Stuff That Winds Me Up

I’m not someone who loses their temper very easily.

I’ve not always been like that. When I was younger, my little brother used to be able to wind me up easier than one of those self winding tape measures – he just pressed the button and I was ready and willing to punch, scream and pull his hair out.

As I’ve got older I’ve got a lot calmer, more rational and far more laid back – but certain things still have the ability to really get my goat  - so I thought I’d do a list of them so you all know what not to do in no particular order; you'll probably find that the more something irritates me the more I have written about it.

1.       My laptop.

My laptop is one of my favourite possessions. I don’t know what I’d do without it. But there are there are times when I’d quite happily throw it out of a window from my first floor living room. For example, whilst writing the last sentence an AVG notification popped up telling me to renew my licence. WHY could it not have chosen a time when I was actually looking at the screen?! I wrote another whole sentence before I noticed and that is HUGELY frustrating. Other times when it is going slow I find frustrating. When I want to do something, I want to do it NOW. Not in half an hour, when it’s sorted its shit out, not in three hours, after it’s completed a scan, but NOW!!!

2.       My Mobile Phone.

When I don’t have my mobile pho ne I am barely able to function. It doesn’t have to actually work, I just have to be able to turn it on and see the reassuring glow from its screen to know that I am in the safe hands of o2. And yet, I have never yet had a mobile phone that is capable of doing everything that I require of it. For example, my Samsung Jet was incapable of making me a breakfast smoothie, my blackberry was unable to scratch my back when required and my Samsung S3 Mini does not come with a built in butler service. But once again, the main thing that irritates me is its lack of speed. I rarely close all the applications that are open on it, but I expect the phone to be able to multi-task as well as my brain does, and I get extremely frustrated when it takes 2 minutes to open Candy Crush when I am also running Instagram, Facebook, Chrome, AVG, and What’s App simultaneously.  Technology should be advanced enough to keep up with me already. If it doesn’t, why the hell doesn’t it?!

3.       Losing stuff.

I am, as you are probably aware, dyspraxic. This means that I have an appalling short term memory. I can remember stuff that happened when I was still in the crib like it was yesterday, but I cannot remember what happed two minutes ago when my boss asked me to book our contractors into Selfridges. Luckily, I have developed mechanisms to help me cope with this – I write EVERYTHING down. Sadly, this does not help me when I lose the list. The second I put something down, I forget about it. Usually, I can cope with this, as it only takes about 5 minutes of searching to locate whatever it is I have lost. Sadly, things start to go downhill when that five minute time frame is up. That’s when I start to get angry. As I approach the ten minute mark I start to lose control of my emotions. Usually, this is where I start to shout at objects that get too close, or any people who happen to be unlucky enough to be standing too close – especially if they don’t appear to be helping me look hard enough. At around 15 minutes I start to get a tad violent. Mainly towards objects, but don’t stand too close to me just in case. By 20 minutes I’m in tears, usually from rage and frustration towards myself, but I like to externalise it by blaming anything and anyone else, internalising is unhealthy, I believe. By the 30 minute mark, I’m hysterical, bordering on madness. The worst part is, that I find myself unable to STOP looking and calm down. I MUST WIN. Therefore I must keep looking.

4.       Cheaters.

I am an extremely competitive person. Most people won’t play board games with me because it is not worth the fight that occurs if I lose - and I always lose. I am a natural born loser. If someone is being competitive with me, I will not play with them because I hate people who rub it in your face; bad winners are worse than bad losers I feel, but then I wouldn’t know because I’ve never won. At least being a bad loser is understandable. A winner should win with style and grace. And competitive people are NEVER good winners. But what I hate worse than any of that, are the people who cheat. What is the point of winning if you don’t win for real? Why cheat and take away everyone else’s chances of experiencing that feeling of having won? If I find out that someone has cheated at something, I will refuse to do pretty much anything with them ever again I’m a forgiving person the majority of the time. I have, in the past, forgiven the same person for the same thing over and over until I really can’t take it anymore, but I cannot forgive a cheat. Something interesting I have also noticed is that people who are willing to cheat at board games are also more likely to cheat on their partners and in life in general – but I don’t know if that is just coincidence. Either way, the scumbags that cheat at monopoly deserve to have the death sentence brought back for them. I swear to God. (The Sexy Guitarist just randomly laughed in the background about something and said “Haha, I win!” I nearly lynched him. Now THERE’S a bad winner.)

5.       People who think they’re always right.

This works mostly for people who think their OPINION is always right. If the subject being debated is a scientific fact, then who am I to argue? But when it comes down to things like Religion, I get extremely angry with people who try to shove their beliefs down my throat. I was raised as a Christian (although I’m not very good at it), however, I find that the people who are WORST for this impingement are other Christians. The ones who hang out in the centre of town and sing/dance/preach at you as you’re doing your payday shopping spree. Yes, you are entitled to your beliefs, but WHY do you feel that it is necessary to spew those belief at all the poor Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims (of which there are an abundance in this city) who are in town simply because they want to get an eye test or some Millie’s Cookies? Why are you ramming what you believe down their throats? You may believe that you are right, and maybe you are, but that does not mean that you have the right to go around pointing your finger and being all “HA, you’re going to hell!” it’s just another way of being a bad winner. And doesn’t Matthew state, “Judge not, lest ye be judged”? Why not hang around in the centre of town with a sign saying, “You might be right, but I might be right. We’ll find out.” People will hate you less.

6.       Mornings

I am not, and never have been, a morning person. I don’t really like GOING to bed – there’s so much I want to do and I never seem to have time for it, but I like LEAVING my bed even less. When I wake up in the morning I must be treated with caution, love and care; a bit like a bomb that hasn’t gone off since WW2 that has just been discovered underneath the local nightclub.

The SG’s most recent hobby seems to be to see if he can get me to explode. This morning I was woken with “go do the washing up, and get me some breakfast; I’m hungry.” Needless to say he was astonished when he found himself washing up and frying sausages and bacon simultaneously only seconds later, whilst I sat on the sofa reading my book with a satisfied look on my face. I don’t think he could work out how that happened, and is still a bit puzzled about the whole thing.

When I wake up in the mornings I like cuddles and talking and closeness. Or I like to feel like I have a plan for the day. I like to know where I’m going and what I’m doing. If I can get a bit of both then all the better.

