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.

Eyebrows And Not Dating.

As with many of my previous posts, I am again writing about a date.

I got chatting to this lovely bloke from Rugby. Apres date, I am still of the opinion that he really is a lovely bloke - which is unusual.

The conversation started with a load of "pick one" questions, like "Curry or Chinese", "Summer or Winter" etc etc. I thought that this was hilarious, and certainly different from the usual "Hi, how are you" or, "hi, will you take your clothes off please" standard opening lines, and I simply had to answer. There was no other choice. And then I had to think about a whole load of questions to reply with. Which is actually a lot harder than it looks...

So anyway, after discovering that this guy has a penchant for Arthouse Independant Films, likes his steak medium and prefers pubs to bars, we got chatting. So far so good. He seemed funny, intelligent, kind and chatty.

So, after putting up a bit of a fight, I agreed to a date, despite having worked out the fact that I am definitely NOT looking for a relationship of any kind. Dating isn't really a relationship though, so I figured it'd be fine.

I started preparing for this date on Saturday. I had decided to get my eyebrows waxed by someone who knows what they're doing, rather than doing it myself, as I usually do. Really pulling out the stops for this one.

So I popped in at about lunch time, having booked the appointment the day before on my way home from work, bursting in at about 6:30 and being confronted by a woman; who, although lovely, didn't speak a word of English. So she may not have been lovely at all. I'm just choosing to interpret it as lovely.

Anyway, on the Saturday, I went back in to find another woman, who was just as lovely and had a few more English words in her vocabulary (although only a VERY few) who took me through to a back room. At this point I'm a tad worried about whether I've come to a beauty parlour or... another type of parlour. Involving possible prostitution. I was wondering what I'd booked myself in for. All I can tell you is that it was definitely a parlour.

The woman whips out her wax from god knows where, and approaches the bed where I am laying feeling extremely apprehensive about what it is she thinks she is waxing...

"Thick or thin?" she asks. "Medium" I reply. Apparently medium was NOT in her vocab. Neither was "Middle", "Intermediate", "Average" or "Between". I ended up settling with "Thick".

It has been a LONG time since I last got my eyebrows done at a salon. I had forgotten that it hurts far less when you do it yourself.

The feel of the warm wax going on was lovely and relaxing. I had let all the stresses and strains of the last week drift away while I enjoyed this little piece of luxury. And then she yanked.

I swear to god, it felt like my face was on fire. WHAT WAS IN THAT WAX?!?! Superglue?!? I am sure she took several layers of skin with the strip. At the time, of course, I had to sit still, and pretend like I was hard. Even though my eyes were streaming and I kept having to sniff because my nose had started to run. I WASN'T crying.

I managed, with a huge amount of courage and perseverance, to sit through it all until the last strip was gone. I believe she then did a bit of threading, something I've never had done before. I asked her but she just looked at me like I was mooing or something, so I gave up.

I was finally free, and about to sit up and run out of the room so I could find somewhere to cry about my lack of skin around the eyebrows privately, when she said "Top lip very hairy. You have remove?"

Now, I KNOW that my top lip is NOT hairy. and what's more, if it was, it'd be impossible to tell anyway, I'm ginger ffs, it is practically invisible in small quantities. Did I say this? Did I heck. I am incapable of saying "no" to bloody anyone, even if that person is subjecting me to extreme eyebrow torture.

So I say, "Oh, yes, that'd be lovely, thanks!", like a twat, and before I know it, my top lip is being paid the same kind of attention as the eyebrows. Surprisingly, I found that this hurt MORE than the eyebrows.

By the time I managed to escape (after almost losing my downstairs hair, but I drew the line at that) I was swollen and almost blinded by my running eyes (I STILL wasn't crying!).

When I made it back home I had a look in the mirror. and actually, the eyebrows were a good shape. her version of thin must be TINY.

The downside was that my face was puffy and red in odd places. I had to wait about 2 hours for it to all go back to normal before I could pop out to Narbs to pick up some crafty stuff and condoms (better safe than sorry kids ;)) managing to return with crafty stuff and forgetting the condoms (do what I say, not what I do).

The evening was spent at Sexie Lexie's Birthday do, although I had to leave early as I am faaar too out of practice when it comes to hardcore partying (how lame am I?) but I didn't have time to work up many "pre-date nerves".

Next morning, I woke in  a panic. The Flat was a mess from the crafting stuff I'd been doing the day before, I needed to shower, sort hair, face and make a final decision on what I was wearing that day... all things that take girls an average of three days to complete.

Somehow I managed it, except for the tidying part. I did some washing up though, so I was relatively pleased with myself.

As we were meeting at Tescos (managed to grab those condoms, yay me!) I headed out the door in my little heels (I so love those shoes. and every other pair of shoes I own...) and trotted off, getting there about a minute ahead of schedule and feeling pleased that I had had no major incidents (e.g. locking self in corridor, falling on face on dance floor, accidentally breaking anyone's nose... the list goes on) along the way. I was feeling pretty cocky, right up to the point where I actually had to behave like a relatively normal person. As you are all very aware, I am not capable of normality. Stupidity, over-excitement, ditziness (is that a word?), mentalness, yes. I can do all of those. Normality? Pffft. Nope.

Nevertheless, I think I managed quite well. We headed back to mine, I had an awesome time, he was chatty, friendly, funny, interesting (thank fuck), intelligent, etc, etc. Most importantly, he was.... NOT MENTAL. Yup. You heard me. I'm posting about a guy who WASN'T mental. Sorry to disappoint.

We spent a while chatting (really amused about the aggressive/antagonistic drunk stories. - "Would you like a drink? Cuz you're looking poor..." LMAO!) and getting to know each other. Ahem.

After all the fun at mine we decided to pop to that awesome restaurant on Narbs that does the awesome cheap 3 course meals. That's two awesomes, because it is so AWESOME. As he'd read my blog he complained bitterly about not having any coupons (Crazy Lloyd, for those of you who remember. Those who don't, you need to get yourself checked for Alzheimers; he was unforgettable. He haunts my nightmares.) before being completely awed by the price. Not surprisingly. £4.95 for three courses!!! And free poppadoms! Can't go wrong with that, can you?

By the time we'd eaten and got back to mine, we were both knackered (although I wasn't falling asleep on the sofa :P) and before I knew it he was heading off home.

To be perfectly honest, if I wasn't well aware of the fact that I am not in any way ready for a relationship yet, I'd be snapping this guy up. Whoever catches him is one lucky lady.

One more thing, You guys have probably noticed that I give most of the people I talk about nicknames, such as "The Mothership", "Crazy Lloyd", etc etc. And I had to do a lot of thinking about this one because "nice" sounds bland and boring, and this he was not, "funny" might mean funny in the head, etc etc.

