The red stuff

I have probably harped on about this before but I think it is something that is worth a little mention every now and again, just in a vain attempt to put something in someone's brain.

This is a post about giving blood and how awesome it is, and how important it is and how I genuinely find it difficult to accept people's totally lame excuses for not doing it.

I first went to give blood when I was at uni in Manchester. And I couldn't even tell you why I went. There was a drop in centre in town and I just decided to go along, mainly because I was feeling nosy about what blood type I was.

My first donation did not go well. The blood basically just stopped coming out of my veins. I was asked to clench and unclench my fist, I thought happy thoughts, I did everything but my body gave up half a pint and then decided that was it. I was told that it was probably enough for them to run their tests and type my blood and I should come again next time and just see what happened.

I've never looked back.

I've had a couple of breaks - one when I was on Warfarin for my embolism - but I've mostly kept up a steady appearance meaning that today I donated my 19th pint of blood.

(I did think about waiting until I'd donated my 20th pint for this post but I just couldn't wait that long I'm afraid.)

Once I was settled in Tiny Town I got myself set up again to start going regularly and decided to take selfies each time I donated to document my little journey. I was so mad that I never thought of doing it before, how flippin' cool would it be to have a whole lifetime of giving blood selfies?

Really cool is the answer.

Anyway.

I find it really sad that when I go I am quite often one of the youngest people there in whatever local sports hall I'm attending. The majority of people there to donate seem to be in the 40s-50s bracket and I very very rarely see someone who looks like they could be 17, the age at which are you are allowed to donate. 

When I talk about it at work and ask if other people donate the answer is always a resounding no and when I ask people why I'm greeted by a wall of awkward silence. 

The awkward silence is there because there just aren't many good reasons for not giving blood. I feel like I am, on the whole, a fairly reasonable person. But this is a subject that makes me absolutely lose my mind, because I just simply cannot understand why, if you are fit and healthy and don't have a complete massive phobia of needles, you don't donate.

It takes so little time. It is virtually painless (I'm not going to say totally painless because, you know, it's a needle in your arm) and you are saving lives. Seriously. You are saving lives. Every time you donate a pint of blood that is used to save a life - it either goes to help someone who is near death, or a small percentage may go to a lab for scientists to undertake tests which help further research, which, guess what? Saves lives.

Why on earth would you turn down the opportunity to feel that good?

We're not talking about running into burning buildings to save children. This doesn't endanger your life at all and you can feel so so good about yourself.

It is even more important to give blood because there are so many people who can't. Seriously the restrictions are hefty. They have to be when you're putting blood in other peoples' bodies I guess. The CJD crisis saw more restrictions put in place which means that now, every time blood is used to save someone's life, that means there is one more person who isn't able to donate. 

Kind of ironic really.

I know that you're busy and I know that you have other things that you could do with your time. I know that you think that loads of people give blood so what does it matter if you don't. I know that it seems like a hassle to make the effort to ring up to make an appointment. I know that it feels a bit icky and gross to be in a room full of people who are having blood taken out of them.

But you still have to do it.

Why?

Because you are actually saving lives. People would die if there wasn't blood there for them. You know Heather? She wouldn't be here if people didn't donate blood. She lost so much blood when she was having Tiny Tin Bird that she had to have a transfusion. My Mum wouldn't be alive either. She lost so much blood during her radical hysterectomy that she had to have a transfusion. If people didn't go and give blood that's just two people who simply would not be here.

Stop and think about that for just a second. Just one, small second.

And then tell me how you can have any excuse not to go?

(Also you get free biscuits when you go. You have to sit down and eat biscuits before they'll allow you to leave. I mean, why would you not go?)

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For more information on Giving Blood, including the ability to make appointments online as well as more amazing stories about the lives that have been saved, you just need to click here.

Here's an idea - Find out where your next and nearest session is and take some people with you? Get together in a little group - take a mate, take a couple of mates, get your work colleagues together and go and donate and then go out for dinner afterwards (although no alcohol, yeah?) . What better excuse to have a massive burger/pizza/curry/[insert favourite food] than that you've just given blood and need to "keep your blood sugar up."?

BEDM Day 18 - How Saturday unfolded...

BEDM Day 18 and I'm still holding on - by the skin of my teeth!

One of the prompts was to undertake a photo an hour for a day and I went for Saturday because a photo an hour for a weekday would not make interesting viewing for anybody.

8am - Up at what I think is an unreasonably early time for a Saturday when you're a childless couple. Still the view of blue skies through the window makes me feel good about the day ahead.

9am - The breakfast of champions. During the week it's Cornflakes for me but weekends are for cups of tea and Marmite on toast.

10am - I confess; during the week I sometimes cannot be bothered to make the bed properly, if at all, but weekends are all about taking the time out to do the little things.

11am - A trip to the local Farmer's Market to eat a bacon butty, sit in the sunshine and re-unite a lost child with his parents.

12pm - Time to wander home with peppermint choc chip ice cream in hand

1pm - A trip to the supermarket to buy a ridiculous number of stickers to fill in our Panini World Cup sticker book.

2pm - Checked the post and found that my race stuff has arrived for the Hull 10k taking place on 8th June

3pm - Gerbils know how to relax on a Saturday - this is Tyrion Lannister who has fallen asleep without actually managing to get all the way inside his cottage.

4pm - I went out for a run. It did not go well. Least said about that the better.

5pm - Watching Hull v Arsenal in the FA Cup Final - Hull are somehow unbelievably leading 2-1 after scoring two goals in the first 8 minutes.

6pm - Still watching the FA Cup Final - score is now 2-2 and about to head into extra time...

7pm - ...and it's all over. Arsenal win by scoring a third in extra time and lift the FA Cup...hopes and dreams are shattered.

