Certain scents have a unique skill - teleportation. Most of us have experienced getting a whiff of something that immediately transports us to a time and place in the past. For example, whenever I smell Michael Kors, I am taken to my honeymoon in New York 2001. If I smell Fahrenheit by Dior, I am whisked back to my hubby's flat to the wonderful loved up days when we first started dating.
But not all scents take us to a pleasant point in history, for example, L'instant Magique by Guerlain takes me back to a very unhappy time in my life, because it was what I had been wearing during that whole time. Every time I smell it now, I get knots in my stomach and I tense up. The reason it comes to mind now is because of my commitment to work my way through my entire perfume collection and my dread of wearing it again.
This relationship between smell and memory fascinates me. For me, music has the same ability to transport me to another time and place. Just the opening bars of 'Follow you, follow me' by Genesis takes me back to the late 70's in my childhood home, in the back room with my mum doing the ironing. Unlikely as it sounds, 'No Limits' by 2Unlimited is a favourite song of mine because it reminds me of when Kid 1 was born as it was a massive chart hit at the time.
I could list hundreds of songs and smells that hold a special meaning for me, not because they are great smells or songs, but because of where they take me, but is it possible to change what a smell or song represents? I suppose it depends on the strength of the attachment to the memory. Because the period of time that L'instant Magique takes me back to is so unpleasant, I could never imagine that it would ever be a scent that I could wear again which is a shame as it is a truly lovely scent (although not as nice as the original L'instant). Likewise I feel the same about the song 'Baby baby' by Amy Grant. That song takes me right back to the day my dad died. Again, I can never imagine that I will be able to enjoy the true meaning of that song which is a celebration of love.
So I'm going to conduct an experiment. Baking is one of my favourite past times and I'm going to have a baking day this weekend. I normally listen to very cheesy pop very loudly and abstain from wearing any perfume so as not to detract from the heady scents of the baking, but this time, I am going to listen to 'Baby baby' and I will wear L'instant Magique. Nothing bad happens when I bake and I find it a very blissful way to spend the day, so I'm hoping that this will have an impact on the hold they have on me.
I'm under no illusions that this will magically happen in just one afternoon, such is the power that the scent & song have to take me back to such horrible times, which is why I will deliberately wear L'instant Magique when I have a fun event planned and will have 'Baby baby' ready on my iPod to be the soundtrack to happier times.
This has turned out to be quite a morbid blog hasn't it? Sorry. I didn't intend it to be. It was just me being curious and wondering out loud, as it were, whether I could change the meaning of a scent. I'll get back to you with my results.
HH
XX
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
I was born to bake you happy.....
Once upon a time there was a little girl. She was 5 years old and loved watching her Mum pottering about in the kitchen making dinner or baking cakes. One Sunday the little girl perched on a stool at the end of the worktop watching her Mum take the hot Yorkshire pudding pan out of the oven ready to pour the batter into it. For reasons unknown, the little girl stuck her finger in the sizzling hot fat whilst asking "is that hot?". The mother, shocked at her daughter's staggering stupidity, administered cold water to the now blistered finger and berated her telling her to "get out of the kitchen and you are not allowed back in".
Fast forward eight years to secondary school. That same poor girl had to endure Home Economics classes. Week after week the teenage girl ruined perfectly good ingredients while all her classmates smiled smugly from their stations laden with perfect replicas of the teacher's recipe. After yet another disastrous practical of making fruit buns, the teacher finally lost her patience with the girl and told her "don't worry about bringing in ingredients from now on dear. You can just stand and watch the other girls".
That girl grew into an adult and a mother, completely incapable of cooking anything without either burning it, or not cooking it properly and making people sick. The latter happened with monotonous regularity and she regularly sent her kid's friends home with mild food poisoning when they came to tea. Sunday roasts consisted of frozen roast potatoes (burnt), frozen ready made Yorkshire puddings (burnt) and various vegetables (boiled so much that all nutritional value was lost), but the show stopper was the meat, which you would be hard pressed to identify as beef, pork or chicken as it would all be grey or charcoal black.
Yes, I am sorry to say that the little girl was me. I didn't set out to be a bad cook. I always really tried to make something decent, but I always expected a disaster and therefore it was a self fulfilling prophecy. Then one day something amazing happened....
In October 2007 I attended a course on project management skills and techniques, the same course that my Director had attended years earlier. When I returned to the office, he asked me what I thought of the course. I said that I had enjoyed it as it played to the logical, organised side of me. He said that he only ever used the critical path analysis, but even then not for work, but for cooking. He went on to say that he cooked only once a year - at Christmas - and he treated the meal as a project. The objective was the dinner, so he used the critical path analysis to work backwards to plan what he had to do, by when and in which order. He swore by it as he freely admitted that he too was a lousy cook and this helped him.
That night on the way home, I pulled a recipe out of the evening paper and bought the ingredients. I treated the recipe like a project and organised myself. Before I started, I made sure that I had all the necessary equipment ready to hand and everything measured out in bowls. I wrote down the time that I wanted us to have dinner, and planned everything right down to the minute. I served up the gammon and chickpea casserole that I had made from scratch and held my breath.....
If this moment had been one of those films that they show during X Factor, (you know the kind with the sob story of a contestant right before Simon tells them that they are through to the next round?) there would have been mood music from someone like Snow Patrol while I nervously tended the casserole on the hob and then the uplifting bit of the song would kick in as my family all took their first bite and then looked up at me, holding their thumbs up in approval. It was an edible success! Of course, before it could be declared a complete triumph, I had one more hurdle to jump. The long wait began to see if anyone would be ill overnight. No-one got sick!!!
I'd broken the curse and buoyed by my success, I made a chocolate mousse the following night - another success and a roast dinner on the following Sunday, making actual real roast potatoes AND homemade Yorkshire puddings from scratch! Even the meat was the right colour and delicious! My transformation into a decent cook was almost complete. Only one challenge lay before me. Baking. At the recommendation of a work colleague, I bought Nigella Lawson's book 'How to be a domestic goddess' and set myself the task of making her coconut macaroons. They didn't come out looking like the picture in her book, but they looked even better AND they tasted equally as good!
With the continued help of my friends Nigella, Jamie, Rachel and James I am now a confident and able cook. I still treat each recipe as a project and I always measure out my ingredients in little glass bowls just like Auntie Delia does on the telly. But my most favourite thing is baking. These days I love nothing more than locking myself away in the kitchen, donning my pinny, listen to a play list of cheesy pop at a loud volume and bake lots of lovely goodies.
