2, 4, 6, 8...

Apologies  for the absence, just when I thought was getting back into the swing of things as well. 

The reason for my brief disappearance has been work and I thought that now would be a good time to let people know how it's going, given that lots of lovely people have taken the time to ask me how things are going.

Basically, it's brilliant and I love it. I've never worked so hard in my life and I'm working longer hours than I've worked but I don't resent it and have relished finally having the opportunity to use my brain. 

From my very first day I've had a challenge looming on the horizon - a strategy meeting with all the Directors and other members of the senior leadership team up in Scotland. It was my job to organise it and although on the surface it doesn't sound particularly complicated - get 15 people to North Berwick - this has almost consumed my life getting it sorted.

If it had been 15 people all coming from one place that would have been vastly easier - instead it was 6 people going from one place, 4 coming from 3 different places, 2 people coming from America, 2 people coming in a car - my head has been spinning at times. But luckily the fact that I have an obsession with spreadsheets meant that I knew who was coming in from where and at what time and when transfers would be picking us up from Edinburgh airport etc etc

Even then it wasn't easy. Trying to keep a group of 15 high powered people is a bit like trying to herd cats (now that would be a job) I would have one group under control, turn my back to get another, and turn back round to find they'd all wandered off in several directions, talking into/trying to get a signal on their phones.

I was responsible for making sure the meeting ran smoothly, people were fed and watered, and for taking the minutes and the actions of the meeting.

By the end of the 2nd day I was pretty much beside myself. I was tired and my eyes felt like they were bathed in acid, from staring at my laptop screen all day as I took down the minutes. I was the only person that had to concentrate through the whole meeting - others could let their minds wander and dip in and out but I had to remain focused - and my brain was feeling the strain.

I'd also arranged spa appointments and golf for the following day and in the breaks during the day, whilst getting people to sign documents that I'd been asked to bring with me to get Director's signatures, and giving people train tickets for their travel the next day and being asked when appointments were and when taxis were and when dinner was, I was ready to snap.

I had one of those moments where I was like "I am not cut out for this. My job is to organise these people and at the moment all I want to do is tell them to organise themselves."

Then at the dinner table that night the Director stood up to propose a toast. I wasn't surprised - it'd been a long couple of days and a lot had been talked about and it seemed right to acknowledge that.

So imagine my surprise when the toast was for me.

For little old me. To acknowledge and thank me for organising everything and making sure everyone got where they should be and for ensuring that the meeting ran smoothly.

I was flabbergasted and then I realised...

I have never been thanked for doing my job. Ever. I have never been sincerely told "Well done" or "Thank you" or "That was great." Isn't that bad that I've been in the employment game for 13 years or so and have never experienced that?

I know there are those that believe that you shouldn't need to be praised for doing your job - after all, it is what you are paid to do - but there can be no greater motivator to ensure that you continue to try and do your best than being shown a little bit of appreciation for a job well done. It was genuinely surprising to be in an organisation that made me feel valued and whilst it was lovely it also made me a little sad that it's taken me this long to experience it.

And that is why I am happy to take these eyeballs that feel like they've been bathed in acid to bed and get up ready to do it again, and better.

Crazy Cat Lady Part 22 - Everyone meet Blinky

I should be ecstatic really. I may no longer be living with my boyfriend but I am now living with a cat. As a Crazy Cat Lady this should be good news, but unfortunately it isn't.

For Blinky is a minion of the antichrist.

Don't believe me? Look at this face...

Blinky has always been a bit 'spiky' to say the least. I went round to my sister's house 10 years ago when they first got her. "Oh what a cute kitty!" I exclaimed and scooped her up. She immediately turned into a ball of furry fury, claws akimbo, wriggling to escape.

And no, thank you, it wasn't me being over zealous, she just quite simply hates all people.

She has literally never sat on someone's knee like a real life cat. She will deign to sit on the end of your bed but you are under no circumstances allowed to touch her - leading to a disturbed night's sleep as you attempt to relax without actually moving a muscle.

She has been known to purr but do not allow that to fool you into thinking she likes you.

She even looks cute sometimes and her kitteny face belies her aged status but this is just a ruse to get you to put your hand through the bannister where it will be cruelly shredded.

The only people she vaguely tolerates are my nephews and she only makes a vague effort with them because they feed her. And so she hangs around outside their rooms, chirruping to be fed.

Particular hatred is reserved for my sister, who Blinky regularly tries to trip down the stairs. And not in that cute, general winding round the legs that cats do, but in a very deliberate shove to the back of the ankle. It's most undeserved as my sister was the one that picked Blinky out of the litter to bring home - part of me wonders if that's the basis for the anger, my sister probably got in the way of Blinky's plans for world domination.

She recently did the same to me on the stairs. I'm unsure if it was a case of mistaken identity or if this is proof that she hates all women.

However.