8pm - A little Saturday treat in the form of a Chinese takeaway. Can't beat it.

9pm - Cider whilst catching up with the latest episode of 24. Quite frankly I needed it after what this day had brought me.

10pm - Shattered from getting up early, going to the Farmer's Market, an absolutely terrible run in the heat and Hull losing the FA Cup Final - it's time for bed at the sinfully early time of 10pm. But we had our reasons, we had something exciting to get up for today...

BEDM Day 10 - What I lug about a.k.a. take a snoop in my handbag.

Oh yeah, I love a good blog meme. Especially when I don't have much else to write about. I've seen a few of these floating around and figured it was as good a time as any to trot one of these out.

My bag is a Cambridge Satchel Company bag which I guess makes me a proper blogger, right? This little beauty was a present for my 30th birthday from all of my family and it is one of my favourites. I even has my initials embossed on it so you can't steal it 'kay?

1. I've got my Kindle out! This never ever ever happens. I am taking part in Alex's Blogging Good Read soon and decided to get one of the books for that month on my Kindle to take away to America with me. Of course I didn't read it so now I'm stuck reading it on my Kindle. I just prefer real life books I'm afraid. But it works out well for this bag because it is not the most spacious and only the slimmest of paperbacks will fit in it.

2. Little book and pen because you never know when inspiration will strike. Believe it or not, considering that I hardly ever blog, this person has a book in her bag which is pretty much for that purpose. Lists of things I might want to blog are in here, random streams of consciousness are in here. It's not a fancy notebook I'm afraid, I got it free at a hotel once. *Loses blogger points*

3. Vaseline cocoa butter flavour and Extra chewing gum. Because nobody likes dry lips and stinky breath.....do they?

4. This is practically an antique item now. A first generation iPod Nano. You know back in the olden days when they weren't really that tiny? And you could only get them in black and white? I know right? It's mainly loaded with podcasts because I'm a super non-cool person. I listen to them when I go running because they help to distract me because I kind of find running boring sometimes.

5. Mega purse. American Girl got me this a billion years ago I believe. Loadsa room for notes, little zippy bit for coins and lots of beautiful sections for cards. There's even a pocket in the back where you can put things. I can fit my lovely slim phone in it and then there is a handle that pulls out so you could take it out on its own for a night out. Bullseye.

6. Hello keys. You are lovely and open doors and stuff. Like magic. Please note Pets at Home VIP card - essential for gerbil purchases.

7, The holy trifecta of USB stick, card holder thing and HSBC Secure Key. That is the holy trifecta, right? I don't even know what's on that USB stick...

Oh hey I just realised that this photo doesn't include my phone. That's because I was taking the picture with my phone. You need to just imagine it okay?

Right you nosy lot, you've seen enough, time to move on...

....and show me what's in yours...


PS Awesome bedding is sadly not mine but is Mumsie's.

Friday night's round My Nest*

Some people have crazy Friday nights out - drinking and dancing and hopping their way around pubs and clubs.

Some people have crazy Friday nights in - drinking and dancing around the living room with mates.

But this person has another way of spending her Friday nights...

Catching up on The Archers...

...and learning how to French Braid my hair (how have I never learned how to do this until now?!)

Don't be jealous of my crazy lifestyle kids.

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*"The Nest?! The Nest?! What is this crazy woman talking about?" I hear you say - well The Nest is where I live - you can read about it here

Morning Ritual - BEDM Day 29

Oh yeah - hi BEDM topics. I kind of went a bit rogue for a week or so there didn't I?

I couldn't miss this one though, mainly because it'll be the easiest post I've ever written.

I don't do mornings. Mornings and I are not friends. I begrudgingly accept Morning's presence and the necessity for its existence but I have no particular desire to embrace it with open arms and sing about its wonder.

In fact I don't want to speak at all in the morning.

My younger nephew are alike in this respect. We get up at the same time each morning and not a word is said between us. At any other time of the day not being greeted when I walk into the kitchen wouldn't earn him any Brownie points whatsoever. In the morning I'm thankful that there is no need to deal with a chattering monkey in my face. We know the deal - this is morning and it is to be gotten through and we can do this silently.

Breakfast I guess is part of my morning routine. I don't understand how people can skip breakfast. Actually, my stomach doesn't understand how you can. It knows when I've woken up and it gets mad if I don't feed it quickly. If I go to work without breakfast, I'll get to 9am and feel very very ill and queasy. In fact, there have been days where I've woken up late and felt sick because my stomach is pissed that it hasn't been fed. Breakfast is a must although I'm not fussy about what happens. Cereal is my choice just because it's quick - I can't be doing with waiting for toast to pop or waiting for porridge in the microwave - bowl out, cereal in, milk on top, spoon - done. Let's just keep it simple in the mornings, yeah?

The only person I do deign to speak to in the morning isn't really a person at all. It's Rosie. Every morning when I come down the stairs she meets me at the bottom and leaps up at me to plant her front paws on my chest and be stroked. I actually like that I don't even have to bend down to greet her - she comes up to my level. Anything that is that happy is hard to ignore, although when I say "speak" to her, I don't really think it is classed as speech - I just make sounds - which is as good as you're going to get from me.

There is no grand getting ready routine. I put make-up on, although if I thought I could get away with it I wouldn't. And to be fair it's not really a heavy-handed make-up routine - slap some BB cream on, slap blusher on, bit of eyeliner on my bottom lids (can't be arsed to do the top), bit of mascara - boom, ready in 5 minutes.

I don't want to listen to a cheery tune to get my morning started. I don't need a cheery tune to get my morning started. My morning is started - I'm up aren't I? Must I be cheery and full of beans on top of it? Can't I just be?

