A mention for Morisette

I've been re-listening to the wonderful sound of Alanis recently.

I'm no expert; I only have 2 albums of hers. But the quality of the thinking, the emotion and experience behind the work, leaves me in such admiration.

Of course, one of these albums is 'Jagged Little Pill', and having sold somewhere like 30million copies, it's safe to say it's not beyond anyone's attention.

I personally think it's a Masterpiece, but these things are a matter of taste, and often timing.

Lyrically, it's strong, true and universal, regardless of the very seriously personal perspective it was written from.

In it's musical arrangement, it is flawless. The bass, the drums, the percussion, her voice.
Enough rock to rock, enough roll to roll.

I also have 'Under Rug Swept'.

The favourite song on this album is called 'Flinch'. It is really quite something...

It's not in the same league as 'Jagged Little Pill', but it could not possibly be. After all, there is no favourite I can tell you of on that because it a seamless wonder.

But the whole thing is worthy of attention nonetheless, in my humble opinion.

She celebrated the 10th anniversary of 'Jagged Little Pill' very recently, and released an accoustic version of the album.

It is very good. Really well done.


But as I listen to her belt out the original as I post this, there really is nothing quite like it.

Cars from the 70's

Me and my most excellent friend were talking this evening about cars that our parents owned when we were growing up in the 70's.

The list of lost names and consequently I suppose, companies that produced these beauties and beasts, was long, hilarious and kind of sad.

Regardless of which country or manufacturer they came from ( and neither of us are expert in this way, by any stretch), we quickly came up with names like the Sunbeam Rapier, Morris Minor, Wolseley Mini (this was not a name as such I don't think, but my Mum had this weird little mini van type thing!), Hillman Imp and Avenger, Austin Maxi, early Ford Escort's.

And then there were the more glamourous ones younger uncles had, like Mustang's and Stag's, and all other manner of manly sounding business.

It cannot be denied, that as much as cars are apparently safer, and definitely plusher, they just don't sound so goddam sexy!

I love my little car; functional, first and foremost, fun in it's own little nippy way, and kind of cute to look at, it's called a SMART. Good on the ear and the 'rep' for these modern, functional times. But sexy? I guess sexy and smart, but not HOT sounding! Not like 'Rapier'. No siree!

The love of my mum's life drove a Sunbeam Rapier, and she still feels it fitted his bill! Sexy sounding cars, for normal men. Men with famillies. Lovely jubbly!

Focus? Passat?Mondeo? Golf!!??? P-lease!!

And what about the little disaster's from way back when a luxury was 'go faster' stripes and/or gloves?

The Hillman Imp!

Engine at the back and smaller than my SMART!

We were travelling in one, with said love of Mum's life, and the car over-heated (Circa 1974/5?).

He being a big hero, God rest him, decided to take the cap off the radiator, and was instantly sprayed with boiling hot water! He had the presence of mind to turn his back on the spray, but still got a backful of blisters for his troubles. And all with 3 children crushed into the tiny space in the back of the thing! No seat-belts! No need! This was the 70's. We were invincible.

Anyway, he died at aged 27 from Leukaemia, before they'd had a chance to build a real life. I think he'd of been a good sort to have around.

But I digress...

He had a sexy assed car for most of their time together!

These cars were probably a load of pooh, in and on every level, except where it mattered most; to give a sassy little boost to the fellows driving them and the girlies that place their memories and growths and experiences on the passenger seat of them!

The boosted engines and kits the boys have these days are just too planned and desperate.

You got what you got back then.

And it worked. It fitted.

It was worthy of talking about tonight with my buddy.

Spider!!...Oh Man!

I'm not scared of spiders, per se.

I should be. My mum is terrified of the things, and splats them or sucks them up the hoover to a fluffy turbo demise.

I'm happy to capture the slightly larger types and put them outside, or leave them to their own little wonderous world of web weaving if they are small and wispy.

But this story begins about a week ago, when I got up at 6.00am to see Charlie off.

I decided to just stay up, get some housework done, cup of tea, you know the kind of thing, before getting in the bath and ready for work.

I came in to the living room, and caught sight of the darkest spider I have ever seen, and certainly the biggest one in this flat. Thick legs, and a sizeable body. Usually, living 6 floors up, we just get the wispy bathroom type spiders, and they are all good. I can deal with them.

But this was a serious spider, and it was so high up on the wall, that it was too close to the ceiling for me to catch with the old 'glass/piece of paper' trick that I normally employ for such matters. And I would have had to be balancing on the arm of the couch. Unfair advantage to Spidey.

Oh Lord! What a quandary!

If I go too near, it will run (and this is the bit about spiders I do not like) and then I'll be all cold-sweaty and freaked out!

So, I opt to go back to bed, bugger the housework, don't really fancy tea!

I shut the bedroom door and hope he'll just take the DVD player and nobody will get hurt!

I get up an hour later, and Spidey is gone.........................DVD and the family silver still present and correct.

