Non-Jen's Adventures in Wonderland

"Let's go back to mine; we can divide your legs and multiply."

Brilliant, no?

Completely inspired and uttered to my actual friend by an actual man she went on a date with a couple of weeks ago. My friend has been delving on and off into the internet sea of availables for some time now as she, like a lot of people, found that trying to find someone to be with down the local pub gave her an impressive list of beer bellies, wasters and squaddies to choose from.

Shamelessly, I'm now about to let you in to her world of internet dating - she agreed of course - because luckily, she finds all this as hilarious as I do. If she didn't, I'd probably have been axed some time ago for conduct unbecoming of a best friend as I wiped tears of laughter off my face following another post-date-night phonecall. For her privacy, I will let her remain anonymous. She's definitely not called Jen, and I assure you, she looks nothing like this lovely lady to the right.

Non-Jen's not had a massive amount of luck with internet dating. As she's a bit quirky, a lot nerdy and enjoys a fairly dark sense of humour, she finds herself a magnet for every weirdo or socially-inept gargoyle on the net. She was once sent (no word of a lie) a carefully drafted, two page fantasy script wherein a man explained in explicit detail the ways in which he would like to wee on her. Most people would inevitably find this disturbing and creepy. I have no doubt that non-Jen did also, but still - she printed the whole thing off and brought it to the pub so we could take it in turns spitting our drinks out and choking with laughter while we read it.

After a brief recess, non-Jen resurfaced on her dating site of choice a few weeks ago, only to begin chatting to a man who was so impressive on paper, she couldn't refuse a drink. Extraordinarily intelligent with a great job, he obviously also passed the obligatory sense-of-humour test and didn't immediately bleep on her massive-weirdo-radar. So, mobile numbers having been exchanged, non-Jen set out into a busy Oxford night and settled herself in the agreed cocktail bar to wait for Mr Awesome. The meet-time was 7pm and by 7.20 non-Jen was already on her second drink - a rather expensive Rum-based cocktail. Finally joining her over half an hour late, Mr Awesome swept in and after giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, he proceeded to chug down half of her drink before going to the bar to get his own. As he departed the table, he turned and gave her a double-handed gun shoot with his fingers (it's at this point in the story, I developed an image of this guy as Gaston out of Disney's Beauty and the Beast.)

Admirably, non-Jen shook this off with the help of a positive attitude and quite a bit of Rum and hoped he was just nervous. Surely all that alleged awesomeness would reveal itself in the coming minutes. Upon his return, Mr A steered non-Jen towards a comfortable looking sofa and put his arm around her, stroking her shoulder - not making things at all uncomfortable during their first ever face-to-face conversation. Non-Jen relaxed a bit as they chatted and while he disappeared to the toilets, wondered if all was not lost after all.

"So, I have a question for you," he revealed, smiling as he sat back down. "It's one of those pop-psychology  questions. Imagine there's this guy you really fancy. He's really hot, and you get on really well. You finally manage to get him back to your place. You can either go down on him, or he can go down on you. You can only choose one. Which one do you pick, and why?" 

Now. Let's just read over that sentence again and revel in the sheer beauty of an absurdly inappropriate first-date quiz question. Had he rehearsed that on his way out of the door? Was it a dare? Or had his trip to the toilets simply got him thinking fondly about his penis and inspired him to pursue an opportunity?

Non-Jen had absolutely no idea how to answer this. At this point, she was pretty sure she wouldn't be taking things further than the one date with Mr A, and so told him she was exceptionally selfish and would expect to have her needs met first. Obviously not his favourite answer, but in no way discouraged, he continued to stroke non-Jen's shoulder, legs, FACE - seemingly confused about the differences between tactile behaviour with humans and dogs. As non-Jen attempted to drink herself into blissful oblivion, simultaneously begging her housemate via text to come and pick her up, Mr A, suavely asked her to rate herself between one and ten on a kissing scale, and eventually came out with the beautiful leg-dividing line I began with. He also told her he usually preferred long hair on his women - but that her bob was 'kind of cute'. Lucky for non-Jen, ey? What. A. Catch.

Thankfully, our girl managed to escape relatively unscathed, save for a need to shower and change. I will always have a fondness for Mr Awesome, who I imagine is right now giving himself the finger-guns in the mirror while Salt 'n' Pepper's Watta Man plays in the background.

Though I sympathise entirely, the plight of genuinely wonderful people like non-Jen, struggling to find someone decent to date, I'll also be very sad when she finds one. Real-life hilarity doesn't come along very often and so for the sake of my amusement and blogging fodder, I encourage all of you weirdos to give non-Jen a call immediately.

*Winks seductively*

*Finger-guns*

And We Were Young

Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.

~ A. E. Housman

My hometown is somewhat of an acquired taste. It might even be an embarrassment to the rest of the Cotswolds, having once been described in a national newspaper as 'the ugliest town in Britain'. To us natives, it's simply Carterton - where everyone knows everyone and aeroplanes often deafen new-comers taking off and landing at Brize Norton Airbase. I've always held a great amount of affection for this place - ugly as parts of it are, littered with ancient RAF housing and great words of wisdom like 'Tom is gay' scrawled upon every available surface. It's where my family settled after years of moving around while Dad was in the forces; where I went to school, made life-long friends, went to my first disco, had all of my dramas and successes. My memories are constantly surrounded by the warm haze of home.
People who have grown up here, are oddly proud of the place. We throw terms like: 'Well, you are from Carterton' around like a badge of honour. Despite the flaws, this town breeds family - we adopt each other and create strong networks. This is why my parents could organise a surprise 16th birthday party for me with minimal notice and also why I celebrated having passed my GCSEs with six of my friends courtesy of Nikki's mum with strawberries and champagne. People look after each other here - I've always loved that about Carterton.

Which is why I am bitterly disappointed with recent events and decisions here. The repatriation of soldiers killed in action abroad, will be directed through Brize Norton as of September when RAF Lynham closes. The town of Wooton Bassett currently witnesses the hearse procession when the lads are returned home and the people who live there have become a source of genuine national pride. Businesses, domesticity and life in general comes to a standstill on the Thursday afternoon following a death in Afghanistan. People line the streets in silence, pay their respects and bid farewell to the young servicemen lost so far away from home. They support the families, they cry in empathy, they believe it is more important than anything else they had planned that day.

