The title suggests a connection between the two which I'm not about to demonstrate. There probably is some kind of tenuous link...mostly I've just thought to write a wee bit about both, but neither's hugemongous enough for its own post. Though once I get started on punctuation you never know where I might finish up...
I have, over the last year or so, by way of a number of haircuts, gotten myself a hairstyle, which I think might actually suit me. I'm still working on some finer points, but it is, all in all, falling the right way. For most of my early life my mum cut my hair, which was fine, but meant I developed a fear of hairdressers. They all seemed so cool, and pretty and fashionable. I was not any of these things. I realise I'm paying them lots of money for a service, but I'm still worried I'm not cool enough. That I'd really need to dress up to fit in, to know some kind of hairstyle related description, some of the secret hair language, or a celebrity I wanted to look like. I don't know celebrities, the only ones who spring to mind when thinking about hair are Little My from the moomins, Hey Arnold(though I think he's more head than hair, and Princess Leia from Starwars - I could confidently say, "do not make me look like any of these people!" but I suspect they might need more guidance.
And so, over the years, I have been collecting intelligence. When I vaguely mumble and make choppy gestures with my fingers I listen to what they say, banking the terms for my next visit - choppy, feathered, shaped, layered. I'd, fearfully, gone for "Just tidied up a bit" for a few haircuts, then felt a little disappointed in myself when I came out looking exactly the same. I spent the obligatory time drying and straightening for nights out, swishing and swooshing, trying different products, mousses, hairspray, magic oomph...who knows what else...it largely looked about the same, not very exciting. II tried dying it, but every time realised I liked my own colour better and waited for it to wash out.
Then, one momentous day, I uttered a word I had known for a while, not one I'd picked up in the hairdressers, one I'd never thought I would use. The f-word. "Uhh...maybe...maybe, I thought I might, if you think it would suit me...I don't really know but, maybe what about a bit of a fringe?" A side fringe? No...like an actual across your head eyebrow tickler fringe.
And so it was. And still is. I now (mostly) have to take some care of my hair, by way of drying it in the right direction, though it is fine to just leave it, it drives in a fairly non-nonsensical way. I still tell some lies at the hairdresser - how do you normally wear it? Uhh...just like straight I suppose (or wet, part dried by my car heaters then scrunchled on top of my head. What products do you use? Oh...normally Aussie stuff, not much though (or, shampoo...and quite often conditioner.). I have also recently broken out of my book your next appointment cycle too, which I realised was detrimental to my plans of growing hair. So I shall leave it a while, maybe go for a fringe trim in between (obviously this will involved outfit planning and hair-doing before attendance, lest they refuse...). My words of choice for next time - "dry cut trim please"...I'll let you know how I get on.
And so we come to punctuation. I don't like to be too much of a grammar/punctuation/written english nazi, the odd out of place apostrophe doesn't really annoy me, lots of people have trouble with apostrophes. And commas - they are my very best punctuation friend, full stops and I are a little estranged, except the little triplet ones. I use them far too often. I failed an english writing exam once for using too many commas, in something I'd written about conversation, the same year we were studying stream of consciousness technique in a book with about 1 full stop in the whole 100 pages. Approximately. I didn't actually read the book, so couldn't say exactly, but you get the idea. It is obviously not something that weighs heavily on my mind now.
The punctuation that really gets me, that makes me want to not cry, but be physically violent, is the inappropriate exclamation mark. With every extra unnecessary one like another little stab in the eardrum as I feel the person shouting at me. Or jumping up and down, waving their arms, breathlessly exclaiming. I hate it. I had to temper my hatred a little in the not too distant past, or I should maybe say my hatred was tempered, as it snuck up on me somewhat. Or, it snuck up on me!!!! When I first started the modern day courting correspondence of facebook messaging and texts with my now peerie viking, there were many unnecessary exclamation marks. The first I saw it I mentally noted it, but soon I stopped noticing them, and now he uses them less often. My senses were clearly clouded by some kind of affection...the exclamation marks were like bouncy, excitable, labrador puppy marks, not yuppy, inflected, self-centred, knobber marks. Unfortunately this effect only seems to work with him, exclamations from all other corners of the globe irk me. Or get my goat (?) which, if it's right, is a saying I might start using more often. Probably not followed by exclamation marks, because I don't ordinarily shout in people's faces, so why would I write like that? I suppose it may well be representative of how some people do speak, maybe they are giving a warning - "I'll probably shout in your face!!! Cos I'm so excited!! And loud LOL!!! You'll probably hate me!! Stay away!!!" Like a warning bell. Maybe I should be grateful.
On a lighter note I think my favourite punctuation misuse is inappropriate quotation marks. My favourite find of these so far, was the mystical door at uni which bore the sign:
'In order for the door to keep "revolving" please keep "walking" '
I loved that sign. Even better when acted out with bunny ear gestures, try it for yourself.
Wednesday 30 January 2013
Wednesday 23 January 2013
10 minutes of mindfulness
I think I'll add some mindfulness to my New Year's themes list. I've had a bit of a change in thinking this past few months, I feel like a bit of my half full glass has been tipped out. I've gotten a bit morbid, and turned into a bit of a worrier. And a crier. I cry at adverts sometimes, though not the one with the donkeys...I'm fairly indifferent about donkeys.
Twice this week I've been reminded of worrying, and mindfulness. In an article about Worrying, and in the Tedtalk about making room for 10 minutes of mindfulness. 10 minutes is less than 1% of your day (which seems unlikely...but I'm fairly sure my maffs is right), less than 1%...but just so hard to spare, apparently. So I thought I'd write my list of worries, as a step to distancing myself, and then by mindful about it. Something like that. My research into this has been limited...I might need to learn a bit about mindfulness, but I've gotten some to be going on with. My mind wandered a bit during the tedtalk...which really makes me an ideal candidate for practicing this mindfulness jazz. Mindfulness jazz could be a whole new musical genre...