Like a lizard, I warm up once I've had time to adjust to the morning and have basked in its presence for awhile. I'm at my most productive first thing in the morning when I don't want to talk to anyone and can keep my head down and get on with things. By 10.30am I'm ready for my first cup of tea and ready to converse - and productivity takes a nose-dive.

I would love to be a morning person but it's never going to happen, and whilst I think it's lovely that you are a morning person, I'm going to need you to keep your morning person-ness out of my face until break-time - kay?

Always make sure you read a text properly

I made one of the best mis-reading of a text the other day and it has to be shared with you for two reasons. The first being that it was hilarious. The second being that today's BEDM topic is 'pampering' and if you know me you know that that is a topic about which I know nothing.

I could write a terribly generic post a Lush bathbomb and a glass of wine, or some hand-cream and a lovely nail varnish, but I'm guessing you could probably read 10,000 other BEDM posts that will be along that line.

Instead I will give you a laugh.

So this post involves Heather of Little Tin Bird - say hello Heather.

I sent Heather a text last week in which I enquired how her and Little Tin Bird were doing.

She replied the following;

"...[We're] ok, better than the last couple of weeks which have been full of nappy rash, poo, more poo, nappy rash ointment, poo in the bath and teeth..."

I was shocked. I have been around babies and I know that the poo goes everywhere. But teeth? Teeth?! This was a new one on me.

I replied:

"Wait. Was the poo in your teeth or his? Why am I even asking?!..."

As I waited for the reply I could only think about how gross motherhood is. You do get a cute baby but poo in teeth? That is just a step too far and definitely one to bear in mind if you decide to breed.

Finally the reply that I wasn't sure I wasn't to read came:

"Sorry I meant teething not poo in teeth thank GOD..."

At which point I collapsed on my bed in paroxysms. I had to take cotton wool and eye make-up remover to my face as my mascara and eyeliner poured down my cheeks, stinging my eyes as I wept at my mistake.

Poo in the teeth? Don't be ridiculous.

Although I would imagine if you had poo in your teeth (and indeed poo in your bath) you would be in need of some pampering...

SEAMLESS SEQUE TO TODAY'S BEDM TOPIC

Collecting - BEDM Day 12

I thought long and hard about this post and thought about ways in which I could interpret it.

I could tell you all about my first collection - my super awesome massive shelf of all things crocodile related. I'm telling you. There wasn't a figurine of a crocodile that wasn't in my sweaty mitts and part of that collection and I would take them down and dust them and re-arrange them like the strange little child I was.

I could tell you all about how nothing remains of that collection apart from two very tiny figures that I've never parted with because they were so beautiful and are enough to flood me with the memories of the original collection.

I could tell you all about how I also went through a phase of collecting those god-awful sticky-foot fuzzy bug things that companies used to give away as advertisements. I stuck them all down one side of my wardrobe and I'm not entirely sure when I grew out of them and prized them off.

I could tell you all about how I collected shed-loads of Edward Monkton cards at uni and stuck them up on my walls. I'm pretty sure I still have those somewhere actually.

I could tell you all about how I kind of now collect Royal Family memorabilia - the result of my tea party for the Royal Wedding in 2011 where I started collecting mugs for people to drink out of and found it difficult to stop.

The one mug I do have with me - a buy from Ashbourne made on the bloggers trip to Norbury Manor

I could tell you all about how I love them and that the tackier they are the harder I fall for them (Andrew and Fergie's is a favourite I have to tell you) but that they live in a box in a cupboard because my need for things to be organised and for things to have use means that I really have no idea where to put them.

Because that's what you need for a collection. A space to put it in. And that is the one thing that I don't have at the moment and when I think too hard about that my brain gets a little wappy and the emotions start leaking out my eyes and I make little whimpery noises about not having all my belongings around me and the hardships of trying to nest in a very small space.

And so I won't tell you about those collections.

Because I don't need to.

Because there's one collection that's right under my nose.

Here. This blog.

This blog which is the small, but ever-growing collection of the little events that have happened in my life. The funny anecdotes and the days out. The things that have been made and the trials that I've had making them. The time spent with family and friends and The Person. It's all right here, in one tiny internet space.

And I don't even have to spend any money or ruin the sides of my wardrobe with glue from those advertising bugs.

Bonus.

Swimming

Saturday morning saw me completing a ritual which I hadn't undertaken for many many years.

Getting ready to go to the swimming baths.

Putting my swimming costume on with my clothes over it is just a habit - I hated wasting time getting undressed when I got to the swimming baths when I was younger - carefully packing the bag with everything I'll need - towel, underwear (I lost count of how many times this essential was forgotten over the years), shampoo & conditioner, purse with change for the locker. As I packed my bag a feeling slowly began to creep over me - excitement. Going swimming was always exciting.

I love that no matter where you are in England, there's a familarity to the Council-run baths - the hairdryers that don't work, the lockers that look on their last legs, the floors which look a little bit grubby no matter how many times they're washed. You can keep your fancy David Lloyd or DW or Fitness First gyms. I don't need fancy lighting, I don't need a hot tub, I don't even need a sauna - this is where I feel at home.

I haven't been swimming in literally years and I've no idea if I'll even be able to swim for the whole hour I have planned but slowly lowering myself in at the shallow end I know I'm going to enjoy myself.

I opt to stay out of the Lane - I don't know that my speed is up to that yet and instead stay in the half of the pool with the other casual early morning swimmers. The two old biddies who chat as they swim up and down, taking up pretty much half of the pool but totally unconcerned as you swim around them. The really old guy who is in there, complete with nose clip and swimming cap, but looks as if he's going to drown with every stroke he takes. And the others like me - the ones wearing the cossie/trunks they bought for a holiday, without goggles, happy to just pootle up and down at their own speed.