And it is.

The officials of Brize Norton and Carterton town council, however, have decided not to lead the procession of soldiers through the town centre - citing the 'speed bumps' on this route as their justification. Instead, they want to bring the hearse/s out of Brize main gates and up past the BP garage, before pausing at a 'memorial garden' they plan on creating. It's curious though, that this proposed route will take them over the many more speed bumps in Brize Norton village. So what could possibly be the actual reason for this decision?

Yep. Market day. Market day falls on a Thursday and the council refuses to move it for a repatriation. There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to start. The Carterton 'market' consists of about four stalls selling the kind of tat previously only seen in 'Only Fools and Horses'. It actually used to have it's own market square - a piece of land which is still present - but as no one used to attend, the council has opted instead to pedestrianise the town centre every Thursday and plant the Dellboy stands right in the middle of everyone's way.

Francis (the husband) lost a friend a few weeks ago. He was killed in Afghanistan only months after his family had grieved for their mother, having lost her to cancer. He went to Wootton Bassett and stood with everyone as the black cars rolled by. The experience, indescribable, he only said that the atmosphere was one of respect, sadness, pride and support. Ex-servicemen in their 90's dress in their blues, medals on display and salute the young soldiers as they are brought home. The roads are closed for as long as it takes because a young man has died and has done so on behalf of our country.

I'm anticipating a certain amount of back-lash in the form of people who disagree with the war in Afghanistan or those who resent the military in general. But consider this: the lads in Afghanistan have pledged to go where our government sends them and do their job. A large number of the lads killed have done so protecting their colleagues and afghan civilians. And now consider that your right to an opinion, your right to freedom and your right to a voice, has been given to you by our armed forces. They defend your rights and your way of life. Don't be so ignorant.

So market day reigns in my beloved Carterton. And I have never been more ashamed of it.

This is the welcome we give dead soldiers. This is the support we offer their families. This is a disgrace.

Eat. Pray. DIE OF BOREDOM.

This post was originally going to be the first on a new blog dedicated to book reviews - however, a beautiful combination of laziness (opening a new page, typing in the anti-spam word, etc... just seems like far too much effort) and my lack of confidence in providing an objective review of this particular work, has me abusing my regular blog. In all honesty, I just need to be able to be a bit of a ranty twat with this one. Because I really do believe it is AWFUL, despite the endorsement by Hollywood and Julia Roberts.

For anyone not in the loop yet, I'm referring to Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

We begin by meeting Ms Gilbert on the bathroom floor, praying for insight from a god she's not sure she believes in. The problem is marital - she's not sure she wants to be with her husband anymore, and rather than join the waves of people cluttering up the divorce courts, she decided instead to bore everyone else to death with several hundred horrendous pages of soul-searching wankery. I would rather she had spent the time and effort writing 'Toilet duck, Loo Roll, Bathroom Tiles' - the - I'm positive - superior alternative to Eat, Pray,Love detailing her surroundings during that first desperate conversation with God. I'd read it twice just to erase the latter from memory.

I feel genuinely cheated by this Gilbert woman. From the synopsis, this is the kind of book that ordinarily I'd be buying multiples of and lending them to friends. Travel writing, religious exploration and indulgence - that is exactly my kind of reading. But instead I found a patronising list of philosophical ideals, an adventure without any adventure and a protagonist who simply seems to be trying to reassure herself that her decision to leave her husband was prompted by some higher power or fate itself. I couldn't give a crap why she actually left her husband - does she realise how many marriages end every day? But, come on love -at least be honest with yourself. You were bored. Your husband's irritating habits suddenly became reasons to beat him to death with the coffee table and you had simply had enough.

The idea of her story, I love. Rather than stay in a life she was unhappy with, Gilbert decided to break free and travel in search of something different. She wanted to be spiritually happy, physically happy and wholly content. None of this is unreasonable. She chooses Italy, India and Indonesia, spending a few months in each with the intention of exploring different sides of her personality in these locations. But whether surrounded by food, wine and culture in Rome, or chanting with the spiritual masses in India, she remains whiny, irritating and hard-done-by. She is the literary equivalent to someone taking Prozac in front of guests at a dinner party: rather than proactively treating her problem, you really just get the feeling she wants you to ask her why she's taking it. Any excuse to wax and wane about the injustices and hiccups of her life. Don't worry - you don't have to ask her - she's written it all down in mind-numbing detail.

I don't think I'd have reacted with so much disgust, had her writing not been so appallingly superior and condescending. She talks about her decision to break free of conformity - not get married, not have children, etc... as being the edgier, riskier choice. It's definitely a choice, but that's where it ends. You're simply choosing to keep your life your own in that instance - to be responsible for yourself and do what you want to when you want to. Yes, that's a choice - one that women surrounded by children and complacent partners might even envy you for once in a while - but it's not edgy and it's not risky. Gilbert travelled by plane, not pirate-ship. She rented apartments and ate in restaurants and presumably brushed her teeth every morning. Risky? Get over yourself, Liz. Seriously.

The chapters in which religion is explored, simply smack of someone who wants to show off knowledge. Her own spiritual journey remains largely unknown and what there is of it, sounds trite and - to be honest - made-up. She's so busy being poetic and meaningful, she's left out her own story. She is a runaway narrator - veering entirely off-track and simply trying to fill pages with as much pretentious diatribe as physically possible.

All in all, the most impressive passages in Eat, Pray, Love are about the food. Next time a synopsis like that tries to fool me, I'll be saving myself the bother and buying a Jamie Oliver book instead.

Land of the Giants

Can you really be described as a 'grown-up' if you still use the phrase 'grown-up'?

I know that I am technically an adult. I know this because I'm allowed credit cards and a driver's license and the powers-that-be make me pay council tax. Adult, yes. But a grown-up?

This is a phrase I tend to reserve for people like my parents - the kind of people who are never late paying bills; who don't buy everything shiny they see, and who make sensible, well-thought-out decisions in every aspect of their lives. Grown-up, is a term exclusively for people who Have Their Shit Together (at least, that's the description I'd use if I was American and cool enough to pull it off).