I still live in fear that the rubbish little girl will come back, but it's been nearly 3 years and she hasn't resurfaced yet. Besides, I think that it's good to be a little bit fearful of her as it means that I put more care and love into what I am making and that can only enhance the results.
I have broken through the cocoon of being genuinely the world's worst cook to emerge into the sunlight as a domestic goddess. This transformation was complete when after a baking session, Kid 2 stood in the kitchen watching me pull out another tray of deliciousness and said "I love your cooking Mum". Naturally, I began to cry because that's something that I never thought would be said to me and something that I will never forget. In fact I seem to have inspired Kid 2 as he wants to be a chef and starts a course in professional cookery at college this September. He says that I have proved that if someone like me can learn to cook, anyone can!
HH
XX
Fast forward eight years to secondary school. That same poor girl had to endure Home Economics classes. Week after week the teenage girl ruined perfectly good ingredients while all her classmates smiled smugly from their stations laden with perfect replicas of the teacher's recipe. After yet another disastrous practical of making fruit buns, the teacher finally lost her patience with the girl and told her "don't worry about bringing in ingredients from now on dear. You can just stand and watch the other girls".
That girl grew into an adult and a mother, completely incapable of cooking anything without either burning it, or not cooking it properly and making people sick. The latter happened with monotonous regularity and she regularly sent her kid's friends home with mild food poisoning when they came to tea. Sunday roasts consisted of frozen roast potatoes (burnt), frozen ready made Yorkshire puddings (burnt) and various vegetables (boiled so much that all nutritional value was lost), but the show stopper was the meat, which you would be hard pressed to identify as beef, pork or chicken as it would all be grey or charcoal black.
Yes, I am sorry to say that the little girl was me. I didn't set out to be a bad cook. I always really tried to make something decent, but I always expected a disaster and therefore it was a self fulfilling prophecy. Then one day something amazing happened....
In October 2007 I attended a course on project management skills and techniques, the same course that my Director had attended years earlier. When I returned to the office, he asked me what I thought of the course. I said that I had enjoyed it as it played to the logical, organised side of me. He said that he only ever used the critical path analysis, but even then not for work, but for cooking. He went on to say that he cooked only once a year - at Christmas - and he treated the meal as a project. The objective was the dinner, so he used the critical path analysis to work backwards to plan what he had to do, by when and in which order. He swore by it as he freely admitted that he too was a lousy cook and this helped him.
That night on the way home, I pulled a recipe out of the evening paper and bought the ingredients. I treated the recipe like a project and organised myself. Before I started, I made sure that I had all the necessary equipment ready to hand and everything measured out in bowls. I wrote down the time that I wanted us to have dinner, and planned everything right down to the minute. I served up the gammon and chickpea casserole that I had made from scratch and held my breath.....
If this moment had been one of those films that they show during X Factor, (you know the kind with the sob story of a contestant right before Simon tells them that they are through to the next round?) there would have been mood music from someone like Snow Patrol while I nervously tended the casserole on the hob and then the uplifting bit of the song would kick in as my family all took their first bite and then looked up at me, holding their thumbs up in approval. It was an edible success! Of course, before it could be declared a complete triumph, I had one more hurdle to jump. The long wait began to see if anyone would be ill overnight. No-one got sick!!!
I'd broken the curse and buoyed by my success, I made a chocolate mousse the following night - another success and a roast dinner on the following Sunday, making actual real roast potatoes AND homemade Yorkshire puddings from scratch! Even the meat was the right colour and delicious! My transformation into a decent cook was almost complete. Only one challenge lay before me. Baking. At the recommendation of a work colleague, I bought Nigella Lawson's book 'How to be a domestic goddess' and set myself the task of making her coconut macaroons. They didn't come out looking like the picture in her book, but they looked even better AND they tasted equally as good!
With the continued help of my friends Nigella, Jamie, Rachel and James I am now a confident and able cook. I still treat each recipe as a project and I always measure out my ingredients in little glass bowls just like Auntie Delia does on the telly. But my most favourite thing is baking. These days I love nothing more than locking myself away in the kitchen, donning my pinny, listen to a play list of cheesy pop at a loud volume and bake lots of lovely goodies.
I still live in fear that the rubbish little girl will come back, but it's been nearly 3 years and she hasn't resurfaced yet. Besides, I think that it's good to be a little bit fearful of her as it means that I put more care and love into what I am making and that can only enhance the results.
I have broken through the cocoon of being genuinely the world's worst cook to emerge into the sunlight as a domestic goddess. This transformation was complete when after a baking session, Kid 2 stood in the kitchen watching me pull out another tray of deliciousness and said "I love your cooking Mum". Naturally, I began to cry because that's something that I never thought would be said to me and something that I will never forget. In fact I seem to have inspired Kid 2 as he wants to be a chef and starts a course in professional cookery at college this September. He says that I have proved that if someone like me can learn to cook, anyone can!
HH
XX
Sunday, 25 July 2010
The Book of Kid 2: Vol 1
My kids are two of the many things that make me happy, but Kid 2 has been worth his weight in gold for the funny memories he has provided us with. There are so many stories about him that it will require several volumes to share them all with you - this is the first in this series.
Some parents share funny memories of their children with anyone that will listen purely to get revenge on said child once they become teenagers, but that's not the reason that I am doing this. In fact, I have spoken to Kid 2 and asked him if he was OK with me including his stories in my blog and apart from two particular stories that he hates being mentioned, he is happy to let me publish his many, many tales.
I enjoy retelling these stories as they make me smile, but I appreciate that some of them make be of the 'you had to be there' ilk. I apologise in advance if the humour in these stories is not immediately obvious, but please indulge me, because these stories really do need to be published for posterity.
Where do I start? Well, the beginning is usually a good place, so travel back with me to May 1994. After a few hours of pushing, shoving and, at one point, a genuine fear that my body was going to rip itself apart and spilt me in two, Kid 2 arrived. He was 10 days late so looked like a flaky walnut. I can admit that now, but at the time I would have disemboweled anyone with my bare hands if they dared to say that he was anything other than the most gorgeous baby to ever have been born since the equally gorgeous Kid 1.