7.       People who talk to me when I’m trying to read.

I like to read. A lot. But I find it incredibly frustrating when I’m trying to read and someone decides that that is the right time to have a conversation with me. The only people who do this are the people who are not readers themselves. Come on people, you don’t walk into the cinema and try to have a conversation with the person sitting next to you all the way through the movie, do you? With reading it’s ok if you’re having a proper conversation, but if you’re wanting to say a few words, stop, then say a few more so that I’m stopping and starting – consequently reading the same sentence over and over again – just don’t bother, because I will make you eat this book.

8.       Other people’s lack of spelling and punctuation

We all went to school right? And in the exception of a few cases (eg, a valid reason for being unable to go to school or dyslexia and similar problems) we were all taught to read and write. Therefore, there is no excuse for being a 14 year old that is unable to work out which “there” you are supposed to use. No excuse for not choosing the right “to”. HOW THE HELL do you think you are going to get a decent job that doesn’t involve spending the rest of your life cleaning up drunk people’s poo if you are unable to write, “There they are! With their cat”

“They’re happy?”

“Yes!”

IT’S NOT FRIGGING HARD PEOPLE!!!

What about punctuation? The number of emails I receive where the people writing them do not understand that a full stop is still used at the end of a paragraph. You don’t just hit enter and hope for the best. Commas are completely disregarded and most people wouldn’t know the difference between an apostrophe and an armadillo. But then, I am also aware that most of the people who fail to pay attention to these extremely important little things are the ones who are at the bottom of the pile in the work place. Spelling and grammar is so important because everyone takes their first impression from what they see. Dyslexics can and do use spell check – why can’t you?!? And there is absolutely NO excuse for failing to use a comma.

These are all the things that infuriate me most, although I may add to this list in due course....

I did mention that I’m much CALMER than I used to be, right?

And as a bit of revenge for saying "I Win", here is a picture of SG asleep on my sofa last night... who wins now, SG?

The Badly Chosen Boyfriend and the Pizza Incident

We all do it. We all have that boyfriend/girlfriend in our past that, when we deign to think about them, we think, "Why the hell did I ever consider them as date-worthy material? Was I temporarily brain damaged? Was I being controlled by aliens?"

My first long-term boyfriend was possibly the worst person I could have ever chosen to date.

I’m not saying he wasn’t a nice person – he was in fact the opposite. He was quite self-centred, but on the whole wouldn’t harm a fly.

The reason he was so terrible a choice for me is because we were so completely and utterly incompatible. I found him boring, irritating, selfish, immature and he had no loyalty whatsoever.

We used to have conversations and I’d find, on later trying, that I could not recall a single word he said. He was interested in History (Yawn), Politics (Kill me) and creative writing (about history and politics. Dear GOD).

I, however, at the grand old age of 18/19 was interested in design, reading (not about history or politics) and having fun.

Emotionally, I was far more mature than he was, despite his being about 3 years older than I, and I was less inclined to live by everyone else’s rules than he was. I would get frustrated with the fact that he would never do anything without saying things like, “my Dad says it should be done this way” or “My friends say I should do this”.

I was far more likely to take other people’s advice on board and then choose the method I thought best, rather than what everyone else thought best.

The Bad Choice Boyfriend was such a stickler for doing it the way you are told and not straying from the instructions that we ended up having the worst argument of my life over a pizza.

I had come home from work at Vision Express one evening, knowing that the BCB was cooking for us, and when I got home he suggested pizza. As I do have a bit of a penchant for pizza I happily agreed, and off he popped to the shop over the road to grab a Chicago Town. Upon arrival back he started reading the instructions, and I warned him to NOT put the pizza on the top oven shelf, as I know that our oven got too hot and it would burn before it cooked. I immediately stopped paying attention and went back to doing whatever it was I was doing before he returned.

BCB joined me, but within 10 minutes I could smell burning.

“You need to check the pizza, something’s burning,” I warned.

“Nah, it’ll be something on the bottom of the oven,” he replies, and remains where he is for a further 5 minutes, while I fidget and panic about my food, but decide to remain where I am and not “take control” as I was often accused of doing.

After checking on the pizza he exclaims, “The pizza is burnt!” to which I replied, “Did you put it on the top shelf, or the middle one?”

“The top one, like the instructions told me to.”

I pointed out that I had warned him not to put it on the top shelf, and explained that I had told him that due to prior experience with our oven – it was a fan oven and the instructions were for conventional ovens.

He decided to go back to the shop and purchase a new pizza.

Attempt two of cooking the pizza went down in exactly the same way – BCB was not one for learning from his mistakes, and this time, instead of calmly explaining WHY the pizza had burnt, as I had the first time, I was pissed off. “How could you possibly manage to burn ONE pizza, let alone TWO?!?” I screech at him, incensed. “It’s not fucking ROCKET SCIENCE, it’s a FUCKING PIZZA!!!”

“Well, I’m SORRY. But I was just FOLLOWING THE INSTRUCTIONS like you’re SUPPOSED TO!” he yells back.

“FINE, I’ll COOK THE BLOODY PIZZA THEN!” I continue to screech.

“NO, I’m QUITE capable of cooking a SHITTING PIZZA, thanks.” He replies, and storms out, back to the shop to purchase their last mighty meaty.

Christ knows what the shop owners thought about our pizza eating habits.

BCB returns armed with the mighty meaty and shooting daggers at me like it’s my fault that he’s a complete moron.

I have turned to my common state where I am so frustrated and enraged by his incompetence that I am incapable of actually speaking to the boy and therefore completely ignore his presence.

The pizza successfully makes it into the oven, this time he assures me that it is NOT on the top shelf, so my anger wanes a little bit. I know he’s not doing it on purpose, and he really can’t seem to help himself when it comes to following instructions, so I relax a little and begin an awkward attempt at reconciliation.

After about 10 minutes he goes into the kitchen, refusing my offer to do it for him with irritation, and returns after fiddling about a bit and deciding that all was well. He reassures me that the pizza is looking healthy and will be ready to eat soon, rather smugly.

After five minutes he goes back to the oven, and suddenly all I can hear from him is, “SHITTING BOLLOCKING BLOODY PIZZA!!!”

I turn on the sofa, almost in slow motion, and I see BCB holding what looks like a black Frisbee in front of him. Apparently he had decided that the pizza was not cooking fast enough on the middle shelf, and during the brief “checking on the pizza” interval, had once again moved it onto the top shelf, which explained his earlier smugness.

Naturally, I flipped out. I have never been so filled with rage, before or since. All I wanted was a bloody pizza. I would have settled for ANY pizza at this stage – even one with anchovies on it.

I was incapable of speech for about 60 seconds, and then when I managed to make a sound it was a high pitched shrieking noise that could only be heard by small dogs and rodents.