So after a lot of thinking, I came up with one that I HOPE he will find funny (if not, text me and I can rethink!) - Mr Cocksure. To be fair, he has good reason. ;)

P.S. My top lip still feels weird.

Relocation, Relocation... Do I Really Have To Type It Again?

Hello and welcome to the new site for Life in the Abstract!

Due to a sudden rise in the number of readers I have I decided it was time to move to a more "written word" friendly blog space. So, goodbye Tumblr and hello Blogger!

I hope that you guys will enjoy my posts no matter where they are posted, and I have transferred all of the old posts over here so they are still available for those of you that haven't read them!

Love to you all!

Ellie

x

My Foray Into The World Of Internet Dating Isn't Going So Well...

Ok, So I set up an internet dating profile. I’m sure we’ve all been there and given it a go. So I thought, well, what’s the harm?

And yes, I have, thus far, had LOTS of responses. The issue lies NOT with the number of responses, but with the QUALITY.

I sent the following email (in various different forms) to three of the best people on this planet, as a request for much needed help -



“Hey Chicken!

Ok, I totally need your help. This is RIDICULOUS.

I’ve been on Plenty of Fish for a month and a few weeks now, and I’m having issues.

My profile on POF only seems to attract THREE types of men, none of whom I want.Type A) Well below my league. I don’t want to be a bitch or anything, but are these people serious?!? What on EARTH makes them think that they can catch me?! They’re probably really nice people etc etc who all have mummy issues and are completely desperate and needy. NO.

Type B) Fucking NUT JOBS. You know, the ones that SEEM normal, but then they release all their issues and before you know it you’re waking up with horse’s heads on the pillow next to you.

Type C) Fit, complimentary, claim to be “looking for a relationship” and you have to bang their heads against a wall before they admit that actually, they are only after “a good time”. And they ALWAYS think they’ve lied so skilfully and wonder how the hell you worked it out. The fact that you didn’t want to go on a date but wanted me to go round to yours to “snuggle” was a slight hint, mate. ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!? Also, these people seem to be incapable of spelling their own names.

All the reasonably sane ones that I filter out from amongst the shit stains never reply. So I figure there must be something wrong with my profile. I’ve rewritten and rewritten it, to no avail. SO – I would REALLY appreciate it if you could have a look and see where I’ve written, “Girl, Ginger, Looking for Ugly Guy With Issues or One Night Stand With Hot Guy That Can’t Lie For Shit.” Because I can’t find it.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!?!?
Anyhoo, Below is the text from my profile –



About MeHi,

I’m Ellie. I’m a 20-something designer, living in sunny Leicester with a pair of gerbils and a cat that isn’t actually mine, he just thinks he is. You try explaining to a cat that he doesn’t live with you - they generally ignore you unless you offer them food. So I have resigned myself to my fate. And anyway, every single lady needs a few hundred cats; I think it’s the law or something. Mind you, I also think you have to have a shotgun, rocking chair and a bottle of Jack Daniels - sadly, I am lacking on that front.

I like to think I’m funny, good natured, intelligent, caring and thoughtful. I work hard, but I like to get out and about a lot too. I enjoy travelling, going on road trips to new places, and doing new and exciting things.

I love to read, I have a tendency to forget where I am when reading and have been known to miss bus stops and train stations, which is always incredibly annoying to me, but hilarious to my friends and family.

I enjoy my music, I have a huge range, from the Beatles to Led Zepplin to Florence and the Machine and Muse to Reel Big Fish and Pendulum. Also a lot of Dubstep and chart music, as well as some RnB and Metal. All in all, I’m easily satisfied, as long as I can sing along. I really don’t understand music where people are either screaming at me or rapping at me.

I am a really creative person, I like to think outside the box and be spontaneous. Unless I don’t want to be spontaneous, but that only happens on rare, spontaneous occasions, which kind of defeats the point. I love excitement and adventure, but I also love to snuggle down on the sofa with a glass of wine and a take-away, a duvet and someone to watch a movie with.

I also have a really over-active imagination. I can’t watch Horror movies at all, as I won’t be able to sleep for weeks. The Weeping Angels on Dr Who scare me half to death!

I write a blog which I am told is hilarious, although I’m not sure if this is true or not. My friends may just be being nice. Maybe you can give me an honest opinion?

My new years resolution is to give up smoking by the end of the year. So far nothing has happened and I’m starting to wonder if I’m supposed to do something rather than it just magically happening?

Ok, I’m going to give up now - this is a lot harder than I originally thought! So, if you fancy a drink just pop me a line!


First DateMy ideal first date would be full of laughter. Maybe a comedy club? Or somewhere I can make a fool of myself and it would be considered normal. I would go with a thoughtful, considerate, intelligent man who likes to laugh and enjoys new experiences. Although, I’m really not fussy - I also enjoy going out for meals, to the cinema, theatre, or anything really. Easy to please, me!


HELPPPPP MEEEEE!!!!! LOL.

Lobe your FACE!”


I got some great responses, thanks guys!

The main point made was to remove the Crazy Cat Lady part. As it makes me look like a crazy cat lady. Whilst this is strictly true, I think it’s only fair that whichever gentleman I get my claws into gets eased into the situation gently. So, that part has now gone. (Sorry Monty!)

Next up, Length of email and excessive amounts of pointless information. I talk a lot. I need to get over it. End of story. (See what I did there?)

Thirdly, I need to remove the part about me being easy to please. It makes me sound like a slut. Given the chance… no, I still wouldn’t be a slut. I just wish I had that ability. It sounds like fun!

Another good point was that I should actually tell the poor fellows what I’m actually looking for in a bloke. Once again, I focused the whole thing on trying to be what someone else wants, rather than focussing on what I want. same old, same old.

But the best piece of advice I got was this - relocate. It’s not me people, IT’S YOU!!!

But, just in case, if there is anyone else out there with any suggestions, go ahead and let me know, cuz I’m floundering out here!

Ginger People Can't Be Cool

The Saturday before last I went out to Mosh. It’s was the first time I’d been out to a straight club in ages, and although I love partying with the gays (I really do guys, you’re AWESOME!) I was extremely excited at the prospect of possibly maybe actually pulling. A straight person. With penis. A straight person without penis may cause a bit of a problem in the long run.

I had been invited by the lovely girls that live next door, and so, after a haircut, dye and applying the war paint, I popped round to theirs to have some pre-drinks. I should have known what kind of night it was going to be due to the fact that I found that the only alcohol I had in my flat was half a bottle of Jaegermeister, and when we left there was no more jaeger left.

At this point, the girls were pretty awol in the head, and I was feeling a bit like lil’ miss sober, but as it takes about 5 litres of alcohol to get me anywhere near tipsy this was nothing new. Only one thing for it. Drink more.