My worries list, which I've talked about before, was a list of things I wrote, things I was sad about or worried about, a good while ago, back in August, when I was sad every day. Which is not very nice, I only had it for a wee while, don't think I could suffer it every day forever.
Ahem...3 false starts later, the list...
I worry. I cry. But then I act like nothing's happened.
I know it's awful, I know it's selfish, but I don't want to know that your friend has depression. My little brother is dead.
What if someone else dies? What if we fall apart?
What if I'm just like him?
I don't have things to say but I want someone to know when I'm sad. I don't want to make Duncan sad too...
I'm worried people think I'm not sad enough. I don't want to upset them too, there's nothing to be done.
What if it happened to my child too?
I haven't had to tell anyone yet. I'm scared of what might happen when I do.
What are you meant to say to "I'm sorry about your little brother..." I know? Thank you? Me too...?
I wish he could have seen in himself what he was so quick to praise in others.
I don't care about your stupid grumbles. It really could be worse.
I wish he could be here and happy.
I'm not very good at being alone now. I need to fill my head with something or I think too much. Maybe I'm avoiding it.
I'm scared something will happen to Kate when she's away. I don't know what I would do. I panic when mum phones in case something bad has happened.
End of page.
Things have changed a bit since then, it's all dampening down, but it's still very definitely there.
Go get yourself some mindfulness.
http://www.ted.com/talks/andy_puddicombe_all_it_takes_is_10_mindful_minutes.html
Twice this week I've been reminded of worrying, and mindfulness. In an article about Worrying, and in the Tedtalk about making room for 10 minutes of mindfulness. 10 minutes is less than 1% of your day (which seems unlikely...but I'm fairly sure my maffs is right), less than 1%...but just so hard to spare, apparently. So I thought I'd write my list of worries, as a step to distancing myself, and then by mindful about it. Something like that. My research into this has been limited...I might need to learn a bit about mindfulness, but I've gotten some to be going on with. My mind wandered a bit during the tedtalk...which really makes me an ideal candidate for practicing this mindfulness jazz. Mindfulness jazz could be a whole new musical genre...
My worries list, which I've talked about before, was a list of things I wrote, things I was sad about or worried about, a good while ago, back in August, when I was sad every day. Which is not very nice, I only had it for a wee while, don't think I could suffer it every day forever.
Ahem...3 false starts later, the list...
I worry. I cry. But then I act like nothing's happened.
I know it's awful, I know it's selfish, but I don't want to know that your friend has depression. My little brother is dead.
What if someone else dies? What if we fall apart?
What if I'm just like him?
I don't have things to say but I want someone to know when I'm sad. I don't want to make Duncan sad too...
I'm worried people think I'm not sad enough. I don't want to upset them too, there's nothing to be done.
What if it happened to my child too?
I haven't had to tell anyone yet. I'm scared of what might happen when I do.
What are you meant to say to "I'm sorry about your little brother..." I know? Thank you? Me too...?
I wish he could have seen in himself what he was so quick to praise in others.
I don't care about your stupid grumbles. It really could be worse.
I wish he could be here and happy.
I'm not very good at being alone now. I need to fill my head with something or I think too much. Maybe I'm avoiding it.
I'm scared something will happen to Kate when she's away. I don't know what I would do. I panic when mum phones in case something bad has happened.
End of page.
Things have changed a bit since then, it's all dampening down, but it's still very definitely there.
Go get yourself some mindfulness.
http://www.ted.com/talks/andy_puddicombe_all_it_takes_is_10_mindful_minutes.html
Tuesday 22 January 2013
Peerie Snurty and the New Year's Resolutions.
3 weeks seems a reasonable run in to some New Year's resolutions. The first of January has never seemed a good time to start anything new. Come the 3rd the only thing my days had had in common were getting up after midday, red wine and chocolate. Retrospective resolutions weren't looking hopeful, though a year of indulgence might not be an entirely bad thing. Anyway, I was still on holiday, who has resolve on holiday?
Then I was going back to work, unavoidable by-product of being on holiday, and planning going to a funeral, and being on holiday again, then going back to work again...and then...now. Well now have a wee cold. Or a peerie snurty nose and a cough, which is certainly on its way away, but still serves as a valid excuse. So really, as you can well see, resolutions have not been convenient.
I have, however, gone quite beyond all expectations and planned some resolutions.
A good three week cooling off period lets outrageous resolutions be reigned in, levels the excessive and gives an idea of the reasonable. I have gone for some themes, more than specifics.
First off is writing - blog, letters, cards, diary, notes, maybe even some short stories. Possibly about bras, a delight that may grace the blog....grafitti maybe. Maybe not, I'm not very good at breaking rules. Grafitti with wipeable pen. On a whiteboard. Check...
Then running - which will cover all kinds of activity, bit of netball (more on that sometime), bit of running, walking, jumping, leaping...a bit of something most days. I really need to move more. I've bought something bright pink and visible to run in. I've even worn running kit once this year. I drove all the way home in it. It was quite exhausting.
Packed lunches - This has begun in earnest, mostly through a combination of shame and preparation by my dutiful, and unexpectedly domesticated peerie viking. I'd always thought they were all about boat burning (to cries of "It's not a boat, it's a GALLEY! And its not a parade, it's a procession, it's not gay pride day."), raping and pillaging, ransacking and the like - they don't tell you about the soup making, shopping, meal planning and packed lunching in ye olde stories. When "Need anything from the shops?" brings the answer "Maybe just some broccoli, bacon and stilton, I might make soup while you're away." rather than, "Sausages, bacon, black pudding, white pudding, sausermeat, onions, eggs, beans, bread (insert any other breakfast item you can think of, bar hot tomatoes)" you know something has changed. He dutifully makes his lunch every night, though every new things he thinks up for lunch seems to go in combination with everything else. There is no subsitution, only addition. Hungry work, evidently. And if he makes his own, how can I not? Long may it continue. It seems to be working out. I might need him to play at rugged and manly every once in a while. Can't be a broccoli and stilton man everyday.