I think it was on that day that I realised I was dating someone who was quite possibly mentally handicapped. There is no other explanation as to how someone managed to burn a pizza -

Not once,

Not twice,

But THREE TIMES.

When People Have Ugly Babies I Never Know What To Say

I’m at that age now where all my friends are pairing off or having babies. In some ways I feel quite left out as obviously, The Sexy Guitarist and I are not quite ready for that level of terror to enter our relationship yet, and believe me, I do NOT want a proposal just yet, but at the same time the level of romance and commitment shown at that stage of a relationship is one of my main goals in life. Like every other  human being on this planet, I just want to be loved to a point where someone is willing to devote themselves to me, and I want to love someone enough to be able to devote myself to them.

Children, on the other hand, scare the living shit out of me. And it’s only recently, seeing my closest friends have a baby and watching him grow up that I’ve started to seriously consider popping out my own little gremlin - in about 10 years perhaps.

My friends have all been quite lucky, child wise. I have not met one who can officially be considered an “ugly baby”. Two of my closest friends have what I would consider to be the prettiest child I have ever seen. You know who you are!

I was with these same friends a few months ago in their home town, walking through the centre to go to an event with  The Sexy Guitarist, when they bumped into a fellow parent of an almost toddler, and in the arms of this parent was an alien. I SWEAR TO GOD. Having instantly assessed the child and its level of attractiveness and found it to be extremely lacking, I was at a complete loss as to what to do. I knew, with a certainty that could kill, that I MUST NOT SPEAK TO THAT PARENT. If I did I would end up saying something like, “oh, what an... interesting looking child!” in a fake enthusiastic voice that no one would mistake for a genuine compliment, and I would definitely be punched by an enraged, hormonal mother. Not the way I intended spending my weekend.

We are all told that every mother believes that their child is beautiful, but even this mother would not be able to overlook the abnormal dimensions of her child’s head. Its skull was huge at the top and narrowed down to a chin that was the same circumference as its neck. It had huge, unblinking eyes and the veins on the top of its head were visible through its translucent skin.

I assumed that this child MUST have some kind of disability, and I was being cruel in recoiling from it, but upon later asking, it turned out that the child was just Ugly.

I know that this is a really, really shallow and heartless thing to say, but I hope to GOD that I have a beautiful child. BEFORE you all jump down my necks, this is not because I would love my ugly child any less than I would love my beautiful child, but because that poor kid is going to have a lifetime of revolted looks shot at it, bullying, self confidence issues, and much deeper issues; I do not want my child to have to deal with that.

But then, maybe the child’s mother is living unaware of how disturbing her child’s looks are? She was not a particularly attractive young woman herself. She too had a slightly odd shaped head, although it was better concealed by her hair, and judging by her looks I dare say the child’s father has a very, very slim chance of being good looking himself (we’re only human, we’re all shallow - so jump off the bus to denial and join the path to “lets tell it how it is”.) and all this compounded to produce a child that looks like it had just crash landed at Roswell, but that doesn’t mean that the mother is aware of her childs misfortune.

I decided that I should do some research to discover how the internets thinks I should react to an ugly baby, and here are the results:

1) Before meeting the child in question, assume it will be ugly. This will prevent any unexpected shocks that may cause heart failure or outbursts of "OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?!?"

2) Check Facebook photos. If it's ugly, you might be able to tell from here. If not, you can at least evaluate the parents attractiveness levels and make a estimate based on their attractiveness levels.

3) Put off the visit. This will give you time to prepare, and as the website I found suggested, allow the babies features time to "Straighten out a bit". You'll be lucky, I reckon. once an ugly baby, always an ugly baby.

4) Before you visit, prepare compliments. This does mean that you'll sound rehearsed but it also means that you won't have to hesitate and possibly get punched by enraged parents.

 - if you try and make some genuine compliments you're more likely to get away with it, e.g. saying that the baby looks happy. Everyone likes a happy baby. Unless they are startlingly ugly, of course.

5) Failing at compliments? Make yourself look like a twat instead. If you do baby talk at the child then everyone will forget that they want you to say nice things about their child and will want to make you go away instead. FAST.

6) Focus on the parents. YES, its all boring drivel and no, unless it is one of your closest friends, you are not going to give a damn about how sore the mothers nipples are or how little sleep father is getting. No, you don't care that baby had it's first hiccup last week, especially seeing as if it hiccuped right now you'd run in fear of your life - the alien may be trying to eat you! But it's better than the silence caused by a parent waiting for you to think of a compliment.

7) Don't try to over compensate, or everyone will know you're lying. stick to the compliment and do NOT over exaggerate, over analyse or keep talking. say it and get out.

OR...

8) You could do it my way. Keep your mouth shut and get the hell out of there ASAP.

Being British is Harder Than it Looks

 

I am one of those people who is as insanely patriotic as your average American (no offence, but you guys are CRAZY when it comes to patriotism). The problem with being British and being patriotic is that it is an immensely complicated thing to do, as the correct way for a Brit to be patriotic is to complain like hell about EVERYTHING. Whilst doing this you must also remember that no matter how bad we've got it, we’re incredibly lucky. We could have it so, so much worse. We could be French.

Additionally, while WE are allowed to complain about everything, if someone who is not British DARES to comment, even if they have lived here for the past 15 years, they are out of order. They are practically trying to start a war.

As we Brits are well aware, our Government is crap. We have an idiot who got into power by riding a bike to work in control, a man who looks like he is wearing a ridiculous blond wig and does nothing but mess everything up as mayor of our capital, and a monarch (God bless her, I love the woman) who does nothing but sit around looking pretty on the backs of our world famous pound coins.

We spend our hard earned money buying second homes for members of parliament - paying tax on what we earn, tax on what we spend it on, and tax on it when it sits in the bank. We pay tax on transporting what we have bought (and just paid tax for) home (both for fuel AND the vehicle itself). We pay tax on storing it in our fridges and then we pay tax on throwing it away.

Yet we still somehow feel that we have got it better than every other country in the world. We still believe that we own Australia, Canada, America, India, and every other scrap of land in between (except Russia. For two reasons, a) you’d have to be nuts to take on those guys and b) who would want to live there anyway? It’s bloody cold!).

I think that the fact that we no longer own these countries is part of the reason for Britain’s lack of faith in our Government. We had it all – wealth, power, land – we were the best of the best. And then for some weird reason, we decided to be nice and give it all back.