Those of you who know me personally, will know that about a month and a half ago - after having my second baby, I up'd sticks and moved with the offspring to a picturesque little part of Somerset in order to take advantage of the cheap housing British armed forces offer married couples. My imagination before the move, tortured me with typically contradictory pictures of blissful cohabitation vs a jobless, friendless me rocking relentlessly in a corner while children ran circles around my complete inability to run a household with any kind of organisation. The only constant, was the assumption that I would not change personally. I would remain the same. I would still shop too much on payday, only notice that a clothes wash needed doing after discovering there are no clean socks in my daughter's drawer and instinctively order a pizza if I couldn't make a decision on dinner. Imagine my surprise then, when after only a few short weeks, the following is true:

I have put Will Smith up for sale. A difficult decision and one I did not take lightly. (For those of you out of the loop, Will is my car - named thus on account of his being black and beautiful). Normally, a car of mine would be on the market simply because a shinier, flashier car caught my eye and I absolutely could not live without it a second longer. Though our new car is lovely - a VW Passat for anyone interested, the motive for buying is a shocker: It is more economical. Far more miles to the gallon. Cheaper to run over the course of many years. More of a family car. I astound even myself.

We have a food budget. This budget is like the super-hero of budgets. With the cunning use of a pen and some paper, the husband and I worked out exactly how much we spend on food a month. On payday, we draw this amount out in cash and keep it somewhere safe - split up into weekly amounts. Around the third week in the month - when I'd usually be breaking out in a cold sweat and wondering if maybe I shouldn't have bought everything in Accessorize, in swoops the super-hero budget with enough money to keep us comfortably fed and watered until payday.

We own a cat and have managed to keep her alive for a good few weeks now. She has a bed and a litter tray and I never forget to make sure she has biscuits in her bowl. That's not one, but TWO children and a cat. Someone once told me that it wasn't possible to look after pets and children at the same time - an assumption that either the children or the pet would end up neglected, malnourished and mentally scarred. I'm here to tell you - that's a myth. It is possible. It's almost enjoyable. Either that, or without noticing I have suddenly become some kind of wonder-woman; simultaneously combining small humans and animals under one roof and managing to keep them all breathing in and out.

I like wine. For years now, I've mmmmm'd appreciatively upon sipping wine, but my heart simply wasn't in it. The mmmmming was insincere and I always gagged just a little at the after-taste. But now, alongside the car and the budget, kittens and children, I can now drink wine at a rate of which any suburban semi-alcoholic housewife would be proud. My mmmming is entirely truthful and appropriate. I am the essence of grown-up sophistication. 

So there you have it - a near complete transition from mere adult to fully-formed grown-up. Wipe your eyes of proud tears, people - I'm finally old enough to be left in the house on my own.

Reality Killed the Couch Potato

I left a garden bathed in sunshine this afternoon, a gripping book and an unusually comfortable deckchair to come inside and watch Britain's Got Talent. It didn't strike me as odd at first - I had missed the first in the series last night in favour of watching Harry Potter so it seemed reasonable to catch up as soon as possible. However, half-way through watching a woman encourage her Border Collies to prance in unison while she shuffled in small circles, dressed in a delightful sequined ensemble, I wondered what on earth I was doing. And more chillingly perhaps, it got me wondering just how many hours I had devoted to the wide variety of reality TV shows since they had appeared and bred like insatiable bunnies in the late nineties.

'Hear Say' - remember them?

Please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember Pop Stars being the relatively small snowball that was pitched from the top of the reality TV hill. As I recall, the set up became the hallmark for all other talent shows dreamed up since: judges, a stage, ten to fifteen hopeful teenagers with bad haircuts and a smug presenter to hug them as they cried after each performance. Of course the budgets are phenomenal these days so the setting is more Royal Albert Hall than Local Community Centre but the principal remains the same. Hear'Say won Popstars and went on to have mediocre success with cheesy renditions of Simon and Garfunkel hits and of course, the classic 'Pure and Simple' which, when teamed with an awkward Billie Piper style dance routine, was an instant hit. I, along with much of the country, was totally taken in by Popstars and became passionate about my preferences, who should win and who was shite. The 'band' inevitably broke up, allowing a few of the members some small independent success. Two went on to soap acting and Mylene Klass continues in her quest to become the UK's most sickly-sweet television darling - intermittently appearing with no good reason on whatever show ITV feels needs a curvey brunette thrown in for good measure.

Pop Idol soon followed, inflicting the likes of Will Young and Gareth Gates on the nation's music scene - and then of course Popstars: The Rivals, which gave birth to 'Girls Aloud'. BBC threw their own version into the mix with Fame Academy which claimed to be a more earthy, legitimate avenue for potential recording artists, but let's face it - the objective was always to obtain as many telephone votes as humanly possible to give the broadcaster a nice big cash injection on a Saturday night. I think the only 'talent contest' that could genuinely claim to be about discovering British music talent was the one Jo Wiley put together a few years ago... which I... erm... can't remember the name of. It seems I'm exactly like the rest of the population - if the gimmicks, sob-stories and unnecessarily long results shows aren't present, I lose interest fairly quickly. Who wants real talent when there's drama to be had? Point illustrated beautifully by the full-circle of 'Girls Aloud' star Cheryl Cole now judging Simon Cowell's X Factor, despite having marginal vocal ability at best. But then, she looks good in a dress, has sparkly teeth and cries tiny diamonds from big soulful eyes so who cares if she is to judges what cat poo is to grass?

Then there was Channel 4's big 'psychological experiment' Big Brother - originally pitched as a study of human nature under adverse conditions. I have absolutely no idea if that's actually how the whole thing started, but what we finished up with was an hour a night of potential Jeremy Kyle candidates spewing forth the very best in ignorant opinion while 4's execs and the rest of the British public sat back and laughed at their minimal education, fake boobs and childish tantrums. I think the first series began with a hint of credibility, but by season god-knows-what when they finally pulled the plug, it really was a prime example of shameless exploitation and country-wide bullying. One only needs to review the last few months of Jade Goody's life to be utterly sickened by the fickle and degrading nature of Big Brother - and ultimately, Channel 4's glee in glamorizing, then pulverising a misguided adolescents' search for easy stardom. I'd go on, but I think Parky summed it up beautifully in the article he wrote about it at the time:

"Jade Goody has her own place in the history of television and, while it’s significant, it’s nothing to be proud of. Her death is as sad as the death of any young person, but it’s not the passing of a martyr or a saint or, God help us, Princess Di.
“When we clear the media smoke screen from around her death, what we’re left with is a woman who came to represent all that’s paltry and wretched about Britain today.