I convince myself that he actually left via an exit and is not holed up, ready to spring out on me at any given moment, and I go about my business for the next week or so.........

And then this morning, just as I am about to get into the bath, there he is, on the spare loo roll basket!

All dark and fat legged! Ooooooohhhhh!!!!

Ok, so I'm a rational woman, and I try and coax the little (oh lord) fella onto the floor.

He's not happy, not a relaxed spider (haven't met one yet!) and makes a dash for it, across the floor. Where my bare feet are! And my bath towels await!

I was so relieved that he ran in another direction, under the toiletries holder.

And when I pick this up to reveal his new whereabouts, the light makes him curl up into a dead form!

It was quite fantastic really, in that he looked all dry and properly shrivelled, like spiders do when they are!

So I dash to the kitchen, freezing and naked, but determined to rid my life of this problem in a humane way, and grab a glass and paper.

I find Spidey still curled up, looking a tad frozen and naked himself, and I pop the glass over him.

The second I do that, he springs to life! Oh Lordy!!!!!!

I slip the paper underneath, trapping a bloody thick leg in the process (sorry Spidey, if you're reading this from Spider Hospital) leave it on the floor to don some class of clothing, and return to scoop the whole thing up, to empty it over the balcony.

When I get this thing to eye level though, Jesus H. Christ on a bike! It's front fang looking parts were clearly visible! It was really a serious spider.

And it was pissed right off in the glass/paper prison I had it in. All grabby legs and searching for an escape route. Urrrggghhh!

So as I said, I am not scared of spiders, per se, but that bad boy had me shivering and convulsing for a good five minutes after I watched him float 6 floors down onto the grass.

I wish him well, but would really like it if he never came back.

Snobs and their snobbery

I am so pissed off. I have come home in a really foul mood.

That fact alone is bugging me, because it is small-minded shite that has caused it.

Anonymous, small-minded shite at that!


There was a thread on the message boards today, entitled 'Did anything good ever come from a council estate?'.

The poser of this question (hmmm...somehow that word fits) a 'middle-class' female, informs us later in the thread, of her own parents reliance on council housing when they arrived on this fair island, and says that it was only a stepping stone and that her parents worked hard to get more.

So far, you may not think this too much of an issue. I'm ok with that. I salute success and hard work. They strike me as good folks on that principle alone.

But, when you consider the stated fact that her own beginnings were in essence, a hit and miss affair, against the originally implied blanket condemnation of council estates and their inhabitants, are you not left stunned by the audacity of this person? By the sheer small-minded snobbery of it?

Let me pick it apart for you, Dear Reader, and tell it as I see it. Maybe you won't think I'm too far off the mark with this train of thought.

Firstly, the use of language in the original thread is really nothing short of bigotry; 'scum', 'strange speak', attacks on dress codes and values.

(Go to bbc.co.uk/fivelive to have a gander at the full and unabridged version. I hasten to add, that there is a post from her, apologising. It's hard to really get any truth from that apology when you have some experience of past posts from this person, and the same pattern of 'goad and apologise'. I digress...)

And all from what she perceives as the preferred and superior place to be.

A place her parents hard work put her in. Not her own!

It doesn't occur to people like this, that just because their own values are not necessarily shared, that there could possibly be any real and true values at work in a different dynamic!

Implying that social housing automatically means the people within it fall into one social group, (ie those who play no useful part in society), is just plain bastard wrong!


Just one small fact to note; the people who live in council accomodation usually work the longest hours for the least money, get one holiday a year if they're lucky, do the crappiest jobs. And all while raising famillies as best they can, and trying to have something akin to a decent life.

Just because the averagre Joe manages to somehow continue with the grind for about 50 years, and is happy just to be looked after by a loyal Mrs Average Joe, does not mean there are not deep and meaningful forces at work. Just because conversation is peppered with expletives, does not mean nothing meaningful is being said. Just because a person's role in society might earn them less money or status, does not mean they are less of a person.

It really makes me angry that this thread came from someone who's parents were possibly only able to make her upbringing a 'middle class' one, because there is such a thing as council housing. How fortunate she is, that her parents had a head-start and were the ones who worked hard to give her a different life. It's made it so she can sit in high-horse judgement without having to experience (her loss in many ways) the struggles and joys of a life-weary household.

What if a the bread-winner had died? Or buggered off? Or been a drunk? Or disabled? Or just not bright or confident enough to aim for more? Different life and destiny, at a stroke!

My own mother brought four children up in a council house, and though she worked so hard, every day, at times holding down three crap jobs, there was no way that she could have afforded a mortgage on her council home. She was unskilled and low-paid, and was trying hard to be all the parent we needed.

For my own part, I needed to be housed when my son's father and I broke up, and while it may not suit the agenda of chattering snobs, that's how it happened.; we were together in a house he'd bought, I moved out with a small baby, and needed a place to live.

I have never taken my housing for granted, have always worked to pay my way, have always taught my son to have pride and respect for where he lives. Just like 99% of my neighbours.

I could have, and probably should have, bought this lovely flat that I am lucky enough to live in.