Who DOES that?!?! America wouldn't do that. China wouldn't do that. All the other super powers would just use the international rule of “Finders Keepers!” But for some extremely weird reason, us Brits find that we need to be liked by everyone. We have some kind of mass personality flaw that requires counselling.

That’s one of the reasons we were so peeved with that big-eared idiot, Tony Blair, when he decided it would be a good idea to go to war just because the Americans told us to. He was so busy trying to get them to like us that he forgot about making sure the others liked us too. And we know that no one else likes us - hardly anyone votes for us on the Eurovision Song Contest (talent show my arse. I've seen more talented dog leavings than some of the acts on that show).

The only people who MIGHT like us are the Aussies, and let’s face it, a) they’re all bloody mental and b) they’re such a long way away it’s OK for them to like us because they don’t have to deal with us. Kind of like a distant cousin locked up in an institution. They can’t get at you, and you can’t get at them. Also, they don’t help us at all with the Eurovision, what with them not being in Europe.

The French still haven’t forgiven us for that 100 years where we argued a bit. The Germans think we’re idiots and they can’t stand stupidity (which I think is a bit rich considering certain events). The Irish haven’t gotten over the potato incident. Or the Protestant thing. The Spanish think we’re all easy, the Italians think we’re rude, the Russians think we’re trying to steal their oil (they’d be right about that) and the millions of little eastern European countries see us as a meal ticket.

Even the Americans laugh behind their hands at us, their “sidekick”, because if they said “go jump under a bus” we’d ask if they wanted us to use Stagecoach or First, or maybe they’re prefer to use one of their Greyhounds?

We’d be OK if we were a bit more like the Irish – lovable, friendly, chatty, drunk and a bit dim; but everyone’s favourite, slightly backward, drunk cousin. But we Brits, we don’t have that charm. We’ll beat you to death with politeness, we’re kind but we won’t show it, we’re clever but we don’t boast, we always try to do our best but have a habit of getting it horrendously wrong and most of all, we’re good, but never good enough.

So it is hard to be British. It is hard to know that we’re a country led by idiots, who are in turn led by even bigger idiots. It is hard to know that none of the “intelligent countries”, as I like to call them, like you. It is hard to know that every year, for the next 100 years we are going to lose the Eurovision. Every year we are going to have to deal with the shame. It is hard to know that we ARE good at some stuff, but because we’re British we aren't able to TELL anyone about it - that would be rude. And it’s hard to know that our best doesn't quite cut the mustard.

But the HARDEST thing about being British is dealing with the weather.

On the plus side though, we've got the Queen. 

Adrenaline Can Make Me Do Superhuman Things. Ish.

Last week was probably the most stressful week of my working career so far. It was so stressful that my hair has actually started falling out.

Therefore the last thing I needed on a Wednesday evening was to get home and find that there had been some kind of Noah’s ark type explosion in my flat.

Please note that the explosion was almost 100% my fault. I suffer from/enjoy the comedy value of dyspraxia, which I may have mentioned in a previous post. When I get stressed the short term memory loss symptoms of this particular disability increase tenfold, and with the stress at work, I’ve been getting extremely forgetful.

So, when I fed zee derbils (the gerbils to all you sane people out there) Muse and Florence, that morning before work, I left the cage door open. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal – Zee Derbs are a bit too fat and lazy to bother making a break for it when they both know they can get their food from INSIDE the cage with far less effort. I know this because this is NOT the first time I have made this mistake. Not even the first time I have made this mistake THIS WEEK. I always come home, swear a bit, and then close the cage.

This time it was a little different. It was different because as I opened my front door (which happens to be located down a gated alleyway) I heard my neighbour call out from the garden, so I left my front door open to go and have a chat.

Despite my safe, locked, gated alleyway I should have KNOWN that my flat was not safe. I am well aware of a small furry thief – a regular criminal in my neighbourhood – who will take any opportunity to get into my flat, steal my food, and terrorise Zee Derbs (although they are really not fussed by his presence). It would have been ok if I hadn’t left the cage door open.

I finished my quick chat with my neighbour, walked back down my alleyway and as I turned to go into my flat spotted Monty sneaking out of the door, very quickly, very quietly, and with what was definitely a tail in his mouth.

I reacted with a speed I did not know I possessed. My neighbour was already unlocking the gate and I shot out, after the cat with a snack, in time to spot him heading into the fenced off construction site two doors down from me.

I shot after him, discovering that the gap between the fences was indeed too small for an alarmed ginger bird with big boobs. Nevertheless, in the battle between me and the fence, I won.

If I had been able to think rather than panic I would probably have entered the half finished building via the front door. Sadly, I was panicking, and decided that the only way to get into the building was via the 5 foot high window. On the plus side, it turns out that when I am full of adrenaline I am quite capable of leaping 5 foot into the air, and clearing the windowsill. On the other side of the window I spotted the cat leaping out of the window opposite. Having realised how stupid I had been to not use the front door, I decided to exit using the back door. There wasn’t one. And this windowsill was higher. I took a running leap, and thanks to adrenaline managed to clear this one too, in time to spot Monty and his snack disappearing into the jungle outside. At this point, Muse seems to have managed to manoeuvre into a position where she was able to plunge her teeth into Monty.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of a gerbil bite. I have been bitten once by this pair of gerbils, when they had gotten into a fight with each other and Muse had an infected eye as a result. When cleaning the infected eye she had given me a ferocious nip due to the fact that she was in pain, and it HURT.

Monty dropped the Muse, giving me enough time to close the distance, and as I got to him he tried to pounce again. I reacted instinctively, and my foot shot out and connected with poor Monty, who immediately backed off and I scooped up the prize – one slightly alarmed gerbil. Monty realised that his snack had been confiscated and immediately started following me around, yowling pitifully at my heels. I realised that although I am able to clear the windowsill when full of adrenaline and with free hands, I had no method of getting back over the wall with a gerbil in my hands.

My only hope was to stand by the gap between the perimeter wall and the wall that was just big enough to fit my hand through and yell for my neighbour, hoping that she was waiting to see what the outcome was. Luckily for me she was. Unluckily for her, she’s scared of mice and other rodents of that size. She ended up using her dress to hold muse while I ran around the building, and with another spurt of adrenaline in case she let go of the poor furry mite and Monty got her again (he could fit through the gap) leapt over and cleared both windows - I’d forgotten about the front door again. Having retrieved muse (and consequently one hungry cat) from my neighbour, I hurried home, realising as I did that the cage was still open, and I did not know what had become of Florence.

