Justice?

"He who commits injustice is ever made more wretched than he who suffers it."

If only this was true. 

"All change please, this train has reached its destination."

I have an extremely short attention span. So short l spend my 40 minute commute to work constantly switching between radio stations to avoid any chatter whilst eating toast and gawking at other bleary eyed drivers. All at 70mph. In the dark. It will therefore come as no surprise that my 17-odd year long driving history is littered with minor (and not quite so minor) accidents. I shall soon run out of insurance companies that are willing to insure me for less than a bar of gold.

I just get bored easily. Always have done. Hence the 3 month hiatus in writing. I have nothing new to say, bad or good. I could regale you with tales of learning to surf (more time was spent learning how to get sand out of various orifices), consumption of gin (walking into a glass door in the middle of a packed bar), and rugby injuries (a hand that turned entirely black for 2 weeks), but it would be nothing that l have not said before. In truth, my life is pleasant and l am happy, but l have never been content with the status quo.

When l felt like this as a child my mother thrust me into an overall, sent me out with my wellies on, and told me l was not allowed home until tea-time. I inevitably would end up late, covered in mud, periodically twitching from hours spent playing with electric fences.

As a teenager this boredom was alleviated by altering my appearance. Cutting my hair, dying it bright colours, getting a tattoo, piercing various parts of my anatomy until l got so desperate for change l shaved off all of my hair. I looked like a satanic Buddhist monk (?). My mother refused to acknowledge me for an entire week.

The changes were more drastic in my early twenties. When that familiar feeling of ennui settled on my shoulder I would quit my job, pack up my bag, grab a passport, and travel, seeking adventure and challenge in unfamiliar faces and landscapes. Until I ended up in Australia, bankrupt with no work permit, and having to crawl back to the UK with my tail between my legs.

Indeed, becoming a teacher was in no small part due to my need for constant stimulation (*snigger*) and challenge. But now my feet are beginning to itch again (metaphorically speaking. No fungal infections here thank you). My life lacks a specific direction, and l feel motionless. But I can smell change in the air, and l don't know what, where, or when, but l am ready for it.

It just won't be shaving off my hair.

One Year On

Still I miss you

Still I think of you

Still I feel it

Still I wait

For the day

I will not

The Field of Dreams

This morning l awoke to the loud barking of my phone. I was sweating copiously, my legs were cramped, my mouth as dry as a camel’s carcass, dribble crusted to my chin, and an unusually sharp and unfamiliar object poking me in my thigh.  A shopping trolley, as it disappointingly turns out. Completely disorientated, l could  feel  the sun beating through the window, no, four windows surrounding me, and l could just about make out muffled conversations and shuffling footsteps of crowds of people as they walked  right past me, totally unaware of my grimy, alcohol fumed existence. I groped for my phone, locating it in my jeans’ pocket. Clearly l had slept in my clothes last night. “We are up, are you coming for a cup of tea?” The question was met with a grunted response as l attempted a Houdini type escape from my sleeping bag. If Houdini had not had the use of one leg, one arm, and had had elephantitus in his remaining limbs. Eventually free and upright, the truth revealed itself – l had spent the night asleep in the backseat of a car. A fitting end to four days of debauchery that comprise a music festival, most of which had been conducted in the following manner:

7.30/8am : Awake to the sounds of teenage boys screaming obscenities to one another, and/or talking about enjoying sexual relations with each other’s mothers. Try and make sense of this as l was just about to kill a space-crocodile with my bare hands in my dream. Worry l have gone mad. Open one eye to reveal two friends in states of slumber, rolled up in sleeping bags, in my proximity. Roll over and promptly bounce off a half deflated air mattress and land on one of said friends. Receive insults and, as l crawl back onto my bed, wonder why my pillowcase is covered in neon pink smears. Crawl into tent porch in search of water to quench thirst. Can only find cider or warm flat diet coke. And a half eaten barbequed sausage. Gulp the coke. Hope the sausage is an illusion.

8.30/9am: Sunglasses hiding the hangover, stumble the half mile to the toilets and showers. Attempt to negotiate an obstacle course of guy ropes, tents, and empty beer cans. Silently curse the lively looking freaks who clearly have had a reasonable amount of alcohol and a full nights sleep, and who are leaping up the hill from the shower like new born lambs. Utter prayers to the God of Karma that they inadvertently step in a pile of teenage vomit and soil their shiny designer wellington boots.

9.10am: Armed with an armful of toilet paper, hold my breath as l tentatively enter one of the portable toilet blocks. Almost die. Close my eyes and try not to fall into the fetid cess-pit.

9.12am: Take deep heaving breaths as l cover my entire body in pink anti bacterial hand wash. Get some odd looks from passers by who clearly think l am having some drug induced hallucination. Wonder if this is how my pillow turned pink.

9.20am:  Stand naked in a dribbling shower amongst a variety of females in various states of undress. The pleasure of warm water and shampoo is close to heaven. Never want to leave. As l wash my face my hands come away covered in neon face paint. Mystery solved.

9.35am: Never underestimate the life giving qualities of clean pants and clean teeth.  I am reborn. For about 30 seconds.

10.30am: Make up applied (trowled), we trot to the breakfast tent. Free granola and yoghurt = 10 minutes of feeling the picture of health. Shoot disapproving looks to the male teenage colony to our left as they start supping beer and strutting around in their Batman pants.