Emily disappeared almost as soon as we got into the club, while the rest of us went and propped up the bar. We spent a lot of time either drinking or looking for Emily, but by the time she had been located and we were able to dance, I was pretty wasted. I was dancing with this guy, who was obviously embarrassed about the scene his mate was making and grinning at me shyly. I was just starting to think “helloooo…” when Emily and co decide it is time for a fag. So out we all troop. I figured that it wasn’t a huge problem because there were plenty of other blokes out there that had potential, so never mind.

The others all trooped in before I did, as I’d gotten into this conversation with some bloke who was chatting me up but was faaar too young. When I eventually managed to dislodge him and shuffle back inside pretending to not be too drunk I realised that I had managed to lose everyone. So I searched floor by floor.

On the ground floor, as I was drunkenly surveying the dance floor I spotted the guy that I was dancing with earlier. I stood for what felt like 5 minutes, but was probably closer to 15, watching him and his mates, while I attempted to gather some drunken courage. I didn’t feel brave enough to go and actually TALK to him, so I had to get my number into his hands via some other method. A method that would have him at my feet.

So my drunken brain goes into action. I remembered that I have my business card in my bag. I can feel you wincing already. Yeah, I went there. I decided that the coolest thing for me to do, would be to stroll up to him, casually tap him on the shoulder, present him with my card whilst smiling seductively, and casually stroll off again.

That is NOT what happened. What actually happened was this - 

I stumble down the step on to the dance floor, stumble towards the poor guy, shoving dancers out of my way, tap him on the shoulder, hand him card whilst grimacing manically, turn around sharpish and practically sprint off the dance floor, try to place empty glass on shelf at the edge of the dance floor, MISS, try to step up off the dance floor, misjudge height of step and land flat on my face.

NOT. COOL.

The weird thing was that the next day I received a text… Bless him, despite everything he continued to text me, up until I reveal the fact that I am a ginge. Apparently the lighting in there did not reveal this on the night. LOL! Well, I figure he was good practice and a lesson well learned. Ginger people just aren’t cool, and they REALLY shouldn’t try to be. It doesn’t work. Ever

Never Date A Chin Snogger

O

So we moved on the the OrangK, so I’ve had a few requests to write about date number one, otherwise known as Crazy Lloyd.

I had written a post about him in draft, ready to get checked over and uploaded, but for the life of me, I can’t find it anywhere. Yes it is very annoying. But just for you guys, I’ll write it again. :

So, as you know, on Halloween, I went out with the lovely Prue to a house party, where I consequently got a little sloshed and pulled a guy who was relatively yummy and could bounce pennies off his abs. YUM. But I was not in any way prepared for what was to come…

The Friday of the week I moved into my flat was the big date night. I had no idea where we were going as CL (or Crazy Lloyd) wanted to keep it as a surprise - and I LOVE surprises. So he came round to mine and naturally, I was not ready to leave. One of the big rules of dating that. A girl is NEVER ready when her date picks her up. I’m not sure why. probably to test his patience or something in theory, in practice, it’s because we’re panicking and managed to put our dress on upside down the first 5 attempts. Legs through arm holes is never a good look.

Anyhoo, when I’d finally worked out which way is up and had dressed we sat on the sofa for a while, being good boys and girls (noooot!) until it was time to leave for the date.

When we had met at the party there had been a whooole lot of the ol’ snogging. at the time, I had thought, “well, maybe it’s because he’s drunk?”. Yup, the guy was TERRIBLE at snogging. when one snogs another person, one should ONLY snog the mouth of that person. CHIN snogging should NEVER, EVER occur. No matter HOW well you know that person. It just ain’t right. and it wasn’t like he was focusing on my chin, it was just that his mouth covered all of mine AND my chin. And he had an annoying habit of saying “Wow” or “Amazing” after every snog. But, as I said, I put this down to drunkenness Unfortunately, during the sess on the sofa, he proved that alcohol has absolutely no effect on his technique, or his vocabulary.

It turns out that CL had made a reservation at Carluccio’s. I LOVE Carluccio’s. As in, ermagerd *drools* kind of love.

He DID, however, let himself down a bit when he brought out a discount voucher printed off the internet for a free bottle of wine. It was a bit… well, cheap. Believe me, I’m all for getting a bargain, it’s just a bit different when you’re on a first date, isn’t it? I don’t want to feel like a discount whore.

BUT, I let it go, and really enjoyed the meal. CL asked a lot about me, my family, my work, my likes/dislikes etc etc, but whenever I asked him anything he deflected the question, so I didn’t really learn anything about him, except that he had a sister and he lived with his mum. Never a good sign, but again, I disregarded it.

At this point you guys are probably all thinking, “Why the hell is she even bothering with the rest of the date?!?” Because I am stupidly willing to give people second chances - that’s why.

Anyway, the food was great, and although the conversation was mainly about me (a subject which I already know a lot about) at least it was free flowing and not just awkward silences. And he WAS good eye candy.We went to the Orange Tree after food for a few drinks. Things loosened up a bit here, and I started to relax and enjoy myself a bit more. Unfortunately this meant a lot more chin snogging, but hey-ho.

So, At the end of the night he paid for my taxi home, without trying to come with me (gentleman points earned!) and I felt really good about the date afterwards.

For the next weekend I got texts and calls from him, and things seemed to be going rather well. I didn’t think he’d be a long term thing, as he seemed a tad clingy, but as a “get under someone to get over someone” type thing he would do very nicely. In a non-slutty way, of course.

But we’d arranged to have a movie night at mine the following Monday, and I was planning food and a movie selection with Gusto.

Until the day after the Birthday Party…

I woke up extremely drunk. I recalled throwing up on a bus stop. (really sorry about that City Council). I also recalled my brother and my friend going around the club with a sandcastle bucket, filling it with various abandoned drinks and all three of us drinking from it. It had been a very, very rough night.

On the plus side, this was the day that the ex and I were cleaning the old house, and at least I was drunk.

So I spent that day with my brother, dancing and singing at the top of my lungs, and trying VERY hard to not fall over. Especially in front of the ex.

I got numerous texts from CL, but as we had to finish tidying by the end of the day I didn’t have time to reply, and by the end of the day I just couldn’t be bothered.

But I did get a phonecall from him when I got back home, and had a brief chat before Kirsty arrived to chat about the night before. So we said our goodbyes and hung up, and Kirsty and I dissected the previous evening.

When Kirsty left I realised my phone had died during Kirsty’s visit, so I spent a long time hunting for my charger, eventually giving up when I realised it had to be in one of the boxes I hadn’t unpacked yet. So I placed a quick note on facebook, tagging CL, explaining the situation and promising to charge the phone at work the next day.

When I got to work I plugged the phone in, and within about 3 hours it had turned on. Blackberrys are NOT meant to be turned off. It’s very frustrating.

