with one of them. Anyone think a nervous breakdown is on the horizon?

I'm going to Loooondon, to buy a Heat Magazine!

I'm off to London this morning with my parents and Nanny.
We're off to The Globe. I'm looking forward to it, despite one friend's negative assertions: It's a tourist trap. We're seeing a play noone's heard of (despite it being one of Shakespeare's). It'll be performed by mediocre actors (who will never be as fantastic as those performing Hamlet at the RSC who he went to see).
Well screw you boy; it's a glorious sunny day, I'm wearing pretty clothes that make me feel pretty, and I'm off to the big smoke. I can't be negative when I'm about to hop on a train to my favourite city (despite the fact I feel like I'm there every other week at the moment).

Guess I'd better get Wikipedia-ing!

The dutiful daughter.

How do people cope living at home with their parents? Especially after they've already lived on their own? I'm counting down the days til I escape to France!

Last night Mum did what I do; she escaped. She got annoyed with Dad, and so got in her car and drove off. She refused to answer her phone and wouldn't reply to my txts. I knew she woudln't have gone far, but I didn't want to wander off into the night in search of her. She came back, of course.

This afternoon Dad had a go at me for not taking a job as being a Dinner Lady for one day. I said it wasn't worth it; an hours work, an hours pay, for wiping tables and forcing kids to eat carrots. He told me I had to be seen to be looking for work or he'd start charging me rent... Yea, lets forget that I've worked every day this week, and lets forget that I'm not actually getting any time to myself this weekend because I'm entertaining Nanny in London on Saturday and visiting Grandpa in hospital on Sunday. What a dutiful Granddaughter I am.


I wish I could just screw them over and actually be the useless daughter they treat me as.
But I have this ridiculous inherent loyalty that indefinitely attaches me to people (and inanimate objects - I hoard). It means I stick to close friends no matter how much shit they put me through (Bash), I find it nearly impossible to break away from ex-boyfriends (Ben, Steve) and I still respect my parents, despite the crap they throw at me now and whatever happened in the past.

H quite happily gets on with her life without this same problem, so it can't be in my genes!

My Jeans:

[I don't have my tattoo... So that picture must be at least 4yrs old now!]

And the award for most fashionable Teaching Assistant goes to...

According to an 8yr old called Bryony; I looked very pretty today.

You'd think that would be a compliment, but the surprised look accompanying the comment left me rather disheartened. I worked with Bryony's class last year and, judging by the shock on her face, apparently this is the first time she's noticed I'm a girl, and the first time I've looked good.

My shoes also got a a fair few compliments from other members of staff. One even asked what size I am as if she were about to ask if she could try them on.

I feel like I deserve a gold star, or a Well Done sticker.

I mean, yippee! - I have shoes that make middle-aged mumsy-types jealous, and I've finally managed to impress Yr3! C'mon!!

You know what...

My statcounter shows me I have quite a few returning visitors. I know you people are out there... and I like it, don't get me wrong. It's just... well... none of you ever comment!

I know you've read my ups and downs, I know you've seen my holiday snaps. I know, that you know (that I know, that she knows, that you know), that I was upset yesterday because of my Grandpa... and still you don't comment. No words of wisdom, no encouraging messages, no "I'm here"s.

Is my writing not at all thought-provoking? Is it really that dull?

Seeing as I have quite a few readers, it can't be that dire. Or maybe you're just all nosey friends attempting to covertly keep track of me? Even if you don't want me to know who you are, you could comment anonymously.

So come on, why don't you comment? You could comment, just this once, and explain why you haven't in the past and don't want to in the future. Just so I know. It's common courtesy, surely?

Glad to be alive?

Yesterday's visit to Mansfield's Kings Mill Hospital was rather harrowing; but not for reasons you would expect. Grandpa wasn't on death's door, thankfully. He's not well and he wasn't good. But he was a spring chicken in contrast with his neighbours.

On his part of the ward their were three bed spaces:
One was ominously empty.