“She was brought up on a sink estate, as a child came to know drugs and crime, was barely educated, ignorant and puerile. Then she was projected to celebrity by Big Brother and became a media chattel to be exploited till the day she died.”

He came under fire for this, of course - but I'll challenge anyone to give me a true account of having admired, revered or watched Goody for any other reason than her extraordinary ability to shout down anyone else in a room - usually with something idiotic or racist.

We now have a plethora of reality TV - accessible at any time of the day.

I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here - which I always think is put to D-list celebrities by way of: "No honestly, the public will love you again. You've got a second shot at fame - you've just got to want it enough to sleep with rats, let spiders crawl on your face and eat kangaroo testicles. Sign here."

Come Dine With Me  - genuinely entertaining to watch, but I was sad to hear from a friend who took part how horribly staged the whole thing is.

Britain's Best Dish, Strictly Come Dancing, Dancing on Ice, So You Think You Can Dance?, Coach Trip, 60 Minute Makeover, How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?, Sing if You Can, American Idol, The Biggest Loser, and so on.  The list appears to be endless.

Reality TV seems to have completely taken over. There's always a prize and the candidates are invariably picked on personality rather than talent or credibility. But then, of course they are - we can trace the origins of such programs right back to the veteran chat-shows. Which would you rather watch out of the following:

 - Likable, law-abiding family man has small problem completing his tax-return
 - Feared and coked-up midget cheats on wife with cousin before revealing he's actually a woman

You chose the midget one too, huh? I am placing myself squarely among the masses here. Despite this little diatribe, I will be settling down in front of Britain's Got Talent this evening to see if there are any better dancing dogs, Fred and Rose West look-a-like bell-ringers or dancing grandads. Because it really is so very entertaining. I'm just not sure I like what that says about me...

Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics

Patience is a virtue I have never owned. Why take a deep breath and count to ten when you could just burst a blood vessel and scream?

I'm afraid it's an absolute myth that pregnant women exist in a calming pink aura, spreading smiles and love to the world in anticipation of maternal perfection. If the pink aura exists, it's because she's eaten a truck-load of hash-brownies to pry her mind out of the aching, swollen, tension-filled mass of pastey waste she's still trying to mold some kind of body from. 

'Glowing'. There's another stretchy ball-sac of a lie. Pregnant women don't glow. They've merely spent a month's wages on Estee-Lauder and Chanel make-up rather than the Superdrug's own that would usually fill their blue plastic basket. They get up 45 minutes earlier, praying that by the time they actually have to leave the house, they can be reasonably assumed as human instead of walrus. 

Women 'with child' often then spend the rest of the day trying to act normal - showing the world that it's possible to be pregnant and still participate in society in some kind of productive way. I was doing so well. I only had to keep it up for four more days. Four days and then I was on perma-leave of my job and my senses. Feet up, tea in hand, Jeremy Kyle on the TV. The universe, however had other ideas. Fate's laughing - cackling at me this morning after a series of well-constructed mishaps culminated in a cataclysmic melt-down in the face of a cyclist who had made the unfortunate mistake of verbalizing her displeasure at nearly dying under the wheels of my Peugeot. 

The morning, which can usually be relied upon to start with the annoying and incessant shrill of an alarm clock, actually started with a sharp and painful stab to the left side of my right foot. Shifting and wriggling my way into a sitting position under the weight of the two-tonne baby I'm carrying, I lifted the duvet and raised the offending limb, squinting and out of breath, trying to get a better look. Getting a look at your toes in the ninth month of pregnancy is no ordinary task under normal circumstances - on a very squishy bed, it's even harder. Finally, after balancing carefully so as to not land myself on the floor while trying to elevate my legs, I caught sight of the problem. A large shard of glass* had worked it's way into the side of my foot, leaving a steady flow of blood trailing down my skin. Now. If you thought seeing your toes was difficult enough while pregnant - wait until you have to try and reach them with some tissue. 

*The large shard of glass was, I assume, from a pint glass that had literally leapt out of my hands the day before - spewing water and shattering itself over an astonishingly wide portion of my room. 

After this gentle wake-up call, I hobbled to the bathroom, and tried to re-establish some order to the morning by brushing my teeth and putting the shower on. First, the toothpaste ran out, leaving me doing that squeezy, rolly thing with my fingers trying to choke the tube of the last remaining drop. It was all going well until I over-enthusiastically squeezed at the last second and ripped my thumb nail right down at the join. 

Through expletives, I climbed into the bath, heading towards the beautiful, near-scolding water that promised to wash away the woes of the last fifteen minutes. So very nearly there, I stood on a wayward bath-toy of Izzy's. Not one of the nice, rubber squeezy toys you might expect of a toddler - but a hard plastic, replica cow. 

Now thoroughly fed up, I threw my head underneath the water and expected to feel at least a little better immediately. But the only thing I felt was freezing cold. The beautiful thing about DIY project showers, is that they're extremely unpredictable. This shower in particular, usually runs at a very acceptable standard - temperature, water-pressure, etc... all fine. But every now and again - and yes, this morning turned out to be one such occasion, it periodically runs in temperature from near-arctic to volcanic ash. This leaves me with an approximate window of 30 seconds during which the water is okay to put human skin under without the risk of frost-bite or third-degree burns. The result, which I'm sure would have been hilarious had anyone else seen it, was some kind of bizarre pregnant-lady shower hokey-cokey - stuck on the line 'You put your whole self in, your whole self out.' 

Other incidents before even leaving the house included burning my ear with my hair-straighteners, dropping an earring under the bed (which was NOT easy to retrieve in my current physical state), and using foot-cream instead of moisturizer on my face. 