Eventually it turned on. I regretted this. A lot. I still regret it. It was a traumatic experience. I was FLOODED with missed calls, texts, and everything else he could throw at me.

He was asking what he’d done wrong, why I was ignoring him, telling me that I obviously wasn’t interested in him and even accusing me of sleeping with the ex. Well, if I had any interest in him before hand, I DEFINITELY didn’t any more…

There was an obvious turning point where he saw the Facebook message I left him. He suddenly starts to take it all back, apologising and asking if we can “start over”.

Anyway, before I got the chance to start a reply to any of the messages, he started to call me. While I was at work. Who the hell does that?! He knew I work 9-5:30 every day. Did he SERIOUSLY think this was bad enough to stop work and sort it out? We’d been on ONE DATE!! what is it with these men who think that one date means a serious and long term committed relationship? For me, one date means that I think there is a possibility, but I’m not placing any bets in case you’re an axe wielding psycho.

So the phone was immediately slammed into silence. By now it’s starting to wonder what the hell it could possibly have done to offend me so.

Over lunchtime I ended up contacting CL to inform him that he was indeed still welcome at mine that evening as we had to have “a Talk”. Now, we ALL know about “The Talk”. It’s what you get when someone brave dumps you. But when they say “a Talk” it is basically giving you the option to back out and run away from the impending doom…

Now, this is the part where all my plans went wrong. epically, and tragically wrong.

I got home after work, let myself into the flat, sorted things out from work, and started to prepare myself for CL’s arrival. That’s when I went outside, absent mindedly closing the door behind me until I heard the “click” of the lock.

And that’s when I locked myself in my alleyway.

I promptly realised that my keys were INSIDE and I was locked in the corridor. You have no idea how much I laughed. I was in tears – absolutely wetting myself with hysterics. Eventually, I managed to get through next door’s back gate and knock on their back door. They nearly had a heart attack. I was like some crazy person standing at their back door, crying with laughter and asking them if they could let me out of the front gate. Of course, this image of myself did nothing to stop the laughter. Nor did the expressions on their faces… At this point, Kirsty has been alerted to the fact that I am locked out and as she was coming over to prep me for ridding myself of CL, she popped round anyway. Luckily for me, she was able to assure the neighbours that I REALLY DO live there and I wasn’t a crazy burglar/bunny boiler type that was considering killing them all in their beds that night.

I ended up ringing a lock smith, who was going to charge me £70 for ONE LOCK! It wasn’t even late, must have been about 6:45 at this point. What a bloody rip off!!! As I couldn’t afford that I ended up ringing Alex, my landlady, but her husband Ty was out at a parent’s evening and she was looking after Saffron so couldn’t come and rescue me, but she said that she would send Ty over with the keys as soon as he was back. So Kirsty invited me over to hers to wait it out.

Naturally I’d been keeping CL updated as all this went on, but it sounded SO fake that he must have thought I was trying to cancel on him. He ended up texting when I was at Kirsty’s saying he’d just got off the bus to Leicester but he wanted to know whether the “Talk” was bad news as he didn’t want to come all the way to mine if he was just going to get dumped, which was why I’d sent him the warning text in the first place. I REALLY hadn’t wanted to do it over text or phone, so I said, “erm, kinda?”.

KINDA?!? Who WRITES that when they’re trying to dump a crazy person?!?

Anyway, he started ringing me, and we had tears down the phone and all sorts. Well, I didn’t have tears, but he was practically wailing. Then he hung up on me after spending a REALLY long time trying to change my mind, and saying that he knew I wasn’t interested after Saturday night, apparently I’d been really off with him on Sunday (I hadn’t – I’d been busy, as you know) and also trying to guilt trip me and etc etc, blah blah. And he wouldn’t listen to me when I kept saying, you just came on too strong, I don’t think I’m ready for this level of commitment, etc etc. He blamed my ex for sleeping with me at the party and also someone else that I’d met that night, apparently.

Then he text me for ages, apologising for hanging up on me, saying that I’d broken his heart (IT WAS ONNNEE DATE!! ONE!!! I nearly changed his name to the one date wonder) why did this always happen to him, why did no one love him, I had never cared about him (ONE DATE!!!) etc etc. He also kept asking me not to text him again, so I didn’t… unfortunately that didn’t stop him from texting me. Constantly. For the rest of the week. And calling while I was at work, and all sorts of crazy stuff. ERGH.

I kept coming home from work and expecting to find him on my doorstep, or that he’d broken into my flat and was lying naked on the bed with a rose between his teeth or something. *shudder* Or, the most terrifying scenario - finding my Gerbils in a pot of boiling water on the stove.

Eventually, Crazy Lloyd disappeared into the mists of crazy.

Thank God for that.

Reasons For Ditching Your Date Should Not Include "Inability To Do Smiley Faces Properly"

So I totally had date number 2.

Adam. He was a tall, blonde, skinny guy with a reasonable level of attractiveness, despite my aversion to blondes. He seemed shy, funny and relatively intelligent, although (as with all my men) he was a geek, and therefore he was also emotionally … backwards.

Anyway, we went for a Sunday Dinner at the pub, the food was good, the conversation flowed relatively smoothly, and unlike with Date Number One, I also found things out about him because he actually told me things!

After food we started meandering about in town, and I realised that I didn’t really want the date to end, so I invited him back to mine for “coffee” - although I did actually mean coffee.

Anyhoo, we ended up having “coffee”, and as my plans with a friend later that evening were cancelled, we had “coffee” that lasted the whole night. Turns out that he wasn’t very good at “coffee”, but I assumed that this may have something to do with the fact that the first time you try a new brew it takes time to adjust your taste buds.

Unfortunately I never got the opportunity to find out if my taste buds would adjust, as Adam turned out to be crazy number two.

After the night of caffeinated beverages he started to text me on a regular basis, not too often, but at least once a day. at first I thought this was quite nice, but after a while I noticed that every single text conversation was dragged around to being about sex. No matter how hard I tried to make the text that I sent completely devoid of any sexual reference material, he would reply with absolute filth. It was completely impossible to have a conversation with him. For example – a conversation about road names went thus: (Please excuse Adam's appalling spelling)

Adam – Ok, am looking in a street map we have a bonne lane &a raw dykes way lol

Me – Lol, I know!!! Raw Dykes is near me, hilair! :D x

Adam – Theeres a bell end 2 but the one in my pants wants ur cum on it x



Strangely enough, I didn’t reply to this. I mean, what do you say? “Well, that’s nice dear. How about tomorrow after some cucumber sandwiches and a toast to the queen?” And incidentally, I looked up Bell End in Leicester on Google Maps and apparently it doesn’t exist. So the whole conversation was a set up for that line – I would put money on it.