The gentleman next to my Grandpa was his own throughout the whole 2hrs visiting time. He constantly chewed at nothing, which made it near impossible for me to understand him when he beckoned me over and whispered at me through his oxygen mask. I was worried he'd die there and then before I could work out what he so desperately needed to tell me. He wanted his trolley moving, because he was worried someone would knock it and break something. Not really the dramatic "The treasure map's buried under the mulberry bush, and make sure Elizabeth knows I'll always love her..." I was expecting.

The bed next to him was occupied by a man who didn't/couldn't move. He constantly had an oxygen mask and the only way I could tell he was alive was by the rasping sound I assumed was him breathing. Half-way through our visit the curtains were drawn about him by nurses and we heard a shout of "Mr Jones, does it hurt when I do this?". I didn't hear a response, but I hope it didn't.

Opposite (nearly) lifeless Mr Jones was a man who mistook me for a nurse. When looking for a chair I discovered him wandering around the ward. He stared frantically at me and asked for water. I stared frantically back and told him I didn't know where the water would be! This in turn led to him following me around the ward as I hunted for a nurse. The nurse I did find was unhelpful, even when I made it clear that I didn't actually know who the geriatric tugging at my cardigan was, that he wasn't with me.

The sixth member of the ward posse didn't appear to be in a particularly promising condition. He was surrounded by family members with tear-stained eyes. I tried to offer them some privacy and purposefully looked away.


Today I visited Solihul Hospital with my mum. That's 2 hospitals in as many days. Don't these things come in threes? I'd rather not have a third.

Help?

I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to be doing right now.

I was awoken at 3am by the housephone's trill ring, immediately thinking it was probably a pissed friend calling the house instead of my mobile. Noone answered it, and I waited for my mobile to ring. It didn't, but Dad's did. This morning I discovered it was Grannie, calling to say Grandpa had had a heart attack and cracked his head open on the bedside table. Fuck.

I've spent this morning working as a Teaching Assistant/Dinner Lady, and this afternoon Dad and I are driving to Nottingham. Dad's sister called him this morning and hysterically shouted at him for not supporting her. Saying he's not pulled his weight. Yea, right... Who is it that has them every Christmas? Us. Last time he got ill she refused to visit because the Grandparents had turned down their offer of moving them into a home closer to the family. In a kind of serves-you-right way.

But from a purely selfish aspect; I'm freaked. As I said before... I don't do death. Noone's ever died. What am I supposed to do?

He's not even fucking dead yet.

Such confusion.

Why is it that when I go out with Alasdair everything goes a bit awry and I wake with a sore head and limited memory of the night?
Why does he still come out with me when I usually end up owing him an apology in the morning?
Why do I have an innate desire to wind him up and do stupid things in some kind of attempt to see how far I can push him?

Last night was fun. But I'm not entirely sure exactly what happened towards the end.

It turned out that none of my girl friends could make it, so just Alasdair and I went to Coventry. We drank a bottle of wine before leaving his flat, then another bottle with our meal, and another bottle in the bar next door. So three bottles of wine between the two of us before we'd even left Leamington... the night was doomed from the start!

It was fantastic to see Sian and I loved her brother's music. It turned out that he's, like, best buds with Rob Thomas and has had backstage passes for the whole of his tour and if only he'd known I liked him so much I could have gone along. Damn it! But then he did tell me to get back in my box because he's happily married with an adorable son and, apparently, home-wrecking is not cool. Double damn it.


Why have my parents chosen to play a BirdSong digital radio channel all day in the kitchen? I feel like I'm living in a wood. Or an aviary.

Goodbye OTC...

Yep, I went to bed at half past 8 last night... I was tired!
After spending the week kayaking, hiking and cycling on minimal sleep because we spent every night in the pub, Hannah attempted to drive us home. I say 'attempted' because it managed to take us twice as long as usual... the weather was horrendous, and the traffic just as bad due to the amount of accidents we passed. We managed to take the wrong turn a few times, and managed to find all the blocked roads in the Midlands!

This week has burnt a few bridges for me, and I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it.

It was supposed to be my last weekend with the Officer Training Corps... after this I'm off the books and no longer an Officer Cadet. I expected it to be sad, but I ended up crying my eyes out for different reasons. I suppose it's kind of made it easier for me to leave; the people that were upsetting me and the things that were getting to me are what I'm not going to miss.