Being lovely. This one is more difficult, but is mostly about effort, on two fronts - smile and be lovely, and get-out-of-bed-in-time-to-brush-your-hair and be lovely. I think, for the first time in a long time, probably ever (no offence intended in the direction of some of my mother's early years attempts, though offence was almost certainly caused at the time) I have a hairstyle. As opposed to just hair, which is what I had before. Its still the same hair, just chopped a bit differently. And I think I owe it to the poor girl who chops it to try and make it look at least half as nice as she makes it when she cuts it. More on hair will follow...it is an ongoing, ever-growing (har har) saga.
Save some cash. Or stop spending money on things I don't want or need - which really should be straight forward.
A nice round 5 - writing, running, packed lunches, loveliness and money. The essence of life perhaps. Now for bed. Then some more regular updating...I seem to have developed something of a social life this week though, so I'll maybe just need to squeeze a wee blog in somewhere.
A good three week cooling off period lets outrageous resolutions be reigned in, levels the excessive and gives an idea of the reasonable. I have gone for some themes, more than specifics.
First off is writing - blog, letters, cards, diary, notes, maybe even some short stories. Possibly about bras, a delight that may grace the blog....grafitti maybe. Maybe not, I'm not very good at breaking rules. Grafitti with wipeable pen. On a whiteboard. Check...
Then running - which will cover all kinds of activity, bit of netball (more on that sometime), bit of running, walking, jumping, leaping...a bit of something most days. I really need to move more. I've bought something bright pink and visible to run in. I've even worn running kit once this year. I drove all the way home in it. It was quite exhausting.
Packed lunches - This has begun in earnest, mostly through a combination of shame and preparation by my dutiful, and unexpectedly domesticated peerie viking. I'd always thought they were all about boat burning (to cries of "It's not a boat, it's a GALLEY! And its not a parade, it's a procession, it's not gay pride day."), raping and pillaging, ransacking and the like - they don't tell you about the soup making, shopping, meal planning and packed lunching in ye olde stories. When "Need anything from the shops?" brings the answer "Maybe just some broccoli, bacon and stilton, I might make soup while you're away." rather than, "Sausages, bacon, black pudding, white pudding, sausermeat, onions, eggs, beans, bread (insert any other breakfast item you can think of, bar hot tomatoes)" you know something has changed. He dutifully makes his lunch every night, though every new things he thinks up for lunch seems to go in combination with everything else. There is no subsitution, only addition. Hungry work, evidently. And if he makes his own, how can I not? Long may it continue. It seems to be working out. I might need him to play at rugged and manly every once in a while. Can't be a broccoli and stilton man everyday.
Being lovely. This one is more difficult, but is mostly about effort, on two fronts - smile and be lovely, and get-out-of-bed-in-time-to-brush-your-hair and be lovely. I think, for the first time in a long time, probably ever (no offence intended in the direction of some of my mother's early years attempts, though offence was almost certainly caused at the time) I have a hairstyle. As opposed to just hair, which is what I had before. Its still the same hair, just chopped a bit differently. And I think I owe it to the poor girl who chops it to try and make it look at least half as nice as she makes it when she cuts it. More on hair will follow...it is an ongoing, ever-growing (har har) saga.
Save some cash. Or stop spending money on things I don't want or need - which really should be straight forward.
A nice round 5 - writing, running, packed lunches, loveliness and money. The essence of life perhaps. Now for bed. Then some more regular updating...I seem to have developed something of a social life this week though, so I'll maybe just need to squeeze a wee blog in somewhere.
Sunday 13 January 2013
Who's bringing the Bear?
Picture the scene. Patrick has died. The day before the funeral we are gathered in mum and dad's living room -mum,dad,brother,sister,brother's girlfriend,my peerie viking and 2 of brother's friends. Cosy. We have little expertise when it comes to funerals.
"So...what actually happens tomorrow?" prompts a run through of proceedings from dad.
"Funeral car's picking us up here?"
"Yes,each car takes 7, so us 5 plus Carly and Duncan, granny etc in the other."
"Who's bringing the bear?"
"The bear's coming in the other car."
"Oh...ok, does someone have room for picking her up first?"
"No I think they'll go direct - that's probably best, save too much disruption, get the bear last, but be there in plenty of time so it's not too busy."
"Ok. Sure it'll work itself out. so long as SOMEONE's bringing the bear."
All this talk of a bear was making the extras a little uneasy. None of them had been to a Catholic funeral before - perhaps there was always a bear, a kind of tradition from ancient churchy culture. Whatever it was for, this clearly couldn't go ahead without the bear. It was surely some kind of centrepiece, decorative? Or presiding over some part of the service? A family heirloom maybe? I'm not sure if they were afraid, or just confused.
It did indeed all work out. The Bear was picked up and transported without fuss. In the funeral car, her rightful place, and onward to the front of the church. People clear the way for the Bear. A space was left. She was assumed to be imminent.
There is always room for the bear. Everyone knows the Bear, and are keen to greet her, they proffer their seats, guide her along, ask after her health. She is quiet,and unassuming. Welcoming the greetings and slowly, without causing upset, unpushily working her way through the crowd. She doesn't have to squish in, or shuffle people along,no chairs need be scrambled or added to rows.
The Bear is here. She is just fine, she will sit whereever she chooses.
The Bear is my granma.
"So...what actually happens tomorrow?" prompts a run through of proceedings from dad.
"Funeral car's picking us up here?"
"Yes,each car takes 7, so us 5 plus Carly and Duncan, granny etc in the other."