He was a strange little package. Still is. But I mean that in the nicest possible way. I love the fact that he is odd. In the hospital at the tender age of less than 24 hours old he was already proving himself to be a source of amusement. He laid there in the little clear plastic crib things that they have in hospitals, sleeping like a, well, baby I suppose. During our first night together, I heard an occasional tiny knocking noise followed by a sigh - the delicious kind of sigh that only a contented baby and my cat B can make. I couldn't sleep as I was too besotted with my new little friend, so just as I had done with Kid 1, I sat on the edge of my bed transfixed by the sight of something so small and utterly gorgeous and wondered in amazement at how I had produced something so wonderful. And then I discovered the source of the tiny knocking noise. Every now and then something would make him jump and he would fling his tiny arms out in surprise, knocking on the side of the crib. It was something that was going to become a regular feature in Kid 2's life.
Fast forward to 1997 and the family holiday in Wales. Kid 2 has inherited my ability to fall asleep very quickly on long car drives*. At the tender age of 3, Kid 2 spent a lot of time asleep in the car while we were in Wales driving to and fro various excursions. Other than arriving at our destination, there was only one thing would wake him from his slumber....
Wales is a lovely country with lots of farmland, well, the bit of Wales we were in was like that anyway. The hills and fields we drove past mainly contained sheep and cows. Up on the Welsh mountains, farmers need to have some way of making sure that their livestock do not wander off too far, so at regular intervals you get cattle grids in the road. Driving over cattle grids vibrates the whole car and jiggles the passengers around a bit. Not exactly scary though is it? No, not if you are awake and see the sign for the upcoming grid and know to expect a juddering. But imagine that you are a sleeping 3 year old, so sound asleep that your whole body is slumped forward and being propped up by the seat belt with drool slowly running down your chin. A sudden loud shaking motion will surely scare the willies out of you.
It did. As the car juddered over the cattle grid, Kid 2 once again flung out his arms in surprise, briefly open his big blue eyes, only to immediately close them, and once again settle into his usual, comfy position. He had the same reaction if he was awake and we drove over a grid. It was very amusing to witness!
He didn't like it. Not one bit. It got to a point that we started warning him that we were approaching a grid so he could brace himself. Like most of the stories, he hasn't lived the cattle grid reaction down. We still warn him if we are approaching one today.
And then there was his reaction to fireworks at Disneyland Paris. We were behind the big castle, walking back towards Main Street to watch the impending fireworks display. It was very dark and very few people around there, as they were already in position to watch the display. As we made our way round, there was an almighty bang as the first rocket went up. Kid 2 naturally thought that the best thing to do would be to throw his arms up in the air and run in the opposite direction to where his parents were, into the darkness and then panic and run back towards us!
See what I mean? Odd. But we like him.
HH
XXX
*Can I just point out that my predilection for falling asleep in cars only applies if I am sitting in the passenger seats, NOT the driving seat.
Some parents share funny memories of their children with anyone that will listen purely to get revenge on said child once they become teenagers, but that's not the reason that I am doing this. In fact, I have spoken to Kid 2 and asked him if he was OK with me including his stories in my blog and apart from two particular stories that he hates being mentioned, he is happy to let me publish his many, many tales.
I enjoy retelling these stories as they make me smile, but I appreciate that some of them make be of the 'you had to be there' ilk. I apologise in advance if the humour in these stories is not immediately obvious, but please indulge me, because these stories really do need to be published for posterity.
Where do I start? Well, the beginning is usually a good place, so travel back with me to May 1994. After a few hours of pushing, shoving and, at one point, a genuine fear that my body was going to rip itself apart and spilt me in two, Kid 2 arrived. He was 10 days late so looked like a flaky walnut. I can admit that now, but at the time I would have disemboweled anyone with my bare hands if they dared to say that he was anything other than the most gorgeous baby to ever have been born since the equally gorgeous Kid 1.
He was a strange little package. Still is. But I mean that in the nicest possible way. I love the fact that he is odd. In the hospital at the tender age of less than 24 hours old he was already proving himself to be a source of amusement. He laid there in the little clear plastic crib things that they have in hospitals, sleeping like a, well, baby I suppose. During our first night together, I heard an occasional tiny knocking noise followed by a sigh - the delicious kind of sigh that only a contented baby and my cat B can make. I couldn't sleep as I was too besotted with my new little friend, so just as I had done with Kid 1, I sat on the edge of my bed transfixed by the sight of something so small and utterly gorgeous and wondered in amazement at how I had produced something so wonderful. And then I discovered the source of the tiny knocking noise. Every now and then something would make him jump and he would fling his tiny arms out in surprise, knocking on the side of the crib. It was something that was going to become a regular feature in Kid 2's life.
Fast forward to 1997 and the family holiday in Wales. Kid 2 has inherited my ability to fall asleep very quickly on long car drives*. At the tender age of 3, Kid 2 spent a lot of time asleep in the car while we were in Wales driving to and fro various excursions. Other than arriving at our destination, there was only one thing would wake him from his slumber....
Wales is a lovely country with lots of farmland, well, the bit of Wales we were in was like that anyway. The hills and fields we drove past mainly contained sheep and cows. Up on the Welsh mountains, farmers need to have some way of making sure that their livestock do not wander off too far, so at regular intervals you get cattle grids in the road. Driving over cattle grids vibrates the whole car and jiggles the passengers around a bit. Not exactly scary though is it? No, not if you are awake and see the sign for the upcoming grid and know to expect a juddering. But imagine that you are a sleeping 3 year old, so sound asleep that your whole body is slumped forward and being propped up by the seat belt with drool slowly running down your chin. A sudden loud shaking motion will surely scare the willies out of you.
It did. As the car juddered over the cattle grid, Kid 2 once again flung out his arms in surprise, briefly open his big blue eyes, only to immediately close them, and once again settle into his usual, comfy position. He had the same reaction if he was awake and we drove over a grid. It was very amusing to witness!
He didn't like it. Not one bit. It got to a point that we started warning him that we were approaching a grid so he could brace himself. Like most of the stories, he hasn't lived the cattle grid reaction down. We still warn him if we are approaching one today.
And then there was his reaction to fireworks at Disneyland Paris. We were behind the big castle, walking back towards Main Street to watch the impending fireworks display. It was very dark and very few people around there, as they were already in position to watch the display. As we made our way round, there was an almighty bang as the first rocket went up. Kid 2 naturally thought that the best thing to do would be to throw his arms up in the air and run in the opposite direction to where his parents were, into the darkness and then panic and run back towards us!