But over the years, I chose to work part-time, because I wanted to be Charlie's mum. To be able to go to sports day, and cook good, fresh food, and be home when he was.

I didn't give a shit for bricks and mortar.

And do you know why?

Because it would not have made me aspire to more!

I have carried the very real values that my mum instilled in all of her children, I've picked a few more of my own along the way and instilled them all, in turn, in my own child.

I have a work ethic so strong, that I have never been unemployed, unless I've somehow had enough money to chill for a bit.
My son has the same sense coursing through his every working day.

We are part of a wonderful family, who are all raisng great kids as it happens, mostly in... guess what????

Council homes!

That's right! Serial offenders!

But those of us who have not bought property, still not one of us does not work, does not love, does not respect, is not aware, socially and politically.

And I can say that with my hand on my heart.

Just like 99% of my neighbours.

So, to summarise - Snobbery is like racism; based on fear, first and foremost. But also skin-deep assumptions, ignorance and unfathomable stupidity.




There, that's better.

Friday's

I love Friday's.

There is just a vibe about this day of the week that makes the majority of the population feel alive.

On Thursday night, even though you know you still have to get up and deal with another day of the grind, you are in anticipation.

Something just feels right with the world, and the difference to a Sunday night for example, is so remarkable in my own life, that I'm sure I could be set into a Psychologists social group just based on that data alone.

I like Sunday's. I like to get prepared. I like the chill of a Sunday before the preparation. I like the pace of a pleasant Sunday.

But I like the buzz of a Thursday night/ Friday, so much better!

The real beauty of it is, that you don't even need to have any kind of social calendar, or even a life in fact, to feel this vibe!

But you do need a job I reckon. For a sense of closure each week, of achievement and earned rest.
Even if it's being at home sorting that side of life, you need to feel the weekend will be a time for a change of pace and that you've had a role to fill in the working week.

And it all begins with a Friday.

If there was a vote on whether I think shops should be open on a Sunday (ie Tesco and the like) I'd vote No.

By the same token, if there was a vote which asked 'Should friday afternoon be spent in the pub with colleagues and strangers?' I'd vote Yes.

A mother's pain!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The weather forecast says it will be minus 10 in the wind tomorrow morning at 6.00 am.

My boy leaves the house at 6.10am. And gets on a 'ped.

What do we think the wind-chill factor will be in minus 10 in the stand-still wind, but at 40mph?

My heart is breaking!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I will offer to get up at 5.50am and take him to the station, but I can guarantee that he will turn me down flat.

Job done, I guess, and it makes me proud.

But, ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My very own Man o'meter!

How great is this???

I've got animation! I've got animation!

And all thanks to my goodly friend, Gavin Corder. He made this especially for me, to show to you, and I shall get to the nub of why in a bit.

(And do you know Spanish, I never had to swear at him once! Not once!)

In fact, it was a most pleasant exchange of information, for which I am trying to convey my heartfelt appreciation, in this here blog.

So, it is with regret (to the nub!), but with a certain degree of permission from the good fellow himself, and a certain degree of empathy for the sentiment of the probably better woman it came from, that I now tell you what Mrs Gavin Corder has to say about her feelings towards the males in our midst.

She says, and I quote, "Men are dim, like lava lamps - nice to look at but not so bright!"

They can also be a bit 'blobby' too, in many ways, so I'm going to go with it.

For the sisterhood.

My friend Reidy

Poor Reidy.

She's having a nightmare.

She's been diagnosed with Lupus, a really nasty form of arthritis that is caused and made worse by stress, that also attacks the vital organs over time- lungs, heart, liver.

It causes terrible stiffness in every joint, where she cannot stand up, and sometimes there is the awful symptom known as 'trigger finger'. She cannot unbend one or two fingers on her hand, and if she tries, agony ensues. She has had to have injections for this, bewteen the webs of her fingers. She tells me this is the most hideous pain she has ever known.

She is such a beautiful girl is our Jane - tall and blonde, with fine procleain skin and features.

She is a good person too, full of fun and frolicks.

A good cook, a great housekeeper, a hard worker and mum, and a loving friend.

There is no cure for this condition, and as far as I know, it is progressive. The less stress in your life, the better, but I think it still has an accumulative and ultimately devastating affect on the body.

She has been diagnosed for a year now, and due to a stormy, stressful realtionship (which she has now ended), it is showing in her blood more than ever.

Her doctor has threatened to commit her if she does not follow the programme that has now been set, not because she is mentally disturbed, but because she needs to be absolutely stress free for a spell.


We had a nice little talk last night, and I hope she will take me up on the offer of all the help I can give.

I'm best as a listening ear and a giver of love and support, and I am always happy to be a source of fun and relaxation for her. It's been prescribed by the doctor that we must go out and laugh lots!

So we are going out to a little club in Ascot tonight, just to hear some live music and drink copious amounts of brandy!

The dangers of masturbation

Well they are considerable aren't they?

Firstly, you are of course running the risk of loss of eyesight. Medical fact!