I relax into the regular rhythm of breaststroke. I know I'm breaking all the rules by keeping my head above water and I can feel the screw kick that I never really got under control when I was having swimming lessons but I am content to keep going up and down, up and down, up and down. I love the feeling of being in the water and being buoyed up by it - I always wonder why people would ever go all the way to space to feel weightlessness when you could just pop down the local baths and experience it for a few quid.

It's the noisiest silence there is. Always sounds, always noise echoing off the tiles, and yet you are completely able to be relaxed and focused on what you're doing.

I'm still there when the pool opens up to the public properly. I watch the bored looking teenage lifeguard start the mechanism rolling to pull the cover off the baby pool. As it slowly folds away I look at the water. It is so still. Not a ripple. It feels as if the water is basking in its stillness in preparation for what lies ahead  - there will be no stillness once the Mums and Dads with the little babies are in there and the little ones are having their swimming lessons.

And so I continue to swim, up and down, up and down, going at my own pace, which probably isn't fast enough to be doing anything really at all, but I don't care.

I am at home in the water.

Tea - the human leveller

Last week I caught the train to Preston to see The Person for the weekend. This involves a change at Stafford which gives me just enough time to go and buy a cup of tea and wander back to my platform in time for my train. This particular Friday my train was delayed by 10 minutes, and to escape from the freezing cold I took refuge in a tiny little waiting room on my platform.

In my haste to get in from the cold and not spill my tea all over myself or drop my work laptop on the floor I didn't really register what else was happening, and it wasn't until I sat down that I realised the waiting room was unusually crowded...and there was a tripod with a camera on it...and they all had little notebooks...

I had unwittingly walked straight into a nest of Transpotters. (I have no idea what the collective is for a group of Trainspotters - any suggestions?)

I recognised this for the opportunity it was - the chance for an anthropological adventure, observing a little known species in their natural habitat. And so I settled down, pulling my own notebook out in order to note down my observations.

A few things which stood out;

1. Their enthusiasm for trains was actually quite nice to watch - these people are genuinely excited by trains. Conversations would be interrupted mid-flow as they dashed up to see a train which was zooming through the station to write the number down.

2. I will never, even if I live to be 100, hear a funnier phrase than the following;

" God, look at the wagons on that tonight!"

I kid you not. If I was to try and make something up it wouldn't be that funny. I couldn't dream of it.

3. Coal wagons are not cool, with one guy commenting "I've not come here for coal wagons" with another replying "I don't even note them down." 

Poor coal wagons.

All in all it was a most interesting 20 minutes spent in the world of trainspotting. I was torn between not wanting my train to get there because I was listening to pure gold and being desperate for it to turn up because I needed to laugh. Badly needed to laugh. (When I did get on my train and rang my Mum to tell her about my adventure pure hysteria took over until the tears were rolling down my face.)

Eventually though my train arrived and I regretfully left them to it. Don't feel bad for them though, they were in for a good evening - as I left I heard the immortal words....

"Cars, then mail, then cup of tea."

How I finally learned I can't wear heels and drink

You would think that a pulmonary embolism would have been warning enough to me that I really shouldn't wear mega high heels and drink copious amounts of alcohol.

But sometimes, one bad experience (even if it does involve hospitalisation for a week and 6 months on warfarin) just isn't enough and you I need to receive another lesson before something can really sink in.

*cue wibbly lines and dream sequence music*

I moved to Preston on a Friday afternoon in May and the very next morning I was on a train heading for Sheffield for a hen party.

I wasn't massively looking forward to it. Obviously I'd just gone through some major upheaval in my life and there was some potential awkwardness with the group of girls that was going that I wasn't really looking forward to.

Please note: These are not excuses for what happened - we all know I was going to get drunk anyway

As hen parties go it wasn't too horrific, but my heart sank when it was announced that there was going to be a competition. My heart sank for 2 reasons;

1) Hen party competitions are always rubbish,

2) My competitiveness will not allow me to not take part in the rubbish competition.

Note to anyone organising a hen party: Please don't do these "fun" competitions that are to last the whole night. They are wank. And also everyone will be so drunk by the end that no-one will be bothering with the competition. But mostly....they're wank.

This little round of "fun" involved us getting photos. We had a list of photos to get - things like "you and a phone box", "you and a blue drink" etc etc.

I had on one of my most beloved pair of Irregular Choice shoes, a present from The Person who picked them all out by himself and everything.

We were almost in the club when Best Friend and I spotted a policeman standing nearby. A policeman was on our list of photos. Being the competitive spirits that we are (and having imbibed a few shandies) we didn't just calmly walk over to the Officer and ask for our photo to be taken. Oh no. We decided we would run.

Across cobbles.

Aaaaaand down she goes.

I've had more than my fair share of sprains and I know when a sprain is a bad sprain and this was a doozy. This was the one that made me think that my lucky streak was up and I had finally, after 29 years of falling over, managed to break something. It swelled to hideous, elephantine proportions within seconds. My friends were horrified. I was mortified because I was now the centre of attention on someone else's hen do. Not cool.

It was one of the few times that I was glad I don't drive, because if I'd driven to Sheffield I would have been well up shit creek. I hoped that I'd go to bed with ice on it and it would calm down, but when I woke up I was reduced to walking about like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, dragging my lame leg behind me. With a hangover.

Note: No I did not go to A&E that night. Why? Because I have had too many Friday/Saturday nights in A&E. If it was broken it would be broken in the morning. There was nothing that was going to persuade me to go to Sheffield's A&E at 11.30pm on a Saturday night.