11am: Open a can of cider.

11.30am: Open another can of cider.

11.50am: Illusion of health has rather dissipated. Reality of possible alcoholism and frightening reality.

12pm: Enter the main arena, all innocence. Maintain wide eyes as security pull two hip flasks of vodka from my wellington boots, and bladder of wine from my bra and two cans of cider from my pants. I claim that being from the West Country, smuggling is in my genes. They grab my shoulders and march me to the Samaritan tent.

1.30pm: Rejoin friends. Sit in sun and listen to music. Sup contraband cider.

1.45pm: Run into nearest tent as rain lashes the ground and God tries to make the point that cider drinking before 6pm is really not quite the thing.

3pm: Hunger strikes. Wander from stall to stall eyeing up organic, fresh, tasty morsels, drooling slightly. However, eat a bag of six doughnuts , freshly fried and rolled in sugar. Wash down with cider.

8pm: As night falls, so do the levels of illegal alcohol. Become the Ray Mears of festival survival by creating ever more flamboyant cocktails. Who knew sour Haribo could turn rose wine into a palatable drink?

11pm: Make lots of new friends in the dark. Slather them in neon face paint. Steal their rum. Drink it neat. Retch and contort as if someone is exorcising a demon from our cider-riddled bodies.

11.30pm: As the cold air seeps into bones, run to the most packed tent and squeeze into the middle of drug addled sweaty bodies. Shout unintelligibly to each other. Get tempted to buy a glow stick and a pair of furry boots. Wonder if this is appropriate attire for ladies post 30.

11.35pm: Jump about in furry boots, a tutu and wave my glow stick vigorously, as if trying to communicate to the DJ via semaphore.

12am: Evicted from dance tent by bouncers. Apparently climbing the struts and attempting to fly using giant helium balloons is one step too far.

12.05am: Silent disco. Dance to my own beat and sing at the top of my voice. Close my eyes and revel in the music.

12.10am: Open eyes and realise l have cleared the area.

3am: Stumble back up the hill. Lose own tent. Find many similar tents. Find lots of irate tent owners.

3.30am: Fall through tent door. Throw boots off and munch on the discarded sausage. Eat some toothpaste and pass out to the stomach rumbling beats of dub-step and the screams of teenagers.

And repeat.

Oh, and the car? Well....

3am (DAY 4): Find tent decimated by wind and/or hooligans. Poles broken. Resit temptation to beat the nearest teen with the tent pole and hand their carcass upon it as a warning to their peers. Instead use all Girl Guide knowledge to fix tent with neon face paint and empty cider cans. Fail, pick up car keys and spend an hour searching for car. Pass out in back seat.

Good times, good times.

My Summer Project

To keep me from alcoholism this summer holiday, l though l would spend the next five and a half weeks creating some sort of online journal of my activities. Which will hopefully make me do more than just shuffle up to the local supermarket for more Gin. It may not. One can only hope. Of course, if l happen to be swept of my feet by some handsome local farmer then l will be spending my summer in the haybarn and not posting in a drunken haze. In the meantime, you can read more here.

You call it a kiss, l call it treason.

Now, after a lengthy absence (moving house, birthdays, blah blah) l was all ready to regale you with tales of DIY fails (four fingers attached to a tube of Superglue instead of two wardrobe doors attached to the wardrobe), end of term antics (passing out head first into a kitchen sink), romance (trying to seduce the rather young and ginger telephone engineer with tea and consequently spilling it down his trousers. Unintentionally, of course.), and other random nuggets of that my entertain you (discovering a remarkable likeness of myself as a slavering sabre toothed dinasour in one of my pupils' sketchbooks). However, having had a few days free from standing at the front of a classroom and postulating on the theory of evolution (or, How You Can Spin An Owl's Head Until It Flies Like A Helicopter) and the like, l am feeling the need to clamber onto my soapbox for a short while.

The thing is, over the past year l have begun to lose my faith in humanity.

Maybe l still hanker after fairytale romance, perhaps it is my Christian upbringing, or indeed a fundamental inherited morality, but l truly believe in fidelity. However, l am beginning to feel like a Victorian virgin clutching onto her iron chastity belt whilst all her friends are testing out vibrators on their noses at an Anne Summers party. Gay or straight, married, affianced, with child or not, it appears that all around me are indulging in some extra curricular entertainment of the sexual kind. Without guilt or remorse.

Now, don't get me wrong, l have not been in some kind of bubble for the past 30-odd years, imagining that celebrities and royals were the only ones caught with their toes in someone else's mouths. My parent's divorce was due to a dalliance on my mother's behalf, l myself have swapped saliva with another's boyfriend, and my recent heartbreak had everything to do with a drunken misdemeanour of the naked kind. However, in each of these cases both inanimate and animate objects (the cat) were thrown, curses of leprosy, plague, and boils invoked, and many tears of remorse and pleas for forgiveness uttered. Thus the infidels acknowledge that their actions are heinous, and become the villains of the story. I like this kind of logic.