"Who's bringing the bear?"
"The bear's coming in the other car."
"Oh...ok, does someone have room for picking her up first?"
"No I think they'll go direct - that's probably best, save too much disruption, get the bear last, but be there in plenty of time so it's not too busy."
"Ok. Sure it'll work itself out. so long as SOMEONE's bringing the bear."
All this talk of a bear was making the extras a little uneasy. None of them had been to a Catholic funeral before - perhaps there was always a bear, a kind of tradition from ancient churchy culture. Whatever it was for, this clearly couldn't go ahead without the bear. It was surely some kind of centrepiece, decorative? Or presiding over some part of the service? A family heirloom maybe? I'm not sure if they were afraid, or just confused.
It did indeed all work out. The Bear was picked up and transported without fuss. In the funeral car, her rightful place, and onward to the front of the church. People clear the way for the Bear. A space was left. She was assumed to be imminent.
There is always room for the bear. Everyone knows the Bear, and are keen to greet her, they proffer their seats, guide her along, ask after her health. She is quiet,and unassuming. Welcoming the greetings and slowly, without causing upset, unpushily working her way through the crowd. She doesn't have to squish in, or shuffle people along,no chairs need be scrambled or added to rows.
The Bear is here. She is just fine, she will sit whereever she chooses.
The Bear is my granma.
Monday 7 January 2013
January Bluuues. With a smile. Eradicating the need for a decision on the Christmas Post title
Festivities over for another year, catapulted into 2013. What do the years 2013 and 1987 have in common? (< a small piece of trivia...to keep you hanging, in case people are reading, may need to jazz up with some alternative content. I know it's not quite a picture, Dad, but it's a start. Answer will be concealed somewhere in the text. If I remember.)
I had my first Christmas away from home (for home read family...not so much environment as company. And , Oh, what company...ahem. Family being my main readership.) and it was just fine. Christmas is one of those things that you can never know, barring films/TV, how closely your family resembles "normal". Unlike birthdays, where, by the age of 7 or 8 you've been to a fair few parties and pretty much worked out what the deal is with birthdays for other people, and parents I suppose are often guilted into providing the same for their brood, leaving the unfortunate(at the time, later cool and alternative) children with wacky parents to have some pass the parcel with a mouldy mushroom inside, pin the tail on the real life dog, cock-fighting, mathsattack, vegan sugar free feasts...etc. None of these things have happened to me, but I suppose they might have somewhere. I don't suppose I'm alternative enough to think up anything even vaguely not mainstream. My largest birthday disappointment (bar the most recent, rather upscaled and probably not under the banner of disappointment) came at the age of 4, ish. I bring it up fairly regularly, self-indulgent as I am.
I have always wanted a dog. Probably since I was born, and I have never ever had one, awful, I know. When I was 4 (ish) I had convinced myself I was getting a dog. I was absolutely certain of it. What I got was a cake, in the shape of a dog. Which is not only not a dog, but is a kind of cruel taunt, of look at what you don't have, a cute little puppy, look while we chop him up and eat him. I imagine this might be a kind of coming of age truth in Korea similair to finding out about Santa. Except with real dog. The dog was made of marzipan. On that day not only did I find out that I didn't have a dog, I found out I really severely disliked marzipan. Two of life's great disappointments. I have been further disappointed by sneaky marzipan, pretending to be something it wasn't, since, it will never grace a cake of mine.
Back to Christmas, it's something you generally spend with family, quite apart from friends, and that is likely how you spend it at least until you leave home, and possibly for years after. With the prospect of spending Christmas with someone else's family comes a fear...maybe we do it wrong. Does noone else wear fake santa beards for Christmas dinner? Does noone else have the useless present society? Or take bets on mentions of the Pope/spillage of wine/fire starting? One of the previous has never been true, the latter two are family institutions which have passed with their creators/subjects (I'm sure the traditions continue in heaven. Though I'm not sure what the take on fire is in heaven, and when you're in eternity is there such as useless? I don't really know). More recently we've performed back-seat theatre and decorated the stairs. I just had to hope we vaguely followed some kind of Christmas convention which I could apply to any situation. Turns out Christmas was good, and we had Christmas dinner on boxing day, which was just splendid. A very accommodating and welcoming clan, if I couldn't be with mine, I wouldn't have been anywhere other than there.
It was our first Patrick-less Christmas. It's been 6 months now since he died. I'd thought being away from family was maybe better, if we weren't all there the big gap wouldn't be so obvious. My sister was away anyway, and my brother (who is often in my conversation, followed up with the qualifier "not the one who died..." to stop the sharp breath, mid inhale, and the eyes turning to sad puppy dog as the grief alert blares...whoa! False alarm) was elsewhere, so really it would have just been Mum and Dad and I, and they're like old and boring and stuff...which would have been just fine, but instead we'll have a second Christmas when ma soeur is home, and I can see peerie bro on my way down.
I was only a wee bit sad at Christmas. Firstly because everyone was so lovely, and then because, as fine as everything is, there's still something missing. Everyone else is accounted for, except for him. I don't suppose that's something that will ever change. Not long after he died I had a dream I was getting married, everything was going horribly wrong, I was trying to do my hair which was half straight, half curly, and my make up which was all going wrong, while dad and Uncle Peef acting as ushers tried to make me drink Cobra beer they had hidden under a bus seat, and Fergus and Patrick told me they weren't coming, there'd be plenty people there, and they had heat up takeaway stuff to be eaten that night, but I'd have a fine time without them. My first Patrick dream, probably a bit selfish all in - I suspect it means he's not coming to my wedding. And so it goes on, 6 months along and for a few weeks over Christmas I think I kind of felt like it might be over soon, the same feeling I got when I went to secondary school, that it would be done soon and I'd be going back to Primary to the world I knew. Or when I started working, and kept waiting for it to finish, and the summer holidays to come round. You slowly get used to the fact this is it, it's not going to change. Obviously I know he won't be coming back, but there is a feeling after the first bit of sickness and horribleness, that it'll likely be over soon, he'll be back, and it'll be back to normal.