See what I mean? Odd. But we like him.
HH
XXX
*Can I just point out that my predilection for falling asleep in cars only applies if I am sitting in the passenger seats, NOT the driving seat.
Sunday, 27 June 2010
The tale of the flat eyed cat
As mentioned before, I have 4 cats - T, B, BB and P. You've met T in an earlier blog. Today I'm going to tell you about B. B is being a pain in the neck at the moment, so this blog is also serving as a reminder to me that she is actually a sweet little thing, not the terrorising bully that she is being at the moment.
B is 2 years old and has been a member of our family for a year and a half. She is a rescue cat, from the RSPCA. I'd seen her picture on the website, but to be honest she looked weird so I was not interested. I'd made an enquiry about another cat, but received a phone call saying that she had been rehoused, but they had another if we were interested - it was the cat from the website. Out of politeness, we agreed to go and see her, but we had no intentions of adopting her.
The reason we were going to get another cat, was because of a dream that I had had. In my dream, it was Christmas, the tree lights were on, we were all in the living room watching something on the telly and T was sitting on our big wooden trunk watching a smaller, younger cat scampering around the room. In the dream there was a lovely warm feeling that was almost overwhelming. It had been a tricky few months, so that dream had an even greater affect on me. The cat in the dream was called B. That's why we had to find the right cat for that dream to come true.
And so, hubby and I pull up outside a really grotty house. The cat we were going to see was currently living with a foster carer. We were greeted by an overly cheerful lady in a house that can only be described as chaotic. There were animals everywhere. The lady bent down to pick up a cat that I hadn't seen. She turned around and there in her arms was Penelope. Who calls a cat Penelope? I mean seriously, how could that ever be a good name for a cat?! Her photo had not done her justice. She was six months old, black and white and had just the sweetest little face. The lady told us that she had been born at an RSPCA centre as her mum had been abandoned there. B herself had not been subjected to any kind of cruelty or anything like that, she just needed a loving home.
She liked us right from the off. Hubby fell for her in an instant. As I held her, she nuzzled into me and showed no signs that she was willing to leave me. Hubby had cuddles too and there began a deep love that still endures today. We made arrangements to adopt her on the understanding that we would be changing her name to B.
The following day, the RSPCA lady dropped her off. She sniffed around her new surroundings and quickly identified her spot and made herself at home. It became very clear early on that B had a distinctive personality very different to that of T's. B was very sociable and friendly. She was also the weirdest of our 4 cats. She is obsessed with water and sinks. Even now, her favourite spot to curl up and sleep is the bathroom sink. Her best quality though is her flat eyes. If she not so impressed with something she gives a withering look that makes you feel very small and insignificant.
B cost us a fortune in vet bills. She was riddled with fleas and had worms too. Not what you would expect from the RSPCA. It took our vets a while to get her completely back to full health. The adoption fee included the cost of her neutering at the RSPCA vet surgery. I took her there and immediately didn't like it. The male vet was horrible. He had no beside manner about him and he kept sniffing. I hated leaving her there. I collected her as soon as possible and vowed never to go back. Her aftercare was provided by my vet and because they knew the story about B, they didn't charge me. A good vet is like a good hairdresser and mechanic - if you find one, never ever let them go.
T was understandably less than thrilled with the arrival of B. She avoided B wherever possible. They hissed at one another for about a week or so and then they gradually became friends. After a couple of weeks we caught them both asleep on your bed holding paws. Their friendship had been sealed! As B got older and was allowed to venture out into the garden, T would sit on the garden table watching over her ever move, making sure she didn't get into any trouble or danger. It was very sweet to watch.
When we brought home the two boys last year, B took them under her wing. She washed them, taught them how to kill bugs and kept them in check if their play fights got too rough. BB and P are black and white too and if you didn't know better, you would think that B was their mum.
B is now 2 and that is clearly the stroppy teenager phase in cats. Lately she has been swiping at the other 3 and generally being very surly and grumpy. We've tried to get to the bottom of why she is suddenly behaving like this - is it because she is now the smallest cat in the house? Has she had a run in with one of our other cats? Is she ill? We have eliminated all of that and our vet says that she is just at that grumpy age. This is why she is being a pain in the neck. We seem to spend a lot of time telling her off for attacking one of the others, but at the same time, we are having to make a special fuss of her so she knows that she is and always will be our gorgeous little weirdo flat eyed girl.
Aww I feel all misty eyed about my tiny B now. I think I'll go and give her a cuddle and a treat!
Oh and by the way, that dream? It came true!
B is 2 years old and has been a member of our family for a year and a half. She is a rescue cat, from the RSPCA. I'd seen her picture on the website, but to be honest she looked weird so I was not interested. I'd made an enquiry about another cat, but received a phone call saying that she had been rehoused, but they had another if we were interested - it was the cat from the website. Out of politeness, we agreed to go and see her, but we had no intentions of adopting her.
The reason we were going to get another cat, was because of a dream that I had had. In my dream, it was Christmas, the tree lights were on, we were all in the living room watching something on the telly and T was sitting on our big wooden trunk watching a smaller, younger cat scampering around the room. In the dream there was a lovely warm feeling that was almost overwhelming. It had been a tricky few months, so that dream had an even greater affect on me. The cat in the dream was called B. That's why we had to find the right cat for that dream to come true.
And so, hubby and I pull up outside a really grotty house. The cat we were going to see was currently living with a foster carer. We were greeted by an overly cheerful lady in a house that can only be described as chaotic. There were animals everywhere. The lady bent down to pick up a cat that I hadn't seen. She turned around and there in her arms was Penelope. Who calls a cat Penelope? I mean seriously, how could that ever be a good name for a cat?! Her photo had not done her justice. She was six months old, black and white and had just the sweetest little face. The lady told us that she had been born at an RSPCA centre as her mum had been abandoned there. B herself had not been subjected to any kind of cruelty or anything like that, she just needed a loving home.
She liked us right from the off. Hubby fell for her in an instant. As I held her, she nuzzled into me and showed no signs that she was willing to leave me. Hubby had cuddles too and there began a deep love that still endures today. We made arrangements to adopt her on the understanding that we would be changing her name to B.