And then he started to get very manipulative. I had already noticed this when I had been going to keep the arrangements with my friend on the date night and he had started to sulk, luckily my friend cancelled so I didn’t have to start getting shirty with crazy number 2…

When I said no to something, he kept trying to push and push until I gave in and he got what he wanted. He used guilt trips and emotional blackmail to achieve his own means, e.g. threatening to stop dating me unless I said yes. although, what he actually said was “I guess I’ll have to go and take my bucket list with me then :”(” To which I replied, “Ooh, going anywhere nice? :)”

Naturally this resulted in a change of tactic, and when I eventually got shirty with him he told me he loved me.

This guy apparently “loved me” after one date, some “coffee” and one week. SCARYYY!!!

When we had first met up I explained that I was going to be really busy over the xmas period and probably wouldn’t be able to see him again until the new year. I was accused of avoiding him, not wanting to “keep him” and, at one point, cheating on him with one of my gay friends –



Adam – So u busy? Or you dumped me? Lol

Adam – So that was a one nighter then? :”( lol

Me – Lol, I’ve only just sat down. Went out last night spontaneously, as my friend Ben facebooked me and invited me. Went to bed at 7:30 this morning… Woke up with Ben on my sofa, comatose and then we spent the day gossiping like old ladies and recovering from hangover city! He’s just left now, bless him, looking ever so slightly worse for wear. I’m fucking knackered!

Adam – Bet you shags loads :( y didn’t you ask me 2party? :”(

Me – You shag loads who? Eh? I went out literally on the spur of the moment and Ben invited me, it’d have been rude to invite someone else to his night out! If I’d been organiser I totes would have. And I literally left 15 mins after I’d been invited, at 12 at night.

Adam – Bet you pulled? Lol aw I wanna be ur guy :”(

Adam – I’d come snuggle u but I don’t know where you live :( lol

Me – I really want to know what you meant by the shag comment.

Adam – Meaning I wanna be urs hope u aint doing others behind my back? As I crys loads :”(

Me – Look, I have never cheated on anyone in my life. And I am pretty fucking insulted by the insinuation that I’m the type of person to do that.

Adam – Ok soz hun was just checking :”( loves you :”( xxx

Adam – Soz hun am not a cheat either :”(

*At this point he actually sends me a text that has nothing to do with me either sex OR me cheating – a little bit of attempted manipulation methinks… I didn’t include it because it’s so random and pointless, especially as he follows it up with this…*

Adam – Didn’t wAnna hurt u just fink am loosing u or ur going off me? :”( xxx

Adam – So u don’t want me 4new year? :”(



That was the straw that broke the camel’s back really. I already knew he wouldn’t last long term and was probably just going to be a temporary feed for my “caffeine addiction”, but there was NO WAY I was putting up with this emotionally manipulative bullshit, the accusations after a week, and the constant filthy texts. YUCK.

So, on New Years Eve 2012 (the next day), I popped him a lovely little text and got rid.



Me – Ok, so I’ve been thinking about things. So far, in the past week, there have been repeated attempts at emotional manipulation, ranging from preventing me from meeting up with a friend, to attempting to get me to perform sexual acts that I do not want to participate in. Secondly I have found that I can’t have a conversation with you – everything ends up being about sex, and a friendship, let alone a relationship, cannot be built on that. Thirdly, we’ve been on one date and you’ve already said you love me twice, and quite frankly, that is scary. And fourthly, you have already accused me of cheating on you. That is mental. I TOLD you, before we first met, that I was going to be busy every day until around the third of Jan. I told you on our date that I wasn’t going to be able to see you until the new year. And yet I feel like I have been bullied and made to feel guilty about that same fact that I have already told you, on repeated occasions. Fact is, I don’t think we are right for each other. I wish you all the best for the new year, and hope you find someone more suited to you. Good Luck!

Adam – Wow hang on I was joking chill out! I no ur busy the cheats was a joke &as 4sending pics I wudnt let u I was just c ing what ud say u no like a test :( so stop being a muppet &get 2no me better :”(

Adam – Personally I think uve took everything 2seriously im not stopping u c ing ur mates I just said if u cud see me then do so b4 as4 sex they were just horny txts which I think you started?? *please note that I DID NOT start them, I didn’t even reply to any of them!* Uve got this all wrong but its up2u :”(

Adam – If anything I just wanted 2meet again just 2chat as I wanted 2get2no u that’s y I asked if u cud c me b4 or as u put it “a bulled guilt trip” *I think he means BULLIED*. U have issues with trust &people…. Im not at all what u described me am hurt &just wanted u2trust me….Take care I guess :”(



I am starting to get the feeling that all the men in Leics are mental. Every. Single. One.

Still, roll on crazy number 3, you may turn out to be a rich roast, full of flavour!

Having just had a conversation with my wonderful friend Sarah, she said that the fact that he can’t just be honest with himself about his weirdness/freakishness makes her want to punch him in the face. Repeatedly.

On the other hand, that is not what I found the most irritating thing by far. The thing that REALLY got to me about this whole thing? The fact that he can’t do crying faces properly.

WHY did he think it was ok to use speech marks instead of an apostrophe?!? IT’S NOT OK!! It’s wrong, morally and scientifically WRONG. It’s not even like it is HARD to put an apostrophe in its place. I mean, it turns this - :”( into this :’( which looks one HELL of a lot less stupid, and is DEFINITELY less irritating.

Does he think that it means he’s crying more? And also, why was he crying about such stoopid shit in the first place?!? All the man ever seems to do is cry!!! And he doesn’t even do it right!!!!!!!

Due to my rage about this, I am pretty sure that my MAIN reason for ditching date number two is because he didn’t do his crying faces properly…


:”(

Please God, Prevent Me From Throwing Up On His Shoes

Ok, imagine that you’ve been in a four year relationship, where you are desperately proud of your other half, consider him to be your best friend and the only person you can talk to about what is on your mind, believe that he will be there and support you when you need it; as you have done for him in the past, when all of a sudden, he’s gone. No warning, no conversations with you, nothing… just gone. Then you realise that you are also losing your home, and before the week is done, you get diagnosed with severe depression, which explains why you’ve been feeling like a mental case for the past year. So severe, in fact, that you are classified as “a risk to yourself and others”. Additionally, you realise that you don’t have enough money to put a deposit down on a new flat, so you are probably going to end up homeless in the next few weeks, or possibly living in the office.
Things can’t get any better really, can they?
Welcome to my life, about 3 weeks ago.

That’s when I decided to take matters into my own hands. I decided that there was no point mourning for a man who should have been there for me when I needed him; I needed to find someone who WOULD be there and give me the support and love that I need in times of crisis.