Christmas take 2 may have more to report back on, down to ma and pa's, Kate'll be home, we'll do a tour of relatives and see Fergus on the way. Looking forward to a little trip, and seeing everyone, which I really must try to do more often. My New Year's resolutions of writing, running and packed lunches are all but underway, with keeping in touch right up there in the writing stakes. I quite enjoy writing the odd card or letter, but don't do it often enough. I find writing quite therapeutic, and though it does seem a bit self-indulgent, especially now that I know people might be reading it, I'll try to keep it up. May have to think of some more interesting chapters. Create a bit of suspense, or emotion, or storyline to my life. 1987 and 2013? The last two years to be made up of 4 different digits, in case you were wondering.
Some chapters to come...
Recipes...this could maybe be a regular. I made sweet potato and red pepper soup, white chocolate and ginger cheesecake, sweet potato and cranberry bread and white chocolate and raspberry roulade (that recipe courtesy of a far better cook than me, and a million times better when she made it, but tasty nonetheless). I got some baking books and cook books for Christmas, I would really need to get practicing if I am ever to get a place in the Cunningsburgh show. Now I live in the southend I think I might absorb some goodness by osmosis which will help in my endeavours. Undoubtedly.
Running...this will hopefully feature again. Especially given aforementioned commitment to baking practice.
Peanut Butter. The ups and downs, love, hate, denial. Toast, bread, crunchy, smooth. What more could you need in a story?
My family. Or I have toyed with one each...depends how much I decide is publishable I suppose. Which really makes them sound quite awful, or controversial. Perhaps they are. (< story hook...I could be so good at this writing gig.)
People I wish I was more like...I'm not very good at famous people, so I'm afraid this will mostly be based on people I know. It may have included David Attenbrough, until I found out he doesn't like playing games, I can't possibly boycott "Africa" on the basis of that, but I don't love him quite as much as I once did. The truths that come out as you age are not pleasant. Santa's allegedly not real, dogs are made of marzipan, David Attenbrough might be a grumpy old man. Sometimes.
Boxsets. I'm like a post Christmas junkie. 24 and chocolate coins. It may not end well.
Well that was a bit of a rambler. Manana, manana, banana, banana *
L
* this only works if you imagine the correct Spanish punctuation and superimpose it on banana too. By "works" I don't think I mean that it's funny. Maybe more of an auditory joke - but if you do it in a Spanish accent, with gesticulation, and it's still not funny, you can only blame yourself. I gave you the content, I have made people laugh with it.
I had my first Christmas away from home (for home read family...not so much environment as company. And , Oh, what company...ahem. Family being my main readership.) and it was just fine. Christmas is one of those things that you can never know, barring films/TV, how closely your family resembles "normal". Unlike birthdays, where, by the age of 7 or 8 you've been to a fair few parties and pretty much worked out what the deal is with birthdays for other people, and parents I suppose are often guilted into providing the same for their brood, leaving the unfortunate(at the time, later cool and alternative) children with wacky parents to have some pass the parcel with a mouldy mushroom inside, pin the tail on the real life dog, cock-fighting, mathsattack, vegan sugar free feasts...etc. None of these things have happened to me, but I suppose they might have somewhere. I don't suppose I'm alternative enough to think up anything even vaguely not mainstream. My largest birthday disappointment (bar the most recent, rather upscaled and probably not under the banner of disappointment) came at the age of 4, ish. I bring it up fairly regularly, self-indulgent as I am.
I have always wanted a dog. Probably since I was born, and I have never ever had one, awful, I know. When I was 4 (ish) I had convinced myself I was getting a dog. I was absolutely certain of it. What I got was a cake, in the shape of a dog. Which is not only not a dog, but is a kind of cruel taunt, of look at what you don't have, a cute little puppy, look while we chop him up and eat him. I imagine this might be a kind of coming of age truth in Korea similair to finding out about Santa. Except with real dog. The dog was made of marzipan. On that day not only did I find out that I didn't have a dog, I found out I really severely disliked marzipan. Two of life's great disappointments. I have been further disappointed by sneaky marzipan, pretending to be something it wasn't, since, it will never grace a cake of mine.
Back to Christmas, it's something you generally spend with family, quite apart from friends, and that is likely how you spend it at least until you leave home, and possibly for years after. With the prospect of spending Christmas with someone else's family comes a fear...maybe we do it wrong. Does noone else wear fake santa beards for Christmas dinner? Does noone else have the useless present society? Or take bets on mentions of the Pope/spillage of wine/fire starting? One of the previous has never been true, the latter two are family institutions which have passed with their creators/subjects (I'm sure the traditions continue in heaven. Though I'm not sure what the take on fire is in heaven, and when you're in eternity is there such as useless? I don't really know). More recently we've performed back-seat theatre and decorated the stairs. I just had to hope we vaguely followed some kind of Christmas convention which I could apply to any situation. Turns out Christmas was good, and we had Christmas dinner on boxing day, which was just splendid. A very accommodating and welcoming clan, if I couldn't be with mine, I wouldn't have been anywhere other than there.
It was our first Patrick-less Christmas. It's been 6 months now since he died. I'd thought being away from family was maybe better, if we weren't all there the big gap wouldn't be so obvious. My sister was away anyway, and my brother (who is often in my conversation, followed up with the qualifier "not the one who died..." to stop the sharp breath, mid inhale, and the eyes turning to sad puppy dog as the grief alert blares...whoa! False alarm) was elsewhere, so really it would have just been Mum and Dad and I, and they're like old and boring and stuff...which would have been just fine, but instead we'll have a second Christmas when ma soeur is home, and I can see peerie bro on my way down.