I got myself back to Preston on what was the most miserable train journey of my life and I was met by The Person, who stifled a laugh at my piteous state and came with me to Preston Royal Hospital, marvelling at the fact that he had lived there for 3 years and never been to the hospital, whilst I had lived there less than 24 hours before I was becoming acquainted.

It was not broken. Thankfully. And mindful of what happened the last time I was laid up with an ankle injury (oh hi blood clots!) I insisted on crutches to allow me to get about a bit.

It might not have been broken but it was, quite frankly, fucked up. In a big way. I did this back in May and even now, if I'm in heels that are more than 2 inches high I can actually feel that my ankle is weak and that it's not stable. I think I've used up my ankle's 9 lives and have stretched the tendons and muscles so much that they now resemble Nora Batty's tights.

So heed my warning.

Heels + alcohol = a not happy ankle

There's an ankle in there somewhere.

One week later...

You have been warned.

2012 Year Review

Yes yes yes. We're a week into 2013 already, who can even remember 2012? But I've started and so I'll finish.

I got an attack of the rages on 31st December 2012 after one too many Facebook statuses (statusi) saying something along the lines of, "Well, 2012 wasn't good to me, let's hope 2013 is better".

This made me want to hurt people very muchly, not just because I'm generally a rageful person, but because I wanted to shake them by the ears screaming "Of course 2012 wasn't great - NO year is great all the way through you bloody knobhead."

I actually feel I have permission more than most to say that 2012 was a crappy year. It started off with me being made redundant, moved on to me being unemployed for three months before swiftly ending up with a horrific job that I was bullied in. And then ended the year having to move out of my flat with the boyfriend for a new job.

But you know what? Loads of really good stuff happened in 2012 as well. It's easy to sit there and remember all the crappy stuff but forget about all the motherfreaking amazing stuff that went on.

What was bad, was that when I went back through the year thinking of all the good things that happened I realised that I had hardly blogged about any of it. That made me sad because I have missed blogging and also made me realise I've done that  thing you do where you only blog when you feel crappy about something, which can't be a pleasant experience for anyone reading.

So I apologise, I do definitely have good intentions for blogging this year - I intend to blog the good, the bad and the ugly.

But for now let's talk about the awesome stuff that happened in 2012;

• I visited the Ribble Steam Railway - this was one of my favourite and my best. It ran along the trainlines outside our flat and for ages, whenever I was staying with The Person and would hear the whistle go I would beg for us to go one weekend. Finally, in Jan/Feb he obliged and we went up and down the line. It's not much but it made me a happy person.

• The Person and I went to see Florence + The Machine at the MEN Arena - I love this lady like a whole load a lot and when I just happened to see tickets for sale I grabbed them. I don't even understand why it wasn't sold out because she's awesome.

• I took a trip to Manchester Pride to see the street procession. Not to be confused with gay pride this is a festival all about how amezzing Manchester is. And it is amezzing. Many many many pictures were taken, but these guys were one of my favourites.

• I watched my swucklings be born and grow up. I have watched these guys from they were eggs people. I am also pleased to report that they are still going strong, I saw them a couple of weeks before I left Preston with their Mum and Dad - although I'm not going to lie they weren't all there. I like to think I just didn't see the others and not that they've come to an untimely end.

(And just in case you haven't read the above blog post - I know they're not called swucklings really.)

• I spent a weekend watching The Person take part in some Dragonboat racing as part of the UK Corporate Games which were held in Preston in 2012. Dragonboat racing is exciting and involves lots of shouting when you're a spectator. However, because The Person's team did so well, they went into the finals which meant a lot of hanging around all day.

• Living near the Docks in Preston meant we were close to all the action and The Riversway Festival is basically a little folk festival that happens each year. But the best thing about it is that it's obviously on the calendar for people who own houseboats and they all come and moor up and then decorate their houses with bunting.

Also I saw dogs wearing life jackets which might just be one of the highlights of 2012.

• I took a trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach with The Person and his sister and cousin. Note to self, only go to theme parks with people who love scary rides and rollercoasters. The Person and his sister do not and I was left nearly foaming at the mouth. Sadly I didn't get to ride The Big One this time, but at least I did it last time, so I'll cling on to those memories.

• I was pretty fortunate in that my arrival in Preston coincided with the Preston Guild 2012 celebrations. This is a big event which only happens every 25 years so it really is once in a generation. There were events on all over the city for most of the year, but especially focused in the summer. One included the Blaze Arts Festival which took place in Avenham & Miller Parks. They even ran a Sit & Knit session which I was brave enough to go to by myself and try and learn to knit. Afterwards we hung our efforts from the tree nearby in yarn-bombing style.

See that scraggy blue thing? That's my first knitting!

• The Person and I had a special day out at Witton Country Park where we capered about the countryside and admired the trees and got scared by cows which I am almost definitely positive were going to stampede us. It is also home to the most amazing adventure playground I've ever seen. And yes we did go and play on it.

• We got our first pets as a couple - 2 brilliant (if slightly dull) goldfish called, Marcus & Andrew

Andrew & Marcus

• How could I forget? I bloody went and ran 10k this year!
• 
  
• I went to see Marina & The Diamonds in Preston which was all kinds of random but you know what she's actually pretty good even if I basically only knew 2 of her songs.

• I went to York Races for my brother's 40th which was well good. We got to go near the Parade Ring and see the horses being trotted round before they went out - my niece absolutely loved that bit. I loved the fact that I managed to back 2 winners, although my inability to bet anything other than the bare minimum meant that I didn't exactly rake it in.

• This was also the year that I became a Spartan by taking part in the Spartan Race. Don't mess with me people. Look at this face...