The following day, the RSPCA lady dropped her off. She sniffed around her new surroundings and quickly identified her spot and made herself at home. It became very clear early on that B had a distinctive personality very different to that of T's. B was very sociable and friendly. She was also the weirdest of our 4 cats. She is obsessed with water and sinks. Even now, her favourite spot to curl up and sleep is the bathroom sink. Her best quality though is her flat eyes. If she not so impressed with something she gives a withering look that makes you feel very small and insignificant.
B cost us a fortune in vet bills. She was riddled with fleas and had worms too. Not what you would expect from the RSPCA. It took our vets a while to get her completely back to full health. The adoption fee included the cost of her neutering at the RSPCA vet surgery. I took her there and immediately didn't like it. The male vet was horrible. He had no beside manner about him and he kept sniffing. I hated leaving her there. I collected her as soon as possible and vowed never to go back. Her aftercare was provided by my vet and because they knew the story about B, they didn't charge me. A good vet is like a good hairdresser and mechanic - if you find one, never ever let them go.
T was understandably less than thrilled with the arrival of B. She avoided B wherever possible. They hissed at one another for about a week or so and then they gradually became friends. After a couple of weeks we caught them both asleep on your bed holding paws. Their friendship had been sealed! As B got older and was allowed to venture out into the garden, T would sit on the garden table watching over her ever move, making sure she didn't get into any trouble or danger. It was very sweet to watch.
When we brought home the two boys last year, B took them under her wing. She washed them, taught them how to kill bugs and kept them in check if their play fights got too rough. BB and P are black and white too and if you didn't know better, you would think that B was their mum.
B is now 2 and that is clearly the stroppy teenager phase in cats. Lately she has been swiping at the other 3 and generally being very surly and grumpy. We've tried to get to the bottom of why she is suddenly behaving like this - is it because she is now the smallest cat in the house? Has she had a run in with one of our other cats? Is she ill? We have eliminated all of that and our vet says that she is just at that grumpy age. This is why she is being a pain in the neck. We seem to spend a lot of time telling her off for attacking one of the others, but at the same time, we are having to make a special fuss of her so she knows that she is and always will be our gorgeous little weirdo flat eyed girl.
Aww I feel all misty eyed about my tiny B now. I think I'll go and give her a cuddle and a treat!
Oh and by the way, that dream? It came true!
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Last night a DJ saved my life
Music is one of my most favourite things ever. I cannot live without it. Music has formed an integral part of my life and it's as important to my health and well being as oxygen and water.
I have very fond memories of listening eagerly to the radio, back in the days when Radio 2 became glorious Radio 1 at 5pm on Sunday evenings, with fingers poised over the play/record buttons ready to tape my favourite songs. I can recall doing that as early as 1982 - making me 8 years old. Looking back, that's a pretty young age to be obsessed with music. My friends didn't get into music in any kind of serious way until much later in life. So, what was it that lured me in at such a young age?
I grew up as the youngest of 6 kids, my eldest sibling being 17 years older than me. From every room there was a different type of music blaring out. Downstairs, Dad would be listening to opera or classical music, Mum preferring easy listening standards. Upstairs was much more exciting to an impressionable mind - Queen, Pink Floyd, ELO, The Beatles, Blondie, Gary Glitter, T-rex, Genesis, The Osmonds, Abba, Elvis Presley, Adam and the Ants, Altered Images, Prince, the list goes on. To say that exposure to this melting pot of genres had a profound effect on me is a gross understatement.
Walkmans became popular in the early 80's and quickly became my most treasured possession and also my sanctuary. Whatever the mood, that tiny (OK, not tiny by today's mp3 standards, but tiny compared to the huge 80's style hi-fi's) magical box contained the perfect accompaniment.
Today I still have my trusty sidekick never more than 6ft away from me, although my little pal has morphed into an iPod classic. I love him. Not in a weird 'I married my car' way, but with an affection that runs deep through my veins. There are many reasons I love my iPod - the ease of putting my music collection in to a compact portable device, the way I can easily organise my collection by artist or album alphabetically and the 'genius' thingy that makes suggestions on other songs and artists you might like based on your tastes - but the best thing about my iPod is the ability to create play lists. It's like being transported back to my childhood living room on a Sunday evening creating the ultimate mix tape.
When creating a play list, you are no longer reliant on the people at 'Now that's what I call music' to create a compilation of your favourite chart tracks. You no longer have to have that crappy side B of tape 2. You can cut out the rubbish and indulge yourself to your heart's musical content. Once you have grown tired of that play list, you can simply amend or delete without having a sad dejected C90 collecting dust on your shelf. I have a number of play lists on my iPod. I've created the ultimate greatest hits collection of my favourite artists and also the perfect Christmas play list. I'm particularly proud of that last one.
And then there is the eternal question. The question that can make or break budding relationships or friendships....What's your favourite song? Just one song that you love above all others. It's hard, right? To me it's like picking a favourite child. The pressure is immense. If your answer is met with derision, laughter or a simple nod of the head signalling approval it can seriously affect your relationship with the person asking the question. I once completely changed my opinion of someone that I could have potentially been very good friends with, all because her answer to this most serious of questions was a track from the heinous band Keane. Shameful. It still saddens me to this day when I think about what could have been if she had only answered with anything other than bloody Keane! (oh and Celine Dion - that's a deal breaker too)
I have managed to get my answers down to a shortlist of 2 - 'Don't change' by INXS and Ravel's 'Bolero'. But I have another secret favourite that I rarely tell people. It's a guilty pleasure track. One so embarrassing that it could have the power to relegate me to the status of 'colleague' or 'someone I met once' by my friends and loved ones. But despite the danger, I still cannot break the spell that this song holds over me. When I am down, it instantly cheers me. When I am happy, it joins me in my revelry. It's a song that takes me by the hand and leads me down memory lane, lets me have my moment of nostalgia and then gently brings me back to the present day with a smile on my face.
What is this magical song that I treasure so dearly? Well, for starters I can tell you what it's not - bloody Keane! No, that would be a secret far to shameful to blog about.
The song that I love above all others is an old song. One that has been my friend since I was very young and never ever let me down. That song is........
Oh yeah right, like I'm going to admit it to the world?!
I have very fond memories of listening eagerly to the radio, back in the days when Radio 2 became glorious Radio 1 at 5pm on Sunday evenings, with fingers poised over the play/record buttons ready to tape my favourite songs. I can recall doing that as early as 1982 - making me 8 years old. Looking back, that's a pretty young age to be obsessed with music. My friends didn't get into music in any kind of serious way until much later in life. So, what was it that lured me in at such a young age?