Luckily for me, I have some fantastic friends. That same week, I was out at a Halloween Party with my wonderful friend Prue and her colleagues. After spending a whole 24 hours deciding on my outfit (determined NOT to go as the green corseted witch AGAIN) before I decided to wear the Punkyfish dress that, until now, I was too large to wear as a dress and only wore it as a top. Break-ups are great when you’re dieting! I had decided to go as a cat, and had made my tail out of a pair of tights, as Tescos feel that Halloween is only for kids and provide NOTHING in the form of adult costumes. So, with a LOT of leg on show, and a LOT of boob on show, I left the house and tottered into town in heels far too high for anyone to walk in without looking like they have some kind of disability, before getting to the DMU, giving up and changing into my emergency flip-flops.

At this point, it starts to rain. Well, I say rain, it was more like standing in a waterfall. So we (Prue, her friend Sam and myself) dash into the nearest bar and have a pint while waiting for the rain to finish its business. At this point, I am starting to get a tad nervous. I am basically gate-crashing a party where the hosts have no idea I’m coming, I only know Prue and Sam, and I’m pretty sure no one is going to actually want me there – the looser who wasn’t invited to any parties of her own.
Anyhoo, a long time later we finally make it to the location of said party, I quickly change out of the emergency flip-flops and into the heels from hell and we make our “grand entrance”, which basically involves me desperately trying to remain upright and not impaling anyone’s feet with the stilettos.

Having had a brief look around the room there are a number of amusingly dressed people, none of whom know what to say to me - and as the best I could come up with was, “So… you came dressed as a smurf then? Well done!”, I decided to keep my gob shut. Better to not look like a complete prat.
As the night wore on though, naturally I found people I was able to talk to. The first was this poor guy trying to put contact lenses in for the first time. Despite all my experience at Vision Express doing contact lens teaches, this guy found it impossible, bless him. He was closer to gouging out his own eye than he was to putting the contacts in.
A little while later, a guy I had spotted earlier in the night had ended up sitting next to me (poor guy!) and was listening to my pathetic ramblings about the most boring and mundane stuff. I really felt quite sorry for him, but bless him, he really seemed interested. I figured he must be a fantastic listener, or a really good actor.
As the night wore on, I realised that actually, this really sweet guy actually WAS interested in what I had to say, and, judging by the laughter, seemed to think I was funny too. I know, I don’t think I’m funny either…
So, we were occasionally popping outside with Prue and Sam and a few others, when suddenly, I found myself on my own with him. Naturally, my brain has now gone into meltdown mode and is screaming “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!!! DOOOOO SOMETHING!!!” but unfortunately my mouth, which doesn’t have a very cordial relationship with my brain, carries on doing its own thing.
All of a sudden, the hostess pops her head outside to tell us that everyone is leaving and making their way to Leicester Uni SU, spots that we are on our own and screeches “SNOG LLOYD!!! GO ON, HE’S LOVELY!!!”

I felt mortified for the poor guy, beyond sure that he does NOT want to snog me, when all of a sudden, he leans in…. and my head explodes. My brain is doing some kind of Riverdance and my stomach has dropped through the floor and I’m pretty sure my heart stopped.
When I come round I find myself (pretty drunkenly at this point) being shepherded out of the house, and I have managed to misplace Lloyd, Prue and Sam. I pause and luckily Lloyd comes out of the house and we walk down to the SU together, from which I have to get a taxi home because a) I am far more drunk than I had realised, and b) I have work the next morning, and it has gone 1 am.

Prue, Lloyd and I end up catching a taxi together and Lloyd and I get out at Narborough Road, say our goodbyes (more snogging, yay!) and I head off home, feeling very pleased with myself for not being a slut and inviting him back with me. (ellie 1 – temptation 0).
It was only when I got home and lay down that I realised how drunk I actually was – the room was spinning at about a million miles an hour and I felt certain that the next day was going to be Major Hangover Time. Strangely though, I woke up feeling just fine, with all my memory intact and feeling ecstatic to boot.

As every girl knows, the next few days are always a waiting game. So, he said he’d call. This does NOT mean that he is going to call. It means that there is a possibility that he MIGHT call. Or it means that he didn’t want to embarrass you by saying, “you’re really shit at that whole snogging thing but I don’t want to deal with an upset female of the species so I’ll say something to get you off my back”.
But he said he’d call me the next day, and call me the next day he did! At the time he said he was going to call me at. Does that EVER happen? Is there one single girl out there that can say that she wasn’t kept waiting and hoping, only to be let down at the last minute?

Naturally, though, I now have to keep my calm. Repeat after me, “Do NOT come across as a crazy person, do NOT come across as a crazy person. We can admit that we are crazy later, but right now, it’s totally NOT a good idea.” (haha, “we”, I sound like a schizophrenic now. I meant the royal “we”)

I’m guessing I managed though, as by the end of the call we’ve agreed to go on a date. A real date. Like, out and stuff. In public. And it wasn’t me that had to ask. For the first time in years! This lovely, lovely guy actually asked ME out!

What with moving house and all, I had to arrange a date for when I was all settled in and would have a lovely home to be proud of, that was all my own and had no lingering ex-crap hanging around.
So Friday the following week was settled on. I wouldn’t have to be up early for work, and would probably have sorted out all my stuff from moving and therefore be able to relax a bit more about it.

So, now it is Friday (Friday, gotta get down on Friday… err… sorry about that. DAMN YOU REBECCA BLACK!!!) and I am SHITTING MY PANTS. Lloyd has been texting or calling almost every day (except moving day) and is a complete sweetheart who really makes me smile. And also, yum! :D
Naturally though, I am running through all the worst case scenarios in my head. Like that time I had a date and ended up getting nervous and letting my mouth run away with me and telling him about the Green Poo incident. Poor bloke. Or the time I tripped over something and as I fell, grabbed the nearest thing to steady myself, and realised I’d grabbed another bloke’s arse. Or the time I went to the wrong Nandos and the poor bloke thought I’d stood him up, while I thought I’d been stood up. By the time I got to the right Nandos he was so pissed off that it was a date filled with awkward silences and angry looks. Can’t blame him though…

Please note: this was NOT all the same guy. I’d feel very sorry for him if it was. Probably tell him to give it up as a bad job.
So, my main aim for tonight is to not be dyspraxic.

Oh, shit.

Additional to the worry that my mouth will runaway with itself, or I may be clumsy and accidentally grope someone, is the outfit worry. I have literally been through every single item of clothing I own, and I am unsatisfied with all of them. They are all either too big, too small, too plain, too tarty, too summery, too frumpy or too old. I mean, how can one girl own so many clothes and be completely unable to find anything suitable to wear for a date?!? It’s just plain ridiculous. Shoes, on the other hand, I have already decided on. Comfortable heels that will be warm – the Victoriana boots. I LOBE those boots.

I love shoes.

So, between 7:00 and 7:15 tonight, Lloyd is going to pick me up, have a brief tour of the flat and then we are going for a meal somewhere. I don’t know where! I am very, very excited and very, very terrified. My brain is a massive puddle on the floor beside my desk and I can’t concentrate on work, hence writing this blog.