I refuse to give up and I have launched a campaign to make Blinky like me. I've taken over feeding her, in the hopes that she'll transfer her cupboard love to me, and this makes me a little bit ashamed of myself but a Crazy Cat Lady has needs...

One of the reasons long distance relationships suck

The Dress Code

As you can probably tell I am not a fashion blogger. The reasons for this are numerous and include, but are not limited to, the following:

a) I hate pictures of myself and can only pose when someone else is in the photo with me;

b) ...or I am drunk, and,

c) *whispers* I'm just not interested in fashion

I've never been a clothes horse and my wardrobe is by no means bursting at the seams. When people talk about things they've bought that they've forgotten about and never worn, they are met with an uncomprehending stare from me. 

I don't know what the latest must-have wardrobe item is, I don't know what trend I should be rocking, I own 4 pairs of jeans, 3 of which are too big for me and/or suffering from what I endearingly call "crotch rot". (where the inside seams rub away - I know it happens to others too, it's not just me!) And before people chime in saying "I don't own jeans either", you should know that jeans are my uniform. I don't wear dresses. I don't wear skirts. I wear jeans and a t-shirt/jumper. Or pyjamas.

I don't pay attention to what other people are wearing. Ever. I am oblivious to all things clothes-related, you could be wearing rags for all I'd remember. There is no point saying "Do you remember that thing that so-and-so was wearing this one time?" because I will not. No way. No how.

But now.....

Now I am a beady eyed little hawk. Perfecting my ability to take in what someone is wearing with a mere flick of the eye. I'm keeping tabs on whether you're wearing a skirt or trousers and what colour nail varnish you've got on.

The reason?

The Dress Code.

My new work has an exacting dress-code policy, which has left no stone unturned in its quest to ensure that you are the perfect Corporate World model. As I've already mentioned, tattoos are not to be visible and body piercings have to be removed - but that's not really uncommon. But it is made very clear what you are and are not to wear.

Skirts are to be knee length and no shorter. No sleeveless tops are allowed. Tights can be blue, black, brown, grey or neutral. No patterened tights are allowed. No coloured tights are allowed. In fact, it goes as far as actually telling you that no bare legs are allowed between the 1st October and 1st May.

Nail varnish has to be subtle and un-chipped and "complement business dress" - the jury's out as to what that means.

Even the men don't escape - they're only allowed black, navy, brown or charcoal grey socks. Although somehow they are given a reprieve in that they don't have to wear a tie. Bizarre.

I was not happy when I was faced with this. Neither were ll the patterned/coloured tights and nail varnishes I have lying around. I'm not used to a dress code for work. I previously worked for a charity where the dress code was fairly relaxed. In fact, as a researcher, it would have been detrimental to data gathering in some cases if I'd turned up looking too formal. And as much as I'm ok with covering up my tattoos and taking out my tongue piercing, I do kind of resent being told I can't wear my burgundy tights. That kind of stuff is what makes me, me and I didn't want to be another Corporate Clone.

And so I watched. I observed. I saw what other people are wearing and judged how much I could get away with. I've gone from not paying attention to what people are wearing to some kind of maniac, keeping a track in my head of the different outfits people wear. 

Ultimately, I've got over it.

You're talking to someone who wore a school uniform until they were 18 (and it was a smart school uniform - all blazers and pencil skirts) and used to dread Non-Uniform Days almost as much as I did cross country. If I'm honest, I'm kind of comfortable being a Corporate Clone, I kind of like that everyone looks the same. Kind of.

And I've found ways to inject a little bit of my personality that don't involve breaking the rules. I found a nice smart work appropriate dress in Next. But I didn't buy it in navy - I bought it in pink. I don't even like pink that much - but I was making a stand. Albeit a stand I've yet to take because I'm actually a little bit nervous about wearing it to work. It's a little more "Look at me" than I would normally go with.

No this does not mean I'm about to start balancing my camera on a chair whilst I set the timer and run and try to strike a flattering post. But it does mean I might just notice you've got a nice pencil skirt on...

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.

Of me, but not all that I am.

There have been a few things which are new to me now that I've joined the corporate world for the first time in my working life.

Apart from jobs in retail and catering, my "grown-up" working life has basically been the Third Sector and it's all I've ever known. This was followed shortly by my horrid job, which although private sector, was the crappy end of the private sector where wages are low and staff turnover is high.

This job is Corporate with a big C and it means a whole new world. Rather than working on a housing estate in Hull with people who are well-meaning but not necessarily well turned out and everyone was one big family, I'm now in a world where high heels clack along slate-tiled corridors, and, the best thing ever, a canteen with nice food and more importantly cheap food.

Living in Corporate World has meant that image is now forefront of my mind all the time. There is a dress-code and there is probably more to say on that another time but it has meant that I have had to change a couple of things about myself.

Noticeably my much loved tongue-piercing was removed on New Year's Eve as it its a no-no. And pop socks have been purchased to cover up Herbert who has the unfortunate luck of being my only visible tattoo.