• I went to the Knitting & Stitching Show in Harrogate and got to hang out with the ever so cool Mr X Stitch and one of my most missed people from back in Hull, as well as see some of the incredible stitchy talent that's out there.

• I said goodbye to Hull. Which was very sad in itself and could be seen as a negative, but it was actually nice as I made an effort to go around all things that are my favourite parts of Hull and appreciate them just one last time. It was also touching to have people come out and say goodbye to me, everyone likes to feel loved and I did.

My Humber Bridge

• I had four visits whilst I lived in Preston from some of The Girls that I left behind in Hull. One of which was a surprise visit that I knew nothing about until they rang the door buzzer. Those visits were all immensely important to me as I didn't have the loveliest time in Preston - I made not really a single friend whilst I was there and I was thankful that I had my friends come to see me which made not having anyone (bar The Person of course) in Preston.

• We went to stay in a cottage for The Person's 30th birthday in the Lake District. This was all full of many outdoorsy activities which are not really my favourite thing, but there was also lots of drinking games which are more my favourite (not because I'm a raging alcoholic but because they are so so very funny) so it all balanced out. 

• Oh hai. I totally got to touch some big cats this year. This is me just casually stroking a tiger.

And I reckon that means that 2012 wasn't really a bad year if you think about it.

Touching big cats + other awesome things > shitty redundancy & unemployment

Erm....it's my body innit?

People always seem a little shocked when I say I have tattoos. And their incredulity grows when they realise I have 3 (now 4) of them.

I guess I can see why as you’re unlikely to have seen any of them – my latest acquisition (acquisitions? Does it count as 1 or 2 tattoos?!) is the most visible of them all. But it isn’t a reaction brought on by the fact that they haven’t seen them, it’s more that I don’t appear to strike people as the “tattooed sort”.

I don’t know what it is about me that doesn’t make me appear like I might have tattoos, I didn’t think I was that boring, but the perception is there and that’s fine by me really because I can be safe in the knowledge that I know I’m getting tattooed for me and not to live up to a stereotype that I’m trying to perpetrate.

I have 3 other tattoos – 2 on either side of my stomach, and one on my back. The first one I got when I was 18, a present from my Mum for doing well in my A-levels. She thought that if she bought it for me and had some control over it I wouldn’t get something ridiculous. Little did she know that it’s hard to stop at just one – as soon as you have one you want more. And more. And more.

The second one came along after my first year at uni. A fairly standard kind of Celtic knot, kind of tribally business. And the final one were 3 stars going down the other side of my stomach that I got just before I went back to uni to do my MSc.

I wouldn’t say that I particularly regret any of my tattoos as such but part of me tends to downplay them, I’ll say that I know they’re not really good etc etc. But actually, each one reminds me of an period in my life, there is a meaning behind them, a reason I had them done and even though they were done from flash and aren’t unique to me, the meaning is. And yet I feel not particularly proud of them because I know that certain people would look down on them. Snobbery is rife in every walk of life and tattoo snobbery is rampant, especially amongst those who would consider themselves the “tattooed sort”.

But then the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. It’s actually no-one else’s business what I get tattooed on my body. Because it’s my body. If I want to have the name of every guy I’ve slept with tattooed down my forearm then that’s fine. If I want to get Winnie the Pooh put on my shoulder blade then that’s fine too. Whose business is it? You don’t think it’s cool? That’s awesome, I’m not asking to put it on your body.

Having said that, there’s something to be said about the wisdom of age – I would recommend taking your time over it, doing proper research and finding an artist whose work you admire. This wasn’t something I knew about at all when I got my first tattoos done and hence the quality of them could be better. And there’s definitely something to be said about thinking about it. Herbert the cat had been in my head for a good 6/7 months before I got him tattooed and even though I knew I was getting it done and had thought about the placement and knew where it was going, there was still a moment the next day when I looked down and realised that I would never again see my feet looking like this...

And had a mild “My god woman what have you done?!” moment. But I love him. And I love him because he was all my own idea. I came up with the idea myself and I know that no-one else has him – that means a lot to someone as creatively challenged as me. And I love him because I chose a great person to do it, someone who is immensely talented and has given me what I consider a piece of artwork.

Just in case you didn't see him last time round (this was literally just after I'd had them done, hence the redness!)

I love tattoos and I suspect I’d have many more in the future but unfortunately I work in the professional world and I have to consider that. Like I said, although attitudes are changing, we’re not quite “there” yet. Give it a couple of generations I think. Yes I think it’s bad that people would judge you on your tattoos and no it isn’t fair but it’s a fact for the time being.

And before the whole “What happens when you’re an old wrinkly woman” argument crops up...yes I am sure that when I’ve had children and when I’m old and wrinkly my tattoos might not look so great. But my god, if I’m going to live the rest of my life worried about what I might look like in 50 years time then what’s the point of living at all? Besides, who’s to say I will have children and I will get old and wrinkly, how sad would it be if one of your last thoughts was...”I really wish I’d gone ahead and had that cat tattooed on my foot....”?

I think my message is clear – you do what you would like to do with your body and I’ll do what I would like to do to mine, ‘kay?

-----------------------------------------

Also: It really wasn’t that bad getting the tops of my feet tattooed. I think people are squeamish about it because it feels like because the skin is thin then it’ll hurt more and I did get a bit hyped up about it but it was really fine. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not painless, ( those people that tell you tattoos don’t hurt are lying) but it’s not horrendous at all. It’s impossible to describe the pain to someone who hasn’t been tattooed before, I find it more of an irritating feeling than an immensely painful one and I’ll tell you this – I’d rather have a tattoo a million times over then have another pulmonary embolism. THAT was painful. Remember however that my tattoo is not huge and not massively detailed so that will play a factor too in how painful it is I would imagine. Put it this way, if it was that painful, why would people go back for more?!