I got in, dashed upstairs (my flat is upside down the living room is upstairs!) and found Florence sat in the cage, wondering idly where her sister was. I popped Muse back in with her, administered a few treats for shock and escorted the now pitiful looking Monty from the premises. After arriving back upstairs, I found both Gerbils curled up together, fast asleep as if nothing had happened. Not a scratch on either of them. I however, had lost a large portion of the skin on my hands.

Monty in the alley, outside my front door

Muse and Florence, Muse is on top

Earn Yourself Some Good Karma

I am one of those people who happens to be blessed with some of the best friends anyone could ever hope for – and those are just my “standard” friends. Additional to those amazing people are my “upper circle” as I like to think of them. If I were Queen Elizabeth I, they would be my Robert Dudleys and William Cecils. If I were Hitler, they would be my Goebbels and Himmlers. If I were Homer Simpson they would be my Marges and my Lisas.

They pick me up when I fall down, they make me laugh till I cry and wipe away my real tears, they give me a hefty kick in the right direction when I lose the path and return my marbles when I can’t find them - although often after having thieved them in the first place.

These people are:

Benjamin Hutchinson – one of the most loyal people I have ever met, who has a tonne of patience and is willing to let me repeat myself over and over when I am obsessing over something small and trivial, and will only occasionally say “you really need to stop worrying about this”, and manages to do so without sounding AT ALL frustrated (a feat which has beaten many).

Sarah Helen Harris – I email this girl almost every single day. She is one of my longest standing friends. She never fails to make me wee myself laughing and yet she completely understands when to be serious, she is full of fantastic advice, most of which I fail to take and later regret not doing so. She is also a walking genius. Of epic proportions. And inspired me to start writing a blog, because her writing is soooo good.

Lynnette Jane Davies – One of the few people who stood by me at a time when I needed friends more than anything. Lynnie will defend those she feels need and deserve her support, and when she decides you deserve it then there is NOTHING that will prevent her from giving it. She is a strong, fantastic person, mother of one gorgeous child (inhumanly gorgeous, actually. Even my mum thought so and she’s a MASSIVE baby critic.) and soon to be Wed to the lovely Alex Davies (who is an absolute diamond).

I am an extremely Loyal person – a lot of the time this trait has been to my own detriment as I refuse to see the disloyalty going on in front of my own face. But in the case of these three they have more than proved themselves to be deserving of my loyalty.

So this morning, when I received a text from Ben demanding that I get on the phone to Lynnie and make sure she’s ok I was a) a little confused as Ben and Lynnie have never met and b) extremely worried. Especially as the wedding is only 5 days away.

It was with utter horror that I heard Lynnie explain to me that last night, at about 3am they were woken up by noises downstairs, and when Alex went to investigate he discovered their front door wide open and their house burgled. Their Playstation, Nexus tablet and various other expensive gadgets had gone, as had their baby son’s piggy bank and – worst of all – their honeymoon money.

The thieves had got in through the kitchen window, picked up a bag and shoved everything into it before leaving. The noise that had woken the sleeping couple was one of their cats in the kitchen - the door is normally kept shut to prevent the cats from getting in there and making a noise/mess. The police searched high and low for the the culprits but only managed to find two wallets empty of cash (but still with cards - although they have to be replaced) and one small child's piggy bank (hurrah!). Oh, and one empty bag used to transport items from the property.

So, as repayment for all of the good deeds that Lynnie and her husband-to-be have ever done for me, I have set up a website to raise funds to replace the honeymoon money, and some of what was stolen. BUT, I ONLY HAVE FIVE DAYS.

I am therefore calling out to all of my followers out there to please, PLEASE help.

If you’ve ever been married, are going to be married or want to be married, imagine that someone steals all your stuff while you are sleeping meters away from them, with less than a week before the big day. These guys don’t just need your help financially though – they really need to know that there are people out there who are as nice as they are, and that this planet is not just full of arseholes.

Do something nice for a complete stranger and click the link below, you’ll feel awesome afterwards.

https://fundrazr.com/campaigns/3Vgw2

Make-up Is Almost Pointless

As a lot of you are aware, I work as a Retail Designer in the Make-up and Fragrance industry. As a girl, I am thrilled to be working in this industry – I love make-up and I love perfume. I own a tonne of the stuff, from little cheap sticks of emergency Lipstick - bought on the go after I’ve realised that I have, yet again, left my own Mac lippy at home – to expensive foundations and concealers bought after spending three hours in John Lewis umming and ahhing about whether this foundation will really make me glow like a radioactive lab rat . Thankfully, it didn’t. I am especially proud of my collection of Barry M eyeshadow – I have around 20-25 of those little tubs of joy, and I aim to collect ALL the colours.

It seems that no matter how much make-up I possess there is always more to collect – new sciences, textures, effects and smells – and there are always new ones being released. Mascara is my pet hate in the make-up world. Every time I think I’ve finally found The One I’m Going To Stick With For Life, as my Mother has and her mother before her did, a new one is released and my old favourite is discontinued, and my hunt has to start again.

I know I am not alone in my make-up collecting. Almost every woman is looking for that miracle product. The one that really does hide wrinkles and blemishes and makes us look 14 again. The one that makes us loose that half a stone and changes the colour of our eyes. And so, when we’re watching the telly on a Friday night and an ad comes on by Lancome or Oil of Olay or Ulay or whatever they’re calling themselves these days, we’re instantly grabbed by their “laser lift and renew without lasers” tag line. We BELIEVE that their product is going to be THE ONE. We believe that they are finally being honest. That maybe, just maybe, if we go out and buy this product it REALLY WILL stay on our faces for three weeks and not smudge. Consequently our cupboards are full of products that don’t work, were expensive enough to warrant re-mortgaging our homes and selling the cat to the tramp that lives on the corner in exchange for a cup-a-soup, and smell like a strange mixture of seaweed, poo and vanilla.

What I would like to know is WHEN WILL WE LEARN? These products DO NOT WORK. The cosmetics industry will never make a product that DOES work. If they did, then we’d all stop buying any subsequent products meaning that they’d have to wait for us to ACTUALLY FINISH the tub of whatever it is we have before we go and buy a new one, rather than giving up half way through the current tub and leaving it at the back of our cupboards for the next 20 years.

We need to take a leaf out of the men’s book. Buy a product. ONE product, unless it is on buy one get one free in which case buy several of the same product. Do NOT diversify from this product. If it works, it works. We do not need to buy into all the gimmicky stuff with “highlighting crystals” in it. For one thing I’m pretty sure they’re just granules of salt.