Where my brain starts to have a slight meltdown, other than trying to install a printer driver 12 times onto my laptop which then informs me of a 'Fatal Error' 98% of the way through which results in a 'Fatal Error' of the hammer-through-the-keyboard-type, is the view amongst my peers and other acquaintances that infidelity is another badge to be collected and worn, albeit invisibly, on their chest. That it is is somehow an accepted course of action when one is a little bored, or had a little too much to drink. Something that is to be laughed off. Something that is as inconsequential as throwing all your clothes off and swimming across a river to 'rescue' a gnome from a garden on the other side. Maybe not the best analogy, but you get the point. It seems that while lip service is paid to faithfulness, in reality the majority of people are grabbing a handful of forbidden flesh in the broom closet.

So, l remain disappointed and disillusioned. Maybe l have missed an important Public Announcement at some point in my life. Did the Prime Minister suddenly issue a White Paper for polygamy? Are we all allowed several partners at once? With no comeback? Do we need to start rewriting the fairytales? Is Prince Charming about to be found knocking one off over Skype to one of the Ugly Sisters? If so, l have one hell of a lot of catching up to do. Starting with that BT Engineer.

Behind the picket line.

There are many occasions in life that find me enthusiastically screaming and shouting until my voice is hoarse. But only one that is done so naked. The others tend to involve me hurling various obscenities from a muddy sideline and/or pub stool, drunkenly caterwauling my way through some rock anthem whilst holding onto a confused stranger for dear life, or attempting to get the attention of a long-fantasised-over rock star amid a crowd of several thousand knickerless ladies who have all had the same idea. Quite frankly, I embarrassingly lose any remaining self respect or inhibitions and throw myself full force (l nearly wrote full frontal, a Freudian slip if ever there was one) into the moment.

You would think, then, that political marches, tree-top living, oil-tanker ambushes and the like would be right up my street. All that banner waving, chanting and general raucous behaviour should really appeal to someone of my  antagonistic nature. But it doesn't. Not in any way. In fact, whenever I happen to chance upon a march of any sort I hot foot it in the other direction. Apart from the time when I ended up heading a procession in Seville. In a car. In 35 degree heat. Police were banging on the windows, protesters were attempting to tie banners onto the wipers, and, I, fearing for my life and attempting to mime a wrong turn, ended up half suffocated by a map. Not my finest moment.

My general antipathy towards protests, however, does not prevent me from joining the masses when l feel it is required. I just avoid the chanting, refuse to wave a banner, and generally get through the whole ordeal with a flask of whisky. Marching against the Iraq War - TICK. Marching against the hike in University Fees - TICK. Marching against the changes to Teacher's Pensions - I remain undecided.

School is currently a political hotbed, with groups of teachers huddled on the corners of every corridor, rumours of strikes, tactical union membership changes, and the possibility of school closure fuelling every heated whispered debate. The militant protesters are on the hunt for new recruits, and are zealously evangelical about the horrors of the coalition government, placing hand drawn posters of the Education Minister as Satan with the Prime Minister as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in everyone's desk. One such vigilante appeared in my classroom with fire in his eyes as he spouted the Law According to NUT. He left a couple of minutes later with posters staple-gunned to his nipples. Much to my pupils' amusement.

I think it may be the hours of my childhood that were spent listening intently as a preacher after preacher proclaimed the Word of the Lord, Death to all Sinners, and How Tambourine Playing Saves Your Soul. It could be that I was forced to spend my Saturdays performing badly choreographed dance routines in the street to entice more foul-souled shoppers to redeem themselves the following Sunday morning. Perhaps it is the days spent memorising whole sections of the Bible ( I still know Psalm 1 by heart, should it ever appear on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire), or that I spent a weekend hiking in horizontal rain carrying a chicken that subsequently caught pneumonia and whose neck l had to then attempt to break with a log, or that l frequently got my mouth washed out with soap if l so much as tapped my foot to 'Like a Virgin'. Whatever the cause, try to convert me and you will find that I stand there with my fingers stuck in my ears, shouting 'Anarchy in the UK' approximately 0.5cm from your eardrum. And a leaflet staple-gunned to an intimate part of your anatomy.

Instead, l prefer to come to my own conclusions. I like to know all the information, and take a balanced approach. So l have read a lot this weekend, formulating arguments, and deciding what my plan of action will be for the week ahead. As l delved into the labyrinthine tunnels of information that the internet holds, l stumbled across all the Bills that Parliament are currently debating. There are the usual suspects - Education, Welfare Reform, Asylum Seekers, but there are some anomalies. Ones that have not reached the headlines, for reasons that will become apparent.

1.) That the Royal Mint should produce commemorative coins for the Olympics that weigh 1 Kilogram. Is this a subtle ploy to win the war against obesity, to succeed where Jamie Oliver has failed by filling the pockets of the nation with overweight coinage? Nonsense. They need to produce commemorative coins that can only be used when you have collected all five parts from your box of cereal, and stuck them altogether with super glue.

2.) That people who have removed or attempted to remove snow from public places are immune from prosecution. I am not sure how clearing snow could be construed as a criminal offence, unless you had access to a snow plough and destroyed several neighbour's gardens and flattened a pet llama in the process, and l am not sure what unfortunate event would have led to an M.P realising that the law still existed. However, I, for one, am in favour. I suspect that being arrested and convicted for clearing a snow drift would hold no kudos in the prison system.