You could of course do it just until you need glasses, but you will probably be hooked on thrapping away in dark corners by that stage, so total blindness is almost guaranteed to follow.

Then there's the terrible scenario where you might be caught, red-'handed' (pun intended).

Oh the shame, the terrible shame! Just imagine this for yourself for a moment, and ask yourself if it's worth it.

Blind, and without dignity, your life will unravel before your milky eyes!

And then, of course, there are the outward signs of self-abuse, that no amount of layering can conceal.

People will point and laugh, your family and friends will abandon you.

The medical profession is making marvellous advances in the fields of sight restoration, and counselling might right the wrongs of being caught in the act, but there is no known cure for 'Tosser's Torso'.

Men, know YOUR limits!

Getting what you're given vs Getting what you give

My thought for the day;

Am I expecting too much, or not enough?

It's really hard to tell at the moment.

On some levels, I don't see any good reason why I should think life owes me more than I've had, than I could have.

Then something kicks in that tells me to bloody well demand it!

I seem to keep coming across people that profess so much, or offer nothing beyond what is good for them.

They call themselves friends. They say I am their love.

And I take them at face value.

Not blindly; I believe in actions.

But I suspend my emotional needs, until long after I've noticed empty words and gestures.

From friends. From lovers.


Note to self: Stop doing that!

I hope to God I'm not kidding myself with the idea that I'm capable of changing this ridiculous side of my nature, and equally, I hope that in doing so, it doesn't turn me into a cynical old bitch.



Sod this.

I'm going to bed.

Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds...

At the Royal Albert Hall, 18th April 2006.

Don't mind if I do.

So I am.

Just when we thought there were no tickets, unless we wanted to do it at the soul-less warehouse that is Wembley Arena, my good friend and gig-buddy, persuades me to search some more, and lo! tickets to be had on an obscure site.

Ten minutes later, we've spent £100 each.

And very happy I am too.

Never been to the Royal Albert Hall, and I guess this is as epic a thing as I can experience first time around, so money well spent, in my yet to be humbled opinion(!)

I went to the opera about the same time last year, and must say, I expected more from the Royal Opera House, in terms of architecture and opulence. Maybe that's the peasant in me thinking I know how the other half live!

Anyway, chuffed about this unexpected turn of planned events, and I shall report back as to levels of value for money, in April!

My new job

I'm feeling a bit blown away this evening.

I started the new job today, in what seems like a really great place to work; the bosses are friendly and involved with every member of staff, the package is fantastic, staff turnover is basically zero (2 people left the job in 10 years), and I'm already booked to go to the Christmas Party, which is a 1920's theme, with gambling and champagne and jazz - absolutely everything paid for, including my taxi. Very nice too.

It's full-time, which is the first time I've felt in a position to work full hours, but one drawback is that I'll have to stop shopping fresh each day, in favour of having to do a whole heap of shopping over the weekend. Not sure how I feel about that, but I'll see how I go.

The first day went well anyway, and I think I did enough 'getting it' to show I got it!

Not sure why I'm feeling abit strange, but I'm guessing it's because I'm feeling a little bit adrift.

Too much change at once I suppose; 0-60 in 0.3 seconds.

Girls are filthy!

We are.

Really.

We can out-do the fellas in filth, all day long.

I spent yestrday evening with 12 or so of my ilk, and we are wrong 'uns!

All innocent, no men, but pure filth coming from our usually demure lips.

Not only filth, but believe me men when I tell you, your wife's 3 best mates, at least, know all there is to know about certain bedroom business.

It's one of the double standards most girls will more than happily subscribe to; the divulging of 'information'. (This means you do not have the same right to divulge in the same manner to bestest chums. You'll die if you do, naturally, for we are laydees!)
We include ourselves in what information we give, and our friend's are fully aware of what quirky little minxes we can be, and in fact, this is the main body of the conversation really; what we think/do/feel about sex with our men.


Now at this stage I should point out that this is not restricted to utter filth, nor does the content have to be full-on and graphic. The 'divulger' (is this a word?) will stay in-keeping with their personality (prim, bawdy, clinical) when sharing the goods/dishing the dirt, and the activity itself knows no barriers of language or class. The knub of the matter amounts to the same;

We share 'information'!!

I'm sure it's a female genetic trait, as suggested on the boards the other day on the subject of women and their moaning, that it's a way in which we tap one another's resources for comparison and possible improvement in our own lives.

There are rules to all of this of course, in that we do not demonstrate the face you pull, or tell them of the way you recite the entire contents of the Magna Carta in the throes of passion.

That would be bad form indeed, and these are not the details we seek.

No, it's the more impersonal personal details that are shared, and for the sake of all my sister's, I shall not tell the men who will read this what kind of thing you can expect to be common knowledge about you!

It is not meant to harm or humiliate, (though it has to be said, that most of the conversation is accompanied by peels of raucous laughter, in my experience!) and is largely forgotten a minute later, and I can only think of one ocassion where a friend was being just a tad too revealing about her beloved for decency's sake. And she was duly told as much and continued no further.