It's imperative for the Oxfordshire public at large, that I finish work soon. With my current zero-tolerance policy, driving is not sensible. In fact, the 40 minute commute to work involves several hundred angry outbursts - and the usual uneasy feeling I get at the prospect of confrontation (though I'll still give it a go if I need to) is now replaced with a tidal wave of hormonal rage wherein it seems I'm actually willing people to start something. While pregnant with my first child, I got into a fight with a lorry driver over which one of us should be allowed to go first when merging into a single lane on the dual carriage-way. During that fun five minutes, I cared not that I had put my Renault Scenic up against a haulage truck. All I saw was the red-haze of self-righteousness and the possible injustice at having him pull in front. 

This morning, I think I made a cyclist cry. This offense is committed so often by cyclists that a friend and I had a rant about it not four days ago. We work in a part of Oxford littered with speed-bumps - the kind where the road actually narrows so you have no choice but to go over them with all four wheels. The good people of Oxfordshire County Council, have very thoughtfully accommodated for cyclists by creating bicycle lanes around the speed-bumps - though very few cyclists actually use them - choosing instead to piss drivers off by blocking the entire lane while they negotiate the bumps. As explained, I was in no kind of mood this morning to think rationally and so, in my fit of rage, I revved my car up onto the bump with the offending cyclist, forcing her to do a pretty nifty and swift maneuver to the side and nearly knocking her off on to the road. Unfortunately for her, my window was wound down this morning:

Cyclist: F**king twat!

Me: (screeching car to a halt and looking back at her) Excuse me?

Cyclist: You need to watch where you're going!

Me: Do I? See I was under the impression this was a ROAD. I was also under the impression that the path over there - you see the one around the speed bump (pointing emphatically by this point) was the cycle path. It's difficult to tell, isn't it? What with the BIG WHITE BIKE PAINTED ON IT. (At this point, cyclist's lip trembles and she starts to ride away). And where's your f**king helmet? (yelling after her like a proper crazy-lady) Or are there simply no brains to protect?!

In retrospect, this seems a little harsh and I probably should have just let her go through the speed-bump and taken the high road. Alas, rationality and sense are not my strong points at the moment. 

I had hoped that Tuesday might start to get a little better after that. But since being at work, I've spilt coffee down my top, cracked my knee on the underside of my desk and some little wanker from Dictionaries took the last chocolate croissant from the espresso bar. 

So yeah. Today's an unmitigated bastard so far. Roll on Wednesday. 

Fame, Fortune and Roadkill

Sonia, You'll Never Stop Me From Loving You 

Once upon a time, I wanted to be a singer. No, I'm not kidding. With the beautiful lie "you can be anything you want to be," tucked firmly under my belt, I was utterly convinced that I would eventually be  very successful and very famous. I loved to sing, mediocre voice or not and would, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, wail along with whatever happened to be playing. One of my favourites at the grand old age of seven, was Sonia.

No? Not coming with me on that one? I'm shocked. However, Sonia was a big ginger inspiration to seven year old me. I had her album on cassette tape and listened to it until I not only knew all of the words, but had worked out fairly complicated (and I must say, jazzy) dance routines in my head to go along with them. I have a distinct memory of singing along to one of her songs - back of the car, headphones in, bopping wildly from side-to-side as one of our many caravanning holidays began, wondering what my parents were laughing at in the front. I assumed it was a grown-up joke, though now of course, I realise it was probably my singing and bopping that had them in near hysterical tears.

My singing career progressed with the meeting of friends at the beginning of secondary school. A few of us would sit on the field at lunch-breaks doing what we thought was a good impression of harmonizing to Gabrielle songs. I'm fairly certain we called ourselves "Illusions" and even solicited the advice of our music teacher, Mrs Rundle. She seemed unconvinced of our obvious talent.

Alas, Illusions, broke up shortly after year seven was done. As with The Beetles, all good things must, I'm afraid, come to an end. However, my passion for music was not quite done (Hurrah! I hear you shout) and by the time I reached my tenth year of school, I felt I had matured as an artist and was ready to climb back on the proverbial horse. I thought a good way to ease myself back into it, would be performing at my school's end of year award ceremony. Not until my microphone was being assembled, and one of my closest friends at the time mouthed 'good luck' at my as she set up her violin, did I realise that singing in front of people was definitely NOT something I wanted to do.

Too late by that point however, and so I stood in front of a 700 strong crowd of peers, teachers and parents willing the songs to be over. Unfortunately for me, one of the chosen tracks was 'Everything I Do' by Brian Adams. I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but that is THE LONGEST SONG IN THE WORLD. I also developed a nervous twitch during the performance wherein I tucked my hair behind my ears about 70 times a second. This wasn't the usual butterflies-while-doing-something-you-loved fear. I was terrified.

Luckily, the performance was received quite well - meaning of course, that people were generally complimentary and I didn't have to kill myself to avoid the onslaught of ridicule I was certain was coming my way. However, after the revelation that singing brought about a particularly hideous form of stage-fright, I decided it was time to let the dream go. I came, I sang, I shit myself. Brush self off. Run AWAY.

Alongside the singing, I also fancied myself as an actress. Oh, yes. I know what you're thinking - is there no end to Gemma's creative flare? For a few years, I enthusiastically threw myself into whatever small part I was given in drama lessons - no doubt looking like a prize bell-end in the process. I even wrote a play after school had finished to reunite our cast of 'Arsenic and Old Lace'. It wasn't until I saw how successful that was in production (sold out for three nights, thank you very much), that I began to understand that perhaps writing was where I wanted to be.

And so as I explained in the first entry of this blog, I came full circle and got back into writing.

It occurred to me this morning though, that there is a lot of competition and my life of mediocrity may well never produce the fruit of my passion for the tap, tap, tap of a keyboard. And so, I have decided to concentrate on more achievable prospects.

These are the first few - I will update whenever another perfectly mundane, yet satisfyingly easy life-goal occurs to me:

1. See a badger, before it has been hit by a car (this was inspired by my journey to work this morning)
2. Sit and watch every Lord of the Rings movie (hindered thus far by my ability to stay awake through the first one)
3. Get through a Jamie Oliver recipe without uttering the F-word and setting the smoke alarm off
4. Attend a divisional Sales Briefing without playing Solitaire on the iPhone

Living the dream, people. Living the dream.