3.) That local bowling greens should be protected from local redevelopment. Obviously put forward by someone who enjoys spending an evening bleaching and starching white trousers to within an inch of their lives, and then donning them to roll a few balls about on a small piece of grass that has been trimmed with nail scissors by a member of the local OCD help group. Build a house on it.  Look at the French, all they need is a bit of gravel and a bottle of red wine to enjoy their ball rolling.


So there we have it. One one hand, our government are sailing our pensions down the river, on the other, they are saving our bowling greens. I suppose we should be grateful for small mercies. Now, where is that picket line again?

Unforgotten.

Tomorrow it will be three years.

The date is a scar, the loss remains poignant.

I sometimes wish that l could

Feel the weight of you in my arms

Smell the warmth of your skin

Watch you sleep.

I often wonder

What your future would have held

Whether you would have had my dark eyes or his green

My offbeat humour or his sense of injustice.

I know that

Everything l had would have been yours

That love and pride would have consumed me

But that l didn't have the strength to give you them then.

Cherished as my first, you maybe my only

Always remembered, a shadow ever loved

Irreplaceable.

Tomorrow l will shed your tears

Flowers on an empty grave.

"She Must Try Harder"

Reports. Currently the bane of my existence.

Even you are not a teacher (and presumably most of you have not been born with unfortunate desire to spend the bulk of your waking hours coercing those hormone saturated little buggers into seeing further into the distance than which of their friends is currently posting pictures of themselves pouting at a camera on the Book of Faces) then l am sure you will remember the dreaded day that your report card would land with a doom laden thud on your doormat, or, worse still, when you would have to physically place the wretchedly thick envelope in your parent's hand. The day when you found out that your Science teacher had clocked every single time you had attempted to reshape your eyebrows with a Bunsen burner. That your English teacher had not considered the collection of notes to your best friend about how much you longed for Gregory Smythe to finally touch your breasts appropriate practice for your 'persuasive writing' coursework. That your P.E teacher thought that your attempt at creating a new sport, 'Netty', a combination of Netball and Rugby which generally resulted in broken noses, split lips, and your opponent suspended on a goal post, was less a moment of sporting genius than an example of not-so-subtle revenge on the school bitches. As a child, l generally spent those days hiding behind curtains or under sofa cushions until the inevitable tornado of my mother's anger had calmed. At least enough for her to have stopped searching for vacancies at the local nunneries.

But now, the power is my hands. Whilst the task of report writing is tedious in itself, particularly when it involves filling in an A5 sheet for over 330 pupils in the space of three weeks when 'Copy and Paste' is VERBOTEN by the powers above, l do truly take great pleasure in being able to praise those students who have worked hard, and to write derisory comments about those who l have had thoughts about setting alight since the start of the school year. The hardest to write about are the ones who l can't actually remember having ever taught. Even when l look up the photo, l could swear on my life they have never set foot in my classroom.Which is either a sign of the early onset of Alzheimers or that the child has spent a entire year of art lessons disguised as a table leg.

It doesn't matter whether the report you are writing is good, bad, or indifferent, every teacher has to learn the art of communicating their true thoughts and feelings in a phraseology and language that is subtle enough to pass muster by not only the school management, but also the parents themselves. Indeed, writing, "Little Johnny apparently loses the ability to control his hands the minute he picks up a pencil" or "It is a shame that the effort that Gertrude puts in to the application of her drag-like make-up is not translated into her use of paint" is likely to end up in an unfortunate court case, and an irate bull-dog of a father eating your liver for breakfast. Neither pleasant nor desirable, nor a good career move.

So, instead, you use phrases such as the following: "She has made huge progress this year" (Transl: She has mastered the ability to draw a straight line); "He is often distracted in lessons" (Transl: Every lesson he spends more time looking at girl's breasts than his work); "To improve she must use neater pencil marks" (Transl: Her work looks as if she has shoved a pencil in her nostril and attempted to draw with it); and, "He does not put his full effort into achieving his full potential in tasks" (Transl: Despite taping a pencil to his fingers, sitting him facing a blank wall, and forcing him to listen to Cheryl Cole on repeat, he still refuses to do any work whatsoever). The last one is not true. Honest. At least, it was System of a Down, not Cheryl Cole. And his ears only bled a little.

In fact, my parents have kept all my report cards, and  l recently re-read them in a completely different light. In my mind, l was a pupil beloved of all my teachers, even my History teacher who took every excuse to 'jokingly' knock me on the head with a hardback book. According to these reports, it is lucky that l escaped school with my limbs intact, and without ever have been hung from a gym ladder and repeatedly beaten with a hockey stick.

On that note, l am going to stop being distracted by memories of Gregory Smythe and the overwhelming stench of his father's Old Spice, cease listening to Frank Turner on repeat and dreaming about Dave Grohl, and am definitely going to finish writing these damned reports.  See Ma? I am trying MUCH harder.

 *Okay, just ONE more listen...

And the winner is....

I must make a confession. One month ago l committed a crime more abhorrent than any l have committed before. At least, not since l eliminated an entire nest of mice with a glue gun and glitter. But that is another story. No, this was much worse.

 I had a moment of empathy for Gwyneth Paltrow. *If you need a vomit break, please go now*

Yes, for a brief moment l felt l had a millimetre of common ground with that smug, Madonna-befriending, yoga-mat toting, macro-whatever diet munching, wife of the whining Chris Martin. Specifically, her nauseating Oscar moment.