The Inner Brat

There comes a point every Christmas when I get exceedingly bored of shopping for other people. My Inner Brat awakens from her tomb of selfishness and tries to put the halt on everything that’s not geared up towards feeding her ever hungry soul.

But this year I was firm with her. There comes a time in every brat’s life when she learns that she just can’t always get what she wants.

Only kidding. She’s almost 29 years old, there’s no way I can fix her behaviour now.

One thing that was different however was my resilience to getting out the plastic. If the Brat wanted things, she was going to have to pay for them herself. Mr Barclaycard was not going to be funding her excessive wants.

Luckily for the Brat I found some pennies. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before but in case you’re new around these here parts, I’ll fill you in on my excellent saving tip. At the end of the week, or every couple of days, or whenever I feel like it, I empty out everything that’s in my purse. I put the £2 and £1 coins back in it and everything else goes in a piggy bank. Occasionally, if I’m feeling particularly flush I’ll stick the £1 coins in there as well (that happened, like, once). It can take a while depending on how skint I am that month and how many times I raid it to get bus fare but sooner than you think you have a nice little money pot that you can do with as you wish. And because it’s silver it adds up to much more than you would think.

I noticed that piggy was getting kind of full. Normally I would wait until you can’t fit any more in but I decided it was close enough and it was Christmas after all so took it off to the bank to be deposited (there’s a branch of my bank that has a coin counting machine in it so you just dump it all in there and it deposits it straight into your account. MAGICAL.) and before I knew it, the Brat had some shiny pennies in her grubby little mitts.

Off Brat skipped to Manchester with The Person to spend money on herself. She was almost beside herself and upon entering River Island went into paroxysms of delight (RI is going through an awesome phase at the minute. But it seriously needs to stop putting so many cropped tops on its racks – we’re not all size 6 seventeen year olds thank you very much). She holed herself up in a changing room to try on all the clothes and declared that she wanted everything but I decided that she should probably be restricted to just this top, this skirt, and another pencil skirt which is green and awesome but is inexplicably not on RI’s website.

She also went to Waterstones and bought the last books until 2013 (every time I write/say that it makes me throw up a little you know) – she might be a Brat but she does at least like reading so I don’t like to discourage her too much. She tried to be good and choose between this book and this book but then she decided she’d just get both. Oh you funny little Brat you.

And so she was sorted. She had some new clothes to wear, she had some new books to read, she was quite the happy Inner Brat and, more importantly, she hadn’t broken the bank in her selfish ways.

Christmas and New Year passed and it was with some trepidation that I typed in my ID and password to have a look at the havoc that had been wreaked on my bank account, it’s always such a painful time of year and I braced myself and squinted at the screen in an attempt to minimise the shock. But actually, surprise of all surprises, it wasn’t that bad. In fact it was much better when I realised that some direct debits that I thought were still to come out, had already come out. Well done me. I think it’s still the shock of readjusting to having a fair bit of extra income each month now that my Career Development Loan has been paid back but it was looking pretty good.

It just so happens that at the same time I was having a little browse on the Schuh website when I chanced across some Irregular Choice shoes in the sale.

I groaned inwardly because I knew that if I’d seen it, then the Inner Brat had almost certainly seen it and she would start up her tattoo of “Want it. Want it. Want it. Want it. Want it.” inside my poor little brain. I managed to resist it for 3 whole days but Bratty just would not leave it alone and kept demanding that I return to the website because how often do you find Irregular Choice shoes in the sale that you like and are your size (if you happen to be a size 8)? Answer? Never. (Seriously. IC must make about 2 pairs of shoes that are a size 8, and man alive are they a small size 8 at that, it’s hard enough to get them at full price, never mind reduced.)

The Brat did make a compelling argument that went something along the lines of this:

a) They’re reduced so it would almost be a crime not to buy them

b) They have a low heel so you can wear them when you’re with The Person and not feel like a Gigantosaur

c) They’re awesome

d) I’m awesome and deserve it

It was inevitable really.

Brat is now officially silenced. Until next Christmas...



And yes. I was so excited to get them I took photos of them whilst I was at work. THAT is how much I loved them.

Things that have been awesome today

I spent three hours away from my desk on Fire Warden training. I have been snowed under lately but things have relented slightly and being away from my desk for a while was actually quite cool (although I do now have a slightly irrational fear that things are going to combust in front of me).

I discovered that I can do something cool with my phone - I can draw on it with my finger and then send the messages to people. People are now getting crudely drawn stick figures on a regular basis from me.

One of my housemates made the most amazing chocolate and orange cake and I'm totally having some as soon as I've finished this blog post.

I bought a massive load of veg from the fruit and veg co-op that my company runs on the local estate, it's run entirely by local volunteers. I get fresh veg that's cheaper than supermarkets plus I get to help out the local economy. Everyone's a winner.

I spent about 2 hours in the kitchen when I got home from work which seems like a lot but I've made 4 portions of chilli, 2 portions of chicken & chorizo jambalaya and 5 portions of vegetable tagine so the freezer is stocked up for a wee while now.

I got an amazeballs package in the post from Bella Bee and Me - lots of lovely cross stitch patterns for this Christmas and next.

Lots of people said they liked my hair today which was very nice because I have officially learned how to backcomb my hair to make myself a little beehive number. I do have a bump-it and I do use it but for ages I've wanted to be able to do it myself and thanks to the magical You Tube I totally can now. I can feel an obsession coming on, and I don't think my hair is going to thank me for it.

I bought two Christmas presents today meaning that's two more people I can cross off my Christmas list. And that's always a good feeling.