I grew up as the youngest of 6 kids, my eldest sibling being 17 years older than me. From every room there was a different type of music blaring out. Downstairs, Dad would be listening to opera or classical music, Mum preferring easy listening standards. Upstairs was much more exciting to an impressionable mind - Queen, Pink Floyd, ELO, The Beatles, Blondie, Gary Glitter, T-rex, Genesis, The Osmonds, Abba, Elvis Presley, Adam and the Ants, Altered Images, Prince, the list goes on. To say that exposure to this melting pot of genres had a profound effect on me is a gross understatement.
Walkmans became popular in the early 80's and quickly became my most treasured possession and also my sanctuary. Whatever the mood, that tiny (OK, not tiny by today's mp3 standards, but tiny compared to the huge 80's style hi-fi's) magical box contained the perfect accompaniment.
Today I still have my trusty sidekick never more than 6ft away from me, although my little pal has morphed into an iPod classic. I love him. Not in a weird 'I married my car' way, but with an affection that runs deep through my veins. There are many reasons I love my iPod - the ease of putting my music collection in to a compact portable device, the way I can easily organise my collection by artist or album alphabetically and the 'genius' thingy that makes suggestions on other songs and artists you might like based on your tastes - but the best thing about my iPod is the ability to create play lists. It's like being transported back to my childhood living room on a Sunday evening creating the ultimate mix tape.
When creating a play list, you are no longer reliant on the people at 'Now that's what I call music' to create a compilation of your favourite chart tracks. You no longer have to have that crappy side B of tape 2. You can cut out the rubbish and indulge yourself to your heart's musical content. Once you have grown tired of that play list, you can simply amend or delete without having a sad dejected C90 collecting dust on your shelf. I have a number of play lists on my iPod. I've created the ultimate greatest hits collection of my favourite artists and also the perfect Christmas play list. I'm particularly proud of that last one.
And then there is the eternal question. The question that can make or break budding relationships or friendships....What's your favourite song? Just one song that you love above all others. It's hard, right? To me it's like picking a favourite child. The pressure is immense. If your answer is met with derision, laughter or a simple nod of the head signalling approval it can seriously affect your relationship with the person asking the question. I once completely changed my opinion of someone that I could have potentially been very good friends with, all because her answer to this most serious of questions was a track from the heinous band Keane. Shameful. It still saddens me to this day when I think about what could have been if she had only answered with anything other than bloody Keane! (oh and Celine Dion - that's a deal breaker too)
I have managed to get my answers down to a shortlist of 2 - 'Don't change' by INXS and Ravel's 'Bolero'. But I have another secret favourite that I rarely tell people. It's a guilty pleasure track. One so embarrassing that it could have the power to relegate me to the status of 'colleague' or 'someone I met once' by my friends and loved ones. But despite the danger, I still cannot break the spell that this song holds over me. When I am down, it instantly cheers me. When I am happy, it joins me in my revelry. It's a song that takes me by the hand and leads me down memory lane, lets me have my moment of nostalgia and then gently brings me back to the present day with a smile on my face.
What is this magical song that I treasure so dearly? Well, for starters I can tell you what it's not - bloody Keane! No, that would be a secret far to shameful to blog about.
The song that I love above all others is an old song. One that has been my friend since I was very young and never ever let me down. That song is........
Oh yeah right, like I'm going to admit it to the world?!
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Having kids: The case for and against
I love my kids. I absolutely adore them. It's motherhood that I am not so enamoured with. They don't warn you enough when you are pregnant about the full impact that being a mother will have on your life. When I was pregnant with no.1, I was told about the basics of what to expect, but nothing about the emotional impact. But with great love, comes great responsibility.
It was December 1992, the week before Christmas. Ironic really that I had always vowed to never have a child at Christmas time, as my own birthday is the week after, and there I was due to have a baby 4 days before the big event! It was 2 weeks before my 19th birthday and the day before my first baby was due. I'd been told the week before that the head was down and all systems were go for the imminent birth. That night I prayed, not something that I normally do, but I was terrified of giving birth. As soon as I found out that I was pregnant, I knew I did not want to give birth. People thought it was because of my age or that I didn't want the baby, which could not have been further from the truth.
I can't tell you why I didn't want to give birth as I don't know why I felt that way, even now 17 years later. So that night, I prayed that the baby would turn and I would need a caesarean. Because of the time of year, the Dr's called me back in for a check up in case they could induce me so I wouldn't be in over Xmas. It was at that check up that a miracle happened - they baby had turned and was now bum down instead of head down & could not be delivered normally. The dr's were stunned, but I was over the moon - my prayer had been answered! And so, the night before the operation, I had to go in for pre-op checks and although naturally nervous, I was also suprisingly calm. Everything went very well as planned.
Some people say that if you do not give birth, then you do not bond as well with that child. Rubbish. Any woman can carry a child and give birth, but it takes a special kind of woman to be a mum and all that goes with it. I didn't hold my boy until he was 2 days old, but I had alreaady fallen in love with him. But I didn't realise the full strength of that love until a couple of days later. It was Christmas Eve, baby was all tucked up in the little plastic cot things they have in hospitals next to my bed. I was sitting up next to it, leaning over to gently stroke his tiny hand as I watched him sleep. The nurses walked through the wards carol singing and sang Silent Night when they got to my bit of the ward. And then it hit me, this massive wave of complete and unconditional love. I actually felt dizzy from it. It felt like how I imagine driving full speed into a brick wall must feel(but without the pain obviously). I was totally overwhelmed and totally unprepared for it. Why had no-one told me?!
Second time round I was more prepared and also, not scared of giving birth. This time I sailed through pregnancy and baby was born with a lot of pushing, shoving and gas & air. Having done it both ways, I would recommend a caesarean every time! Giving birth is not all it's cracked up to be and certainly made no difference in how I feel about my two boys.
They are teenagers now. I won't lie to you, it's been bloody hard work getting to this point, but it's also been bloody brilliant. I've been struggling lately in coming to terms with the fact that they are getting older and that I'm going to have to let them go and get on with their lives. I've found myself wishing that they were my sweet little babies again. I went from being a kid myself straight into being a mum, so it's all I've known in my adult life.