Roll on tonight, and keep your fingers crossed for me everyone!

Teasing Your Other Half Is Never A Good Idea

One of my favourite things to do is irritate my other half. This isn’t because I dislike him, or want to cause him pain or misery, but simply because I adore the poor bugger.There is something about his “I think I’m going to break your nose” face that I find adorable, hilarious and satisfying.

I remember when we first got together. He would not tolerate teasing in any manner – seeming to think it was an insult towards him, which I found highly confusing to say the least.In my family, teasing is rife. It always has been. I ought to suggest an awards evening once a year for the best ruses, insults and other misdemeanours. My little brother was declared as being gay LONG before he came out, my mum completely off her trolley and my god mum even more so for voluntarily becoming part of the family.

When poor Hopo first came for a meal at my Mum’s I remember him looking on in stunned disbelief as insults flew back and forth across the table, narrowly avoiding him, while the rest of us laughed at each other’s expense and the usual family stories of bad behaviour and appalling accidents were rolled out for him to digest along with his meal. As I have always been aware of the fact that I come from a family with BIG personalities that tend to overshadow the quieter, more sensible type of person I was a little nervous about the first meeting, especially as I knew that Hopo was not used to people pulling his leg.

Surprisingly, everything went off rather well, Hopo left a lasting impression on my Mother (judging from a later, rather more drunken conversation, where she told me that he has a “sexy forehead”) who still adores him and would probably adopt him if we ever broke up, and Hopo has since said that he really enjoys visiting my Mum because of the constantly happy atmosphere, or words to that effect anyway.

I remember the absolute delight I felt when my poor other half was eventually bullied into defending himself from my tormenting ways. I think it was my renaming him “Poppy” or “Pops” that did it. It came about through one of those long, dull, couple-y type incidents that make single people angry and other couples go “aawwww” but everyone really finds quite dull. Suffice it to say that Hopo was not impressed with his rebranding and was even less impressed when I replied “But you’re my flower!” as this was insulting his testosterone levels even further. It must have been at this point that he decided that something must be done about his irritating, overly happy girlfriend.

Unfortunately for him, his fighting back has only made me happier.
As time has gone on I have noticed a very important change. Hopo no longer teases me just to defend himself. He now teases me just for the sake of teasing me. I heartily approve of this method of showing affection – for one thing it is always amusing to see what new and interesting method he’s developing, and for another I always have a great time thinking up a new method of returning the favour.

The other important change that I have noticed is that now, when I tease him I am often rewarded with a grin before receiving an equally good insult. Well, more often than not his insults are better than mine, as his brain seems to work faster. I often have to go quiet for a minute or two before I am able to make a decent retort, thinking over my different options and wondering if they are overstepping the mark or not. Every now and then I get a real zinger that I say without thinking, often managing to shock everyone in the room.

I have proof of this change – On Friday we went out for a meal together at The Man At Arms, a pub that sells the HUGEST steaks I have ever seen – a 24oz is one of their MEDIUM SIZED portions… anyway, I had a thoroughly good time, and during the enormous meal Hopo kindly informed me of the fact that I am mental (a fact that I am already well aware of, after all, you’ve all heard about my mother! If not – see my previous blog entries!) and later told me that being ginger must make me part vampire, as I am soulless and burn in the sun. See? He is definitely able to hold his own against me, and is now verging on being better than I am, a fact that I find I am not entirely happy about – teasing is MY area of expertise.

I think that the real reason I enjoy teasing Hopo is because he is so good at everything. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be a relatively normal human being (gingerness aside) who is dating a total genius. I figure that something simply has to be done to keep his ego in check, and improve his sense of humour – everyone has to learn to laugh at themselves!

I think that the laughter and good humour that this has brought into my life (and I assume Hopo’s too!) really makes life worth living and sharing; and I couldn’t be happier with my victim. He’ll have to hatch a dastardly plan to escape this one…

Uni Will Never Be Like Real Life

Being a recent (and unemployed) graduate I am one of the many that are currently struggling to find work, without ending up in a rundown factory packing perfume testers into boxes for less than minimum wage.During my unemployment I have found several opportunities to do work experience in order to improve my employability and prevent me from whiling my hours away watching Jeremy Kyle and his constant battle against the moronic hordes.

Whilst at University I was bogged down by the paperwork and irrelevant nature of a lot of what we had to do. For example making a perfect cube from Foam board over and over again until it was “acceptable” and “within tolerance” and writing research reports and feasibility studies that had to have a certain number of words in them and no plagiarism, along with The Essays. All this meant that by the end of my degree, I couldn’t really remember why I wanted to study interior design, and on more than one occasion I came close to giving the whole thing up as a lost cause.

In June last year I was released into the big, wide, REAL world. I didn’t really have a clue what to expect. I had no idea how a design practice was run or how many essays I’d have to complete or in what time frame.It came as a huge surprise to me when, having been accepted for work experience, I wasn’t expected to complete any essays AT ALL. None!
This left me feeling confused and lost. If I wasn’t meant to be writing essays, what WAS I supposed to be doing?

It turned out I was supposed to be designing. Designing real things, with a real budget, that are really going to be made.This made me feel both elated and terrified all at once. What if, after all that uni work, I am actually a terrible designer? Academically, I’m not very good. I’ve never managed to achieve the grades people expect from me. I am intelligent, but I can’t get my intelligence down on paper. As soon as people put guidelines and rules and regulations on paper in front of me I flounder around like a cat in the ocean, not really knowing where to swim and wondering how the hell I ended up here and thinking about how much I hate being wet. I always had a problem with briefings because I just didn’t understand what was expected of me. Even reading through my notes and the documentation given to me after the briefing didn’t help and I hated asking for it to be explained again as I felt like an idiot. Everyone else always seemed to know what was going on and if I asked them I ended up getting on their nerves as it looked like I hadn’t been listening. What I really needed was a list:


1) Think of a design

2) Research design

3) Draw design

4) Evaluate design


Obviously it was a lot more complicated and spider web-like than this, but this was the main list I worked from if I failed to understand what I had been told to do. Which was often.This problem became completely irrelevant in the work place, where there were no peers to think me a fool – I was the new girl, it was ok for me to not understand occasionally, and what with the lack of uni rules and regulations thing didn’t become over complicated and hard for me to process. When asked to design something, I didn’t have to produce whole rooms full of research to back it up; I just had to know how it was done and what materials I was using.

This has left me wondering what the point of university is. I mean, yes, I get to put some letters after my name and tell people I have a degree but when it comes to real life I have no experience or education in what really happens at an interior design establishment.

Yet I paid over £3000 a year for this. I’m going to be in debt until my grandchildren are born at this rate. And now people are expected to pay £9000 a year! My advice is this – don’t do it. Don’t go anywhere near university, especially at that price. So yes, you have fun, meet new people, try new things, have an exciting and interesting life but at the end you are in no way prepared to get a job in your chosen field and commence living.