Now, it was not that l had a significant wardrobe oversight, and wore a corset designed for an ample couple of breasticles as opposed to a couple of enlarged nipples. Either eat some meat, Gwynnie, or invest in a gel bra. Nor did l subject millions of viewers to a sobbing,  rambling, rather desperate 'speech' that resulted in the same millions of viewers reaching for the nearest bottle of morphine to numb the pain.

I did, however, receive my first ever sports award. As one who was always chosen last for the team at school, this was an overwhelming event. So much so that l guarded my shield fiercely for the rest of the evening, growling and baring my teeth at anyone who dared to come near. It was my bedfellow for the night, and remains so to this day. I may even buy it a special red velvet cushion. Apparently l am supposed to give it back next year. I may emigrate instead.

But it must be my year. For a couple of days ago, l received another award, from the lovely Frisky Virgin herself.

This is a dangerous award for someone who enjoys a power trip as much as l. The reason l became a teacher was the opportunity to meld young minds on a daily basis. It still amuses me to 'embellish' certain information within the classroom, and for it to be returned, often verbatim,  in 30 pieces of homework. If you ever bump into someone in a few years time who is convinced that flamingos only have one leg, or will argue that polar bears are Grizzly bears that have been interbred with the DNA of a chameleon, it is likely they have been taught by myself.

But l digress. This award means l have the power to change three (only THREE?) things to make this world a better place. Realistically, it would take me years to get this world ship shape and bristol fashion, but l suppose l have to start somewhere.

1.) 'My Bad'. Anyone uttering this phrase should be placed in stocks and have soiled nappies aimed at their open mouths with giant catapults. I have no idea where this phrase originated, but it is usually said in an offhand, abrasive manner that implies an apology that is absent of any sincerity whatsoever. But that is not my main bug bear. It is that it makes no sense. My bad what? My bad cooking? My bad piano playing? My bad smelling fungal infection? Either finish the sentence properly or learn how to apologise in the correct manner.

2.) Caravans. In this day and age, l see no point to caravans. They are a somewhat unsatisfactory compromise between tents and hotels. Flimsy walls, uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, an inescapable 'toilet' odour, minimal cooking facilities, and cold showers. They cause more traffic jams than any other vehicle. When parked en masse they distort the natural order of nature. They need to be annihilated. I suggest employing teams of ninjas to push them off the cliff tops on which they are perched, one by one. This should send out the appropriate message.

3.) Bad tattoos. Admittedly, this may be subjective, but since l am currently wearing the Overlord cape l am making the rules. Any persons found with tattoos on their chest, calves, thighs, neck, face, fingers, breasts,stomach or buttocks will be forced to wear plasters (band aids for you American citizens) over said body art, lest it be offensive to the Overlord's eyes. There shall also be restrictions on the subject matter. As this list of banned items is rather extensive, and includes everything from names of children to dolphins, all tattoo artists will be appointed by her Overlord, and will be required to submit all designs for approval. It should be noted that anything deemed 'Celtic' will automatically be burnt and a scream of frustration will be heard across the land.

Small changes, but not insignificant.

Oh, and apparently l am supposed to pass this award on too. So, lucky subjects, here goes. Although it will do you good to remember the afore mentioned story of the mice. I have glue guns and glitter a-plenty for those who forget who the TRUE Overlord is.

Have fun:

Mr Condescending

For Everything, A Reason

Left Alone With A Full Moon

Sarcastically Bitter

The Barreness

You Don't Need A Cock To Rock

Packing Pandora's Box.

I have moved house countless times in my life. So familiar is the task of packing and unpacking boxes and bags that l think l could take it up as a profession. Indeed, l would not be surprised to hear that the staff at the local supermarket think l have developed some kind of cardboard fetish, or that l am attempting to reconstruct the Eiffel Tower in my back garden. My house is starting to resemble either an illegal sweat shop, or the hovel of a sculptor. The boxes may even be starting to reproduce.

Some of these house moves have been ones of joy, and others have been performed under duress and amidst floods of tears. Some have involved a convoy of cars filled to the brim with boxes, some with merely a suitcase and a toothbrush.

All have had their moments. The family cat escaping from its basket in the front of the car and scaring my mother out of her wits. Swinging a van sharply around a tight corner to hear a mirror smashing against a set of drawers which consequently meant l was picking shards of glass out of my knickers for weeks. Trying to pass off the 'buzzing' sound in one box to a friend as an electric toothbrush, which was awkward and embarrassing for us both.

The impending move is bitter sweet. Packing away objects that were part of a different existence. Re-reading old letters. Sorting through books and films that provoked week long discussions. Knowing that these memories may never be unpacked. The joy of treasured moments, and the sadness of the loss.

However. There is often a moment when, sifting through your belongings, you re-discover a long lost love.

Turn up the volume. Grab some bubble wrap. Leap about in your slippers. Enjoy.

Diamanté, tight leather trousers and excessive hair gel.

I apologise in advance for the Euro-centric theme to this post, specifically for those of you who hail from lands further away than, say, Azerbaijan (No idea if that is a real country? It IS. I know, l was surprised too. And had to Google the spelling.). However, l suggest you read on. It will be a cultural enlightenment for you. Honest.