I can honestly say that I have no regrets. Obviously I do not endorse getting pregnant at 18 as the wisest course of action, but I've been lucky and worked hard at making it turn out alright. I now have two truly amazing young men that I am proud to call sons. They can be complete nightmares and cause me incredible stress (especially kid 1!) but they are also very funny, caring and brilliant people to spend time with. On the days they are being pains, I joke to my friends that do not have kids "urgh, don't have kids, get a cat instead!'. Of course, I don't mean it, well, not everyday!
It was December 1992, the week before Christmas. Ironic really that I had always vowed to never have a child at Christmas time, as my own birthday is the week after, and there I was due to have a baby 4 days before the big event! It was 2 weeks before my 19th birthday and the day before my first baby was due. I'd been told the week before that the head was down and all systems were go for the imminent birth. That night I prayed, not something that I normally do, but I was terrified of giving birth. As soon as I found out that I was pregnant, I knew I did not want to give birth. People thought it was because of my age or that I didn't want the baby, which could not have been further from the truth.
I can't tell you why I didn't want to give birth as I don't know why I felt that way, even now 17 years later. So that night, I prayed that the baby would turn and I would need a caesarean. Because of the time of year, the Dr's called me back in for a check up in case they could induce me so I wouldn't be in over Xmas. It was at that check up that a miracle happened - they baby had turned and was now bum down instead of head down & could not be delivered normally. The dr's were stunned, but I was over the moon - my prayer had been answered! And so, the night before the operation, I had to go in for pre-op checks and although naturally nervous, I was also suprisingly calm. Everything went very well as planned.
Some people say that if you do not give birth, then you do not bond as well with that child. Rubbish. Any woman can carry a child and give birth, but it takes a special kind of woman to be a mum and all that goes with it. I didn't hold my boy until he was 2 days old, but I had alreaady fallen in love with him. But I didn't realise the full strength of that love until a couple of days later. It was Christmas Eve, baby was all tucked up in the little plastic cot things they have in hospitals next to my bed. I was sitting up next to it, leaning over to gently stroke his tiny hand as I watched him sleep. The nurses walked through the wards carol singing and sang Silent Night when they got to my bit of the ward. And then it hit me, this massive wave of complete and unconditional love. I actually felt dizzy from it. It felt like how I imagine driving full speed into a brick wall must feel(but without the pain obviously). I was totally overwhelmed and totally unprepared for it. Why had no-one told me?!
Second time round I was more prepared and also, not scared of giving birth. This time I sailed through pregnancy and baby was born with a lot of pushing, shoving and gas & air. Having done it both ways, I would recommend a caesarean every time! Giving birth is not all it's cracked up to be and certainly made no difference in how I feel about my two boys.
They are teenagers now. I won't lie to you, it's been bloody hard work getting to this point, but it's also been bloody brilliant. I've been struggling lately in coming to terms with the fact that they are getting older and that I'm going to have to let them go and get on with their lives. I've found myself wishing that they were my sweet little babies again. I went from being a kid myself straight into being a mum, so it's all I've known in my adult life.
I can honestly say that I have no regrets. Obviously I do not endorse getting pregnant at 18 as the wisest course of action, but I've been lucky and worked hard at making it turn out alright. I now have two truly amazing young men that I am proud to call sons. They can be complete nightmares and cause me incredible stress (especially kid 1!) but they are also very funny, caring and brilliant people to spend time with. On the days they are being pains, I joke to my friends that do not have kids "urgh, don't have kids, get a cat instead!'. Of course, I don't mean it, well, not everyday!
Monday, 18 January 2010
Grumpy = Happy?
Sometimes, I like being grumpy. I find it quite cathartic. There is nothing like having a good old rant and moan about something that has riled you for cleansing the mind. I used to sit near a woman at work and it seemed that at around 3.30 each afternoon, one of us would have a bit of a rant about something and it became almost a ritual in the end.
Now let me be clear. I am not talking about the kind of continuous whingeing and moaning that some people do all the time. You know the type of people - weary, depressing old miseries. And neither am I talking about the ridiculous rantings of people like Victor Meldrew or the irrational hormonal moods of women at certain times of the month. The grumpiness that I am referring to is the kind as witnessed on the TV show 'Grumpy Old Men/Women'. Actually, now I think about it, I take issue with the word grumpy in that context. It's not really grumpiness to expect a certain standard of behaviour from the world around you and then be dissatisfied when confronted with the harsh reality. The grumbles raised in that show are nearly always completely justified and triggered by the sheer stupidity, arrogance, rudeness, thoughtlessness and unacceptable behaviour of other people. Which leads me onto my first grumble...
I hate people. Not all people, obviously, but certainly most people. As Elizabeth Bennet said in Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice'; "There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense". My sentiments exactly!
It seems that every day I am confronted with people that symbolise everything that I hate about the world today. I am not alone in this. My friend J and I often have a rant about the behaviour of people. We joke about how when we run the country these offensive people will be given the choice of either changing their behaviour or being forcibly removed from the country and changing the law to make it illegal to be rude or smell bad. This may smack of some kind of ethnic cleansing, but it's not. It's survival of the thoughtful, polite and clean. Hubby always says that I expect too much from people, that I expect perfection. He is wrong. I don't expect that from everyone. I expect a common standard of manners and behaviour from the general public and a higher standard of behaviour from those that I am close to. Be honest, don't you too? Why would you choose to spend time with people that wind you up?
Is it so wrong to expect decent behaviour from people? When did it become acceptable to turn feral in supermarkets*? Or to see a heavily pregnant woman on the tube, or an elderly person, look directly at then and still not offer up your seat for them? (this applies to men AND women who ignore the less able to stand). Or to talk loudly in the cinema or theatre? Or to drive right up behind someone and flash your lights at them? Or be a frickin' tourist in Trafalgar Square?! OK, that one is acceptable, but it's not acceptable to get in my way when I'm trying to get to work! Smelly people are unacceptable too, along with people that sniff loudly and excessively, say 'anyfink' or 'somefink' instead of anything or something, rude people, lazy, arrogant people, thoughtless and inconsiderate people.
I could go on, but I don't want to give the impression that I am a miserable cow. Cos, I'm not y'know. I'm actually very healthy. People who know about these things say that you can lower your risk of a heart attack by venting these angers and frustrations. I'm also not a hypocrite. I can't very well moan about the behaviour of others if I go around acting like an arse. I try to be a nice person, even to smelly, rude people that sniff! Again, the wise Jane Austen said it better; "There is nothing that I would not do for those who are truly my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not in my nature".