It's just another way in which females bond and cope. Sharing and speaking are our two greatest needs.

Females say more. To each other, and much to your probable annoyance, you.

About you, in fact, at Ann Summers parties and wine-sodden get-togethers.

Ken Crabshaw's Brunch-time Bad-boys

This is a recipe given to me by my comrade Ken.

As promised, and I quote;

"Get some large, flat mushrooms. Peel and de-stalk. Brush the top with a little olive oil and pop them under a hot grill for a couple of minutes. Take them out, flip over and fill with a grated cheese, chopped tomato, (pre-cooked chopped bacon for the non-veggies), chopped green pepper and garlic mixture, then back under the grill for 5 minutes."

I've tried it, but because my mum doesn't like garlic, I put in some chopped, fresh parsley instead.

She liked it.

I liked it.

Ken likes it.

Maybe you wil too.

Electrics and me

Oops!

Had an electrical mis-hap this evening.

A bit of a big one, though not enough of a one to adjust my hair do!

(Nobody was hurt in the production of this mis-hap, though it has to be said that this fact remains nothing short of a miracle.)

So, I needed to get a new dimmer switch for Charlie's room, and decided I'd have a go at fixing it up myself. No problem. Put wires in the new one, in the same pattern as they are in the old one. I'm my mother's daughter, I can do this shit.

Only it didn't work.

You boy's may scoff and say 'Women, know your limits!', but I followed all the instructions, and even had the good sense to turn off the mains power.

But for some reason, no joy.

'Sod it', I thought.

My nephew is training to be an electrician, so I thought I'd leave it and get him over to do the honours. I reasoned, that for safety's sake, it was best that I defer to the superior male brain....ahem!

Anywho, I decided that the best course of action was to just put the old light cover back in place, but without actually connecting the wires; Chadwell could do without a light in his room for one night. And I'd ensured that wires were not touching.

But touching isn't the problem.

Surge BETWEEN wires is though....

My mis-hap began when I forgot to tell him of my tinkerings and he came home and went to switch his bedroom light on....................... BANG!! Loud. Very.

No physical harm done I am so grateful to report, but every light, appliance , heater and cooking facility went out.

Nothing.

Nada.

Nil.

I go to the fuse box (as all modern ladies in the know would) and flick various switches that say 'on' and 'off', but..........

Nothing.

Nada.

Nil.

Bollocks! I've blown something.

Something that probably matters in light of the fact that I have no lights, heat, cooking facilities, and probably worse from a cautionary perspective, no smoke alarm!

So I call out an Emergency Electrics Bastard (at £40 call-out plus £40 per hour or part thereof, I can call him that with impunity. Same with Emergency Washing Machine Bastards and Emergency Squirrels in the Roof Bastards and their ilk), and get told he will be here within 4 hours.

Great. Four is better than twenty-four.

The God's are smiling, in that they send me the EEB in 45 minutes, and he gives me a look that clearly says 'Women, know your limits!', and sets about the task in hand.

Flicks the same switches I have, and turns on lights and everything......

Nothing.

Nada.

Nil.

More expert faffings, and it turns out that I have blown the MAIN fuse to my flat.

Not the main fuse in the domestic box, but the MAIN fuse that feeds this flat, in a block of 48!

Thankfully it is on a board that feeds each individual flat into each domestic fuse box (known in circles as the 'riser'), otherwise I would have blown the whole block on this side!!!!! And possibly beyond.

The Queen has the Chinese matey to tea tonight and the castle is lit up beautifully (I can see it from my window) - it could have got ugly! Political even. Like we need it!

The upshot of the whole drama is that the EEB has fitted a temporary 30 amp fuse in place of the one I blew, and will return tomorrow (£40 per hour or part there bastard of, if you don't mind) and fit the 60 amp or so bugger that I need to run my empire.

Electricity is not my friend.

Rainbows and other works of art

I love to see a rainbow, and I am so fortunate where I live in that if the conditions are right for one, I am guaranteed to see it.

And not just see it.

They arch over the field outside my window, sometimes in double. They are so clear and long-lasting, seemingly close enough to pass your hand through.

The splendour of them leaves little wonder in my mind that people looked upon them at times in history and believed them to be a sign from Heaven.

They are other-wordly and when you consider the span, the actual real size of the arch and the distance it can be seen from, the beauty of a rainbow, they are certainly a gift of Nature.

Nature means to dazzle us.

She's a real choreographer and magician, and a rainbow is just her finest folly. One of her pointless, but breath-taking objects de art.

This is one I took a picture of from the balcony one rainy afternoon in October this year.





This was taken just using my rubbish little digital camera, but I think it has picked up the light contrasts, above and below the arch, beautifully.

But if you want to see something the skies have to offer that is, in my opinion, beyond words, check out www.jornolsen.com and click on the 'Mammatus' gallery icon.

I mean, these are CLOUD'S for God's sake!

You will not believe your eyes.

Enjoy!

This is me!