One Saturday night every May sees me seated in front of a television screen for 4 hours solid, wearing a Union Jack leotard and cape ensemble, complete with tattoos of Our Royals on each butt cheek, waving a flag in one hand whilst sporadically cramming themed snacks into my slacked jawed mouth. Not, as l am sure you would naturally infer from my description, to watch a Royal wedding, nor to support our hard-working but ultimately trophy-phobic sports teams. No. It is SO much better. It is the Eurovision Song Contest.

It is the night when 25 out of 43 countries that come under the currently drooping umbrella of Europe send their best singers to compete in a song contest. One song, specially composed for the night, and voted for (hopefully) by the rest of the continent. Considering the hype, you may suppose that the prize is something breathtaking. Perhaps all the money the IMF has to offer. But no, they win the honour of hosting the event the following year. With all the expense it incurs. Although, on reflection, that may be why Greece put forward a duo of a  rapper whose speech seemed hindered by the fact that his tongue had grown into his cheek and a manboy who had a voice with emotive qualities of a horny peacock attempting to seduce a reluctant hen. Using a vuvuzela. Attached to a loud hailer.

But l digress. For those of you unfamiliar with this whole event, here follows a brief breakdown:

Two presenters - Usually ex-singers or presenters who have been dragged out of a cupboard somewhere. Fake-tanned, botox-ed, and hair dried to within an each of their lives, and told to 'be funny'. They aren't. Ever. They inevitably make you want to do what you did with your Barbie and Ken, ie., remove their limbs and replace them in the wrong holes, tie them together head to toe, and put them in a piping hot oven. Or was that just me?

Performers - A selection of Europe's finest musicians, apparently. Which may be why the charts are dominated by artists from the US of A. From guitar strumming, checked jacket wearing octogenarians, to teenagers bouncing across a laser-lit stage wearing enough diamanté and neon to blind an astronaut, to those 'alternative' kids who wear cheap leather and lots of angst ridden eye-liner but at the end of the night like nothing more than a cup of tea and a hug from their mum. Each of them giving their all on a stage with a backdrop of flashing lights, cheap graphics, and a crowd of flag waving, badly dressed (think sandals and socks) Europeans. They perform songs of the quality that make you feel like you are being aurally abused, whatever the genre they choose. The staging and costumes are the standard of your average infant school talent show - all glitter, glue, sugar paper and staple guns. They can be split into three categories. Either the countries are going for the straight female/gay vote by sending out their hunkiest young males wearing unrealistically tight trousers that will rip at the hint of a lunge and enough hair gel to rebuild Japan. On the other hand, the straight male/gay female vote is won by placing a selection of nubile young females on stage who wear dresses that, what they lack in material, make up for in adhesiveness. The third category is the nationalist vote, which can only be won by singers who had hits centuries ago, sing about 'the good ol' times' in their national language, and who, when the camera pans backstage, have their hand up the skirt of one of the afore mentioned young ladies.

Crowd - As described above. Oh, also, they can't dance. Or maybe that is unfair, perhaps moving two seconds behind the beat, one leg in the opposite direction of the other, whilst waving ones hands manically counts as dancing.

Commentator - An Irish comedian who bitches about outfits, presenters, performers, and crowd like xenophobia never existed. Basically, like the majority of the UK population, pretends disdain about the whole event whilst secretly obsessing about it, knowing all the statistics, and phone voting for Jedward to a loss of over £100. Don't judge me. I love the fact they can't even jump in time.

Representatives - After the performances have taken place each country nominates someone (usually a minor celebrity) to give the results of the votes in that particular country, They have one minute to do this. Without exception, each one attempts to catch the eye of a movie producer in that time. Women with hair the height of the Eiffel Tower, men with over-plucked eyebrows. This will be their one moment of fame. Literally. The next time they receive that much attention will be when they are trying to sell incontinence pads on the local shopping channel.

Add in some fireworks, and there you have it. This is what passes for entertainment in this eccentric continent.

You need it n your life.

But as a word of advice, stay away from the themed snacks. Apparently roast beef, Camembert and schnitzel pizza followed by Edam, paella and beetroot flavoured goulash does nothing for your digestive system. Who knew?

P.S - Azerbaijan won. That's how l know it exists.

Singing the Blues.

The holiday blues. If l could play more than three chords on the guitar without my fingers seizing up into arthritic balls, and if l could sing without seemingly summoning all the male cats in the neighbourhood for a cheeky mating session, then l would be a-strumming and warbling my woes to any unlucky souls who happened to pass my way.

Yet, here l sit in a shorts, a little tanned, salt on my skin, attempting to lift my spirits by learning the dance routine to Lady GaGa's 'Telephone' from You Tube. No, l have not decided on a new career as a backing dancer. I have no spatial awareness, and controlling all my limbs at the same time without causing carnage requires a huge amount of concentration. In truth, the only work l would get would be in village pantomimes where Prince Charming is played by the local boss-eyed, moon-faced, cowpat-wielding idiot. And then only if l wore a donkey costume and sat in a bath of horse shit and baked beans for the entire show.  But l digress. In truth, the tan came from a bottle (Non-sticky and Streak Free? I think not my friend. I have tide marks across my body that resemble some sort of tribal war paint. I fear that exposing my inner thighs, forearms, or feet in public may inadvertently start the Third World War). And l am merely salty from a rather strenuous game of squash. Too much information? I care not. As for La Gaga? When darkness falls l shall turn the music up loud, turn off the lights off, and dance around my kitchen wearing nothing but rubber gloves and a pair of Onion Goggles waving my glow-stick App around like l just don't care. My own version of singing the blues, as it were.