Of course I am not perfect. I have been known to tut loudly at people, yes I know, people that do that annoy me too. I also recently discovered what it was like to experience completely irrational rage. It was in Liverpool Street station. As usual there was a crowd of people waiting to get on the escalator. Everyone was gradually filtering on to the moving staircase in a fairly polite and organised manner, then some bloke cut through all of us, like a hot knife through butter and barged his way on to the escalator without so much as an 'excuse me, I'm in a terrible rush'. I was livid. I glared at the back of his head all the way down to the next level and then did something that I have never done before and that I am not proud of. I got off the escalator, followed the offensive man, who was walking in the opposite direction to where I needed to be going, until I was level with him, jumped in front of him, called him a not very nice name and then turned to carry on my journey home. That's not normal behaviour. Who was the bigger criminal in that scenario? Him for being a thoughtless, rude tosspot or me for being an aggressive objector to his behaviour? You decide.
One thing I do agree with my hubby about is that I hold a grudge for too long (the event in the station happened 6 weeks ago and I still can't let it go!) and should learn to not let stupid people get to me so badly. Which leads me to my final point and my final Jane Austen quote; "I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself". Perhaps if I did, I would not have need for this blog or to make a New Years resolution to be happy! But, show me someone who does not enjoy having a good old moan and I will show you a goody two-shoes liar!
Love
HH
xx
*a friend of mine told me that he was in Tesco over the Christmas period and had an item in his hand. Apparently a female shopper walked up to him, took it out of his hand, looked at it and then put it back on the shelf. By all accounts this wasn't just an unfortunate encounter with the local nutter, but a perfectly normal woman. My friend said he was so stunned that he didn't react beyond standing there open mouthed at her audacity. That story scared me, because I know that if that had happened to me, I probably would have gone supernova with rage.
Now let me be clear. I am not talking about the kind of continuous whingeing and moaning that some people do all the time. You know the type of people - weary, depressing old miseries. And neither am I talking about the ridiculous rantings of people like Victor Meldrew or the irrational hormonal moods of women at certain times of the month. The grumpiness that I am referring to is the kind as witnessed on the TV show 'Grumpy Old Men/Women'. Actually, now I think about it, I take issue with the word grumpy in that context. It's not really grumpiness to expect a certain standard of behaviour from the world around you and then be dissatisfied when confronted with the harsh reality. The grumbles raised in that show are nearly always completely justified and triggered by the sheer stupidity, arrogance, rudeness, thoughtlessness and unacceptable behaviour of other people. Which leads me onto my first grumble...
I hate people. Not all people, obviously, but certainly most people. As Elizabeth Bennet said in Jane Austen's 'Pride and Prejudice'; "There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense". My sentiments exactly!
It seems that every day I am confronted with people that symbolise everything that I hate about the world today. I am not alone in this. My friend J and I often have a rant about the behaviour of people. We joke about how when we run the country these offensive people will be given the choice of either changing their behaviour or being forcibly removed from the country and changing the law to make it illegal to be rude or smell bad. This may smack of some kind of ethnic cleansing, but it's not. It's survival of the thoughtful, polite and clean. Hubby always says that I expect too much from people, that I expect perfection. He is wrong. I don't expect that from everyone. I expect a common standard of manners and behaviour from the general public and a higher standard of behaviour from those that I am close to. Be honest, don't you too? Why would you choose to spend time with people that wind you up?
Is it so wrong to expect decent behaviour from people? When did it become acceptable to turn feral in supermarkets*? Or to see a heavily pregnant woman on the tube, or an elderly person, look directly at then and still not offer up your seat for them? (this applies to men AND women who ignore the less able to stand). Or to talk loudly in the cinema or theatre? Or to drive right up behind someone and flash your lights at them? Or be a frickin' tourist in Trafalgar Square?! OK, that one is acceptable, but it's not acceptable to get in my way when I'm trying to get to work! Smelly people are unacceptable too, along with people that sniff loudly and excessively, say 'anyfink' or 'somefink' instead of anything or something, rude people, lazy, arrogant people, thoughtless and inconsiderate people.
I could go on, but I don't want to give the impression that I am a miserable cow. Cos, I'm not y'know. I'm actually very healthy. People who know about these things say that you can lower your risk of a heart attack by venting these angers and frustrations. I'm also not a hypocrite. I can't very well moan about the behaviour of others if I go around acting like an arse. I try to be a nice person, even to smelly, rude people that sniff! Again, the wise Jane Austen said it better; "There is nothing that I would not do for those who are truly my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not in my nature".
Of course I am not perfect. I have been known to tut loudly at people, yes I know, people that do that annoy me too. I also recently discovered what it was like to experience completely irrational rage. It was in Liverpool Street station. As usual there was a crowd of people waiting to get on the escalator. Everyone was gradually filtering on to the moving staircase in a fairly polite and organised manner, then some bloke cut through all of us, like a hot knife through butter and barged his way on to the escalator without so much as an 'excuse me, I'm in a terrible rush'. I was livid. I glared at the back of his head all the way down to the next level and then did something that I have never done before and that I am not proud of. I got off the escalator, followed the offensive man, who was walking in the opposite direction to where I needed to be going, until I was level with him, jumped in front of him, called him a not very nice name and then turned to carry on my journey home. That's not normal behaviour. Who was the bigger criminal in that scenario? Him for being a thoughtless, rude tosspot or me for being an aggressive objector to his behaviour? You decide.
One thing I do agree with my hubby about is that I hold a grudge for too long (the event in the station happened 6 weeks ago and I still can't let it go!) and should learn to not let stupid people get to me so badly. Which leads me to my final point and my final Jane Austen quote; "I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself". Perhaps if I did, I would not have need for this blog or to make a New Years resolution to be happy! But, show me someone who does not enjoy having a good old moan and I will show you a goody two-shoes liar!
Love
HH
xx
*a friend of mine told me that he was in Tesco over the Christmas period and had an item in his hand. Apparently a female shopper walked up to him, took it out of his hand, looked at it and then put it back on the shelf. By all accounts this wasn't just an unfortunate encounter with the local nutter, but a perfectly normal woman. My friend said he was so stunned that he didn't react beyond standing there open mouthed at her audacity. That story scared me, because I know that if that had happened to me, I probably would have gone supernova with rage.
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