Having said that the majority of expensive make-up brands are gimmicks and aren’t exactly Ronseal (they don’t do what it says on the tin!) It is far preferable to make the mistake of buying pointless expensive cosmetics than going to other way and buying cheap – tangerine coloured foundation.

Cheap make-up is patchy, never blends to your actual skin tone and makes you resemble a sick oompah-loompah. The eye shadows are so hard that you have to gouge it out of the pot with a spoon and the lipstick sticks to nothing but teeth, making it look like you got so hungry you tried to chew your own arm off.

The stuff available on your town’s market brings you up in a rash and if you get it in your eye you’ll go blind.

The mascara, my pet hate, glues all your eyelashes together to form one giant eyelash. In short, you end up looking like Frankenstein’s Monster gone wrong.

The final problem with the cosmetics industry is that the middle of the road stuff is just that – the middle of the road. It’s not good enough to make you feel special or light your face up like a Christmas tree, but on the plus side it doesn’t make you look like you’ve contracted the Black Death.

It’s almost bad enough to make me consider going bare-skinned, but we don’t want to emotionally traumatise small children. So for now, the cosmetics industry can keep stealing my money and giving me useless products in return – until I develop a cure for aging, that is.

Technologically Advanced.

Hello again everyone!!!

This is just a quick post to let you all know that I now have both a facebook page - Life in the Abstract  - and a twitter - @LifeInTheAbstra

Yes,it is annoying that I couldn't fit those two extra characters into twitter. No, I can't be arsed with complaining officially. I'm just going to complain to you instead. :)

Anyhoo, I am now far more technologically advanced, thanks to Bradley and Ben and their knowledge of such things as "twitterfeed" so I no longer have to post stuff manually. Awesome, isnt it? :D

I will see you with my next post, which is about how pathetic the Make-up industry is.

Innabit, Lovelies! :D


https://www.facebook.com/LifeInTheAbstract

https://twitter.com/LifeInTheAbstra

Clothes Always Look Better In The Movies.

I am the proud owner of not one, but two dressing gowns. Two dressing gowns and a house coat (a short dressing gown, meant to be worn over clothing).

I don’t know about everyone else, but when I think of a dressing gown, I always think of slim, blonde, 007 babes in silk dressing gowns that gape at all the right places, or those see through dressing gowns that show everything and yet nothing all that the same time – a fact that I find mind blowing. Yet in reality, I find that people in dressing gowns don’t even closely resemble their film counter parts.

When I put one of my dressing gowns on I instantly put that four stone back on, deveop a hunch, and it gapes in all the WRONG places, turning me into the least sexy person on the planet.

So this got me to thinking about other clothes that, like the dressing gown, make people look awful in reality but seem like such a good idea when you see them on tv, in adverts or, worst of all, the movies. In order to help my fellow women (and men, if you float that way) I have compiled a list of clothes that should NEVER, EVER be worn off-screen.

1. Thongs.

This is something that SO MANY women make the mistake of purchasing. But ladies, WHAT ON EARTH makes you think you look attractive when you have a bit of cheesewire slicing you in half and a look of constant worry on your face as you search for the next people free spot to de-wedgify yourself? Here’s the thing – you don’t. especially if you have that cheesewire displayed above the top of your jeans on show to the whole world. That just screams tacky. The only way you can get away with wearing a thong is if you are a size 6 and even then the look of abject terror as you wonder if you’re going to have to have an operation to remove the thong from places no underwear should ever go STILL doesn't look good. Go with some nice French Knickers – Classy AND comfortable.

2. Hot Pants.

Thankfully, there are far less women that make this mistake than there are for the previous point. But there are enough out there that I do, sadly, have to include this point.

HOT PANTS DO NOT MAKE YOU LOOK SLIM. Only slim people can wear hotpants – which is why everyone you see wearing them looks slim. You do not. So go and take them off and we’ll never mention this again.

Hot pants have this amazing ability to find themselves in the cracks of women who are SERIOUSLY large. On an average sized woman hotpants manage to increase the width of their thighs, cause muffin tops and add about 3 stone onto their weight. All of which instantly disappears the moment the hotpants are removed. Luckily, I have the solution. If you see Hotpants – RUN.

3. Nighties

Nighties are available from all good granny shops (e.g. BHS, Marks and Sparks, Charity Shops, etc) and, thankfully, most of us are well aware of the dangers these items of clothing pose. BUT, I have included this point in order to warn you all about the dangers of the Ann Summers Nighty. These dangerous items of clothing are often disguised as “Lingerie”. You are encouraged to purchase them in order to up your sex appeal and please your partner. They cost a fortune, are made of polyester and frilly, annoying bits of lace, and have around about the same amount of fabric as your average handkerchief. I have found (through personal experience) that you go into the store, try on and buy this frilly demon-of-the-clothing-industry. You take it home feeling pleased with yourself and then try it on again at home; preparing to surprise your other half. But somehow, during the journey from the store to your home, the item has mutated into the ugliest garment ever seen by man. You put it on and you instantly look like a sack of potatoes and for some reason your boobs keep popping out under your arms. Additionally it keeps twisting around your neck and trying to strangle you and you can’t work out why there are three arm holes and two neck ones. In NO WAY do you look like the sex goddess you were in the store, and you've just wasted 50 quid.

4. Boob Tubes

Boob tubes were obviously designed to show off how anti-gravity your boobs are. As anyone with boobs knows, this is an IMPOSSIBILITY. The only people who wear boob tubes are the flat-chested and the plastic. If you wear a boob tube and you are well endowed (such as myself) you look like you have one large stomach tumour and terrible dress sense. If you wear boob tubes and you’re flat chested you look like a 5 year old wearing her “party clothing” or a man dressing as a woman and getting it terribly, terribly wrong. If you wear boob tubes and you’re plastic… well, we wouldn't expect anything more from you really. Well done you - have a biscuit.

5. Leg Warmers

Leg warmers are probably the worst thing the 80’s produced. Worse than the terrible special effects put on Top of the Pops and those god-awful perms. They come in many luminous, violent colours and, for some unknown reason, every now and again we get them out of storage and all go around wearing them like we’re the Queens of cool. But all leg warmers actually do is shorten our legs and make them look stubby and fat. You may try pairing them with some skyscraper heels and a skirt that is pretending to be a belt, but all that does is make you walk in an extremely odd fashion as you try to not flash your parts or break an ankle. Additionally, they don’t actually keep your legs warm. They sit around your ankles, making them sweaty whilst the rest of your legs freeze and drop off.