I'm not going miss people constantly taking the piss out of me. I'm not going to miss the jokes about me being some kind of man-eating whore. I won't miss feeling alone in a crowded room. And I won't miss being told that I moan constantly or that I'm generally shit.

But, despite all that, I'm not leaving it on a bad note. I've really enjoyed all the training, and it's been fantastic to spend some time with my girls again. I'm uploading photos as I type... so a picture post shall follow!

Tonight I'm off to see my friend's brother, Garfield Mayor, performing at the Kasbah in Coventry. I've never been before, but Alasdair's coming with me [as a friend, friend, friend]!

He's gotta be SO MACHO!

I've enjoyed this week. Despite the arguments, the tears, the burnt bridges and the hip that is decidedly fucked. Woah, it's been an emotional rollercoaster.

Speaking of fucked; I have my pyjamas inside out and this screen is making me go all cross-eyed. It's time for bed. I'll fill you in in the morning (/afternoon) and leave you now with my new favourite song:

And as if by magic...

I'm off again. Gone gone gone.

This time to Doncaster, Sherwood Forest, Liverpool, Lake District, Liverpool, Leamington, Coventry and finally back to Leamington for the foreseeable future.

I'm excited; it means seeing the boy, and the girls. And I've missed them all horribly.

An attempt to trap my memories in literary form.

I've been back in Leamington for another flying visit. This time it's been for 4 days. During those 4 days I have succeeded in creating an amusing trail of destruction with Becca; my partner in crime.

It's a bugger, you know? Every summer we all return from our various universities dotted about the country. We're old friends, so we hope we'll all fit back into each others' pockets. We think we've not changed; we've all been living a similar university experience. But we all know that the friendships we leave behind in our student houses, are very different to the friendships we rediscover during the holidays. It's only now, when we're on the verge of leaving each other again, that we manage to reform that inseparable closeness.

We needed that holiday, all three of us. And we had such a fantastic time. We did some absolutely stupid/crazy/reckless/hilarious things, that I could only really do with those two. Now we're back, the hilarity has continued, the drinking has continued, and the reminiscing is fantastic. We're on the verge of pushing out any other friend who attempts to socialise with us because, you know, they just weren't there!

The In-Jokes:
Alice-de-la-Dare - Alasdair's name before his sex change. Who, apparently, I am cloned from. After a conversation about cloning in which Bex and Caroline decided that there was a whole clonal civilisation in England who are responsible for all menial labour - "Like the polish". Alasdair, unsurprisingly, doesn't find it as amusing as we do.

Did you know Mohamed can move the Pyranese? - A guy who is in love with Becca told her that he would "move mountains" just to see her. This, of course, lead onto a conversation about Mohamed, and what the saying was about mountains... and then something about a donkey and a minaret...

"They love... but for... just one night!" - One evening, the AquaGym instructor bought us all drinks, attempted to dirty dance with us, told us our perfume smelt nice... and then realised that we were having none of it, so worked the same "magic" with another lady, Sandrine, who was substantially more pissed/desperate than us. We were told, however, that it would only last one night, but the french man telling us this wasn't quite sure of the wording for "one night stand"!

TEDDY HIT! - Probably the most un-cool of all our moves, it involves a shout of "Teddy hit!!" and a high-five-esque gesture. All because we found some crisps in a shop amusingly called Teddy's Hit. Obviously this lead to much hilarity... Teddy shit? Teddy's drug hit? And eventually, a Teddy Hit high-five.


A Hat Called Medhi - Throughout the holiday we were befriended my most of the site staff. The animateur, Medhi, especially grew fond of us and vice versa. He had a hat... but he no longer has that hat because I may have quite possibly stolen it from him on the last night, as a souvenir. The hat is now called Medhi, and it generally goes most places with me. The photo shows Medhi, on the monkey mole rat horse squirrel.

The Rabbit Monkey Mole Rat Squirrel Lemur - A stuffed toy resembling the nut-eating animal in Ice Age. It appeared in our room at Becca's Aunt's house, and we somehow could never refer to it as the same animal twice... and so it became them all. Now, most animals are referred to in such a way.