I was only a wee bit sad at Christmas. Firstly because everyone was so lovely, and then because, as fine as everything is, there's still something missing. Everyone else is accounted for, except for him. I don't suppose that's something that will ever change. Not long after he died I had a dream I was getting married, everything was going horribly wrong, I was trying to do my hair which was half straight, half curly, and my make up which was all going wrong, while dad and Uncle Peef acting as ushers tried to make me drink Cobra beer they had hidden under a bus seat, and Fergus and Patrick told me they weren't coming, there'd be plenty people there, and they had heat up takeaway stuff to be eaten that night, but I'd have a fine time without them. My first Patrick dream, probably a bit selfish all in - I suspect it means he's not coming to my wedding. And so it goes on, 6 months along and for a few weeks over Christmas I think I kind of felt like it might be over soon, the same feeling I got when I went to secondary school, that it would be done soon and I'd be going back to Primary to the world I knew. Or when I started working, and kept waiting for it to finish, and the summer holidays to come round. You slowly get used to the fact this is it, it's not going to change. Obviously I know he won't be coming back, but there is a feeling after the first bit of sickness and horribleness, that it'll likely be over soon, he'll be back, and it'll be back to normal.
Christmas take 2 may have more to report back on, down to ma and pa's, Kate'll be home, we'll do a tour of relatives and see Fergus on the way. Looking forward to a little trip, and seeing everyone, which I really must try to do more often. My New Year's resolutions of writing, running and packed lunches are all but underway, with keeping in touch right up there in the writing stakes. I quite enjoy writing the odd card or letter, but don't do it often enough. I find writing quite therapeutic, and though it does seem a bit self-indulgent, especially now that I know people might be reading it, I'll try to keep it up. May have to think of some more interesting chapters. Create a bit of suspense, or emotion, or storyline to my life. 1987 and 2013? The last two years to be made up of 4 different digits, in case you were wondering.
Some chapters to come...
Recipes...this could maybe be a regular. I made sweet potato and red pepper soup, white chocolate and ginger cheesecake, sweet potato and cranberry bread and white chocolate and raspberry roulade (that recipe courtesy of a far better cook than me, and a million times better when she made it, but tasty nonetheless). I got some baking books and cook books for Christmas, I would really need to get practicing if I am ever to get a place in the Cunningsburgh show. Now I live in the southend I think I might absorb some goodness by osmosis which will help in my endeavours. Undoubtedly.
Running...this will hopefully feature again. Especially given aforementioned commitment to baking practice.
Peanut Butter. The ups and downs, love, hate, denial. Toast, bread, crunchy, smooth. What more could you need in a story?
My family. Or I have toyed with one each...depends how much I decide is publishable I suppose. Which really makes them sound quite awful, or controversial. Perhaps they are. (< story hook...I could be so good at this writing gig.)
People I wish I was more like...I'm not very good at famous people, so I'm afraid this will mostly be based on people I know. It may have included David Attenbrough, until I found out he doesn't like playing games, I can't possibly boycott "Africa" on the basis of that, but I don't love him quite as much as I once did. The truths that come out as you age are not pleasant. Santa's allegedly not real, dogs are made of marzipan, David Attenbrough might be a grumpy old man. Sometimes.
Boxsets. I'm like a post Christmas junkie. 24 and chocolate coins. It may not end well.
Well that was a bit of a rambler. Manana, manana, banana, banana *
L
* this only works if you imagine the correct Spanish punctuation and superimpose it on banana too. By "works" I don't think I mean that it's funny. Maybe more of an auditory joke - but if you do it in a Spanish accent, with gesticulation, and it's still not funny, you can only blame yourself. I gave you the content, I have made people laugh with it.
Thursday 3 January 2013
Put. Your. Foot. In. The. Bag.
This is a kind of fairytale appendix, if you will, a note to the ugly sisters, to help them in their plight. If this is you, take special note. I have something of a sympathy for the ugly sisters in the footwear department. Not for normal shoes, I have fairly normal sized and not overly wide or enormous trotters, but when it comes to boots I run into something of a barrier. A peerie coo barrier. Big calf gate. Now this is not a call for, but oh no you have such dainty legs! But you have lovely legs, don't say that! kinds of sympathy. It is a simple fact, verifiable by tape measure. I am somewhat limited in my choice of boots, and really have to try them on, opportunities for which, when you live far far away, are few and far between.
On a recent trip to the mainland, or "down the road" (the aeroplane road of course) I had a few ideas in mind. Now, I've never been shopping with a boy before but, as accommodating as mine is, I didn't think he'd be keen for lots of traipsing. Neither am I these days, to be honest. I wouldn't say I've ever been a huge fan of shopping, I could take it or leave it, I used to buy things I didn't really like, for no real reason, but now I don't have shops it all seems a bit much going proper city shopping. There are just so many things. So I'd done some research. I had a really nice pair of cowboy boots from Dorothy Perkins once, I thought I'd quite like some more. But being a lady, who wears lady shoes, obviously they don't just make the same nice things again like they do for boys, they make them in different styles, and different colours, and heights and lengths and...sole designs(probably), so if you ever find something nice you should have the foresight to buy 8 of it. Which is easy enough to see, in hindsight.
So, I'd sought out some bootie options, and on the pretence of being on our way home, managed to steer Sir Shop-a-lot into the St Enoch's Centre, where lo-and-behold, there was a Dorothy Perkins. Bee line for the shoes, find two pairs of boots, next step is to find a helpful lady. Now it was medium busy, one lady was on the phone, one on the till another finding things, I wasn't in any hurry, so I hovered, expectantly, about 3" off the ground.
Eventually what seemed, at first, to be a helpful lady appeared. She was from the brusque, scary, middle-aged Glasgow lady school of helpful.