What used to irritate me more was that my lecturers never seemed to get the fact that I was PAYING them. They were disorganised, late, confusing, boring and arrogant. And I was paying them £3000 a year to do that.

I reckon that these days people are better off doing apprenticeships or training schemes with individual companies. It’s far cheaper and often you’re guaranteed a job at the end of it, meaning you don’t end up lost in the back of your sofa whilst trying to get away from Jeremy Kyle and pals.

I'm Slightly Worried I May Become A Serial Killer

This evening I have been reading Wikipedia’s entries for Serial Killers, in order to while away the hours before bed.
I have always had this grotesque fascination with serial killers. I think it’s because ANYONE could be one. Your annoyingly loud next door neighbours? Serial Killers. The little old lady over the road? Serial Killer. That screaming kid on the bus? Serial Killer. The woman glaring at you in the post office? Serial Killer. Your other half? DEFINITELY a Serial Killer.
What is it that causes people to do these horrible things? You always hear in the stories that they were treated badly by their parents, or orphaned at a young age, or bullied at school. But in reality that’s just an excuse. Other people have gone through the same, sometimes worse, and don’t become serial killers. That we know about anyway.
What’s worse is that these people get married, go to work and have kids. I want to do all these things too. And I got bullied at school. Maybe I am on the brink of becoming a serial killer.
Apparently one guy became a serial killer when his Girlfriend dumped him after he was imprisoned for theft. He started killing to get revenge. Maybe all it’s going to take for me to become a serial killer is a nasty but not-too-awful shock. Maybe I’ll become one if next door’s cat gets run over, or the Co-op raise their prices any further.
The strange thing is, I can kind of understand killing someone. You know, someone really awful, like Saddam Hussein (I know he’s already dead, but let’s pretend for a second that he isn’t) or Tony Blair. I can even understand killing several people, like Saddam Hussein AND Tony Blair (two birds one stone!). What I really don’t get (and therefore am fascinated by) is cannibalism. HOW. DISGUSTING. And yet I love to read those “true stories” about it. They make me feel truly terrified, and I remember the guy I told you about that lives under my bed with a machete. (see “If I Bumped Into Derren Brown…”).
I am beginning to wonder if my strange fascination with the gory is a sign of my underlying serial-killerness, and whether I should warn my housemates/family before it is too late and I’ve had to store them in the loft. For one thing, I’m not so sure I can be bothered with all that lugging bodies around I’d have to do if I don’t warn them.

Another thing that I may have a problem with is my very oversensitive nose and gag-reflex. So I’ll have to think of a way to prevent the smell very early on in my serial killer career, I really don’t see how those guys who bury the bodies in their houses do it.

I’m also very squeamish. I can’t even watch Saw. I once watched “Creep” and had nightmares for weeks. So I’d have to find a nice way to kill people. Like, with a bunch of flowers and a poem. Or a romantic dinner for two.

I’d also feel a bit guilty about the amount of work I’m causing for the police, and the upset of their family members. There are two ways I could get around this. 1) I could kill their entire families and all the police or 2) I could leave a “sorry” card. I think I’m going to go with a sorry card as it seems like less effort. And everyone likes a card.

Another issue is that serial killers all have a type. And to be honest, I can’t think of a type. I couldn’t kill all the homosexuals because I’m not homophobic and my brother is gay, I have several friends who are either gay or lesbian, and I’d miss them. I couldn’t kill all the blacks because I’m not racist and again, I have several friends that I’d miss. I couldn’t kill all the Jews because I’m not anti-Semitic. Couldn’t kill all the people having sex out of wedlock because I’d be first on my list (I have definite proof I’m guilty of that).

You know, after all of that I think that Serial Killers make their lives too hard. Maybe I’m not going to be a serial killer after all.

I'm Never Going To Do Anything Ever Again

I really hate how complicated software can be. For example, for the past 45 minutes I have been trying to link Microsoft Word to my Tumblr, as I know it can link to Wordpress or pretty much any other Blog. Tumblr, unfortunately, like to be set apart from the rest and do not enable a connection to Word. This irritates me. Why would it not connect to Word? It’s a Blog isn’t it? You can write on it? Why would you not enable word processing software to connect to a website where you can write words?!?! On top of this faffing about I had plans to do something other than get irritated with Tumblr 45 minutes ago, and now I can’t remember what that was. I blame Tumblr for this.
When I decide I am going to do something I always feel that I have to finish before I can move on to the next thing, even if it’s not working. If it isn’t working I will keep trying until I end up screaming at whatever is foolish enough to prevent my success. This never fails to alarm poor Hopo who always seems to assume I’m shouting at him. What he never seems to realise is that if he asks me if I’m “alright” when it is blatantly obvious that I am not, then I am going to redirect my screaming at the more irritating thing. I mean, look at it from my perspective; as long as I’m still getting my frustration out I’m happy as Larry. I don’t really care who or what I’m directing it at, provided I feel less annoyed by the end of it.
This is often where Hopo makes his fatal mistake. In fact, this is The Mistake.

He takes offence. Despite repeatedly telling him that if I’m swearing for half an hour at a TV screen because my Wii won’t connect to it, or at my laptop because it has decided that the internet doesn’t exist or at my bike because it thinks it’s ok for the chain to slip every time I pedal, I’m not actually calling him all those names; I’m calling the TV/laptop/bike names, he still gets riled up as if I’m calling HIM names. This, of course, only serves to irritate me more, as now, not only can I not fix the problem, but someone is irritated with me for being irritated.
Being dyspraxic, I often find I can’t explain what the problem is. Or why I’m irritated. I get irritated to the point where I am no longer capable of using words. Problems end up being explained as, “The THING won’t go in the BLOODY F**KING THING!” which helps no one. Least of all poor Hopo, who at this point thinks I am blaming him for my ineptitude, and also doesn’t know what is wrong and is DESPERATELY trying to decode my messages with a look of fear and panic on his face. He is simultaneously trying to work out if he has a greater chance of survival by running away or blaming someone else. Thing is, I may as well be sending him smoke signals while he has a blindfold on.

I have just proved this fact by telling him that I am writing a Blog telling everyone that they should feel sorry for him because he has to interpret my smoke signals while he is wearing a blindfold and he looked at me and said “Sometimes, you just shouldn’t talk. I do wish you wouldn’t drivel.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

The long and short of it is that I am irritated with myself, and poor Hopo thinks I am irritated with him, so he gets irritated with me so I get irritated with him. This is irritating; and so the spiral into hatred and doom continues. I have thought about the solution to this problem for a long time now and I think the only way to prevent this from happening is if I just don’t do anything EVER. Case: Solved.