For, from tonight l will not be:

1.) Going to bed in the early hours of the morning after watching back to back episodes of The Only Way is Essex, laughing hilariously at the total ignorance and idiocy of perma-tanned, fake breasted, gleaming toothed residents. While simultaneously wondering what cup size would suit me. Would 40HH be too much? It could only be a bonus on the rugby field. Either as a distraction or as extra padding.

2.) Drinking alcohol as if in training for a member of the AA. I may try and convince myself (and most people around me) that l am attempting a version of Super Size Me with cocktails instead of the Golden Arches, however, the lack of film crew or video equipment usually gives the game away. Apparently the video function on the phone doesn't count. Who knew?

3.) Greatly increasing the likelihood of a hose pipe ban this summer by embracing fully the luxuriousness of non-time restricted baths and showers. A shower to wake up, followed by a bath for a couple of hours whilst l watch a film on the laptop l have precariously balanced on the toilet lid. Dangerous, l know, but l find the threat of electrocution oddly liberating. Then a trip to the gym to play in the jacuzzi, steam room, and another shower. Then, if alcohol has not been consumed, a bath is required to enable one to fall easily into slumber. On the downside, l seem to have developed the puckered skin of an 80 year old seasoned smoker. Not a look that rocks with denim hot pants and bikini tops. There has been a audible sound of retching as l stroll down the street.

4.) Living a WAG lifestyle on a vastly inferior income. You know it is serious when the global institution that is your bank deigns to call you up personally. At 4am. On Easter Sunday. Not to offer you a golden Easter Egg, as you might assume. No. Quote - " Could you tell me the amount of your last purchase and the name of the place it occurred?". " £145 in the Drunken Monkey you say? And your card has not been stolen? Okay, lets set up an appointment with your bank manager". Slightly unnerving, particularly when drinking mojito straight out of a jug.

5.) Waking up sprawled across a duvet on a friend's sofa bed, smiling smugly as l listened to them getting grumpily ready for work, nursing the Sky Plus remote in my hand, poised for that morning's omnibus of LA Ink. Mind you, nor will l be receiving a swift but well aimed kick to the head as l casually demand a mug of tea and slice of buttered toast before they leave the house.

These things will become a distant memory, replaced by the political debate at 6am, walking to and from work, e-mails, meetings, canteen sandwiches and half drunk cups of  instant coffee. I am not sure l can take it.  So, if the news is full of a teacher who insisted on all of her pupils painting themselves orange and performing the 'Telephone' dance on the school field whilst blowing whistles and waving glowsticks, you will know what happened. The blues got the better of me.

They think it's all over.

The view in my full length mirror has just given me a heart tremor the like of which Scrooge must have had when shown his Christmas Future. Attired in a cornflower blue flannelette nightdress, hand knitted rose pink bed jacket, pop socks, and orthopaedic tartan slippers l stared at my 80 year old reflection with a sense of trepidation. The deep-set fear that my Agent Provocateur lace briefs are soon going to be replaced by giant white cotton longjohns lined with three layers of incontinence pads and a pair of plastic pants has set in. Bugger.

Now, logically, this hideous apparition of my aged self is unlikely to become reality for a few years yet. I am only thirty-four this year. I still get asked for ID when buying alcoholic substances, and feel a smug sense of satisfaction when the salesperson recoils in shock at my DOB. My pupils still think l am 24 (oh, the innocence of youth).  I write all of this nonchalantly, as if my age does not bother me in the least. In reality, l am shitting enough proverbial bricks to build a brand new pyramid. I scour my head for hints of grey. I count the lines around my eyes. I attempt the 'pencil test' to see if my breasts and buttocks are still as pert as they once were. Yes, I have suddenly found myself as the target customer for magical creams that fend off wrinkles with swords and bombs laced with secret ingredients that have more 'Oxy's than l ever thought possible, hair colourings that promise to cover those dead follicles with a blanket of fluorescent red, and hydrochloric acid treatments that will eventually peel away all your skin to reveal your baby faced skull underneath. And, yes, I have read 'Bad Science', l do understand that most of these potions are ineffective, but still l find myself stood in the aisle at Boots, wide-eyed and drooling at the seductive promises the packaging offers me. And as l leave with a shamefully clanking bag, l shudder as l try and hide from the truth: l want eternal youth. Or at least the appearance of it.

Inevitably, one has to accept that preventing the ageing process is as impossible as preventing a starved cheetah from tearing a dead carcass limb from limb. No matter how many nights l sleep hanging upside down from my bedrooms door, how much duck tape l use to fold my face back over my ears, or how many layers of acrylic paint l plaster over my skin, those pesky lines will appear whether l like it or not. I can clench my buttock muscles until l have to hobble around as if l have rocks in my knickers; l could string my breasts up around my neck with dental floss; if l bench pressed enough weights to give me the muscles of a steroid munching gym bunny, the collagen in my skin would still leak, unwanted, into the atmosphere. The nights l have spent painstakingly applying whitewash to each and every tooth are essentially worthless, for they will end up replaced by a set of  clacking dentures that will have to be removed after every meal and picked over for scraps. Although, secretly, l am quite looking forward to giving small children nightmares with my falsies by hiding them in their bed. Or in their porridge. 

