I think I may have been bitten by the travel bug.  There is just one mahoosive problem with that (erm, aside from being flat broke!), in that I really don’t travel well.  I was not built for it.  With my vertigo and fear of flying still in full swing, I have now oh-so-conveniently developed motion sickness, and have spent the past couple of visits to France a rather bilious shade of green.  I was not meant to leave the country.  Seriously now, is there a conspiracy to keep me on this island?  Is this Lost II: the Urban Experience? (Any moment, someone is going to blow up my submarine.)

Recently a friend of mine from school added me on Facebook, and she has been all over the world.  Her photographs are amazing and she seems really happy and fulfilled.  Meanwhile, I feel like I am frozen solid, rooted to the spot, going nowhere.  And it’s really beginning to frustrate me.

How do people do it, just up sticks and trot the globe?  The logistics of it all blow my mind.  I’m the sort of person that needs a plan - I need to know where I’m going, what I’ll do there, and more to the point, I need some sort of constant, someone I can rely on, who knows me and my limits.

Last night, I sat down and I wrote a list of places I’d really like to visit.  There were at least forty destinations on that list.  And I know that, practically speaking, it would never be feasible to see them all.  But can I live with never seeing any?  Or will I spend my old age kicking myself for being too much of a wuss?

After Paris, I felt like I’d learned quite a lot about myself and the nature of happiness.  And I came to terms with the fact that some of my ambitions clashed with who I am and what I’m capable of, and that to push myself would not make me happy.  I made peace with the fact that I would never experience everything, and felt a sort of contentment in letting go of that idea.  But maybe I’m letting go of it too easily after all.

I guess the pursuit of happiness is never easy, and it means something different to everyone.  What does it mean to you?

So let’s talk about Cat.  I went to school with her - my boyfriend’s sister.  We were sort of friends on and off as we came in and out of each others lives; there are a couple of class photographs of us together when we were really young.  In fact, I remember writing a terrible song with her in my bedroom when it was a horrible peach colour my mother picked out.  My mum had also made these cornflower blue curtains with a peach trim for the windows.  Disgusting.  Occasionally, I’d walk home from school with Cat, but we always separated at the corner equidistant between our houses and I never met her brother until a month before we started dating.

In the year or so before Boyf and I started going out, Cat and I became a bit closer when we attended the same Sixth Form college.  We were among the few girls that didn’t wear a uniform.  She confided in me about her boyfriends (I seem to recall she was trying to decide between two brothers), as did her best friend S., who was dating… Boyf!  (Except she really wasn’t, she just used to get drunk and crawl into bed with him, but to her this constituted a relationship.)  Anyway, S. and Boyf “broke up” long before I came on the scene but I just thought it was a fact worth mentioning, since Cat developed this complex about Boyf chasing after her friends, and began to badmouth him in college to the point where when I did finally meet him for myself, I was shocked not to discover a slimy lecherous toad dripping in hair gel and kissing his biceps.  I don’t know why, but I could just immediately tell that everything I’d heard was bullshit and I judged him as I found him, not on what Cat had told us.  Perhaps it was naive, but lucky for me time has borne my instincts out. 

Continue reading ‘Four Grudges and a Funeral, Part Two: Bitches, A History Of’

I have had this song on repeat all day; I bunged it straight on my Amazon wishlist and sent a little what-are-you-getting-me-for-my-birthday? hint to ‘Muffin (it was a month ago but since I made him wait like 4 months for his present I told him to take his time with mine!) directing him there (it’s a good job he already knows I’m cheeky!)

In fact I love it so much that I am planning to go out and buy myself a baker boy hat: Katie White is my new unlikely style icon.  Well, hat icon anyway.

This is what I call good driving music.  Hurrah!

Well, Friday was a complete headfuck of a day.

Boyf’s grandfather died last week, at the age of 84, after a period of illness.  This post isn’t really going to be about that, and I’m declaring that now because what comes after this is pathetically insignificant compared to the death of a loved one and I want you to know that I understand that.  Boyf was probably closer to his grandad than anyone else in his family, he takes after him the most and is fiercely proud of him.  Watching him carry his grandad’s coffin brought tears to my eyes, and it was all I could do not to grab him and hold him and let him cry on my shoulder for the length of the service, during which he stood, not following anything, wringing his hands and trying not to break down.