Mum's not EVERY word.

I've had two separate conversations over the last couple of weeks with friends about mothers who, perhaps, 'over-share' with regard to their children. It's a curious hole that some women fall into. Up to a point, they are humans in their own right - able to conduct a semi-coherent conversation with other adults, go out for a drink, etc... when suddenly, they get pregnant and it's like life - existence in its entirety up until now - is erased. Full, normal brains are sucked out through one ear and sludgy, gooey mulch is poured into the other by way of replacement. Suddenly, replacing the first letter of any given word with a 'w' ** and discussing the consistency of human excrement (more specifically, the contents of a nappy) becomes acceptable. I don't want to be harsh, but in this instance - to be anything else would be a complete lie.

Because you know those friends - the ones you had pre-pregnancy? The ones who held your hair back while you were drunkenly sick in a bush, listened to you wail like a banshee when your boyfriend broke up with you, laughed until they cried when you fell over in the six inch heels they had encouraged you to buy? Them? Yeah. They all think you're a twat now. 

Izzy

I have a little girl myself, and I fully admit that to me, she is the most adorable toddler on the planet. There is nothing she does that I don't find heartbreakingly cute. She's also hilarious. She repeats sentences like "Daddy's a mong" with the verbal finesse of a four year old at just under the age of two, and squinty-eyes me when I won't let her play with a pen. She's awesome. 

BUT. I'm very aware that she doesn't belong to everyone; that not everyone in the world cares if she has nappy rash, or a cold, or throws a plastic brick at my head. I remember how it felt - trying to pry myself out of the cold hands of a coma when someone talked to the side of my head about sterilizers and walkers, teething and colic. Ladies, I implore you - save these conversations for the friends of yours who also have children. Only then will you be talking to a willing audience. You are, and I promise this, boring the shit out of everyone else. 

Try not to update every single Facebook / Twitter / Other-generic-social-networking-site with news of whether your child managed to eat some cereal or went five hours without throwing a tantrum. The chances are, only a very small percentage of the 200-odd people you're sending this information to are not rolling their eyes. 

Try really hard not to open that social networking profile on behalf of your child. It's not cute. It's not funny. It's actually kind of awful. Your friends will feel obliged to befriend them. They will die a little inside by doing so. You will never be able to redeem yourself. 

Children are a blessing. I love the one I have and the one I'll be meeting in a few short weeks. They are not, however, an excuse to mentally disintegrate. It is possible to be a person and a parent. Knowing the difference will save you some friendships and some sanity points. 

** example: "I wove my wittle boy"

It's Like Caramelized Sunshine. Honest.

My husband is concerned that we are not a particularly romantic couple. What's more, he has decided that this is my fault. He claims a 'fear of raised eyebrows' as his reason for not whispering sweet nothings and reciting Shakespeare from the garden while I lean 'skeptically' out of an upstairs window.

I always assumed that this was just the kind of couple that we are - everything said with a heavy sense of humour and irony - we have discovered the Peter Pan of relationships. No insecurity is above ridicule, childishness is actively encouraged and we are more likely to push each other in front of oncoming traffic than we are to declare undying love on Facebook or engage in slushy, public affection. I'm starting to wonder now, if I have this all wrong and actually, I've just been beating him into romantic regression with my big, metaphorical, cynical mallet.

He said yesterday that he was baffled by a conversation at work wherein the rest of the lads were having a discussion which started with the sentence:

"You know when you just want to spoil the missus, so you cook some dinner and light some candles...?"

Baffled.

"Do couples do that, then?" he asked, incredulous as we walked around a farm with our tiny person. It seems he believes that such evenings are reserved for Hollywood trickery and have no place in reality at all. Now, I know people that do regularly make time to spoil each other and exchange loving glances across dimly lit tables, but I always assumed we were just 'not that kind of couple'. But I'm starting to wonder - is this an important part of every relationship that we're missing out on? Should I be making the effort to buy oil incense burners and books of romantic poetry to recite next to roaring fires on cold winter evenings?

I'm ashamed to say that I'm smirking at the mere thought.

My head is now filled with flashback memories -

Valentines Day somewhere in the early 00's...

Francis: So shall I book a table for tomorrow night then?
Me: Why?
Francis: Well - it's Valentine's Day, isn't it?
Me. Hmmm. OR, we could get pizza and stick a movie on.
Francis: That's not very romantic.
Me: You could put a flower on the pizza?

A day out in Oxford a few years ago:

Francis: I bought you a teddy!
*Produces giant stuffed Teddy from a BHS bag*
Me: Aw, thanks! He's very cute.
Francis: What are you doing?
Me: Putting him back in the bag.
Francis: Why?
Me: So I don't have to carry a giant teddy around in public.

Last year:

Francis: So, here's the ring.
Me: It's gorgeous - thank you!
Francis: Shall I do this properly then?
Me: What do you mean?
*Francis gets down on one knee*
Me: Oh, GOD, no. Get up. We already know we're getting married.

The trouble is, my problem with this kind of earnest language is not saved for romantic (or not so romantic) conversations with my husband.

On Human Planet (BBC), the other day, a man said some honey was 'like caramelized sunshine'. Seriously? How did he manage to get that whopping turd of a sentence out without gagging? 'Caramelized sunshine.' Oh, sod off.

Any emphatic, passionate declarations, regardless of subject matter make my insides scream for mercy. My eyes squint up and I physically recoil in disgust. I would say that I was born in the wrong era, but that doesn't fit either. My intolerance for flowery, sincere language seems to be something I've developed over the last ten years. Prior to that, I could often be found with a note-book, writing the kind of poetry that I'd happily be sick over today.

So what have we learned?

1) We should probably all feel a little bit sorry for Francis.
2) Efforts should be made to be less of a cynical, scathing naysayer.
3) There is no excuse for using the term 'caramelized sunshine'. Ever.