 

So, as l sit here in my nightie and slippers, pointlessly injecting my forehead with a potent mixture of toilet bleach and bicarbonate of soda (the effervescent qualities pump out those fine lines miraculously), l am forced to accept the fact that slowly, but surely, l will morph into a mad old lady. I will be wrinkled and lined; l will push a trolley laden with cuddly toys and royal paraphernalia around town; l will attempt to lame young people with my walking stick; I will wave my Bus Pass fiercely as elbow my way to the front of bus queues; l will live in a junk filled house that smells vaguely of cat piss and rotten half-eaten ready meals; l will wear low cut leopard print blouses that expose my wrinkled sagging breasts, with pop socks, tartan slippers, fuschia lipstick and blue mascara; and l will consider it my right to stand on street corners and verbally abuse passers-by as l glug milk from a bottle, stolen from a passing milk float. 

But for now, l will cling on to my youth as tightly as possible. And hope that when l start to resemble Barbara Cartland, someone will put me down.

Things l now know.

It has been a while since l last wrote a blog post. It was under another name, in what feels like another life. I shall spare you the gruesome, gut wrenching details, safe to say that the episode in question shall simply be known as 'The Heartbreak'.

A positive event then, and l could ramble on in some life affirming, pump your fist in the air, 'my cancer is cured and l want to make sweet love to every flower l happen upon' type of way. Unfortunately, all that malarkey makes me want to regurgitate my chicken chow mein and form a model of Dante's seventh circle of hell. No, the hours l have spent piecing myself back together are worthy of Humpty Dumpty himself, and have taught me only one thing: basic survival. Therefore, as the Ray Mears of broken hearts, l am about to selflessly share a few tips that may help you through, should you end up in a similar, unfortunate, and unexpected situation.

1.) I am not one for promoting binge drinking as such, but you will need alcohol. In excessive amounts. You will dance into oblivion and sink into a sweet sleep. You will imagine yourself as Grace Kelly amidst adoring suitors. You will be numbed from the heartache and sit on kerb sides stealing strangers' kebabs at 3am. You will rediscover the laughter you thought had been erased from your bank of emotions. It will feel fantastic. But you must be prepared for the feelings of self loathing the next morning, as you peel yourself off a random bathroom floor with one shoe missing completely and the other sailing on a sea of vomit in the toilet bowl, whilst you clutch a cone to your chest on which you have drawn a remarkable (in its abstract qualities) likeness to your ex.

2.) You will need a soundtrack to your pain. You won't be able to listen to any of the music you already own as it will most likely provoke unwanted and rather torturous memories of happier times. So you will find songs that sum up your current emotional state succinctly, listen to them/sing along to them endlessly until someone around you has the sense to misplace the CD and your I-pod in the recycling bin. Under the dead cat and mouldering teabags.

3.) Take up a violent sport. Squash, hockey, rugby, it doesn't matter which. I took up rugby. The reasons are threefold: firstly, the adrenalin and fear of having your body crushed by another human being who is frankly the size and weight of an iron water tank instantly outweigh any other concerns your brain might be occupied with; secondly, the inevitable physical pain of broken bones means that although you are still crying into your breakfast first thing in the morning, it is lessened by the screams of pain you utter as you attempt to scoop soggy Weetabix into your mouth with shattered fingers; and thirdly, the amount of drugs thrust into your arms by the ladies of the NHS to relieve the afore mentioned pain also induce a peaceful sleep, free from the anxiety dreams of attacking your former lover with a dustbin lid and a vacuum cleaner in a quite inappropriate, yet strangely satisfying, manner.

4.) In your vulnerable and tear stained state, it might seems callous to utter the words 'Internet Dating', but l heartily recommend it as therapy. It is a quick fix solution to one's otherwise battered and bruised ego. You can flirt shamelessly via email, and the second party does not need to know that at that precise moment you are sobbing along to 'Mumford and Sons' (or whatever your music choice), wearing your ex's hoodie (still trying to locate his 'smell' in the armpits) and chocolate stained jogging bottoms, sipping lukewarm cup-a-soup as you have lost all will to live like a human being and not as an animal. You are not interested, of course, but  the attention will DO YOU GOOD, as my mother used to say about liver and onions. If you do it well, you may even get a free meal and/or trip to the cinema to boot. Then you can delete the emails and start all over again with a new victim. Mercenary? Most definitely. But curative nonetheless.

5.) My final tip is to throw yourself into an addiction to trash television. There is plenty to choose from: Strictly Come Dancing, X -Factor, One Tree Hill, Desperate Housewives, Glee, Waterloo Road, Skins, This way is Essex, Gossip Girl. The list is endless. You need it. It will rot your brain but the desire to escape the seeming mire of your own life can only be satisfied vicariously through the mewlings of Cheryl Cole and Simon Cowell as they bitch fight about Cher's ability to give blowjobs to the floor staff. If nothing else, it will give you something to distract the supermarket checkout staff with as they insist on commenting on the food in your basket. "Chocolate. Wine. Crisps. Tissues. DVD. Broken Heart is it?".

Indeed it is, my dear, indeed it is.