But this post is about a feud (or twelve) that’s been going on for God knows how long, and the main players will become clear as I relate the events of the day…

Continue reading ‘Four Grudges and a Funeral, Part One: There aren’t enough mother-in-law jokes in the world’

Good times:  You know that job interview I sucked at?  The one I totally, utterly screwed up and spent all weekend feeling bad about?  Turns out I wasn’t as awful as I thought: no, I didn’t get the job.  But I kind of had the feeling somebody else was lined up for it anyway, since I saw her before my interview and when the guy came to collect her he greeted her like someone he already worked with, the job was advertised internally and only for a week, and I’ve just been told over the phone that she “was working in such a similar role already.”

But this is the good part: he was surprised that I thought I sucked when I called him for feedback.  He emailed me a copy of their evaluation of my interview and said that I made a really good impression (see: piñata), they unanimously thought I was appointable for the role, and he hoped I would apply for future vacancies with them.  He said that though I was nervous my “positivity and enthusiasm shone through”.  (Somewhere, ‘Muffin has just fallen off his chair laughing.)  My presentation was “bright and well researched”.  And I even “interviewed very well” and have “considerable potential.” 

To which I say: Dude.

Bad times: I have a meeting with the Dean later today about the possibility of future employment beyond my contract.  I forgot all about it and, because I’m only working half a day, have turned up wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, and my fake Uggs that I probably should have thrown out about two years ago.

Meh.

(In my next post, I promise not to use any colons.  Intestines are real messy to write with anyways.  BA DA BUM!)

I normally hate these kinds of shows and have never sat through a whole Britain’s Got Talent, but I love this!

Childhood memory: listening to Michael Jackson playing at Aintree with my big sister through her bedroom window in 1988, the Bad Tour.  We could hear the music from the racecourse where the concert was held.  He performed to 125,000 fans, and if you include us from the window, 125,002.  I was six.

My recent job interview was a total nightmare.  I’m still in awe of how badly I performed.  I honestly feel that I am getting worse at them instead of better.  The first three or four job interviews I ever had, I was great.  I was a little nervous but not bunny-in-the-headlights.  If I didn’t manage to speak eloquently, I at least constructed entire sentences that made sense and had a little fluidity.  On Thursday, I was a complete mess, and feel so demoralised by it that I don’t even care about the actual job, I am just so damn annoyed with myself for doing so poorly in the interview.  I left feeling embarrassed of myself.  Although, I did get a fair few jokes in and feel that even if they didn’t actually want to hire me, they’d probably have me over for after dinner entertainment.  I’m like a human piñata.  Piñata’s, though much fun and full of good stuff, do not make good Liaison Officer’s.

Something has really shaken my confidence, and I don’t know if it was the two and a half years of working for a harridan or the fact that I allowed someone like Alfie to get under my skin.

Maybe I am going in the wrong direction and this is the way Fate or whatever it is we blame this stuff on decided to tell me.  All I know is that if I don’t get another job by the end of July (when my current contract ends) I go to Plan B: having the whole of August off and maybe running away to France for a few weeks to figure things out.  And as Plan B’s go, it’s not too shabby.

Earlier, I watched The Passions of Girls Aloud on ITV.com. (This is how I spend my Friday nights.  Judge me all you want!)  In it, band member and fellow Merseysider Nicola Roberts teams up with Jelly Pong Pong to create her own make up range for pale skinned girls.  Watching it, I was struck by how similar she seems to my niece, Tink.  They look very different, but they are both very demanding, know exactly what they want, and won’t settle for anything less.  I think I need to be more like this.  (It’s also on YouTube if anyone is interested in watching it beyond the expiry date on ITV.)

Coincidentally, I watched it on the day her beauty range became available to buy, and it’s quite reasonably priced too!  Called Dainty Doll, it has mega cute packaging and I really think from watching the show that she put a lot in to getting the product just right.  Being of fair complexion myself, I am quite tempted to buy some and try it out. 

For the programme, she had to put together a launch show, which had an Alice in Wonderland theme (right up my alley.)  At the end of the show she was required to make a speech and she was so nervous doing it that she made me feel tense sitting at home in bed in my PJs!  However, this may relate more to the fact that I identify massively with her fear of public speaking, and that I have to give a presentation as part of a job interview on Thursday afternoon.  And may I speak frankly?  I am shitting a brick.

But back to Nicola for a bit.  She pointed out some pictures of her from the earlier days of Girls Aloud and some of the more recent shots and the difference is amazing, purely because nowadays she really does look much more comfortable in her skin and she isn’t trying to be something she’s not (and also, right at the very very beginning she was enduring her gawky teenage years under the harsh glare of the media spotlight. That is one thing I wouldn’t envy anybody!)  I think she is quite a good role model and I’m glad she’s out there representin’ for us pale girls!

I finally found The Dress on Friday, after skipping off work early (I’d earned extra hours and decided to fritter them away in a last ditch attempt to find a frock) and meeting up with Boyf, who also bought a new suit, shirt and tie.  (Men in suits, you just can’t beat ‘em.)  Boyf bought the dress for me for my birthday, which is tomorrow, and even proferred an opinion about it, which is practically miraculous since the most I ever get if I ask him about an outfit is that it’s “Nice, mate,” or “Yeah, fine.”  It’s pictured below but the picture really doesn’t do it justice, I love it utterly, although it’s the complete opposite of the demure, sophisticated look I was aiming for. 

Putting it on the morning of the races I felt like a princess, and I dared to wear it without a coat or a jacket even though it was colder outside than Margaret Thatcher’s left ventricle.  Unfortunately, judging by the few photographs we took before we left the house, I looked less like a princess and more like an enormous strawberry, with the emphasis on enormous because Oh-my-God-I-looked-huge, and have so far refrained from putting said pics on Facebook because I know that the first thought popping into the heads of any viewers would be: God, hasn’t she put weight on. I am comforting myself with the fact that the camera adds ten pounds.  And there must have been at least three cameras on me.

Anyways, the races were much fun, marred only by my walking around like a human ice lolly, and we even won about £120, £70 of which we won on the final race like a sort of gambler’s climax.  (Foolishly, we consumed two bottles of champagne in celebration, so spent most of yesterday in bed watching crap telly and complaining of sore heads.)  We chatted to lots of random people* and danced to dodgy Bon Jovi covers, and then on the way out Boyf thought it would be hilarious to ask a policeman to arrest me for drunkenness.  (For some reason, Boyf is somewhat gleeful whenever I get a little tipsy and on the few occasions I’ve had hangovers he has been the picture of joy, I think because I’m usually the one tsk tsking him when he’s nursing a sore head himself.)

*Boyf will strike up a conversation with absolutely anybody, it’s a trait I envy most in him.  Unfortunately, once drunk his openers become less and less subtle, as in when he turned his attention away from the racetrack and asked the bloke behind us: “Eh mate, what is that accent?” (Part Irish, part English, part Australian, part Fijian, apparently.  He was a good sport about it, luckily!)

It’s a good job we did have such a nice time as Boyf has been called upon to work away for the next couple of days so I will be flying solo for my birthday, but since I have been spoilt rotten for the past few weeks I really don’t feel I have the right to sulk about it and might try and drag someone to see 27 Dresses instead for total fluffy chick flick indulgence. Ahh!

Just to veer off topic for a sec, I must relate to you my latest sartorial dilemma.  I have an event on Saturday - the races.  And nothing to wear.  Furthermore, although I haven’t had chance to hit the shops yet (tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow), I’ve been doing a fair bit of online-based window shopping and I have to say I am coming up with zip.  I’ve spotted quite a few things in Marie Claire that are way out of my price range, including a fabulously baroque gold Dolce and Gabbana belt that comes in at just under £200, which would along with the dress to match completely empty my bank account.  There was also a nice strapless ruffled affair from Reiss and a luxuriously creamy silk organza trouser suit that came in at about a grand, but Chica needs to come back down to Earth with a bump now since she has one day and one day only to shop for this crucial outfit.

I also managed to fall in love along the way with a non-appropriate dress from Wheels & Doll Baby that while beyond my means will populate all my little daydreams involving a certain bar, the smell of that cologne and a suited Boyf:

See this is my problem: a distinct lack of focus.  I have no idea what I should be looking for tomorrow, except that I want it to be stunning and to immediately stumble upon an impossibly perfect pair of shoes to match, and if they could all be on sale, well that would be jolly good too.

All I know is that I am not doing a hat, and shall spend the rest of the week experimenting with my hair until I achieve the correct ‘do.

I get the distinct impression I will be coming back empty handed from this shopping trip, you know when you just know?  And I am picturing all the dresses no longer in stock that I have so very sensibly walked past over recent months that would have been ideal, specifically one very Leona Lewis-esque number for a reasonable £80.

Phooey.  You know what I need?  Alicia Silverstone’s wardrobe from Clueless.  That would rock.  Although now that I think about it, there is something extremely anal about databasing your wardrobe…