"Yes?"
"Uhh...can I try these in a 6 please?"
"Can you not just try the 5, I've been up and down that stairs that many times today already."
"Uhh...well, I'm really more of a 6" I'm not very good at forceful. And the peerie viking, well what hope for him? He's never even driven on a motorway, he was intimidated by a train ticket machine, in Edinburgh, what hope for a scary lady, in Glasgow? I really was in this alone.
"Well, they're big made. Some people take a size smaller." Ok...that sounds almost helpful. Sounds like I'm giving them a shot.
So I sat myself down, took my own shoes off, and tried the boot on. My toes got to the heel, and would go no further. I couldn't get round the heel corner, I did a wee wiggle and pull for show, but it was going nowhere. My heel was still entirely outside the boot.
"Oh! No luck! I think I'll have to try the 6! Sorry!" I said...with light gaeity, as the exclamation marks might suggest, hoping she wouldn't stab me, or breathe fire on me, once I'd extracted my foot from the boot.
"Haud on" we'll switch to some poor interpretation of dialect writing here, "Ah'll get ye a wee bag, it'll slide right in...." she bellowed as she wandered away.
A wee bag...I must have misheard her, or it's what they call a shoe horn in "the business". I was worried...I'd seen a shoe horn, but I'd never used one...I was going to be shamed..."You're no lady! You can't even use a shoe horn! I bet you don't even own one of those defluffing lint taker-offer things! You shouldn't be allowed near fashion, get out of our shop!" I began to worry, looking to my hapless islander for help. He shrugged.
And I saw her coming back, with an approx 10"x8" Dorothy Perkins plastic bag. The kind you might get jewellery in. She handed it to me. I looked at her. This doesn't look like a size 6 tan, low rise cowboy boot, I thought.
"Put your foot in the bag."
"Ermm...sorry?"
"Put your foot in the bag."
"Uhh..." I waited for the most recent incarnation of Jeremy Beadle to leap out from behind the sale stand.
"Put. Your. FOOT. In. The. BAG...it'll slide right in." Foot in bag was evidently not optional.
And so I did. I put my foot in the bag.
"Now put the boot on." She clearly thought I had some kind of learning difficulty by this point. I was convincing myself I was the strange one - how could I not know about this? I'm such an islander...
And I did, I got it on. It did indeed slide right in. The one downside being that I now had a plastic bag in my shoe.
"That's better isn't it? How are they? Do you want to try the other foot?"
"Yes, they are simply splendid! I intend to wear these every day, can I have a year's supply of footbags to go with them? Must I wear socks too? Are the boots waterproof on the inside, surely I will drown in my own footsweat, or develop trenchfoot, if I walk about for the rest of my life with too small shoes and bags on my feet, you chump!" I wish I'd said.
"Hmm...I think they might still be a little tight." Obviously...I just had to lube up to get them on. "Would it be ok, do you think, if I could try the 6?" Person who is paid to work here...to fetch things and convince me to buy them, it will surely do you good to go up and down the stairs a few times, and if it really is such a horrible inconvenience I will happily go myself. Is more like what I actually said.
Needless to say I had to buy them, whether I liked them or not, given the scary lady's exertions in getting them for me. Though I really wish I'd thanked her, and promised to buy them online. I'd really need to grow a set and say these things.
The boots are fine. And, ugly sisters, the next time they come with a glass slipper, just put your foot in a bag. It'll slide right in.
On a recent trip to the mainland, or "down the road" (the aeroplane road of course) I had a few ideas in mind. Now, I've never been shopping with a boy before but, as accommodating as mine is, I didn't think he'd be keen for lots of traipsing. Neither am I these days, to be honest. I wouldn't say I've ever been a huge fan of shopping, I could take it or leave it, I used to buy things I didn't really like, for no real reason, but now I don't have shops it all seems a bit much going proper city shopping. There are just so many things. So I'd done some research. I had a really nice pair of cowboy boots from Dorothy Perkins once, I thought I'd quite like some more. But being a lady, who wears lady shoes, obviously they don't just make the same nice things again like they do for boys, they make them in different styles, and different colours, and heights and lengths and...sole designs(probably), so if you ever find something nice you should have the foresight to buy 8 of it. Which is easy enough to see, in hindsight.
So, I'd sought out some bootie options, and on the pretence of being on our way home, managed to steer Sir Shop-a-lot into the St Enoch's Centre, where lo-and-behold, there was a Dorothy Perkins. Bee line for the shoes, find two pairs of boots, next step is to find a helpful lady. Now it was medium busy, one lady was on the phone, one on the till another finding things, I wasn't in any hurry, so I hovered, expectantly, about 3" off the ground.
Eventually what seemed, at first, to be a helpful lady appeared. She was from the brusque, scary, middle-aged Glasgow lady school of helpful.
"Yes?"
"Uhh...can I try these in a 6 please?"
"Can you not just try the 5, I've been up and down that stairs that many times today already."
"Uhh...well, I'm really more of a 6" I'm not very good at forceful. And the peerie viking, well what hope for him? He's never even driven on a motorway, he was intimidated by a train ticket machine, in Edinburgh, what hope for a scary lady, in Glasgow? I really was in this alone.
"Well, they're big made. Some people take a size smaller." Ok...that sounds almost helpful. Sounds like I'm giving them a shot.
So I sat myself down, took my own shoes off, and tried the boot on. My toes got to the heel, and would go no further. I couldn't get round the heel corner, I did a wee wiggle and pull for show, but it was going nowhere. My heel was still entirely outside the boot.
"Oh! No luck! I think I'll have to try the 6! Sorry!" I said...with light gaeity, as the exclamation marks might suggest, hoping she wouldn't stab me, or breathe fire on me, once I'd extracted my foot from the boot.