6. Leggings/Jeggings

Leggings were also a terrible thing to have come out of the 80s. They were probably designed to make up for the Leg Warmer’s inability to keep your legs warm. Again, skinny size 6’s look FANTASTIC in leggings, as they show off every curve to it’s best. Sadly, for the likes of you and I, they also show off every lump, bump, and knicker line. They are NOT an excuse to wear a thong, mind you. If you try walking around in these wearing a thong, in addition to all your other lumps and bumps you will also have the look of abject terror on your face as you realise you’re never going to be able to find your pants again. This is another item of clothing that fat people believe they can carry off, when we all know that they really, really can’t. Every time I wear Leggings I live with the terror that, like so many other fatties’ bums, my bum is stretching the fabric so thin that everyone can see right through it.

Then, to add insult to injury, someone had the bright idea of inventing jeggings. Jeggings are just like leggings, only with the added insult of making it look like you’re either too poor or too tight to buy real jeans, or even worse – you’re too fat for real jeans. Stay WELL clear of these, ladies – WELL clear.

7. Hareem Pants

Are you in a hareem? No? Take them off. Idiot.

Although I could continue with this list till the cows come home, I’m going to leave it there. If anyone has any suggestions, disagrees with any of my points, or wants to add some points, please feel free to add a comment!

I hope that you all find this list very helpful and will avoid the listed items from now on...If you don't, feel free to email me a picture of you in them so I can have a good laugh.

The Possible End Of An Era...

So, although I’m not going to put money on anything as I’d hate to jinx it, I believe I am coming to the end of my single and dating days.

I know, that means that you guys aren’t going to hear many more hilarious fuck ups from my “wild adventures” (Ha! Yeah right...) or about any more crazy guys... In some ways, this is a sad thing because I’ll have to actually put effort into thinking of what to write, in another way, I am blissfully in lust (and maybe more - in time) with the Sexy Guitarist, and therefore I am not complaining. Definitely not complaining.

No one told me about guitarists, so it has been a complete shock to me. If you don’t know, I would advise asking your friends (NOT family or co-workers!) in case you ever need to know.

At the moment we’re in those clumsy, shy beginnings, where everything is perfect and sweet and romantic, but one wrong move could spell DOOM. For example – if I were to do something slightly too nutty, like inform him of exactly how much I LOVE cats. I’m trying to bring that one in gently. So far, it seems to be going well, but I REALLY had to restrain myself last night when a cat entered the room we were in at one of his band mate’s houses. Most of you are aware, I believe, of how psychotic I get about cats. I am incapable of just passing one in the street. I want to own about fifty of the furry bastards, and a shot gun, rocking chair, porch and some whiskey. See, to my friends this anti social cattitude has become something of the norm. They’re used to the glazed eyes I get when talking about cats, see it as “just ellie” and move on. But this has serious scaring off potential partner risk. Especially if they are dog people. Luckily for me, I did a bit of digging and discovered that he is not adverse to beings of the feline persuasion. Thank god! Hurdle number one cleared.

Next, of course, is the worrying about whether you’re coming over as a bunny boiler. We all know that I’m quite chilled out in relationships as to what my partner gets up to in his spare time. I’m not a jealous kind of girl, and I don’t feel the need to know where they are and who they’re with every minute of the day, as long as I know when abouts they’re going to be home so that I know whether or not to start ringing the hospitals’ A and E depts. BUT... due to the fact that I worry that I may come across as being a bunny boiler, I over-compensate – I go right through disinterested and out the other side again, back into bunny boiler potential. So, a question such as “Oh, you’re going to see her? That’s cool, have fun!” becomes, “Oh, you’re going to see her? When? Not that I mind or anything. I do CARE of course, because you’re involved, but I don’t think you’re about to sleep around. Honest.” And the poor guy I’m talking to is left with the distinct impression that I was implying that I did not approve of him visiting his sister.

Of course, guys have just as many problems. Where us girls are just trying to act like sane people, guys have to act like they are good with emotions and stuff. Which, let’s face it guys, you’re really not. Unless you’re gay or have Mummy issues. Not to generalise or anything, but that is usually the way it works. So you poor things have to go around being “romantic” and not mentioning sport or farting in front of this girl you’re interested in for at LEAST a week. Believe me, I feel for you, I really do. And of course, you may manage to keep this up for a good long while, until you take her to meet your mates and you get sabotaged – “Did you know that Will can squirt his drink out of his nose so accurately it’ll hit the bloke behind the bar in the eye?” - yells one of your mates before you manage to garrotte the bugger. And then it’s week’s worth of effort down the drain.

And finally, the BIG issue, the “am I moving too fast for the other person” worry. When is it right to hold hands? When is it right to greet someone with a kiss? Or take the piss out of them without causing offense? And finally, of course, the “L-Word”. Generally, I take my lead from the other person when it comes to the pace of the relationship. But this will only work as long as the other person is not taking their lead from me, or we’ll both be stuck in this perpetual motion machine and will never get anywhere. Naturally, this does not count with the L-Word as it is such a big deal to me. I’ll say it when I am ready. Whether that be after two dates or twenty – I don’t care. I’d far rather be honest than piss about with someone’s feelings. And I expect the same from the other side. Maybe I’ll be ready to say it before them, maybe they’ll be ready to say it before me. It doesn’t really matter. Either way, both parties should be headed in the same direction, just at their own individual pace.

I think that one of the things that we all forget when we’re in this fresh, shiny and new stage of potential coupling, is that the other person is just as worried about doing or saying the wrong thing and ruining it as we are. The fact is that if there wasn’t a connection then you wouldn’t have got together in the first place. We should all just stop worrying and get on with it. Unless the other person turns out to be a secret, alcoholic, mass murderer with a penchant for eating worms, in which case – RUN!

Before I go, if there are any sexy guitarists out there reading this – I totally exaggerated about the cats thing. Honest. ;)

Now let's just hope that this blog post hasn't messed it all up... LMAO!

Why You Should Never Agree To A Dare

When I was three years old, The Mothership had an unfortunate accident on Christmas Day. Twenty two years on; I am still living with the consequences.

His name is Breon. He has caused me nothing but trouble from the moment he clawed his way out of the womb. As he says, he's seen a vagina once in his entire life, on the way out, and that was so traumatic he never wants to see another one.

The Mothership trained me night and day to be this small, screaming, infernal being's personal bodyguard. I was reminded daily of the fact that it was MY job to look after him at Nursery, School, Cubs, Scouts, Sainsbury's, the swimming pool, the park, the car... Anywhere she could think of.