Ok, so for anyone who might be interested, this is what I look like.

I look a bit moody really, but in reality, I'm very quick to smile.
This is one of those rare moments where I wasn't. Typical!

Anyway, it's the most recent one I have and at least you get the basics.

I'd like to point out, that I do not have the shoulders of a German shotputter in real life!

So, this is me!

A Level of education I can work with

I can start my first A Level!

In fact, it's my first real exam ever taken! How's that for ambitious?!

I've done courses at college and stuff, but I have never studied for a qualification in my life. I left school before the exams were due to start when I was 16, and I kick myself!

I have a pretty good command of English, and I was going to do the GCSE first, but friends have convinced me just to go the whole hog and do the full A Level English Literature (AS/A2).
I'll do a GCSE in Maths, and maybe Sociology after I finish this mammoth task, and then see if I want to take those up to A Level perhaps.

The ultimate aim would be to get on to a 4 year degree course for Speech and Language Therapy, but I think you need at 3-5 A's! At least I can apply and will have shown willing. It's years away, but it's a long-term goal that this may bring me closer to.

I am so excited about this part of my life.

I'm nervous too.

But you can only give these things a go can't you?

It's going to take anything up to 3 years to complete it, but I reckon I can do it in two if I behave and knuckle down.

It's a really interesting study list and I'm looking forward to reading the Shakespeare, and worried about reading the Shakespeare, in equal measure!

My list of texts are:

The Handmaid's Tale
The Taming of the Shrew (always wanted to read this, because of Kate!)
Dr. Faustus (a play, I'm told. I have never heard of it! I guess that makes me a Philistine!)
'Safe as Houses' collection
Othello
Songs of Innocence and of Experience - Poems in pairs
A Clockwork Orange
Riddley Walker

There is also a part that covers literature in War. It doesn't state whether it's Wilfred Owens or not, but it usually is isn't it?

So, I need to get my little tushy to the bookstore and buy some stuff.

The sooner I get started, the sooner I can be completely smug!

This is implying that I will have reason to be, and actually pass, which I will work extremely hard to do, but I really would be happy with an average grade. I'm quite pleased with myself that I'm even attempting it, so anything over my terribly negative expectations, will be fine with me!

Women! - Know your limits!

I absolutely cannot believe this article from the 'House Keeping Monthly - Good Wife's Guide', 13th May 1955.

It is supreme in it's banality, yet effortlessly weaving itself into the fabric of the time. Religion-like in it's mantra. It's bloody genius and madness in one! So many things are of course.

I am a very happy lady when I'm taking care of a home, and a man for that matter, and happiest operating in a family environment; I like to cook and know that the members of my household can rely on the things that good food, made with love provides.

But can you imagine feeling you have to live under this 15 point plan for marital, and female, success?

(No pasting and copying was used in the production of this blog! )
And I quote (please feel free to read aloud in the voice of Katie Boyle):

"Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favourite dish) is a part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.

Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dustcloth over the tables.

Over the cooler months of the year, you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisafaction.

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash all the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimise all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.

Be happy to see him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.

Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order, and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit. Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low soothing and pleasant voice.

Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him."


Well shiver my timbers, and write me out a prescription for the new, popular, middle-class housewives choice!

Fantastic stuff, I think you will agree.

That's just gorgeous if you ask me.

Shits and Gig-gles

I love being at a live gig. there is nothing quite like it; venues big and small.

I've had a fantastic year in that department. A fantastic few years actually.

There's been Paul Weller and Red Hot Chili Peppers and I Am Kloot, Damien Rice and Gomez, amongst others that I cannot remember, but still have the ticket stubs for!

This year alone I've seen Kasabian in Brighton best gig by far. Coldplay Crystal Palace, dullest gig so far, Kings of Leon,Hammersmith, Doves at Somerset House, which is the best venue ever, and Faithless in Princes Street in Edinburgh. Right at the foot of the castle. Magic! Even got to hear a little bit of Franz Ferdinand warming up the day after!

I still have another Doves gig lined up in Reading! Oh joy! And that is with my best ever gig buddy, Amanda. Oh she does make me laugh!

I'm looking forward to getting out there with a lighter heart and a more peaceful mind.

And this is just the beginning. There are so many others I really want to see too, and I shall be keeping my little peepers open for tickets.

On my hit list for 2006 are The Kaiser Chiefs, Faithless again, Bloc Party, Gomez again, if they ever come home, and I wouldn't mind keeping an eye on Kate Bush either. But there is little chance of her coming out to play, so perhaps I shall have to forego and see someone EPIC like Stevie Wonder (oh I wish!) or K.T Tunstall would be good. If Alanis Morrisette comes to these parts, I'd see her too.

So it's all good on the music and gigs front as far as I'm concerned, and with a new vim and vigour, I shall pursue this soul-food past-time.

Damn! I'd go to the opening of an envelope right now!

Take that, you fucker!

Breaking up is SO very hard to do

It's not been an easy 4 months.

I've made some tough, truly non-returnable decisions in my time, but this has been my Nemesis.