There is also, of course, the random shouting of french words such as "Alleeee!" and "Sex-see!". Every time we chink glasses we sat "Bon sante!". Faux french accents litter our conversations. And we've taken to kissing on both cheeks...

This is a holiday we're not planning on letting go of for a long time. And they are the friends that I refuse to be torn away from. Becca and Caroline are back again. Cack in my life and we re-know each other inside out. I think more visits to Brighton are in order.

Grahame

Last night I got very drunk with Becca. We discussed eating habits. We met Alice-de-la-dare. I discovered a friend has terminal cancer and broke down into a sobbing mess.

I'm walking to Warwick in an attempt to see him without him realising that I'm only there to see him, and to see him before he dies. I can't handle death.

Home Truths

Whilst in France we stayed with Becca's uncle and aunt; Rémy et Karen. Their house was absolute heaven. An old barn re-built by Rémy on the side of a mountain over-looking vineyards.

La belle vue de leur maison.

Their "indoor" swimming pool...

Karen was lovely. She has two sons around our age and clearly adored having 3 girls knocking about the house with her. She lazed with us on the beach, showed us the local market, and stayed up until the early hours with us, chatting away after dinner.
Rémy was a funny French man, who was only able to speak English in the present tense. At face value, he was grizzly and his French accent had an aggressive edge. I was nervous around him, finding it rather daunting being seated opposite him at the dinner table... but I learnt he was really a softie at heart, with a twinkle in his eye, and a wink every time he threw a challenging French sentence in my direction.

As I said; Karen clearly welcomed our company and our ability to free the house from it's usual testosterone-filled air. Despite her being part of Becca's family, we found ourselves telling her all sorts of home-truths that we would never divulge to our parents... University sports club initiations, dalliances over the past weeks with toned french men, and our penchant for alcohol (including that night when we managed to drink 19 shots of tequila).

As a result, she opened up to us. As a result, it got me thinking.

She told us how, when she was at university, she slipped into the habit of forgetting to eat. It wasn't a conscious thing, but it lead to her being unable to get out of bed which, in turn, lead to anorexia. And with anorexia came the attention from friends and parents, who were suddenly concerned with her well-being after she'd felt that they didn't care for most of her life.

I'm not saying that I'm anywhere near anorexia (nor am I saying that I'm over-weight), but it did make me think about my own eating habits. And not only my own, but those of my friends. I hope Becca took what her aunt was saying as seriously as I did (if not more than).

This year I've lost weight, and loved it. I went through a phase in my first 2yrs of university where I had most definitely put on weight and it didn't suit me. After Steve and I got together it started dropping off me... Because I did more exercise? Less drinking? Less eating? More stressing? I don't know why. But what I do know is, I now have to be a bit smarter about my eating and make sure I remember to eat properly. Because looking healthy on the outside does not necessarily mean I'm healthy on the inside! And I can be an awful attention seeker sometimes, I just need to make sure I get my thrills somewhere else.

Why can't I wear my bikini everyday any more?

Mediterranean sun... why have you deserted me??

Je souhaite que je fusse toujours en France.

I'm back! Look! I wish I wasn't!

We flew into East Midlands airport midday today and had to sprint across the runway in an attempt to get inside before my white summer dress went see-through with hideous British August rain. I felt like my tan had faded there and then.

The sausages squashed between two slices of stale bread that I attempted to eat for lunch just didn't live up to the saucission and fresh baguette comprising yesterday's déjeuner. And I know that I won't feel like eating dinner now that I know it won't be something gloriously knocked up by Rémy.

The English language is suddenly dull and lifeless... I crave a French accent, and a roughly shaven man making me giggle by slurring "What is ze Ingleesh for... a man oo lovvs a man? A gay?" How I miss you Medhi, Ludo et Nico...

I refuse to "wrap up warm" despite the cold weather. I think I'll just turn the heating up and shut the curtains instead. Then I can pretend I've had to come inside to escape the burning sun...

This holiday has been absolutely amazing; absolutely what the doctor ordered.