Sorry. Don't know where this blog post has come from. I must be in a good mood. Don't worry it won't last long.


Edited to add: Just after writing this post I threw one portion of vegetable tagine all over the kitchen. But we're good! I still have 4!


Edited again: Want to see a photo of the little beehive number? (Emphasis on the little - I have stupid layers which are too short which I'm trying to grow out) 'Tis on me Flickr photostream, have a little clickity click here. And if you comment on my grey hairs I'll come and sock you one on the nose.


Edited AGAIN: Another awesome thing happened! I totally won a prize in Alex's Amazeballs Giveaway (there's a small chance I made up that name myself.) I think I should just stay awake until midnight on the off-chance that more awesome things happen.

Disappearing Act

You see I really should think things through better. That way, I would have arrived back in the blogosphere, posts spooling out all over your Google Reader/whatever else you use, dazzling you with the awesomeness which is my life.

Instead I did a really boring post about books and now I'm going to disappear for a week or so.

(Must get better at timing.)

For the next week I shall be undertaking essential Fred and Lily sitting duties and then I'll be off to see The Person so blogging will be non-existent until the 2nd week of November, but I promise I'll make up for it then yeah?

In the meantime let me leave you with this...

The girl I share an office with just said the word "spontinuity" instead of "spontaneity".

I thought I was going to give myself a hernia laughing.

Happy weekend.

Hunger Beast

Today I have a hunger beast that has taken over my whole body. He won't be satisfied no matter what I feed him.

It's only 4pm and already today I've eaten:

- Weetabix x2

- Punnet of cherry tomatoes x1

- Pack of Belvita biscuits x1*

- Chicken salad wrap x1

- Apple x1

- Plums x4

- Packet of Ryvita Minis (Sweet Chilli flavour) x1

- Weightwatchers Peach yoghurt x1

And still The Hunger Beast will not be satiated.

I'm trying not to be too hard on myself. Everything on that list is pretty good for me, it's not like I've eaten 12 Snickers (although that could just be because I don't have any of those to hand.) But still - quantity-wise it feels like a lot has gone in my body to try and calm that Beast.

But I have a sneaking suspicion that the Beast is tricking me.

You see I'm going to Pizza Express for dinner tonight with my cousin and I get the feeling that the Beast has somehow found this out and has decided that nothing is going to satisfy it unless it's covered in cheese and baked in an oven.

*Sigh*

*Belvita biscuits are advertised as a breakfast replacement. There's no way that would work for the Hunger Beast even on its very best day but I am in love with these biscuits in a possibly inappropriate way and they are my official mid-morning snack.

My secret love

After 28 years of being tall I’ve almost got used to it. I was looking through some baby photos the other day and came across one of me sat on my then 14 year old sister’s knee. But wait. I was sat on her lap, then my legs stretch halfway across the room and my head reached up to her shoulder. “My god” I commented, “I was a freakishly long child.”

“Yes” Mum replied “I was difficult really because people thought you were much older than you were so actually thought you were a bit retarded because here they thought they were looking at a 3 year old, when instead they were looking an 18 month old.” Thanks Mum.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not massive at all. I’m 5’9” (maybe a shade above but definitely not 5’10”) which actually only makes me a couple of inches taller than the average for women, and about the same height as an average man. Apparently.

For a long time I was convinced that Hull was full of ridiculously short men, but I had a revelation a while back on a night out after cockling over and hurting my ankle. They’re not ridiculously short, I just have a predilection for 4 inch heels – I’m ridiculously tall! It took me a night out in flats to realise that actually, there were a lot of ‘normal’ sized men out there.

Unfortunately I’ve hit a stumbling block in the shape of The Person, who reckons he is 6 foot. I say reckons because he is clearly wrong. If he was 6 foot then I could wear more than an inch high heel and not be taller than him and I can’t. I’ve tried reasoning with him but he’s insistent that he’s 6 foot. Incorrect.

I know it’s shallow and I know it’s silly but I just cannot face being taller than my boyfriend. I just can’t. And it’s not him telling me I can’t be taller than him, he thinks I’m as crazy as you all do right now, he doesn’t get what the big deal is. I put two thumbs up to Sophie Dahl and Jamie Cullum and all the other similar couples out there, but I cannot comprehend the thought of going out with my boyfriend and bending down to whisper in his ear. No. Sorry. No way.

With a shoe collection full of 3 inch heels and above I have slowly but surely begun to rectify matters, trying to re-programme my brain to not go for the 4 inch heel with 2 inch platform, but instead to go for the much more sensible 1.5 inch heel height. I am getting there, but the results are pretty grim.

Luckily for me there have been lots of cool sandals out there this summer, they can double as going out shoes at some point...can’t they? And I found a lovely little pair on sale in Dorothy Perkins the other day which hit the Holy Grail of being small enough that I’m not taller than The Person but also being appropriate for work. Tick!

I am trying to love them. I really am. But I know that my heart is reserved for pairs of shoes that send me up in to the stratosphere. They just look prettier. Plus we all know that the higher the heel, the better your leg looks – even more important when you have over-developed calf muscles like mine which could see me getting mistaken from the knees down for an England Scrum Half, out for the night in drag.

I will continue to try to expand my shoe collection full of pretty pumps and gorgeous flats, but I know, and you know, that nothing’s going to make my heart beat faster than shoes like these little guys. Or these guys or actually what about these guys...

*sigh*

L-R: Primark (£6 in sale), Dorothy Perkins (£15 in sale), Matalan (can't remember!)

Note to all: I am of course still in the market for big heels, there are plenty of times I’m out without The Person. However, with a limited budget, I need to try and find heels that I can get plenty of wear out of.

Extra note to all: Why yes, yes I do have freakishly long toes.