One man, twelve years.

It's a very long time, and it's been mostly happy. Lots of very good times. Probably the best of my life really.

It's just not been able to meet certain needs, that's all. Neither of us has grown through it as I feel we should have. And only one of us insists they are content.

The other one is me.

What do you do when the truest, most honest man you are ever likely to meet, just isn't enough of a challenge? What if he's happy to never question your motives and stand points, but follow your shots in the dark? How do you end that relationship, without having to give up the parts of someone that you love with all your heart? It's having to lose a friend. That is the hardest part of all.

It's taken 4 months to finalise all of this, after I asked him to move out in the summer. Four months we've been hanging in limbo. I just had to put a stop to that.

I don't know if there was any real hope of sorting things out when I agreed back then to still stay effectively together but live apart, but I wanted there to be. I would never had asked him to go if I'd felt we really had any alternatives, and it hadn't been my plan to stay together. I was ending it back then. I thought for a while though, that he had really absorbed what I was saying and would act on it this time.

He didn't, sadly.

I'd seen no actions to demonstrate what he said he'd taken on board, so recently, for the first time in our relationship, I actually asked him to make a promise that he would take steps to help me move things forward, by finding a more sensible place to live. A decent base, where he could experience what it is to have to run his own life, but moreover, somewhere to be comfortable and to call home.
I worry so much about him being in the room he is staying in, where there are no cooking facilities, there's no washing machine, a crumby bathroom and the noisiest neighbours on earth.

He promised, but he has done nothing about it. That was a little over 2 months ago.

This has been the story of my life with him - me always waiting for the bare minimum of action. Always having to be the one to raise uncomfortable issues, suggest the solutions, go through the whole process of making myself heard and understood, just to have zero response.

He has been devoted on so many levels for all these years, and I have no doubt that he loves me very, very much. But I have told him, and I think I'm right in this, that he needs to look inside his heart and ask himself why he has always chosen to do nothing in the face of my concerns. I mean, nothing I have ever asked of him is beyond his capability.

I've got fairly simple needs when it comes right down to it.

One clear example, is that I've asked several times (over many years I hasten to add) that he take more of an active role in the running of the household, in that every single bill has always come out of my account. He has no clue whatsoever how much rent we pay, what the council tax is, the water bill, when they need paying etc. No clue. And I'm tired of being the one to always have to give my brain over to the logistics of it all. Sometimes it would have been nice to be the one just handing over my share and not having to think about it again. Not to be the one queueing in the bank paying the money in. Not to be the one juggling absolutely everything. And I do mean everything.

Insert any scenario you like in here, and apply the above to it.

If it's getting sorted, it's getting sorted by me.
If it's getting covered and dealt with, it's getting covered and dealt with by me.
If it's getting fretted over, it's getting fretted over by me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'll be your Juggler for this evening! And for all day, every day.

So often I have sat and told myself that I should stop whinging and just be glad that I have a man who loves me, that I can trust, who is sweet and generous and kind.

And I've tried so hard to let this be enough. I've tried 12, committed years hard!

Something is just missing.

Maybe it's missing in me, and all this 'something' will remain an unidentified brain-frying object!

I thought I might feel a sense of relief that at least a decision has been made, but I don't.

I just feel a bit shell-shocked and numb.

I'm dreading the bit where I start to miss him, but I'm trying not to dwell on that too much at the moment. It's one of those 'cross that bridge..' things I guess.

I'm going to try and take something positive from every day, try and untangle the mess in my head, one thing at a time.

I've got great friends, brilliant family, insightful acquaintances, and I hope they'll all let me tap into their resources through all of this. Maybe that way, they'll help me find some new ones of my own.

Sleep has been my friend over the last couple of days. Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she wrote out that prescription. There's only so much thinking a person can do in a day.

I hope he is ok. I love him very much, and it has been unbelievably painful to have to tell him it's over. It's so hard to hear someone say they can't be happy if they are not with you. It's such a big responsibility to carry.

Time will tell I guess, and no amount of pondering and waxing about it is going to change the outcome.

I wonder if we ever really have a whole heart again after people walk off with a piece of it in their pocket?

Beautiful, bountiful Brighton

I was just sitting here having a little think, and I find myself in Brighton.

Brighton, Sussex, England.

I love the place.

There is so much of me in Brighton, that it is almost frightening to think that I am not a resident.

The last time I was there, in July this year, the sun beat down and the sea answered back in kind, reflecting every beam. It made me forget my troubles and enjoy the moment. It always does. Me and my heart lived it large those 3 days and nights, and it will be forever printed on my memory. Recalled for all time, with much, much love.

Just a couple of months before that, I kicked off my gigging year with my gigging buddy and confidante, to see Kasabian.

Shit, we had a ball that night. No alcohol, no smoking. Just pure vibes. One of the best nights out ever, and certainly the best this year.

There have been day trips and dancing, fish to see and eat, dinners in lane ensconsed hidey-holes, and moments of pleasure beyond measure. I love the place.