Behind Enemy Lines

Books have been an integral part of my domestic landscape for as long  as I can remember. Bookshelves proudly bearing everything from ratty old paperbacks to pristine hardbacks line every available wall I can get away with before, inevitably, whoever I'm living with declares me financially and spacially irresponsible and bans me from entering Waterstones.

My earliest memory of a book is not a particularly dignified one. My grandmother perched on the side of the bed my sister and I were sharing in her spare room, trying desperately to read us tales from One Hundred-Acre Wood before we went to sleep. Exasperated, she eventually gave up when we fell about laughing every time she uttered the word 'Pooh'.


Peter Rabbit



I am pleased to report that my reading material, along with my sense of humour matured and very soon, I was glued to Beatrix Potter and devouring Enid Blyton (The Wishing Chair and The Far-Away Tree, my absolute favourites). I adore(d) Dahl and eventually developed the typical teenage fascination with vampires. My tastes remained fairly eclectic though - favouring mixed genres and swinging between Charlotte Bronte and Stephen King by the age of thirteen. Every now and again, I would find a book that was to become part of my affair with literature for life. Flowers in the Attic by Virginia Andrews and it's following series was one of these stories. I've now lost count of the amount of times I have read them. Always the same tired paperbacks, lined and brittle with flaking covers. They are the true veterans of my book case. Every time I look at them, I want to read them again.

My passion for books has never wavered. Even my desk at Oxford University Press is cluttered with advance copies I am fairly certain I will never get round to reading - but I love to look at them anyway. My environment is that much more comforting with them than without.

 

The Folk of the Faraway Tree

So it will come as no surprise, that when e-readers began to surface on the market a couple of years ago, I jumped on my high-horse faster than Clint Eastwood had ever managed. I ranted and raved - pointed fingers, picked up my scythe and in the very best damning voice I could muster, declared them the work of Satan and his minions. Reading screens instead of books? Pressing buttons instead of turning pages? NO. They were the very essence of technology over-stepping it's boundaries and going too far. Where would we be next if we allowed e-readers to declare the book redundant? I was plagued with visions of children with giant headsets sitting idly in chairs - their brains playing hopskotch or '123 in' while their legs twitched in tired protest of the neglect. I was certain. E-readers marked the end of everything decent, pure and traditional.

I may have overreacted. Slightly.

Just after Christmas 2010, I got the beginnings of gadget envy. I recognized it in myself and tried to quell the temptation - reminding myself of all of those sound, revelation-style arguments I had been so vehement about. Still, I couldn't quite get rid of it and began to see the potential of a device such as Amazon's 'Kindle'. I could store 5000 books on the comparitively tiny piece of equipment and save my precious bookshelves for beautiful editions of the novels I trully cherished. I could purchase with one click and be reading mere seconds later. The lure was almost overwhelming.

Scrap the 'almost'. I lasted two months and last week was in receipt of a shiny new Kindle. My husband has threatened to disown me. He's holding fast to the scripture of doom I was guilty of spouting myself just weeks ago. I am a heathen and a traitor and he eyes my Kindle with shrewd, mistrusting eyes. I've not once felt secure enough to leave them in a room together unsupervised yet.

Suddenly, this new medium has refreshed my love of reading and the TV glares at me, betrayed, whenever I have a spare ten minutes to myself. I am converted - I love the e-reader.

Look at me - I'm evolving.

Supermarket Matters

I know a lot of writers. It's primarily because of their love of writing that I have bonded with them; gotten to know them and continued to stay in touch. 

Mark Chatterley - Supermarket Matters

Mark Chatterley was not one of these people. He loves to write - he's also very good at it, despite his protestations to the contrary - but this friend was one I met at the peak of adolescence. We got drunk with mutual friends, made our Religious Studies teacher wish he'd had the sense to stick to Maths, and generally bounced back and forth in an easy, and thankfully, lasting friendship. 

Through being linked on social networking sites, the term 'Supermarket Matters' is very familiar as Mark's latest writing project. I'm ashamed to say I hadn't really taken the time to investigate until this morning. To be honest, now that I have, I'm blown away by his commitment and productivity since the idea was first conceived. 

So many writers, myself included, dream of the far off day that we can begin to make a living from stringing sentences together. We read books, talk knowledgeably and perhaps even start blogs so that we don't feel the creativity is completely wasted. So very rarely, one of us breaks the rules and actually does something proactive. 

Supermarket Matters was Mark's brain child - "originally a vehicle to help me – and others like me – break into ‘the industry'" as self-described on his blog. A series of script-based pod-casts following a no doubt amusing story line through the running of a Supermarket. What has emerged though, is a strong network of script-writers, techies and enthusiasts - making this a very real and very credible project. Having invested talent, time and money into Supermarket Matters, this post is simply my way of raising a glass to an old friend and budding script-writer - also sending potential writers in the right direction to either get involved with Mark's creation, to simply see how it's done, or to shame themselves into also doing something a little more proactive with their writing talents. 

Things to have a look at:

The Blog - Supermarket Matters

Mark on Twitter

Supermarket Matters on Facebook

The Politically Correct Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

I hope, that wherever Mark Twain hangs out in the afterlife, he has somehow managed to avoid hearing about the latest crime against literature - not least because it involves his own master-piece. Would he be rolling in his grave, I wonder? Or simply rolling his eyes like I am?

If you haven't already been linked to one of the many articles detailing this story, I'll outline briefly: In Professor Alan Gribben's new edition of the classic (publishing under NewSouth Books), some 219 instances of the word 'nigger' will be replaced with the word 'slave'. They also plan to replace the colloquial 'injun' with 'indian'. 

Far be it for me to keep my mouth shut. 

I hold great affection for Huckleberry Finn - and though that affection was originally born out of gratitude (it was one of the only assigned texts for an American literature course that didn't make me want to put my head through a wall), I grew to love it for the incredible work that it was. 

So needless to say, I would always have had opinions - loud opinions - about altering such a classic. More than that though, I believe the decision represents a much deeper problem within society today. 

Huckleberry Finn is an anti-racist book. Twain deliberately used the offensive terminology to give his readers a very stark view of racial attitude in the 1800's. Huck begins his fictional journey by befriending slave Jim while both running away from the same town. Huck's main motivation for escape is that his guardian intends to 'sivilize' him - Jim simply doesn't want to be sold and plans to buy his family out of slavery. Throughout the story, the characters become firm friends and through verbalising his troubled life, Jim radically alters Huck's view on race, slavery and life in general. If ever there were a more blatant message of anti-racism portrayed in a novel, I have not read it. 