As a small child, this was a HUGE amount of responsibility, and I was constantly living in fear - if anything happened to him, it was MY fault, because I was supposed to be looking after him.

When he irritated me, I couldn't even do anything about it, as I was older and therefore "should know better". Naturally this meant that my sibling got his own way most of the time.

I am very well known for the few times I have lost my temper. It takes one HELL of a lot to cause me to lose it, but when I do, I am terrifying, even to myself. This system seems to have developed as a method of looking after my brother. I knew that I was not big enough, tough enough or normal-hair-coloured enough to be able to fight off my own bullies - let alone my brothers, so the only other option I had was to be the scariest, most crazy person out there, so that people would think twice about picking on him in case they incur the insanity of his Big Sister as payment for their crimes. I got into numerous fights on his behalf through, and occasionally still do - it's my job.

This attitude has spread to include everyone else close to me. I will dive head first into any fight in order to protect my friends and family, without a second thought. Even if that means that I'm getting into a fight with 5 guys, including one with a machete. In fact, I am FAR more likely to get into a fight with someone if they are brandishing a machete at one of my friends, as the aim is not to keep MYSELF safe, it is to keep my friend safe. My survival instinct is a little… off.

So, apart from causing me to grow up with a lack of self-preservation and a huge and probably unhealthy amount of selfless-ness, my little brother has been the cause behind most of my physical scars, with a bit of help from my God Mother's son.

When I was about 13 we went on holiday in Cornwall. I always loved our holidays, as they usually fell on my birthday.

This year was no different, and we were due to be spending my birthday on Land's End.

A few days before my birthday we had stopped in a campsite in Looe (insert toilet joke here). It had a massive great hill running down the middle of it, which looked deceptively gentle. The campsite had a playground (that I really wanted to go on but was "too old/cool" to stoop to those levels) and a clubhouse.

That night we made our way down to the clubhouse, where they were having a bingo night. The prize for shouting bingo was a brand new, gleaming fold-up micro scooter. There were two of them, and I had desperately wanted one for a while.

The first round began, and as usual, by the end of it I was frustrated and annoyed with my inability to win anything, ever. My God Mother's son, swooped up the prize, and in a moment of genius, I gave my second card to him to play for me.

He won. I got this amazing scooter that I was simply overjoyed about, and was immediately told by the Mothership that I was not to play on it until the next morning.

I woke up stupidly early the next day, with the sole aim of riding my new scooter all over the caravan park and irritating the crap out of every fellow camper. Feeling a bit sorry for my brother, I allowed him to ride it whilst I went and brushed my teeth and showered, also ensuring that our neighbours didn’t get a moment’s peace.

When I returned, Breon was flushed and excited, demanding that I rode down the hill in the centre of the park. I was a tad nervous about this, as the deceptively gentle slope went on for a long way, but I had been dared to do it. When a younger sibling dares you to do something, you have to do it. It's the law. You mustn't lose face in front of them or you will never live it down, and forty years on you would still be living with the ridicule of having backed out of a Dare. So I pushed off, the scooter increasing in speed rapidly as I flew down the hill. About half way down I decided to try and slow down a bit before I went out of control.

It was then that I realised - I had NO IDEA where the brakes were. The scooter hurtled down the hill, with me clutching the handle bar and praying to every deity I could think of, hoping that one of them was paying attention to a small ginger teen travelling at the speed of light on the back of a micro scooter in Cornwall.

The road - and the hill - came to an abrupt stop at the bottom. The scooter hit the curb and I was airborne for what felt like forever, before I hit the ground with a thud. I looked up, jubilantly thinking that I had escaped unscathed and full of adrenaline.

That was when I looked down at my hand. It was hanging off at a 90 degree angle, anti-clockwise. I took a second to think, “That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen" before realising how much it hurt. It was a bit like being hit by a lorry. One of the big ones too. Going at around 80mph.

I don't really remember much after that, I remember walking to a surgery as there were almost NO hospitals in Cornwall. Apparently they believe in witchcraft down there or something, and “doctorin’ be witchin’”.

I also remember my Godmothers son sticking his head out of the window for the entire journey in case he threw up after seeing my arm. Before this incident he had considered becoming a doctor, but that went right out of the window – literally.

The first stop was at a doctor’s surgery in the nearest town. They sent us away before they even looked at me. Then we went to a Hospital about 10 miles away, where they gave me a lot of drugs (Gas and Air is still the best thing I've ever had) before piling me into an Ambulance and sending me off to the next hospital, Plymouth, as they did not have a surgeon who was capable of dealing with an injury as severe as mine was. Apparently my stay in this hospital was a lot longer than I remember, but I was completely off my face on drugs.

I had lost all track of time by this point, and a lot of my memories are hazy and drug ridden. One of the last things I remember before I was put under was the man explaining that I may have to have my hand amputated. It had been broken and dislocated, badly.

When I came round, apparently I was babbling nonsense and laughing hysterically. All I remember was not having a clue where I was, who the people around me were and, most importantly, where my mum was. I must have passed out again as I don't know how I got to my ward. Nor do I remember waking up again. It's like one minute I was out cold, the next conscious and functioning.

I had two pins put in my wrist. When the doctor came round he told me that I MAY have broken the growth plate, and if I had my arm and hand would not continue to grow like a normal person’s. I would have a real life "strong hand", á la “Scary Movie”.

I had to stay overnight, and after an incident the next morning involving some toast, butter and a very angry nurse, I was eventually let loose on Cornwall.

I was completely unable to function with only one hand. And what’s more, I kept forgetting that it was in a cast. I would reach out to grab something from the table and knock everything flying. I’d go to scratch my face and give myself a black eye. I’d roll over in my sleeping bag and give my brother concussion, despite the fact that he was in the next compartment along… Well, you guys know how clumsy I am – now replace my hand with what was, to all intents and purposes, a hammer. It was a DISASTER.

Eventually I was back at home, and in the hospital to get my cast and pins removed. I have never been as sickened by any sensation as I was by the feeling of the pins being pulled out of my arm. I nearly passed out, threw up and punched the doctor removing them all in one go. It was vile. On the plus side, I have two pretty awesome scars on my wrist showing where they were.

By this point I had gotten used to the cast, so once again I was transformed into a lumbering oaf as I tried to readjust to not having it on, misjudging distances, smacking myself in the face - the usual.

Personally, I think I still haven’t adjusted to it not being there. That’s why I’m so clumsy.

To this day my wrist gets stiff in the cold, and makes strange clicks and crunches; but, you’ll be glad to know, I don’t have a dodgy hand.

No thanks to my little brother.