And then there is a sunny day in July 2002.

Me and 249,999 others on the beach and in every corner and crevice of Brighton.

I give you, Fat Boy Slim and his gang.

If you weren't there, you were probably very, very sensible when all things are considered by those of us that were. On the other hand.........

It was heaven.
It was hell.
It was shit (quite literally, if you ever care to ask me to elaborate. Be advised, this story contains real, strangers shit!).
It was amazing.
It was spiritual.
It was fucking mental!

We'd planned it for weeks and a little bunch of us were all booked up for a couple of nights, with the focus being the Fat Boy freebie on the beach.

The year before, when he did the first one, there were 40,000 souls on that slopey, stony, ankle-mullering stretch, but 6 times that number rolled up the year after.

And let me tell you lovely people, 250,000 is an immense crowd.

I mean, seriously.

You look back at it, and it UNDULATES like a living, single being. Shivers, even now

I saw some wonderous sights that day and night - a man of about 65-70, atop a lamp-post, with his legs wrapped tight for his own security, shouting 'COME ON!' at the top of his old lungs with every tune.

A couple, roughly the same age as him, chuffing away on a beautiful glass hash pipe, him holding the thing so sweetly to her lips as he lit it for her and kept it steady in this rolling, writhing crowd of lunatics.
They looked so very much at home, in that crowd and with each other.

A young boy of about 12 or 13, quite literally POPPED, like he'd just been born, out of the denser crowd, into the area I stood in at the end of the night, holding the hand of his mate. They were without parents, but held on to each other until they were free of the crush, one declaring to the other as they emerged, 'FUCKIN 'ELL!' , sporting grins the width of the beach!

I will not forget that day as long as I live.

I won't forget the friends I spent it with.

There are few places that would have been tenacious enough to take on the challenge (maybe Edinburgh) , but there is nowhere in Britain, like Brighton, Sussex, England.

You can fire my ashes from a rocket over that stretch of British coast. Off the pier no less.

We can then all rest assured, I'll be quite, quite happy.

New boots and panties

There are two items on the shopping list:

New boots and panties.

Two of God's gifts to his favourite species, and the man she chooses to share them with. Nay, bestow them upon!

So let's begin with the boots and work our way up, so to speak.

Mmmm, new boots.

Oh how thrilling it is to get them home and have a little parade about!

Pointy toed, laced up, knee-high, kitten heeled, ankle-lengthed.

Leather, suede, canvas, fur.

Take your pick.

My current favourites are a Faith pair. Nice rouched detail on the front, tight to the leg, pointy toes and a wicked spike heel. They make me strut!

So to the panties.

Forget diamonds girls, it's your knickers that are your real best friends.

What nice underwear can do for a girl really cannot, and more importantly, should not, be underestimated.

They don't have to be Agent Provocateur (though all donations gratefully received!) but the sense of self confidence simply knowing you have nice naughties on brings, is very real.

No self-respecting lady would undress in front of her new lover with her off-grey Apple Catchers and a black bra as her tools of seduction! No Siree! She'd be sporting her sweetest skimpy's, and any woman who reserves the wearing of good undies for a man, is cheating herself horribly.

If a girl cannot see herself as the first person to please in the underwear department, there is something wrong.

And I believe that it follows on from the underwear, to the other items you subsequently put on.

So, for any of the girls out there that are feeling a bit jaded and unsexy, take a look at your pants. What do they say about you? How do they make you feel when you put them on in the morning? Or at night for that matter.

And for you boys, don't allow your pretty woman to become baggy and grey. Encourage nice bra and pants for your girl everyday, not just when you fancy a little outfit with a giggle gap.

Let there be lace!

Old fashioned love songs

I was watching the X Factor at the weekend, and there is a chap called Andy who sang Nat King Cole's 'Unforgettable'. It has to be said, he did a bloody good job of it.

I was listening to the lyrics and the arrangement, and it got me thinking about all the songs of this era and others of the same nature from various times throughout popular music history.

Songs like this are timeless and universally classic. They raise such emotion and meaning, so long after they were the 'in' thing. There are few, if any, true modern classics.

So, I sat and considered the old CD collection, and the music that my beautiful mum encouraged us all to listen to as kids, and I realised that it is the undeniable but understated passion of the words, the subtlety and allusion, rather than the out and out sexual intention or heartfelt declarations, that make these songs so special.

Consider;

Unforgettable
That´s what you are,
Unforgettable
Tho´ near or far.
Like a song of love that clings to me,
How the thought of you does things to me.
Never before
Has someone been more...

Unforgettable
In every way,
And forever more
That´s how you´ll stay.
That´s why, darling, it´s incredible
That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am
Unforgettable, too.


Beautiful.

Just blowing on the wind in it's content, but yet so full of weight and depth and meaning. Timeless and all encompassing. For anyone and everyone who has ever been in love, no matter age or background.

The kind of song you can put on the stereo and invite your lover to dance with you to.

An old fashioned song, for something that will never be out of fashion - Pure and simple Love.