Sunday, 21 December 2014

Disco Celt

It's the Winter Solstice y'all. I like how so many of us have a thin vein of paganism flowing inside, passed down from an ancient past -  if my aunty is stood in the garden at night and she can see the moon, she has to salute it and turn round three times.

When you dig your hands in the sand, or brush your hand along a hedge as you walk past, or close your eyes and feel the wind trying to push and pull you - is that what happens when your inbuilt pagan tendancies flicker to life and begin to worship, or is that just what happens when you drink too much? Discuss.

I'm in Any Nothern Mill Town. It's cold. I got off the coach on Friday and felt like I'd been thrown into an icy puddle. It was so windy and the rain was vicious. I've not been back to my mum's for six months and all this time I've been fondly reminiscing about heavy rainfall, filling the streets with curtains of mist and water, pitter-pattering on my head in a light and refreshing way.

That rain is bullshit rain, existing only in romcoms and London summers.

The rain here doesn't fall straight down, it blows in at you from every angle and it's so cold it stings. You can't see and you can't walk straight because of the wind and it's bitterly cold. I tried to cover my hair in what I usually imagine to be my chic and casual, is-she-or-isn't-she-vaguely-Middle-Eastern-or-Eastern-European manner, but the scarf got tangled up at the neck and stuck flat to my forehead. I struggled through town like an insane turtle; my pale, blinking face like a hideous wet square, surrounding by dripping blue scarf.

Also, my vest top kept pulling down at the front and showing my bra and I couldn't fasten my coat. When I finally got to Any Northern Town, my brother had cooked us a roast dinner. I had no idea he could cook. He cooked beef! I don't know how to roast beef.

That night my mum took me and my brother to stay with her boyfriend. I don't know if I mentioned she has a boyfriend now, but she does - and it's someone she knew years ago, who me and my brother used to know quite well.

We went to a funny social club to watch a folk band and a local performance poet. He did a poem about having Monster Munch and a Fudge shoved up his bum -  what wonderfully refreshing poetry, darling. Really different.

I drank a lot of Guinness and got a bit inwardly sulky when my mum made me swap seats so she could sit with her boyfriend. SOUND FAMILIAR? I think I am a bit touchy about this because my mum has done it to me before at my grandad's funeral years ago and my dad did it to me this year at my aunty's funeral.

A funeral is not an ideal place to be reminded that everyone in the world would prefer to be with someone else rather than you, even your mum and dad are just killing time until their boyfriend/girlfriend shows up.

Maybe I am overeacting a tiny bit. I did drink a lot of Guinness.

Anyway. I am glad my mum has got a boyfriend and funnily enough it's someone who, when I was little, I would have liked her to go out with.

Talking of my mum and boyfriends... do you want to hear a creepy story?

Two weeks ago my mum's ex-husband called her and said he was moving back into the house. Can you imagine? After all this time, for him to try moving back? I think he thought he could get his old life back by barging in on my mum's life, but she told him he could not move in under any circumstances.

Two days later, my brother noticed some of my ex-stepdad'd stuff back in the garage. Then the next day, my mum woke up around 6am. She went into the bathroom and saw her ex-husband's toiletries lined up in the bathroom.

He had moved back in while she and my brother were asleep!!

So creepy and nightmarish.

He stayed for ten days and eventually left. I was dreading coming back and seeing him - so glad he left before I got here. My mum said she thinks he was a bit scared of seeing me, which is funny. He is like a big spider - more scared of you than you are of it, even though it makes your skin crawl.

Thank god he's gone again. He's such a weirdo. I don't want to say too much on here in case he reads it. You never know what he is scheming.

I wasn't feeling very Christmassy, but yesterday I went into town and met up with Kayt. We had a couple of glasses of prosecco and then she had  a dinner to go to and I went to do some Christmas shopping. Walking around Selfridges while drunk is great, but is not the way to successfully complete your Christmas shopping. I bought some toner for myself and three jars of Nutella with personalised labels for the three French kids I used to look after (they LOVE Nutella). I spelt one of their names wrong and so have to go back today to see if they will change it.

I don't even have their address anymore.

I've not been shopping for months and months. While I was waiting for the Nutella labels to be printed, I browsed the Topshop concessionary. Forget my inner pagan, my (not so) inner consumer was FLIPPING OUT.

My hands weres stroking everything - feathery jumpers, mirrored crop tops with black beaded fringes, purple velvet kimonos, a white shimmery dress with white feather trim, silky trousers, cashmere, soft leather, black lace, thin silky straps on camisoles and slips, lurex, satin, sequins...

If it had all been in a charity shop or a bin bag on the street, I would have loved it just as much. I'm not an evil consumer. I just like nice things. Maybe it is my inner Celt, who would have liked turquoise and jade and bronze jewellery. Imagine an army of Celts wearing mirrored crop tops and velvet hotpants, with cloaks and spears...