"Haud on" we'll switch to some poor interpretation of dialect writing here, "Ah'll get ye a wee bag, it'll slide right in...." she bellowed as she wandered away.
A wee bag...I must have misheard her, or it's what they call a shoe horn in "the business". I was worried...I'd seen a shoe horn, but I'd never used one...I was going to be shamed..."You're no lady! You can't even use a shoe horn! I bet you don't even own one of those defluffing lint taker-offer things! You shouldn't be allowed near fashion, get out of our shop!" I began to worry, looking to my hapless islander for help. He shrugged.
And I saw her coming back, with an approx 10"x8" Dorothy Perkins plastic bag. The kind you might get jewellery in. She handed it to me. I looked at her. This doesn't look like a size 6 tan, low rise cowboy boot, I thought.
"Put your foot in the bag."
"Ermm...sorry?"
"Put your foot in the bag."
"Uhh..." I waited for the most recent incarnation of Jeremy Beadle to leap out from behind the sale stand.
"Put. Your. FOOT. In. The. BAG...it'll slide right in." Foot in bag was evidently not optional.
And so I did. I put my foot in the bag.
"Now put the boot on." She clearly thought I had some kind of learning difficulty by this point. I was convincing myself I was the strange one - how could I not know about this? I'm such an islander...
And I did, I got it on. It did indeed slide right in. The one downside being that I now had a plastic bag in my shoe.
"That's better isn't it? How are they? Do you want to try the other foot?"
"Yes, they are simply splendid! I intend to wear these every day, can I have a year's supply of footbags to go with them? Must I wear socks too? Are the boots waterproof on the inside, surely I will drown in my own footsweat, or develop trenchfoot, if I walk about for the rest of my life with too small shoes and bags on my feet, you chump!" I wish I'd said.
"Hmm...I think they might still be a little tight." Obviously...I just had to lube up to get them on. "Would it be ok, do you think, if I could try the 6?" Person who is paid to work here...to fetch things and convince me to buy them, it will surely do you good to go up and down the stairs a few times, and if it really is such a horrible inconvenience I will happily go myself. Is more like what I actually said.
Needless to say I had to buy them, whether I liked them or not, given the scary lady's exertions in getting them for me. Though I really wish I'd thanked her, and promised to buy them online. I'd really need to grow a set and say these things.
The boots are fine. And, ugly sisters, the next time they come with a glass slipper, just put your foot in a bag. It'll slide right in.
Wednesday 2 January 2013
2013...Happy New Year!
2013 is going to be the year I come out of the blog-closet. Which might encourage me to write a little more. I've not made any time bound promises, they never seem to work out, and along that very vein I've held off (it really has taken some effort) till the 2nd of the year to write my first post.
I've been thinking about letting people know I had a blog for a while, it's amazing how different it is telling people you know about something, when it's already out there for anyone in the world to see. I don't plan any kind of blanket advertising campaign. I'll likely just write it in tiny writing in a small corner of facebook. I'm not really hooked up to any other medium in the social networking world, and, having had a recent cull of "friends", I'm not sure my facebook even counts as social anymore. It may have become quite anti-social, with my new strict friend rules. Though how strict friend v not friend is in this kind of a game, is questionable I think. Maybe you have to be everyone's friend if you want to have a well read blog.
Part of me doesn't want anyone to read this, but then clearly, as I have written it, part of me does want people to read it. Mostly, I think, so I'll be guilted into writing more in it.
In preparation for publication I've had a final scan of my friends list, and shown it to my peerie viking, lest he feature, and object. Though I've yet to write anything bad about him. I don't think he found it particularly funny, but then he thinks Harry Hill is funny. I'm happy not to be in the same basket as Harry Hill.
Some delights I think I might write about:
"The next big thing..." have to return the favour from my dad, who named me in his, though I don't have nearly enough substance to answer all the questions.
"Chrismas" or "Christmiss" or..."Christmassing persons..." which are not that funny, and may make light of the situation too much. I might just call it Christmas. Like everyone else.
"New Year Plans"
" "Put your foot in the bag..." a tale of hard sell and customer service from the St Enoch's centre" May need a snappier title.
"Lucy's Monthly Meltdown"
And something about food...features highly in my life.
That's all I can think for now. Back soon. Soon being quite a wooly expansive kind of timeframe.
I've been thinking about letting people know I had a blog for a while, it's amazing how different it is telling people you know about something, when it's already out there for anyone in the world to see. I don't plan any kind of blanket advertising campaign. I'll likely just write it in tiny writing in a small corner of facebook. I'm not really hooked up to any other medium in the social networking world, and, having had a recent cull of "friends", I'm not sure my facebook even counts as social anymore. It may have become quite anti-social, with my new strict friend rules. Though how strict friend v not friend is in this kind of a game, is questionable I think. Maybe you have to be everyone's friend if you want to have a well read blog.
Part of me doesn't want anyone to read this, but then clearly, as I have written it, part of me does want people to read it. Mostly, I think, so I'll be guilted into writing more in it.
In preparation for publication I've had a final scan of my friends list, and shown it to my peerie viking, lest he feature, and object. Though I've yet to write anything bad about him. I don't think he found it particularly funny, but then he thinks Harry Hill is funny. I'm happy not to be in the same basket as Harry Hill.
Some delights I think I might write about:
"The next big thing..." have to return the favour from my dad, who named me in his, though I don't have nearly enough substance to answer all the questions.
"Chrismas" or "Christmiss" or..."Christmassing persons..." which are not that funny, and may make light of the situation too much. I might just call it Christmas. Like everyone else.
"New Year Plans"
" "Put your foot in the bag..." a tale of hard sell and customer service from the St Enoch's centre" May need a snappier title.
"Lucy's Monthly Meltdown"
And something about food...features highly in my life.
That's all I can think for now. Back soon. Soon being quite a wooly expansive kind of timeframe.
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