I have got into some "debates" regarding the removal of my piercing and the covering of my tattoos for a job. On the whole I do think it's silly, neither of those things affect my ability to work - there merely (possibly) affect people's perceptions of me and I do think that's wrong.

However.

That's the way it is in Corporate World. Tattoos are unfortunately still seen as unprofessional and that's just that.

Am I going to give up a job for a bit of titanium I had shoved through my tongue in Affleck's Palace when I was 18 at uni? Erm.....no.

Yes my tattoos and are of me, but they are not all that I am. When I took my piercing out, was I still "me", did my personality change? No of course it didn't, I was exactly the same person funnily enough.

Maybe this comes with the confidence of age or maybe it is just the way I personally am. But my tattoos do not define me. I didn't get them for other people to see and think how cool I was and that is why it's not really any big deal to me to have them covered up. I've had them done for me, and at the end of the day when I go home, if I want to, I can look down at my feet then and say hello to Herbert (or indeed to any of my others - although the one on my back is a little hard to talk to at times).

And actually, as much as the Corporate World may judge me for having my tattoos, my bet is it's no more likely to happen than when so-called hipsters and cool dudes say to me "Wait....you have tattoos?", because I don't necessarily appear at first glance to be hip or trendy.

How very sad that those people recalibrate how they think of me once they find out I have a bit of ink on me. And I actually don't know what would offend me more - have someone think I was unprofessional because I have a tattoo or someone who decided they liked me because I do.

I don't want to be thought of us as unprofessional as much as I don't want to be put in a 'cool' box.

I'm just happy being me. And I am me. Whether you dress me up in a fancy dress or put me in a bin bag, whether you cover up my tattoos or let everyone see them - what you can't hide is me. 

Bad luck.

Why I love the Little Tin Bird.

When I wrote my 2012 Year Review I made one hell of an omission guys.

As I mentioned in the recap and at probably other points in my posts, my time in Preston was pretty lonely. I obviously moved away from all my friends and then got a horrible job where I didn't stand a chance of making any friends. And although The Person is a lovely guy and I love him with all my heart, a girl needs her friends.

Apart from anything, if I only have him, who am I supposed to bitch to about him?

However it turned out I wasn't completely on my own. My move to Preston may have taken me further away from my Hull friends, but actually moved me closer to one of what I like to call my special blog friends - namely Heather of Little Tin Bird. (Obviously you know her, I'm pretty sure about 90% of my traffic comes through her site.)

Once I'd moved to Preston I was merely a hop, a skip and a bus journey full of white haired grannies, away from the Land of the Little Tin Bird where I could spend an afternoon in her domain before returning to the general blahness of Preston.

Luckily for me, my move to Preston coincided with her having an actual baby in her tummy and I was fortunate enough to see her both when she was still knocked up and after Tiny Tin Bird (TTB) because a person rather than a bump.

I reckon that most babies are pretty lovely but let me tell you, TTB is the happiest baby I've ever seen. He coos and smiles and waves his legs and arms in the air and is generally just pleasant to be around. Trust me, I've been around a few babies in my time and you can spot the troublemakers a mile off.

More than being able to spend time with a little baby with little baby fingers and little baby nails and little baby arms and legs, I have been able to see a natural mother at work. Heather was made to be a Mummy, of that I am certain, and although at time TTB can be trying (like not wanting to sleep because life is too amazing to miss out on any of it) she deals with it all admirably.

She doesn't pretend to be a Supermum and isn't afraid to say that it's hard, purely because those niggly times far outweigh the joy that she gets from motherhood and being responsible for this little person.

Watching Heather and TTB is like receiving a lesson in motherly love and a wonderful things to watch. Both their eyes light up when they see each other and it's been hard to walk away from them both without feeling a little nag in the ol' ovaries myself.

She is completely at ease and comfortable with her role and exudes a confidence that makes it seem as if she's been doing it for years, rather than a mere 15 weeks.

More than that, she hasn't become someone completely subsumed in all things baby and is still able to have proper conversations with you, remember things that you've spoken about before and make you feel as if your life, in which you're really not doing anything as important as raising a child, is pretty worthwhile too. She is a person that I just find it relaxing to be around and she makes me think that maybe, just maybe, one day I could be as good a person (and hopefully mother in the future) as her.

(And. Despite having a baby she still manages to blog more than I do which puts me to shame I tell you.)

Having Heather there to go to has been invaluable to me. Knowing that someone was only a bus journey away was comforting and I am more than gutted that I've now moved away and won't be able to pop over regularly to see TTB growing up.

Apart from anything I want another go at buttoning up his babygro, which took an unacceptably long time the last time I saw him - although I think my ineptness gave both of us a bit of a laugh. I'm pretty sure he was smiling and it wasn't wind....

And so I slap the back of my hand. How could I forget, in my recap of 2012, that one of the most brilliant things of all happened - a bloggy friendship became a real-life friendship. And how often can you say that?