The act of replacing the terminology, is far more offensive than the words themselves. Not only are NewSouth Books putting new words into the mouth of a dead man, they are doing so under the thinly veiled guise of 'updating'. Forgive my cynicism, but I suspect it has far more to do with sales. Consider this: 

Our world stock of literary classics are fair game, which is why most large publishing houses have their own editions. No one publisher has the rights - allowing a variety of texts to be published with different branding, introductions and notes - effectively, giving a consumer the widest of choices. They will inevitably chose the edition which best suits their needs - whether that is making a book-shelf look well rounded and chic, or obtaining the most comprehensive scholarly annotations for course purposes. It's a happy position to be in if you're a customer. Not so much, if you're a publisher competing with everyone else. Because of the racial connotations in Twain's work, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has been banned in hundreds of schools across the world. A tragedy for teachers who long to place the master-piece on the curriculum, but a potential gold-mine for the publisher who dares to alter history. Under this new edition, constrictions within these schools may be lifted for Huck and Jim - in fact the text may well be adopted and taught annually. There is scope for a good year of high sales targets here before the rest of the publishing world eventually gives in and follows suit. My Lord, I hope the rest of them have a little more integrity. 

So would that not be worth it? To have younger students studying a book which I, myself have described as incredible? 

No. It would definitely not be worth the sacrifice on a variety of different levels - the very least of which is the equivalent of scribbling on the Mona Lisa. What I would most like to know, is why this particular book? Why now? And where on earth will it end?

Peter Griffin and Huck Griffin - Family Guy

If we accept that the potential for offense is an acceptable reason for censorship, where do we draw that line? Russel Brand certainly wouldn't have a publisher. Jimmy Carr wouldn't be allowed to make rape victims the butt of his jokes. Family Guy would become a children's cartoon - one which did not mercilessly mock race, gender, disability, disease, obesity and a further list of categories so long I can't possibly remember all of them. And here's the exasperating issue - all of the above seek to mock. Twain sought to educate. As funny as I find Family Guy, I still know which is less offensive. 

And this word - this abhorrent word, which causes so much offense... "The 'n' word." Or simply the term 'nigger' to anyone not terrified of uttering a pronounceable group of letters, is now one of the most popular lyrical additions to rap albums world-wide. Films, books and music all still continue to include it - is it acceptable if it's said by the 'cool kids'? To mock and to glamorize is fine, but to use this word to outline racial attitude and drive home the realities of slavery and oppression is not? 

To edit Twain's book is criminal. To take his story out of its context and claim to have updated it is to have missed his message entirely. It's also an attempt at re-writing history among pages we have no right to edit. Not since Baa Baa Black Sheep was officially condemned and re-taught as Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep have I been this incensed about todays absurd obsession with political correctness.

Avoid this edition like the literary plague it is, people. We'll be sorry if we don't. 

Writing for Winter

Winter words are, without question, the most inspired. It's the season of onomatopoeia: crisp, sparkle, crunch, etc... and for those who shun the bah-humbug, Winter holds Christmas in the palm of its hand like a warm, beating, festive nugget. One full of presents and turkey.

Blankets, open-fires, mugs of hot-chocolate, red noses, and mittens. Summer holds the most enthralling memories of childhood for me, but Winter will always be my true love. Frost and thin blankets of snow turn mundane, ugly housing estates into perfect postcard scenes; breath escapes in cloudy plumes as soon as the front door is opened. And though youth holds dear the snowball-fights the snowmen, and the sledging; contemplative winter tranquility - the kind that sets in during your teenage years and nestles in until you're hooked - wins hands down.

I wonder if, like me, everyone else spends the Winter months trying to recreate that sense of peace and utter contentment we hear in the poems and songs of yesteryear. Does anyone actually roast chestnuts on an open fire? Celebrate in warmly lit houses with Mistletoe and Wine? Does that inner exhale, the 'this is exactly how I wanted it to be', actually exist?

For me, it does. I'm not saying that everyday from November to February exists in an exuberant joy-filled bubble - in fact, the moments I'm talking about are very rare. They are unexpected. And they are priceless.

This year, I had just moved out of the flat I shared with my husband and daughter. It was, to put it nicely, a complete hole. One which would have been bearable if it weren't for the rotting floorboards that soaked all clothes, linen and furniture with a sickly mildew smell. After months of badgering our estate agent, our kitchen floor still sank a few inches in the middle and the smell continued to exacerbate my already chronic morning sickness courtesy of offspring numero-deux. Finally, we decided to admit defeat and temporarily encroach on my parent's hospitality. The move itself was hell in a snow-globe. The heating wasn't working, so our fingers were stiff and painful while carelessly throwing possessions in boxes and eventually transporting them down the flight of slippery concrete stairs to the car. Seven hours, two sandwiches and not one cup of tea later, the last load was done and I collapsed in a big girly heap on my mother's sofa, shuddering and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. In typical mum-style, she immediately sent me off for a hot bath with a large mug of strong, sweet tea; my toes and my mood began to thaw out as the hot-tap threw steam akin to a small volcano around the bathroom.

This all seems important to mention; I suppose a feeling of utter relief, calm and introspection often comes as a direct result of a few horrible hours you're happy to say goodbye to. I was red and wrinkled - wrapping myself in a thick toweled dressing-gown when laughter from downstairs floated into ear-shot. Company. Warmth. A large double-bed with linen that did not smell of floorboards. That was my moment this year - when I sat back and asked myself if I had ever needed anything more than that to feel completely whole and content.

Writers recognise how glorious minutes like that are - which is why they try to recreate them. Characters curled up with hot-chocolate watching the rain through dark windows; protagonists watching their family's festive cheer full of nostalgia and love. We spend a lot of time trying to articulate something which for all intents and purposes, completely defies explanation.

It seems odd - that this is a winter-exclusive experience for me. For some reason, that kind of inner warmth only ever materializes when it's cold outside.