Disco Celt - the new mood for AW18 perhaps?

Saturday, 6 December 2014


There is an article in this week's Grazia about the 'single gene'. Apparently it is a real thing and lots of women have it. (No mention of whether men can have the 'single gene' too.)

I have definitely got it - I know it.

But then again, Susan Boyle has apparently got herself a boyfriend, so maybe there is hope for everyone? Not that I am saying Susan Boyle should struggle to get a man more than me - just that she has never had a boyfriend and she is fifty years old... so it is quite unsual that she has found a feller after all this time.

This is the problem with reading shitty magazines - they fill my head with crap. That's why I like Vogue. People complain that it encourages people to go out and buy £2,000 silky zigzag trousers, but surely that is better than persuading people they have the single gene?

I wish MORE people would go out and buy £2,000 silky zigzag trousers. They could pay for them on finance instead of that massive fuck-off telly.

I don't have a fantastic singing voice or a record deal, plus I have the single gene - Grazia basically reached out from their poor-quality paper pages, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and TOLD me I have it.

I really think I should get a move on and get a cat.

A fluffy black cat has been coming into our house for saucers of milk and cuddling. The first time I saw it, I was opening the front door to go inside and it leapt down from the wall, meowing at me manically as if to say "Wheere have you been where have you beeeeen???"

And I thought 'Oh my god, here is my cat. My cat has finally found me."

It definitely belongs to someone though, because it has a sparkly collar. I feel as if we are stealing it a little bit, but we don't feed it or anything. Well, apart from the saucer of milk. But maybe as it always comes to us in the morning or afternoon, its owners have a burglar alarm and have to kick it of the house all day. It's really cold in London now - and me and Mon let it sit on our warm laps and give it lots of strokes,

I've started talking about cats now and I can't stop. Last weekend I cat-sat for Beth and her fiance's (!!!) two Burmese kittens. They are so cuddly - they slept in the crook of my knees and fought for my attention all weekend. They both tried to sit on my knee at the same time, but it took them a long time to do so without one of them falling off and then clawing at the other one in annoyance. Eventually though they both managed to squeeze on, as you can see below:

I was trying to do some freelance work at the time. I'm back to writing content 'articles' with titles like 'World's Best Poker Players' and 'How to Find the Best Cosmetic Surgeons'.

I still really love my copywriting job, but I wish I didn't have to subsidise myself with other work. We had our Christmas party this week and if they are giving out bonuses to employees who can do the best knee dancing then don't worry - I'm definitely getting one.

Halfway through the night I looked down at my knees as I tried a new dance move out - knocking them together continuously - and saw, to my ecstatic delight, that they were moving in time to the music. I've tried the 'knees-knocking-together' dance many times before but never managed to get the rhythm right.

Last Tuesday however - they were bending out and smacking back into each other like two smooth groovy knee hipsters - like I had hired them for the evening and left my normal, uncoordinated knees at home to practice dancing in unison (I bet they just sat in front of the telly eating crisps. They are inexplicably chubbier than the other components of my legs).

I was so chuffed with my knee-knocking dance that I did it solidly for about three hours. I'm not exaggerating. My legs were KILLING me the next day and they were still aching a bit yesterday. I wore my super high shoes that I fell down the stairs in at Olivia's birthday last year - it's lucky I didn't snap my neck.

At least I didn't fall over at the work Christmas party. I did a lot of extravagant dancing in them though and - as it was a free bar - my wine glass was always full. A lot of my wine went on the floor, to the point where a man from another office took my glass off me. This other girl was twirling me round like we were at a school disco and I was literally showering everyone within a five metre radius with cheap white wine.

The next day another girl was telling everyone that she fell over five times during the party and was really embarrassed.

"It's because the floor was so wet," I said wisely, "Remember how the floor was inexplicably wet?"

Someone pointed out that the floor was only wet around me, because it was me spilling the wine and as I was twirling around so much and disco-dancing here there and everywhere, I managed to cover the entire huge dance floor in wine throughout the night.


I've not done a crap Paint picture in a while, hold on...

The man is wearing a white suit because I can't be arsed colouring him in. I didn't wear a white dress either. Ooh do you want to see the dress I wore?

It's from Joy and it was 30% off in Black Friday Weekend. I HATED Black Friday before - it's such an Americanism, we don't even have Thanksgiving in this country, what's the bloody point - but when I took the dress to the till and realised I was getting 30% off I changed my dress.

I am so fickle.

I also feel bad about what I said about Russel Brand (about he was a dick for telling the masses how to live their lives, not being one of 'the masses' himself) after reading an article about how he is sticking up for some East London residents facing eviction. The articled questioned why we are all hating him when all he is doing is trying to help people.

Sorry, this post is all over the place. Now I have started blogging again don't know why I stopped. I do have a couple of specific stories I want to share, but I'm a bit worried people at work can find my blog...

This is one of my favourite songs ever and I'd forgotten all about it until this week: