Running - You're Doing It Wrong!

You guys!  The weirdest thing happened to me today.  Like, this evening today.  That recently.  It shocked me to my very core.  I'm not even sure if I'm ready to share it with you because it's just so monumental in its...massiveness.

Okay, I am.  But that's only because I'm a pathalogical blogger who needs to share every waking thought with the Hive Mind....The media use that term to scare us internet dwellers, but I quite like it.  Makes me feel like a bee.  Bzzz.  Anyway, bees aside, here it is.  Deep breaths.

I did a run, and I liked it.

I know!  I know!  And if you didn't read that to the tune of a popular Katy Perry ditty, then you are either older than me, cooler than me or both.  Congratulations, you.  For three years or so, I've been doing this love/hate (translate: obsess about/weep about/binge eat and start the whole sorry process again) thing with running.  I have more or less "run" at least a couple of days a week since I started, but bar from the occasional inexplicably enjoyable jog, I have HATED every single teeny tiny second of the actual exercise.  It's a hot, boring, sweaty and stressful thing to do.  Especially when you know you could be at home stuffing cake into your fat face. 

Don't get me wrong.  The things that kept me going out on my little (for distance aint my thang, and neither is speed) jaunts all these years were:

- Guilt.  After building up enough "runs" to be able to tell people I'm not a couch potato all of the time, I felt as though it's not something I could ever ever give up now because I wouldn't even have that miniscule bragging right any more.

- The runners' high.  It's real.  And it's gooooood. 

- Being able to totally justify smothering everything that goes into my mouth with cheese and/or icing.  Because a two mile stop-start thing makes it okay, right?  ....Right?

So you see, the main reasons that I begrudgingly slap on my trainers on occasion are a combination of bitter guilt and wanting what comes after said trainer slappage.  Nothing to do with the run itself, which could only ever be horrible, horrible, horrible.

Until yesterday.  When I learned to my... I don't think my surprise...so to my slight pause in between battenburg bites, that for three years, I've been running all wrong. 

I bought a book - Running Like a Girl by Alexandra Heminsley (so good!!!) to devour on my Kindle app on my post-accidental-night-out kind of a Sunday.  I read it in a few short hours.  It was ruddy marvellous.  A lady writer's true recollections of learning to run and eventually developing quite a knack for completing marathons.  Right up my street.  It wasn't until the end of the book - in the bit that gives rather bloody good tips for both beginners and experienced runners - that I had it pointed out to me in black and white where I'd gone a bit boobs-up on the running front:

1. I was tiptoeing my routes - sounds weird, but it just means that instead of hitting the road with the middle-ish bit of my foot so I'm getting the most out of a simple stride, I've been alternating between doing these overstretched tinkerbell-types steps (Tink toes!!) and doing these big, clumpy, clumsy heel-to-the floor things, where I overcompensated and ultimately ended up hurting my muscles more than necessary (especially that weird one that keeps bothering my between my leg and my bum).

2. I was running towards something - Heminsley's best bit of visualization advice was to imagine a kindly person gently guiding you forward, pushing you along the route and holding you up, instead of imagining yourself running towards or after something.  This made the world of difference to me today.  It banished the "awh, fuck, am I still that far away?!!" feeling I often get.  Magic trick! I imagined that the kindly person was my grandad, who took me out on my first runs while I was still living at my mum's.... He's the ex military, no-bullshit, work hard and eat even harder kind of grandad.  So my imagination gave me a figure that was sort-of kindly but mostly just wouldn't take any of my lazy-ass crap any more.

3.  I was too bouncy - I thought that good running = enthusiasm, and so I tried to gee myself up by taking bouncy, bouncy tigger-steps wherever I went.  Small wonder I had to stop so often - I was using twice as much energy in pogoing up and down at the same time as running, instead of skimming the floor and landing comfortably on the middle of my foot.  It made every few feet feel like a mile.

Result?  I ran my usual 2.5 miles, which isn't far.  But I did it without stopping even once to "check my phone" or "do my shoelaces" or "look at the interesting thing that no one else can see but is suddenly very important and mystifying to me", which is a massive achievement for me.  I always, always have to walk a little while to find my breath again.  The whole thing felt like less effort, and I was faster! Faster with less effort! Considerably too!  Just... My mind is blown! So pleased.

I hope these tips get read by some other people who also think/thought they would be crap for ever and ever at running.  Three stupidly simple things I had no idea I was doing, and now I realise I'm better at something than I thought I was.  I'm hardly a hardcore athlete, but I'm far from terrible.  Now that I'm doing it properly, I can just concentrate on enjoying myself after and during.  Happy bloody days!  Thanks, Alexandra.  You are my new mentor-who's-never-met-me!

...uh?!

Currently reading Oliver Sacks' The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat. For those who haven't read it, it's a collection of descriptions of Sacks' neurology patients. I've just stumbled upon a pretty uncanny description of myself. Spooky!!

From now on, I am referring to myself as a "motor moron". Makes me sound like a crap transformer.

Sleeping Becky, Hidden Panties

 I struggled to nod off last night.  I felt like Sherlock Holmes, unable to sleep as I was ruminating on a mystery I simply couldn't solve (..I've been watching a lot of Elementary of late...).

I was stressed out and completely baffled at the fact that when I got into bed and slid my arm in between my pillows, my fist closed around a single pair of my own pants.  Now, I don't generally store my underpants under my pillow, or in any other kind of furniture other than a chest of drawers (drawers for my drawers), and I can't think of any logical reason as to why they would be nestling where I lay my head at night.  No sane person wants to wake up with their face buried in their own kecks.  

My mind ran over as many possibilities as it could conjure up, which weren't many, as it and I had been up early for a full day's work and now we both now badly needed to rest after a good couple of hours trying to keep up with the story line in Prison Break (Scylla is good now?? Actually, don't tell me, I want to find out for myself, even if I am years behind that rest of the world who have already seen it).  Because I was hell bent on getting to the bottom of the mystery of the sleepy knickers (ha, to the bottom!  I didn't even do that on purpose... lulz), my brain did what it usually does when it's required to do something it doesn't feel like doing - it went into snarky bitch mode.  Here are the suggestions it so helpfully threw up for me:

- The underpants gnomes from South Park are real.
- A has now taken to sniffing ladies' undergarments during his lie-ins.
- This particular pair of pants was being bullied by the rest of the underwear in my chest of drawers and decided to run away somewhere safe.
- I put them there one day, just incase we get robbed by someone who values underthings over technology and cash.
- I accidentally left them there, thinking I was putting them away somewhere else.

I'll be honest, the latter is the most likely explanation.  Just this week, I tried to put a customer's documents in the dish washer at work, and I have an inexplicable habit of automatically trying to put cartons of milk in the washing machine and laundry in the bin.  

I wish I could say that I do these things because my mind is on a higher plane, dealing with bigger issues, but the honest truth is that I'm usually just thinking about food and funny pictures of cats I've seen.  That, and I'm prematurely losing my memory.  The only thing that will make me feel better about my receding cognitive ability right now would be some amusing cat-based pictures and a snack.  

...Anyone?

(Image borrowed from...several sources on Tumblr...Tumblr loves a cat sandwich!)

LOOK!!!

Everybody stop what you're doing and appreciate this picture of a rat with a teeny tiny teddy bear! The cortex of my brain where the squee-motions come from ("squee" is too a real emotion!) just exploded.

(Pic borrowed from @Earth_Pics on Twitter)

Good Mor-AAAAAGH!!!

Hullo, interweb! I'm feeling a bit twitchy and face-punchy tonight, so I'm going to offload by telling you all about my morning. By the end of this post, you will know how this day and I got off on the wrong foot, and hopefully I will have had a nice chuckle to myself about its events in retrospect. Hopefully. Failing that, I will repeatedly run into a wall until I feel suitably calm/disorientated. I will post footage of it and become an overnight YouTube megastar. Win-win.

*clenches fists and exhales*

I awoke to the sensation of gentle sunlight pawing at my face through the blinds and lovingly prying my stuck-together eyelids open with its warm, affectionate fingers. A snored obliviously next to me as I attempted to will my lifeless arm back to the land of the living, as it had been smothered in the night by my unconscious head. Kind of like how Uma Thurman coaxes her toes back to life in Kill Bill.

"Wiggle you big...thumb."

I felt drowsy, calm and peaceful. And then confused. It was a Wednesday morning, wasn't it? Why was I feeling calm, drowsy and peaceful? Surely something was amiss?

And then I realised. I wasn't being beaten around the head by the usual sound of my alarm going off. I blearily peeped at my iPhone. It looked goofily back up at me, informing me that it was 10.30am exactly (the exact time I should have been walking through the doors at the office). I imagined it innocently cocking its head at me like a mentally subnormal spaniel.

snooze?

OHMYGODI'MLATEFORWORKTHEY'REGOINGTOKILLMEAAAAAGH!!!

"A, WAKE UP I'M LATE!!"

"So? Just get ready and say you're sorry. And stop calling me A. I have a name."

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, A, I CAN NEVER BE LATE, I'M GOING TO GET FIRED AND THEN THROWN IN THE RIVER TO SWIM WITH THE FISHIES!! THE PIRANI WILL EAT MY FACE!!"

"Calm down...Don't you mean piranhas?"

For the record. I hate being late. If anything, I am always socially unacceptably early to everything. I leave the house in a blind state of unfettered panic even if I am comfortably on time, just incase something catastrophic happens on the way to the thing I have to be at that might result in my lateness...

...Like my running over a person while rifling through my CD collection with one eye on the road (not that I ever do that. Honest.), or having to slow down because I think I've seen the three wheeler from Only Fools and Horses pass me by (I swear, I saw it by Tesco! If I see it again, I WILL take a picture).

Anyway, with one eye still crusted shut, I fumbled with my phone until the text message to my manager read something akin to

"FUCK, slept through my alarm, be there straightaway! I'm so so sorry!!!!"....Yeah, my company's cool...you can say "fuck" at the managers by text if the gravity of the situation calls for it...But I didn't have time to sit there and appreciate this happy fact.

Still wearing the knickers I slept in (don't judge me, I was having a breakdown. Am in fresh, new pants now, I promise!), I rooted around my floor-drobe for anything to cover my shame (aka "body") with. I then dug my hat from between the sofa cushions so that I could hide my un straightened hair - unaware that the part of my hair it most needed to cover stuck out in a... I'll call it a mullet with a kicky Farrah Fawcett flick...fashion at the nape of my neck. I bypassed make-up (by make-up, I mean my usual daily routine of "draw eyes back on in eyeliner"), I'm pretty sure I sprayed only one armpit with deodorant before I bolted out of the door to A's handy parting words:

"Don't crash!"

Always advisable when driving, that.

In the end, I arrived at work bang on half an hour late. Pretty mean feat considering I live approximately twenty five minutes away from the building I work in. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a roomful of people laughing at my pant-pissing facial expression and new tramp-chic, un showered look. I sheepishly sank into my chair and looked at the text I'd just received from the manager who hadn't even arrived yet.

lol. No worries.

Mr Bright Side

Today, a lot of people said their last goodbye to a friend. For many of us, it was a "my first funeral" kind of a day (I've been to one before, but it wasn't someone I knew closely, and I was too young to go to my dad's funeral). It looked like some surreal school reunion where the theme was black tie. Seeing a bunch of guys I grew up with, having been used to seeing them in school uniform made me feel like we were only playing dress-up and that the friend we were seeing off was going to pop round the corner at any minute and tell us we were dickheads for believing his silly joke.

The atmosphere was not how I expected it to be. People were pleased to see each other. It's not often that most of my school year gather in one place. There was a lot of joking and catching up as we waited for the ceremony to start, just like how it is on the annual boxing night festivities most of the school attend every year when they've come home for Christmas visits. The only difference here was the sudden jarrings in conversation as everyone remembered where we were and why we were there.

You can always of course rely on one clown to break some tension, for which I was hugely grateful. Today's clown had us howling with laughter as he

1. Walked in on and sat five minutes into the wrong funeral, only realising he'd made a mistake when the person leading the ceremony informed the room that they were there to remember Ethel.

2. Got drunk later in the evening and stumbled from group to group asking inappropriate but hilarious questions like some pesky drunken uncle.

The ceremony was perfect. The twin of the departed lead the speeches, which was pretty fucking brave. I hiccoughed and sniffled throughout the whole thing out of angst for him, the untimely loss of one of our number, and the fact that I knew that if I were in his shoes - if one of my sisters were in a coffin, I simply could not cope. Screw being brave and respectful. I would go to pieces. I can't even entertain the idea for a second.

We entered the crematorium to The Lord of the Rings theme, and left to Monty Python's Always Look on the Bright Side of Life. The stories told during the service were about the our friend's misadventures, the harmless trouble he would always get into, and the fact that the majority of us - if we were to put a bet on it, would never have put our money on him doing something so mundane and unspectacular as slipping away as he dreamt. The quirky exit tune summed him up brilliantly.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a pub that he used to work and drink in. It was lovely seeing so many familiar faces and hearing about how their lives after school are flourishing. People are climbing the career ladder, hooking up and sprouting children left right and centre. It made me happy to learn that the people I know and love are all getting along just fine in grown-up land. Seeing everyone together in one place, brought together by one person alone made me feel lucky to be part of such a web of caring, fun people. It was a shitty thing that brought us there, but it was also reassuring that no matter how far apart we've all drifted that we are all still connected.

I promise my next post'll be a silly one. I just needed to get today out of my system.

Here's a song for you to enjoy. I loved it before, but now it holds even more meaning for me:

Monty Python - Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life

Why I Should Never Teach

Since leaving university with my fancy pants degree (i.e my incredibly expensive bit paper with ENGLISH typed onto it), roughly every six months or so, I decide that maybe I should share my bottomless wisdom with the world (pfft!) and give something back to society by becoming a teacher.  I think this has more to do with my freakish love for the educational system than any true vocational calling, as during these flirtations with career choice, I often forget that:

1. I'm terrified of most people, let alone children.  And when I do meet a child, I'm torn between stiffly patting them on the head, shaking their hand, or running madly around with them, gaining their trust and then proceeding to steal their sweets.  I don't have a natural affinity with those vertically challenged mites.
2. Even the mere prospect of public speaking makes me want to theatrically piss my pants just so that I can escape the situation.
3.  I have a serious problem with eye contact.  I can barely maintain eye contact with my nearest and dearest for prolonged periods.  How am I supposed to hold the attention of 30-odd kids or teens for an hour at a time?  And how will I know which kid is which if I can't bloody look at them?!
4. I use "colourful" language so often that curse words have become second fucking nature to me in my everyday twatting speech.  Fuck.
5. I am incredibly clumsy.  Accidents find me.  After thousands of pounds' worth of teacher training, I will be sacked on my first day for smacking a child full on in the face whilst making big hand gestures as I speak.  And if not for that, I will be forcefully escorted from the building for tripping over my feet and ended up landing face first in some poor, traumatised teen's lap. 

Further proof of how terrible a mentor to the adults of tomorrow I would be came today, when I was asked to show the new girl at work how some simple stuff is done in the office.  It turns out my natural approach to teaching is:

• Getting on with what I do normally, but at twice the speed to get the demonstration over and done with.
• Talking at lightspeed, without pause - therefore leaving no time for the new girl's questions but lots of opportunity for me to stammer and make even less sense than normal.
• In a frenzied bid to make new girl feel welcome, nodding way too much at everything she says and laughing like a nutter every time she opens her mouth:

N.G: "Could you pass me the stapler?"
Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHA!!...Oh.  Yes."

• In further bid to make new girl feel at home and reassured, every time she makes a small mistake, instead of correcting her, I word-splurge apologetically about it and hope she gets the point:

"No, we don't normally put that there, but fuck it, it doesn't matter - leave it there, it's a stupid rule anyway.  Filing stuff away.  Put it there.  Or wherever you want.  Sorry.  It's okay there. Or whatever. HAHAHAHA!"

Constantly tell new girl that I am a crap teacher and that "they" never should have trusted clumsy old me to show someone what to do. Don't know why they've not fired me yet.  Ho ho, ha ha.

Mess.



Think I'll stick to the pursuit of earning money with sweet, sweet words.  At least then I won't have to tell anybody what to do...

 

Apple Zombie

I have three hours to myself today before heading to the matriarch's for food and meeting a few friends to remember an absent friend. How have I chosen to spend these quiet few hours? By downloading iTunes to my PC, listening to playlists on the iPad using 8Tracks (brilliant app of you haven't got it!) and uploading music to my iPhone 4.

To Apple I pledge my soul, apparently!

What a sellout.

Hope you're all having a lovely Easter weekend.

More On A Passing

Hearing about a school friend's passing away the other day knocked something a bit off-kilter in my way of thinking.

I feel numb/almost shamefully indifferent about it one moment, and then I'll burst into tears of grief and shock in another. I've fallen asleep crying and woken the next morning with a sense of guilt that I don't feel as awful as is required of me. I don't think my brain knows what to do with the information that I'll never see that familiar face again. It doesn't know where to put it and therefore how to treat it. Right now, death to my brain is a mostly foreign body as I've not experienced it since the age of nine. Nearly sixteen years ago.

The news has made it dawn on me just how meaningless life is. And I don't mean that in a let's-just-slit-our-wrists-and-be-done-with-it kind of way. It's actually lifted a huge amount of pressure from my shoulders. I constantly berate myself that I'm not living life to the fullest. I'm not rich, I'm not super-skinny and model beautiful, and (the one I kick myself over the most) I'm not happy 24/7.

Only now it's hit me. In the end, you don't get brownie points or marks out of ten. There is no grade you have to make in order to pass or fail at life. No one is going to be there to give you a prize or a pat on the back. No reward follows death.

Sounds depressing as fuck, but this knowledge feels quite freeing to me. I spend so much time thinking that I'll need (insert thing here) in order to be happy and in order to make my life "worth it." That's basically my brain telling me "well you can't be happy now, because you don't have this thing yet! Let's obsess over that and then get depressed about the fact that you can't get it!"

Fuck it, though! Who cares? Even if I do make millions on writing some book, and even if I learn to overcome my self-sabotaging behaviour and my weird relationship with food, those things would be nice, but I'm not going to be around in the years following my slipping from this world flipping back through my achievements, smugly going "yeah, I did quite well, didn't I?" because I simply won't...be.

I know I'll continue to have mood swings, bouts of crushing insecurity and moments of head rending anxiety. The only difference now is that I finally accept that this is fine. Because it has to be. And I don't have to reach some emotional nirvana to simply get on with living my life as it happens. Sometimes life just plain sucks balls, and others it's great. You get what you're given and then you're gone. That in itself is more than enough for me - I won't fail at life, because I can't.

Egg Head

Taking my magnificent, egg-like forehead for a "run" along Aberavon beach today. Who needs Botox when you can just freeze your face off naturally? C'mon, Spring! Where you at,mun?!

Sad News, Gay Poem

I learned today that someone from my social circle and someone I more or less grew up maybe not exactly with, but in parallel with died in their sleep this week. The second I got home, I cried like a little kid and then felt immediately guilty for it because I don't feel that I was close enough to him to be allowed to feel the grief I did. I'm not his brother nor the housemate who went to wake him only to find that he couldn't. I've pissed around with him on nights out and made small talk with him at gatherings of mutual friends. He was silly, snarky and chilled, and the first person I know personally of my age group that has passed away.

The news shifted something in my perspective. My problems aren't problems at all. I should be grateful for what I have, because any one person in my life could be gone on the other side of tonight's sleep. I thought somewhere deep down that being relatively young meant that we were indestructible. Death was something that happened to people you don't directly know and the elderly. Not to you and your friends. Not now.

Sorry about the tone of today's post. No funnies today. Just a poem that he would have taken the piss out of me for writing. I think he would accuse it of being "gay." My thoughts are with and cannot stop drifting back to his closest friends and family.

The First Of Many

And so our little generation
Starts to show some wear.
You, the first thread plucked,
And with you ebbs away
A small but so incredibly significant
Trace of warmth.

We were indestructible once
In summers of "study"
Lying, basking fatly,
Our fingers spread between sun and metal.
Our minds between vodka softened then
And fresh, unmade now.

It would be you, court jester
To slip so quickly away
At the first bloom and fade
Of frightful, matte reality -

To go
And not like the the rest of us
Begin to truly know
That what comes next is nothing.
May you rest in peace.

Weekend Roundup: Sucky Faces, Superman & Foot Fluff

This weekend went a little differently to normal. The highlight of my Saturday was purchasing the very first vacuum cleaner I've ever bought myself - a Henry Hoover. One of the most grown-up purchases I've ever made, and I insisted that I needed it to have a face on it. Henry and I are getting along famously. He's nothing short of fricking awesome with his majestic, impressively sucky nose. I have hoovered the house twice in as many days, which is more times than I did aaaall last month! Maybe everything I dislike doing should have a big ole smiley face on it to up the novelty factor and make me do it. Can you put a smiley face on mornings?

Today, after vacuuming the house for the second time and settling myself down in front of the Xbox to gleefully sap all the productivity from my day off like sucking poising from a snake bite, I received a text from A. He needed a lift to A&E after training for his football (soccer) coaching course had gone a bit tits up for him. A tackle had left him unable to walk on one of his feet.

Got to the hospital where A was urged to bounce like a human pogo stick to the doctor's room to be prodded, poked, x rayed and sodomised (I don't know what they do in those rooms. Just hazarding a guess).

I'm fortunate in that I've rarely had to sit in the accident and emergency section of a hospital. And so on the rare occasions when I do have to go, I fully expect to be met with a gory scene of spraying blood and bawling adults rolling around on the floor in agony as their limbs dangle from their bodies, held on only by thin strips of flesh...Like a hammed up world war movie scene. Not so. Just a group of well behaved people politely obeying the unspoken, unwritten waiting room rule of "Thou shalt not speak....but though shalt quietly cough from time to time to prove that there is actually something wrong with you and that you deserve to be seen next".

I was in that waiting room for a good hour or so (quite speedy compared to the usual bellyaching you hear about the NHS....Politics, motherbadger! Go team NHS!) on my tod, and here is what I saw:

- Woman on crutches wearing a Superman hoody. Unsure if the hoody was intentionally ironic. Made me smile either way.

- Small child of unknown diagnosis (she had a bit of a puffy eye...allergic reaction?)torturing her littler brother by shouting "Iiiii'm infecteeeed!!" and running after him as he frantically tried to flee her diseased clutches.

- Teenager proudly showing off what looked like a large dog bite to a modest crowd of "oooh"ing people.

- Other teenage girl of a curvier stature in bum flashing denim hotpants and those fake-suspenders-type tights making the gaggle of pensioners present gasp and giggle like toddlers watching You've Been Framed (british clip show mostly featuring people falling over and accidentally flashing their pants - popular before we found Youtube and cat videos). "You can see her bottom, Doris!"

A eventually called me over to the waiting room he'd been wheeled to, and I got to see the INSIDE OF HIS FOOT WHERE ALL THE BONES ARE! I haven't seen many x-rays in my time either... and, and, I got to watch them put the plaster on his foot! Nurse practitioner declared that there is a little knobble on the x-ray that looks unusual and "a bit fluffy" (direct quote) and that we'll have to go back in and get it checked on again tomorrow to see if it's actually broken.

Next on the agenda for our Sunday adventure fun times was to rescue A's Volkswagen Golf from the leisure centre car park it was sitting abandoned in. As the only one of us with two functioning ankles, I had to drive A's car. To give you a background of my driving experience, it took me a year after passing my test to stop squealing like a pig whenever I hit a bump in the road, and every car I have owned was and is the power equivalent of a hair dryer...and not even a fancy, expensive hair dryer. In cars, instead of horse power, I opt for donkey power.

Ass power, if you will.

Compared with my car, A's Golf has the power of an army of asses, and I never want to drive it again, as I may inadvertently kill someone else or myself. You might have noticed that I have included less swear words in this post than normal...this is because in a fifteen minute drive, I've used up an entire week's quota of F-bombs and S...grenades (..?). A girl racer I will never be.

Anyhoo, home now, along with A and his fluffy foot. Any footballers out there, take heed - tackle correctly, or risk being the reason someone loses their footballing career to foot fluff. No one wants to be that guy.

*solemn head shake*

Here's a photo of the injured bit of the patient's anatomy. Please leave messages of sympathy, well-wishing or condolences for A's foot in the comments box below (please do! The attention might distract him for a moment so that I don't have to pick things up for him for a while. I'm trying to play on Tumblr. Cheers!)

Hope your weekend was smashing, darlings!

Taxes, Motherfucker!

Sorting out my taxes, because I'm one grown up motherfucker!

.... Once I've finished throwing back coffees and stopped taking pictures of how grown up I'm being.

Shit, this looks quite difficult, actually...

Game Of Thrones: A Belated Review

So, I've started watching Game Of Thrones. I'd heard from several sources that it's good and worth a watch..also that everyone on the planet has watched it and I'm the only one left to catch up.

That being said, I did do a bit of heel digging before I parked my bum on the sofa and finally gave it a go. Reason being that all reviews I had were from people who enjoy the female form in a different way to the way I do(I.e "yeah, it's really good! The women are so fit and there's loads of sex!! Oh the sex!!" Etc...kind of. It's not a direct quote...but feel free to use "oh, the sex!" In future if you so choose). All I knew about it was that I was about to subject myself to many hours of bare boobage. I knew nothing of the plot line or characters. For all I knew, it was about a bunch of kings and queens gaily flashing their genitalia at each other whilst a court jester danced around spanking their bare bottoms with a lute.

Or if I only had the title to go by, the world's first game of musical chairs.

I'm three episodes deep now. I'm in love with a ballsy, sword wielding child and have sworn that if I ever consider reproduction, I'm either having one of her or none at all. I've been introduced to a surprisingly eloquent prozzy boinking imp and yeah, rather a lot of boobs.

But, see, even the boobs are good! The boobs I'm being subject to are not the balloonish bubbles hanging off of painfully arched frames like the ones I'm accustomed to seeing in music videos and other forms of popular culture. The boobs of Game of Thrones are as human and unique to each girl as a fingerprint or a face. Boobs that aren't identikit floatation devices hoiked and strapped into place solely for men to look at. Boobs that make me look at them and go "yes! Mine don't stay put when I lie down either! I'm normal! NORMAL!!!"

I have nothing against surgically altered lady bubbles, as long as they are only bought for the woman wearing them's benefit. And that's another topic for another day. All I'm saying is that I'll continue to watch the band of grumpy faces and furry coats (and gawwwjuss dire wolves! I know they're meant to be badass, but aww, lookit the puppiiiiiieees!) to my heart's content, and it won't be in spite of the "look, boobies!!" factor. In fact, I will be mentally high fiving my shirtless sisters whenever I make eye contact with their many splendoured and varied nipples.

Hurrah!

Relationships: How To Make Yourself Miserable

1.  Analyze everything he/she says, because they obviously have an agenda.

2.  Tar all members of his/her sex with the same brush.  He/she is of that gender and therefore must be a liar/cheater/crazy bitch/emotionally needy person (circle as required).

3.  Refuse to trust a word he/she says, because someone with the same private parts (same kind - not exactly the same.  Too weird.  Penis twiiiins!!) hurt you this one time.

4.  Constantly worry about how you weigh up to their exes.  Sure, he/she is with you now - but they were with him/her before...so there must have been something they liked about them.  Something they had that you don't. 

5.  Spend every hour of every day wondering when he/she will figure out that you're not all you're cracked up to be and leave you when they realise how gross/dumb/ugly you are compared to the plethora of better people out there waiting for them.

6.  Your partner is being quiet/grumpy/distant: Blame yourself and rack your brains through the hundreds of things you might have done that made them this way.  Await your imminent dumping in between parroting "Are you okay?  Have I done something wrong?  Tell meee!!"

7.  Totally rely on the moods and affections of one person to act as the foundations of your already shaky self confidence.

8.  Don't do anything for yourself.  Only do what makes him/her happy.  Torture yourself if you feel you have failed in any way to do this.

9.  Forget to like yourself because you're too busy focusing on him/her.

10.  Forget that whatever happens between you two (great or horribly painful), you will eventually emerge from it okay.  Because, in the end, you have to be.

Want!!

Readers...help a bruddah out.

Where can I get my grubby, greedy mitts on this in the UK??

Why Sleep Is Bad For You (Me)

Britain is a nation that when not discussing the weather or food, it is talking about how much sleep it's had. We refuse to win when it comes to catching some ZZZs. The number of ZZZs accumulated are always either too few, resulting in caffeine induced mood swings, or too many, resulting in the sleeper being "over tired" upon waking - That strange phenomenon where you sleep so much that it knackers you out. Another term for this condition is "being a student". I am allowed to say this because I used to be one. Not bitter or anything about no longer being one.

Boo you students.

God, I miss drinking snakebites at midday...Made everything so much more interesting.

As I mentioned in a post a few days ago, I've clocked up an impressive amount of hours in the sack this past fortnight because I seem to be on a run of late-starting shifts where I get to rise from my crypt after nine o clock before having to head to work.

Score. Or so I thought.

Getting at least eight hours of coma time a night has not been the refreshing, health-giving experience I'd expected. Quite the opposite. Since starting my run of lie-ins, these things have happened:

- I have developed some kind of aggressive cold that is making my throat, ears and nose itch on the inside, turning me into a meat sack of itchy fury that sounds like it chain smokes.

- I've not been allowed to complain that I've slept too much. Turns out people don't like people who don't appreciate the fact that they've been allowed to linger in bed longer than them. What gives?

- My brain has melted into some kind of jellyfish that cannot function in daylight hours. It only wakes up at about 4am, when it showers me with an array of disturbing dreams that make me question my sanity.

- I have had no motivation whatsoever to move my body any more than is absolutely necessary. And by necessary, I mean when I need to bring food to my face.

Don't sleep, kids. It's bad for you. Because at least when you're kicking your mind's ass with Red Bull, it's stressed enough to think thoughts deeper than "That was a weird dream I had last night. Is lunch soon?"

Picture pretty much sums up last night's festivities. House party followed by boogies at a gay bar. Met some new people, was told by a white, homosexual gentleman that I "dance alright for a white girl" and stroked the inside of a dead hare's face. Standard.

Wet Dreams and Happy Meals

I know! I know why I can't write anything good this week!

I've dreamed all of my mojo away. Wet dreams of creativity, if you will. I've spent the past few nights enthusiastically beating my forehead with my fists for ideas, and now I realise why they're not happening!

You recall my post about the fucked up dreams I've been having? Well, I've been working late shifts at the office for the last couple weeks, which start closer to midday than actual, terrifying, soul-draining morning. This means a fortnight of nine hour sleeps for this she-thing. I'm so well rested physically that I could run up the walls and scurry across the ceiling if I wanted to.

Trouble is that mentally, I'm even less perky than normal. Add this to my total lack of common sense that I'm blessed with on my "surprisingly well-functioning" days, and I'm basically a mindless terrier, shaking with pure energy.

All of my creative (for want of a better word) thoughts are going into giving me dreams so lucid and disturbing that I have to talk myself back down to reality every time I hear the alarm clock. Last night, I dreamed that A decided that we needed to buy a flat. In an ex mental asylum. That was kind of still a mental asylum (for want of a more p.c term) with actual horror movie mentals still living in it. I've also had another one where I had a heart attack whilst at my day job cleaning my mum's mansion (fyi - she lives in a modest 2 bed semi-detached abode and cleans for a living herself. No mansions) and couldn't call for any help because at that precise moment, I lost my voice. When suddenly I woke up at 4am panting and palpitating, my first instinct was to run to the bathroom and check in the mirror to see if I was looking a bit heart-attacky.

Seriously, brain. What?!

I've come to the conclusion that sleep is bad for me and that I should no longer do it. I hereby renounce sleep.

On an unrelated note, here's a picture of a tiny mouse thing that a human child (A's niece. I haven't neglected to inform you of any spawning on my part) gave me from her McDonald's Happy Meal, because she thought I'd enjoy it more.



Lookit its cyoot little FACE!!

Chill. The Fuck. Out.

I have a post for you! Yippee hooraaay! After my previous plea for inspiration, I decided to give up on blogging completely for the evening by forcing myself to do something that I rarely do. Relax. There are only two activities that can make this pent up ball of "aaagh!" chill out, and I can't do one of them because he's sleeping (haha, I can hear you sicking up in your mouths as I type!), so I did the other - I took a bath. At eleven at night when I should really be sleeping too. It's way past my bed time, you guys.

A good chunk of my post ideas come to be while I'm in the bath or shower - now there's a mental image that'll stick with you. Sorry! Something about being immersed in skin sloughingly hot water makes my mind go a bit melty round the edges, freeing it of all my usual self inflicted destructive thought patterns (I'm not joking - my brain's voice is like the Magic Roundabout theme. Deeply unsettling and without apparent end.), so that the ideas get a shot at swimming to the top.

I wasn't exaggerating when I said that there is very little that I can do to relax. I think I was born without that bit of the brain. If I'm not doing something productive, then I'm losing precious seconds as I'm forever inching closer and closer to death and GOOD GOD, DO SOMETHING NOW, FOR YOU COULD DIE AT ANY MOMENT!! ACHIEVE STUFF IMMEDIATELY!!!!

So, naturally, most typically "relaxing" activities aren't for me. I will give you some of my reactions to things that are supposed to calm people down and make them all peaceful and shit:

- Reading a book: I like that character! I HATE that character! Actually, they're alright now. Even kind of loveable. Wait. Why are bad things happening?! Aww, it all worked out in the en-.....WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DIED??

- Jogging: I'm doing great! Look at me go! Lovely day, nice smooth road....getting a bit out of breath now, actually. Must have got quite far...keep going...all good...fuck...have to stop. Get breath...back.

*turns around*

How can I still see my front door from here?!

- Listening to slow music: So many emotions!! Who did this to you to make you so sad? I will hunt them down and kill them for you and we will run off into the sunset begin a new life together!

- Watching TV: Wasting time wasting time wasting time...why aren't I doing anything productive? Maybe if I clean something while I watch it, it'll alleviate the guilt...

*knocks over lamp with arse as turns around to watch pivotal scene*

Ah, fuck. Forgot I couldn't multi task. Wait. What happened? Did someone die? Stupid lamp!!

- Comfort eating: I LOVE FOOD SO MUCH, IT MAKES ME WANT TO DANCE!!....I feel sick.


I think it's pretty evident that I am not a chilled out person, and I don't expect I'll ever be. At twenty five, I think I am an adult equivalent of a toddler bombing around the house between fits of crying, raging, snacking and uncontrollably laughing until they eventually pass out suddenly at the end of each day from pure exhaustion... Only to arise wise the sun and do it all again, much to their long suffering family's detriment. And I think I'm alright with that. Sometimes. Maybe. I mean, should I be alright with that? Or is it bad for my health? Maybe I should Google it. Ooh, I haven't watched 30 Rock yet, have I? No, TV is laziness and laziness is wastefulness. I'm hungry. Is it midnight already??

*collapses*

S.O.S

I have serious writer's block, peeps.  Help!


What do you want from meeee??

A Fun Game

Okay. So. I'm off the Eng-uh-lund for a night out tonight as the tag-along girl on a lad's (haha iPad keeps changing "lad's" to "lady's" ...sassy little tablet!) night out. I was going to do a post about general drunken behaviour or something along those lines, but I'm now thinking I'll opt for something a little more interactive. You can play along!

Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to...The Pisshead Checklist....Gaaaame!

Fine, I'll never win my millions by thinking of names for board games. It's simple. I'm going to list the typical things I've been known to of a night out, and when I get back, I'll tell you which happened. Whoever guesses the most correctly wins..something. Awesome points. Here goes. Will I....?

1. Accidentally offend someone by mimicking their accent. What? People like that, don't they??

2. Buy rounds of drinks for people I don't/ barely even know because I'm drunk. And drunk me doesn't think money is real. And that shots buy people's love.

3. Fall over in my excitement because "they're playing my song!!!" FYI all of Drunk Becky's songs are her song.

4. Decide that I should be someone's wing man and "help them out" by shoving them into circles of strange women.

5. Make bff's with a woman in the toilets that I've never seen before and will never see again.

6. Attempt to make small talk with the bar staff:

What I think I'm saying: "good evening, sir! I hope your shift is a pleasant one. May I have a Strongbow?"

What bartender hears: "hahaha, hi! Have you seen my shoes? I like your face! Drink! Strongbow!! Dancing, hurry HURRY!" *hurls fistful of coins in bartender's direction and clacks back to dance floor*

7. Dance with my arms getting higher and higher as the night progresses until I am just thrashing with my palms to the ceiling.

8. Promptly have a mental breakdown at 3a.m. Kind of like Cinderella. But instead of my dress turning to rags, my thin veneer of sanity falls away, leaving me gasp-sobbing totally unprovoked. Until I hear MY SONG, immediately cheer up and return to the dance floor.

9. Dance-off.

10. Despite the fact that I shrink away from other people's cameras like that witch from The Wizard of Oz (I'm meeeltiiiiing!!) in my sober state, I leap into other people's photographs like I've been let out on day release.

11. Claim that I'm "channelling" a celebrity. So far, I've been Kesha, Beyonce, Will Smith and Bear Grylls. Whoever could be next?

12. All of the above.



......my bet's on number 12.


EVERYBODY LOOK AT MY DRESS!!!

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of Lesbians & Rednecks

So, my attempts to win A's attention over the Xbox failed. Can't think where I went wrong. I was trying to be romantic!

Me: Hey. Hey. *poke* Hey!

A: What?

Me: Would you still love me if I had no teeth?

A: No.

Me: Are you thure? Look! Look how thexy thith ith!

I continue to gum "sexily" in front of A until I eventually get bored and wander off for attention elsewhere. Facebook entertains me for five minutes while a friend tells me about a near fatal tooth brushing accident she had today (birds of a feather stick together). I make sure that the bleeding has stopped. She assures me it has. I tell her to keep me updated if she does feel she might die tonight and move on to Blogspot.

And now here I am!! I came here to talk to you because I know you'd love me even if I had no teeth in my mouth and a big, bald head full of spots! Heh.

...I mean, you would, wouldn't you?

Truth be told, I wasn't sure what I'd write about because I'm still going through some kind of Tina Fey obsession that's taking up a worrying amount of my time and mental processes. So, I thought I'd go for that usual small talk that people just love to hear!

1. The weather: It's Wales. It's cold. It's wet. Next!!

2. Dreams: I have an overactive imagination (yes, it's true!!), and this still rings true while I'm sleeping. I don't tend to get the ones about flying or falling. Mine tend to veer more on the psychotic and weirdly detailed side than that. Funnily enough, the most recurring one I get is a frighteningly vivid one about all my teeth falling out. Huh. Am I seeing into the future? A never seems to be in them, so maybe I am!

Anyway. For any hip and funky wannabe psychoanalysts out there care to take a wade through the murky, piranha infested depths of my sleeping brain, here are a few recent gems. One with a highly accurate pictorial version at the bottom of this page. Oh, how I spoil you so!

Dream #1: I am at a trendy, dark bar full of beautiful, sophisticated lesbians in their thirties, as this is my age and sexual orientation now. Bit of a surprise because I thought I was a hetero in my mid twenties, but hey ho, sometimes you skip a decade and wind up in a gay bar for the gorgeous *hair flip*. Who am I with? Oh, I remember now! I'm with my best friend Holly - wait...my wife Holly. Funny how you forget these things! We've come out (see what I did there? SEE IT?!) on one of our nights out, leaving behind our home full of cats (really, brain? Can you get any more stereotype-y??). What a laugh we have at these things! Such fun, isn't it Holly?

...Holly? Oh, Holly's over the other side of the room fawning over some tall, blonde giantess in a black and silver sparkly bra. They must be friends. I'll go over to say hi. Maybe she's my friend too.

Holly: "Hmm? Oh. Sorry. I like this girl now. She has a better bra on than you."

Me, dumstruck: "Oh.."

Holly: "And I want a divorce."


Dream #2: At home with A and a few others because I live in shared accommodation, just like I did in uni. A's got a friend staying over with us. A timid, bird-like girl who won't come out of her room. Aren't we nice, housing the cripplingly shy like this? So nice. I head up to my room to do some blogging after a long day's sitting around. Bird Girl peeps her doe-eyed face around her door frame and "pssts" at me to come in and talk to her. I'm touched that she wants to speak with me. Perhaps I can coax her out of her shell by giving her a make over by taking off her glasses like in those films I used to watch as a teenager. Oh, wait, she doesn't have glasses. We can get her some glasses and then dramatically take them off!

Me: "What's up? You okay?

Bird Girl: "I'm okay. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Me: "Yeah? Why?"

Bird Girl: "I slept with your boyfriend."

Me, baffled: "Oh right...How come?"

Bird Girl: "He said we needed to sleep together to see if there's any chemistry, so I'm staying over for a bit to see if it works out between us. Is that okay?"

Bird Girl looks so adorable and timid that I can't help but laugh and pat her on the tiny head.

Me: "It's okay, I'm not angry."

I hug Bird Girl and serenely leave the room as forgiving and placid as an angel. Or Jesus. I am girl Jesus. I float down the stairs, saving my strength ready for when I beat the living shit out of A for making Bird Girl feel bad about herself.


Dream #3: I am the host of a gameshow. The contestants are heavily stereotypical rednecks. I ask them multiple choice questions, and if they get enough right, they win their children back.


What do these dreams say about me? Anyone want to hazard a guess? Or am I better off not knowing?

So.....

Heeeey guuuuys... I promise you that I was going to write an awesome, mind-blowing blog post tonight, I really was, honest.... But I've just found out that I am the last person on the planet to discover how brilliant 30 Rock is, and I am now in some kind of weird Tina Fey vortex thing, and I can't stop eating frozen yogurt, sooo...

...yeah. There's that. Picture evidence?

Yes. Yes. Sorreee!! Yes. Oops.

I am inflicted with Britishness, and I think it might be terminal. It will be my undoing one day. I'm convinced that if I don't die by tripping over something electrical or accidentally setting myself on fire, I will die as a direct result of my overcompensatory politeness.

"No, you go in front of me, I'm in no hurry at all, haw haw....aaaaagh!" *taking a step back, plummets off the edge of a cliff*. Okay, I'm not too sure what I'd be queuing for on a cliff edge (ice cream?), but that's beside the point!

I'm calling it Britishness, because it sounds much more twee and adorable than "doormat" or "people pleaser." I can't help it. If I feel in any way that I am the cause of someone's bad day, no matter how indirectly, my mood plummets to my pasty Wenglish (Welsh/English - I'm a mutt) toes. So I guess you can say that my knee-jerk selflessness is selfishness, because it keeps me happy. No such thing as a selfless act, people!

It's nice to be friendly. People like it when you're polite. In fact, institutionalised politeness is what makes me love being able to say that I, sir, am a Brit! That and the tea. God, we have good tea. Oh, and Matt Smith. We have Matt Smith too.

Here are some lovely things about British behaviour:

* We spontaneously form queues everywhere, and are sweetness and light to anyone who sticks to the laws of the queue. Off with anyone's heads who dare cut in, though. Prepare to be tutted at viciously, lawless heathens!

* Tea is the answer to everything. Had a bad day? Aww. Have some tea. Been fired? Tea will make you feel better. Lost all your limbs and one eye in a freak queuing accident? There's a tea for that....hang on, let me get a straw...

* That jiggy little dance we do when two people are walking towards each other and oops! We both went the same way to get past each other! Oops, we seem to have done it again! Look at us two sillies. Oops! Tell you what, you go first. No, no, after you! Oops! People have starved to actual death this way.

These things can be quite sweet in isolation. Trouble is, I take it too far. It's innate. I know how un-sassy it sounds, and how narked off High Priestess Beyonce would be to see me allowing myself to be walked all over in the way that I do, but it's so deeply ingrained in me that if my self deprecating, clunking martyrdom was taken from me, I would be nothing but a cake-eating, brainless drone (shut up, I'm not quite there yet!). I am motivated by the desire to please (And by cake). Here's how I can sometimes take the politeness thing a step or twelve too far:

- Kiss matching. My sister recently pointed out that I am a shameless kiss matcher. If someone sends me kisses at the end of a text, I have to match the number of kisses in my reply exactly. This stems from a fear of looking either too cold or too needy. For this reason, sister dearest now sends me kissless texts, followed by messages with streams of xxx's, purely to fuck with my head because I don't know what's coming next. It's driving me insane.

- I'm a Yes Man. A knows this. And while he doesn't push it too far by going down the chauvinist twatbag route of "Make me a sandwich, wench maiden!" (I draw the line at wench. *eye twitch*), he take the slyer route of unsubtly talking about tea a lot.

A: "You know what I fancy? Some tea."

Becky: "Yeah?"

A: "Yeah."

*silence as A and I continue what we were doing (generally: A shouting "cunts!!" at people who aren't playing nice on Call Of Duty, me staring into the Abyss...otherwise known as the iPad), knowing full well what my internal monologue is saying to me underneath my fringe*

Internal monologue: He's not asked for tea, so it doesn't count as him asking you to do something. And he makes all the food because we pretend to be allergic to cooking. It'd be a nice thing to do...

Becky: No, internal monologue, I always make the tea! It's high time he makes the tea. And he knows that if he says "tea" I'll end up making some. He already thinks he's Derren Brown. Crafty git! Not this time!

Internal monologue: What's that feeling? Is that a craving? You want tea now that he's mentioned it, don't you? Tea is like crack to you, isn't it?

Becky: No. I could quit any time. It's not a craving.

Internal monologue: I think it is, you know...

Becky: Ahh, for fuck's sake!

Becky out loud: I'm fancy some tea. Do you want some?

A: What a great idea. Thanks! *hands me mug* Cunts!! Stop camping, I can see you hiding behind that wall!!! *rapid gunfire*

- I apologise to people who walk into, shoulder barge or run over me (latter not happened in reality, but I'm confident that "sorreee!" would be my immediate reaction).

- I will agree to any request made by work, especially if it's done in a nice way. Beck, will you would six days for us this week? Sure! Beck, will you stay a bit later to help finish off this paperwork? Yeah, why not! Beck, will you sign over your soul and all your belongings to the company for nothing in return bar eternal damnation and a regular ritualistic bumming by the dark lord himself? Of course, I will! Where do I sign?

I don't really have a conclusion to this post... Can anyone tell me what I need to write to sum it up? I await further instruction.






On a serious note, I'd love suggestions for topics from any readers out there in the big wide blogosphere! Leave me a comment and let me be your verbal puppet! Dance puppet, dance! *dances like a Thunderbird*

p.s if you are old enough to know what a Thunderbird is, you are awesome.

Run, Bitch, Ruuuuun!!!

Yes, Russell Kane was marvellous last night, thanks for asking! I wept with laughter when he talked about him and his brother mentally torturing each other as they were growing up. Reminded me of me and the middle lil sis (as opposed to the lil-lil sis) when we were kids. Only if you've got a brother or sister can you experience mutual love and pure, boundless hatred for the same person at once at such an early age. I believe it prepares you for further social interaction down the road of this topsy turvy journey we call life - "You are my reason for existing, but I do so wish you wouldn't BREATHE so much!!"

Anyhow, that wasn't the topic I wanted to get into today. I don't so much want to talk about the comedy gig I went to, but something slightly unsettling that happened to me on the way in. I was heckled. On the way into a comedy gig. Irony and that.

A and I were strolling along the shortish stretch of pavement between car and venue, when we spotted a pair "youths" (I'm old enough to refer to teenagers as youths now, yes?) perched on top of the seven foot wall surrounding the Tesco we were passing. My instinctive reaction was to stare unblinkingly at the road in front of me in the most unsubtle way possible of telling them "I have not noticed your presence, young twatlings, for I have places to be. Do not involve me in your mischief."

As one of the human race's lady folk (fuck you, I am SUCH a lady!!), I am used to being heckled by menfolk of all ages. There's a certain type of male that seems unable to hold any of their opinions of you in their head as you get on with your life. I'm pretty sure this breed of man are given extra curricular classes in "shouting things at women", and given a white van upon graduation. I'm not saying that I get the aggressively 'complimentary' type of heckles either, so don't assume I'm trying to tell you that I think I'm so damn irresistible that men have to tell me how good I look all the time. I get the bizarre, backhanded and sometimes plain insulting ones. A couple of examples to demonstrate -

- Walking to my old college's sandwich shop for a bag of crisps, I squeeze past a gaggle of man-children, only about two years my junior. "Does she teach here? I'd still do 'er." Very generous of them, considering they believed I was old enough to be their teacher. Nice, boys. Very nice.

- My personal favourite heckle: Jogging around the lake near my old workplace. A man sticks his head, dog-like out of the passenger window of a car. "RUN, BITCH, RUUUUUUN!!!"

Based on my experience of verbal ejaculate from the less mentally endowed of men (a vast proportion of men don't do this. This is the proportion that we love and will allow to continue breathing), I was fully expecting some charming insult to be coming in mine and A's way. Something along the lines of "Your missus is a minger, mate!". Standard. Instead, what came out of the teenager's gob was so unexpected that I felt my brain stall for a second.

"Hey!" A shrill, pubescent voice called out into the dark "You two make a nice couple!"

What am I supposed to do with that?! I was so busy scanning myself and coming up with no suitable response that I didn't react at all. Just kept on shuffling towards my destination, head down, brow furrowed in thought. Was I supposed to smile beatifically in thanks? Maybe do a little curtsey? That is the sort of thing grown women say to each other in parties. Not wall climbing teenaged boys. That was the politest heckle I've ever had. Perhaps used to having nice things shouted at him in the street ("Lovely hair sir! You have a marvellous face!"), A just laughed and carried on walking while my mind started to hold the compliment aloft like a funny rock I'd found, and look at it from different angles.

It didn't sound like sarcasm to my ears, but then I don't know how sarcasm's done these days. Perhaps it was some kind of hipster sarcasm, where they were doing it so ironically that it sounded sincere? I don't get the hipster thing. How is it possible to like something ironically? You either do or you don't!

Perhaps they were doing something illegal like sniffing on the cracks, or injecting dopes, and the compliment was a knee-jerk reaction to stun potential witnesses to their crime into not noticing what they were seeing. I mean, who else would hang out on a tall supermarket wall in the dark but glue smokers?

I just didn't know what to do with it. I've never come across an overtly friendly teen before. It's not in their nature is it? Hormones suck that niceness from you and holds it captive until age twenty, surely? I was sullen and quiet for a good chunk of the time, in my black curls and luminous pink flares (ironic, of course, because I had my oh-so-gothic black netted top on with them, and eyeliner down to my chin - see hipsters, I was doing irony long before you and your "I love Geeks" t-shirts!), and whenever I was shouting, it was only at my closest loved ones for being FUCKING PRICKS THAT ARE ALWAYS COMING INTO MY ROOM!! It's just...I don't know. At least I know what to do with "Nice tits!" (bore satanically into their soul with your eyes and will them with your mind to spontaneously combust. It's not worked yet, but a girl can try).

Maybe that's why they did it. These were super smart teens who realised that they could shout at me, and there was no negative way I'd be able to react. I couldn't tell them to fuck off because they'd said something nice. Instead, I could only ruminate about it until I drove myself up the wall trying to decipher what it is they really meant by it. Maybe they knew all along that it's better to send someone down a bottomless confusion spiral than to be an out-and-out, admonishable douche.

Those clever, polite little bastards.

Today is a Good Day!

"But today is a Monday! Why is today a good day, Becky?" I hear you ask. "Pray, tell!" Okay then, oddly-spoken scallywags, I will!

- Jennifer Lawrence won best actress at the Oscars and fell over. And this small act of clumsiness made the world (i.e me) love her even more for it (not even my achievement - Oscar, not fall- but it makes me happy nonetheless). Long live JLaw!

- My absolute superstar of a workmate bought me a vanilla Starbucks latte at silly o clock in the morning (FYI, this is the nicest thing you can do for ANYONE on a Monday morning) whilst I was mid serious glare-off with a ringing phone. The phone won.

- I nabbed last minute tickets to see Russell Kane strut his metrosexual stuff this evening.

- I've got a day off work tomorrow! Sure, it's got a trip to the dentist in it, but one takes what one can get...

It's the little things, people! It's the little things.

Owsh!

Welcome To My Office

Today, we are doing some work in bed, on the iPad, in Muppets pj's. While the rest of Swansea is at the pub waiting for the footy to start, I am working... Sadly, it's what I'd rather be doing. Christ, I'm only twenty five! Maybe if I had one of those hard hat/drinking contraption things on I'd come off as cooler?

Or an alcoholic workaholic who hasn't got dressed yet.

Same diff.

Aaaand Relaaaax.....

Okay. So I've decided to relax. Because relaxation isn't something I'm naturally adept at, I have to consciously choose when to have a bash at doing the chillout thing.

I've had a full day at work, ponced about doing a little freelancin' (I'm going to use every opportunity going to tell you that I do freelance work now, because to my dorky little ears, it sounds like to coolest thing EVER!!), and now the time has come to wind down because it's a Friday night and I have the house to myself. Laaahvlee!

But. I'm stressing out. I have to make a decision to relax, and then a plan of action as to how I'm going to do this. I could:

- Sit under a blanket and watch TV
- Play Skyrim until my eyes bleed
- Continue reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, which I'm adoring so far
- Veg in the bath...oooh, I loves a good bath!
- Bung a film on. I borrowed Perks Of Being a Wallflower...

Trouble is, I can't decide which of these things I want to do so, naturally, I'm turning my free time into an opportunity to stress myself out. Which do I want to do the most? What will be the most relaxing thing to do? It's not hard, JUST PICK SOMETHING AND DO IT, YOU ANXIOUS, CRAZY PRICK!!

*breathes into a paper bag*

I should not be allowed free time to myself. It's not good for me.

Ooh, Soots You, Sir!

Hee...working on some freelance-y bits now (because I've had some incredible luck lately that's lead me to a bit of content writing work to beef up the ole CV - NY resolution number one, tick!), and I'm loving that I get to do this for a living. The task I've got in front of me tonight? Research jokes about chimney sweeping!


Q: What did the big chimney say to the little chimney?
A: "You're too young to smoke!!"


lulz. Sometimes, I love working! You guys got any jokes of similar chimney based cheesiness? If so, do me a solid and leave it in my comments area for all to marvel and laugh at against their own good taste and willpower! Also, I can borrow *cough* steal *cough* them for my own professional gain.

Taa much, lovelies! xx

5 Things To Do... Whilst Dying Your Hair

One of my favourite things - of which there aren't a great deal, I admit, about dying my unkempt head-nest is that magical 30-45 minutes that you have to kill between apply and rinse. It's not long enough to properly get stuck into something, and you can't exactly go for a stroll looking like you're channelling a strong There's Something About Mary vibe, so it feels like a kind of time-vortex that you can spend as you please. During my last self-dye job (before the Spockbrow incident), I compiled this list of things to do whilst dying your hair. How very girly of me:

1. Plaster all of your hair flat to your head and imagine how you'd look bald (fit, I bet!). Crank up some tunes and dance, baldy, dance!! Some old faithful tracks from my playlist:

- LippsInc: Funky Town
- Wild Cherry: Play That Funky Music White Boy
- Blondie: Heart Of Glass
- Florence And The Machine: Kiss With A Fist
- Any Blink 182 song. There is no wrong Blink 182 song.

2. Plan to do some work, but instead end up on Youtube for half an hour. Here are some videos that should kill some time:

http://youtu.be/FYfZwDorJsw - Jenna Marbles: What Girls Do In The Bathroom

http://youtu.be/vl6azn-DzeE - My Drunk Kitchen: Ice Cream

http://youtu.be/MYC-waukYWo - Bad Lip Reading: More Twilight

http://youtu.be/PWXsTaBoD7A - Deap Valley: Gonna Make My Own Money (choon!)


3. This requires some prep before you apply the hair dye:

* Remove the contents of your home dye kit and store them somewhere hidden for later use. Put the box back in your bag/ satchel/ skin pouch (if you're a kangaroo/ have evolved skin pockets).

* Tell your housemate/ family/ live-in luuurve buddy that you bought this awesome hair removal stuff today, which is supposed to leave your legs, like sooo smooth for over a month etc. etc. )You can already see where I'm going with this one, can't you, Clever Clogs? Damn, you's smart!).

* Talk about some other stuff for a bit.

* Casually announce that you are off to the bathroom to dye your lustrous mane.

* Apply hair dye, and go back to the person you were talking to.

* Complain about your head itching and ask if they're cooking something, because you can smell burning.

* Pretend to distractedly root through your bag a bit, only to resurface puzzled with the empty dye box that you stashed earlier. Make confused eye contact. Wait for it to dawn on your victim that you have just caked your head in hair removal cream, and judge them based on their reaction.

4. Stand creepily in the window and stare unblinkingly at passers by. Offer the occasional po-faced wave.

5. Eat everything in sight as you think about how to best kill your time. Before you know it, you'll have a bad case of the cookie burps, but time will have flown!

Davina McCall Threatened My Face

I spent my evening at a house party last night, trying my best not to let the fact that I was expecting to turn into the Elephant Man at any given second show. Not exactly how I thought it was going to pan out.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided that it was high time that I covered the badger stripe of brown roots running along the middle of my head, and bought a brand I hadn't used before for a change. And because the Live dye I usually buy is making my hair whiter with each use. Time to tone the colour down a bit lest I start glowing in the dark. Which would be pretty cool, but still...

The fact that the brand is advertised by my new arch nemesis Davina McCall (see older post "Davina McCall Took My Legs") should've set off alarm bells from the beginning. Once I secured my dye, I marched on home and proceeded to chuck the whole lot over my head willy-nilly without doing the advised patch test for allergies. Because I've never had an allergic reaction to dye before, and because I'm a fucking maverick. Thirty mins later, I hopped in the shower to rinse the lovely horse piss smell that blonde hairdye emits off of my head. I conditioned, sang some songs loudly and out of tune and hopped back out to dry my new mane. All good in the hood.

Then I called my mother dearest for one of our lovely chats.

"What you up to then, mum?"

"Not much, waiting for the boiler to be fixed etc etc...(not a direct quote, I'll be honest). You?"

"Just dyed my hair. Lips feel a bit weird, though. Sort of numb."

*audible gasp from other end of line*

"Nah, it's okay. I went running in the cold earlier, so they're probably just dry or something."

"Oh my God, go to a doctor! Are you alone? Is your face swelling? You could go into anaphylactic shock, you could die! People DIE dying their hair!!...etc etc" I laughed it all off and assured her I'd live, and then went about my business. And by business, I mean that I went foraging for snacks that I could drop all over my pyjamas at four in the afternoon. That's just how I roll.

THEN I chanced to glimpse my face side-on in the little portable mirror that lives in my living room. My hand flew up to my mouth, and I felt my pulse quicken. With sweating palms, I inspected my features further. There was definitely a small but noticeable amount of swelling over each of my eyes. Especially the right one. Well, that was it, then. Mum was right. I'm was going to die.

My reaction was the same as that of any internet-loving serial hypochondriac's - I googled the fuck out of my symptoms. Obviously no good can come of this. I was treated to pages upon pages of horror stories about people's faces ballooning overnight to the size of footballs. All of them included graphic pictures of faces that resembled giant potatoes with creases for eyes, but no solution as to what you should do when you think you're going to experience an explosion of the face. A facesplosion, if you will. So, I lay in the dark in bed at five pm because I'd decided that if I was going to have to accept my fate as the wearer of a giant, pus-leaking head, I'd rather be napping through some of it.

After an hour or so, A returned from work to find me lying in the fetal position under the covers, still wide awake and freaking out.

"Don't look at meee!"

Anyway, you don't need to know every single detail of the night that followed, but as you've already read, I went to the house party. I'm not blogging from a hospital bed either, so all is well and normally proportioned on the face front. Instead of looking like the Elephant Man, my deformation only got as far as Crap Extra From Star Trek. Most of what little swelling I had stayed hidden under my fringe like a good allergic reaction, and my face didn't eat my eyes.

Lessons:

- Always patch test for hair dye, even if you dye your hair as often as I do and haven't reacted before.
- If you do experience a reaction, do NOT turn to Google or your mum for advice.
- Davina McCall is the antichrist and can't be trusted.

Happy Sunday, all!

Definitely Not Shaunna

http://definitelynot-shaunna.tumblr.com/post/43272599055/hey-guys-check-out-my-first-video-where-i-talk

Look look look, my lil'est (but still taller than me) sis is a Youtube vlogger! So proud! Patiently awaiting the day she gets Internet famous and hooks me up with Jenna Marbles now... Eee. In this video, she talks about how the Internet broke her and made her socially inept.

*wipes away single tear of pride*

Je Suis En Retard

Ooh! I forgot to tell you about my Frenchman experience from the other night, didn't I? It's not nearly as funny or risqué as it sounds, especially when I refer to it as "The Frenchman Experience", but I feel we've bonded, my anonymous Internet peepsters, so that means that you are now subject to my every waking thought. Until you stop reading, anyway.

Please don't stop reading me! I love you! I can change!!

As a reminder to write about The Experience, I've been walking around all day with the word "French" scrawled on my arm. That in itself amused me. I found myself wondering what people would think if I suddenly died on my way home, and when they found me I would just have this word and no other explanation on my body. Would they think that I'd decided to take up learning the language of luuuurve, several years after taking my GCSE in it and immediately forgetting most of what I'd learned? Maybe they'd see it as a request for a French themed funeral. I hoped for the latter. They could serve everyone baguettes, and all my friends and family could mourn me in kicky little berets and drawn on curly moustaches....sigh. I might go home with the word French written on me every day now. Just incase.

So, The Frenchman Experience... Anyone who's ever learned French in school and not bothered to take it any further that that knows that the sentences they teach you are pretty much totally useless, unless you are in very specific situations. Here are some of the scant sentences I recall from my teens (nobody is allowed to pick these apart - accuracy unlikely here):

- Je suis maladroit: I am clumsy (actually, forget that one. Quite useful).

- Je porter mons pantalons: I wear my trousers. When will I ever need to tell a French person I'm wearing my trousers? This should be a given, shouldn't it? If you have to inform people that you are wearing trousers, then maybe you need to re evaluate your life...

- Ou est la gare?: where is the train station? I don't intend to get lost in France anytime soon, so doubt I'll require this one.

My personal favourite by far, though is "Je suis en retard" - "I am late". Not especially funny, but when you're twelve, and your classmate is being forced by the teacher (who knows what she's doing, she knows!) to tell the class that they are sorry that they are "retard", nothing is funnier.

But, but! On Monday night, I actually got one of these phrases used at me! I had the opportunity to communicate in basic French! I was traipsing down the dark, creepy alley between the gym and my car, behind a lanky and unthreatening looking gentleman with a backpack. In a world of my own, probably fantasising about food (note: I'm never not fantasising about food), I very nearly had a coronary when my tall fellow perambulator suddenly stopped and whirled around to look directly at me. I had such a fright that I didn't hear what he'd said.

"S-sorry?" He smiled, amused at my baffled lady-shock of been suddenly turned on in a dark alley.

"Ou est" he repeated amicably "la gare?"

YES!! I knew this one! I understood what a French guy was saying! And I knew where the train station was. Today was a good day! I beamed at him triumphantly.

And then remembered that I don't know the response to that question in French. Only how to ask it. Trying not to let my inner turmoil show, I continued manically grinning and gestured dramatically up the street we'd just turned off. I think it was my visual equivalent of that speaking in English VERY LOUDLY AND SLOOOWLY that us Brits like to employ when faced with foreign language speakers.

I've never seen a person move so quickly. I didn't even get a "merci". Spose I'd do the same thing in his shoes, if I'd asked him a sensible question and just got mad grinning and flapping in response. Ce'st la vie.

You're Not Unattractive...

So, this post was inspired by a recent string of tweets by Queen Caitlin Moran (see the picture in my downstairs area). She made a joke about one of those spam messages that delightfully inform us useless internet monkeys how we can do the weight loss thing "with this one simple, weird trick!" This tweet resulted in lots of people not wearing their sarcasm hats that day telling her not to worry, because she was beautiful "on the inside." Ouch.

I bet none of those people meant ill. They just wanted their favourite big-haired purveyor of awesomeness to feel good about herself. It put me in mind of when my sister and I were teenagers, and she asked me that burning question that sits at the very core of every teenaged human being(no, not "Will I ever get laid?"... the other burning question...and anyway, that one doesn't burn your core, the area affected is more specif...fucking hell, what? Shut up! This is why we write ROUGH DRAFTS FIRST, Becky! Get on with it already!). The question slapped me in the face like a cold wet fish. I didn't know what to do with it, and it made me feel shocked and uncomfortable.

"Beck, do you think I'm ugly?"

Oh, Christ. I'm slightly older than you, but still a teenager also, so I can't show you any emotion other than grumpy tolerance. I am convinced that I look like a troll smeared in lard and partially melted, and you look a bit like me -being related and all, so I can tell you that I think you look a bit like me... I hate myself too much to even fully acknowledge what you look like. You're just the thing I huff at when I pass it in the hall right now. But no, now that I'm being forced to uncomfortably rate you on your appearance, I don't think you're ugly. You've got a more angular (translated: less guinea piggish) face than me. You're taller, with nicer hair and boobs that don't disappear when you lie down. You already have a cooler taste in music, all clothes look better on you than me... But now that I realise this, I've decided that I hate you. Nothing personal. So, I can't tell you that I think you're prettier than me. But I can't be outwardly horrible to you, because you're clever enough to figure out that I'm just jealous. Right, okay, I've got it.

"Well, you're not unattractive...."

It was horrible. Brutal, even. She still brings it up from time to time to make me feel like a terrible person. We've since developed what passes for an amicable relationship to the untrained eye, and we can even hug now! The hugging took a long progression of back slaps and awkward head pats before we figured out the sisterly embrace. Key: drink.

Point is, there are just some things, no matter how well intentioned they might be, that you cannot say to people without it coming back to slap you in the face. Some things will always sound backhanded, no matter how they're meant. Here are a few I've learned from experience:

- "Wow, I didn't know I was that strong!": This was a recent one. On a night out, with reflexes I didn't know I possessed (I'm a dropper, not a catcher), I rescued a female friend from a high heeled tumble. That was what I said after she thanked me. Thank fuck she saw the funny side!

- "Don't know why they asked me to do this with you. Because I can spell?": Another recent one. Paired with a girl at work to do a task involving writing and recording some answer phone messages. She's got a lovely answer phoney voice and a working brain, so I wasn't sure why I'd been asked to help do a job she's perfectly capable of nailing solo. What I said was meant as a self depreciating joke. Because I've got an English degree, if they want any write-y stuff done at work, they usually asked me. So I was mocking the uselessness of my degree. Probably not the best joke to make in front of a girl who hasn't long informed me she's dyslexic.

- "You're trying your best!": Encouraging ever? No! Why? Because you're inferring that I'm trying my best, rather than being the best. I am, of course, the best at everything. Why would you hint otherwise? Fucknugget.

- "You're not fat..." Yeah? I'm not thin either, am I? Don't skirt around the subject, wuss! I know what you really meeeeean! *sips on gin and sucks back a sob*

- "Your fringe doesn't look that bad!" Oh Christ, I've got a There's Something About Mary going on, haven't I? I need to go home IMMEDIATELY!! *throws gin over shoulder and flounces home.*

.... I have a deep seated issue with my fringe which has lead to the creation of hairspray-puppet head when I go on nights out. But that's a post and a picture for another time. Because I don't get out much these days. I'm not a great drinker anymore. Nor was I ever... Again, diff post, diff times.

What lesson was I trying to teach you here? Oh, yeah. If someone asks you a question that you don't have the answer they want to hear for it, lie. Lie hard and wholeheartedly, like your life depends on it. At least then, your well intentioned enthusiasm might make up for the fact that you're going to Hell for lying to your loved one in some small way. Basically, you can't really win. Unless you light yourself on fire before you have time to answer. Everyone is distracted by fire. Conversation evaded.