family

by

The truth about Balls – for Cinderellas everywhere

Every now and then we get invited to a dinner and dance or a ball.

‘ooh, how lovely’ I hear you say. Yes, the chance to get myself dolled up in a posh frock used to get me excited. Now, as a cynical, grumpy old woman, you’ll just hear me sigh and moan at the thought.

For a start, these ‘do’s’ are usually work related. The ‘Celebration Dinner’ or the ‘Awards ceremony’ during a conference. You’ve already had a day of smiling nicely, and all you really want to do is go and sit in a bar with your chums and a bottle of wine. The reality however, is that you get less than an hour to get yourself sorted and ready for an evening of torture.

You have a quick shower, then attempt to do your hair with one of those stupid hairdryers you get in hotel rooms. You know, the one’s where you have to hold the button down to keep the air flow going. What air flow there is – they invariably have the power of a fly flapping it’s wings past your ear. Consequently, hair isn’t that of a tennis girl-friend (how do they get hair like that?), more of the not-so-fashionably tousled variety. You put ‘
product’ on to try and tame it. It looks like its been dipped in grease and sticks out at right angles. Hair should not have corners, should it? Ho hum… on with the dress…

You will have chosen a suitable posh frock to wear. A nice posh frock, I have found, invariably needs some pretty mega underwear to make it look half decent on me. Strapless bra that digs in, and has potential to slip either up or down, and make you look squashed in funny places. Big keks. Big, big, keks. Big keks that hold you in so much you go cross eyed, and feel sick if you eat so much as a stick of celery at the dinner – neither can you go to the loo quickly, so can’t drink too much either (I have discovered though, that a certain brand of big keks has a special gusset that kind of opens so you can do what you need to without taking them off – who knew??? It’s made me look at red carpet celebs in a whole new different way). The dress is long…bit too long, need high heels. You’ve bought a beautiful new pair, that make you feel a million dollars. You’re tall, you’re elegant, you are a Cinderella look-alikey, you’re held in, and your feet bl***y hurt.

After tidying up the make-up you’ve smudged inadvertantly at some point of the getting ready-ness, you totter off, clutching your clutch bag, which you will have mislaid by the end of the evening. Arriving at the reception you grab a glass of free champagne and swill it down. Then you grab a second. You immediately regret that second one. It’s ok now, but the first glass of wine with dinner is going to mix with those darn bubbles and send you giddy fairly swiftly. Never mind, you are charming, though wish you could remember the names of the people you don’t recognise at all who seem to know you quite well.

Then there is the dinner.

You are sat at a round table with some eight other people, none of whom you have anything in common with, except perhaps the woman opposite, who you think you might get on really well with, but you can’t actually hear anything she’s saying, because the enormous table decoration separates you. Instead, you’re stuck with the slimey Mr I Am sitting next to you for the evening. Have another drink.

There’s the food to negotiate. Soup for starters. Eating soup daintly is a knack I’ve yet to learn. Then there’s the chunk of meat for main, and who thought strips of pasta was a good idea – are they having a laugh? Slippery and sloshy with sauce, guaranteed to slither down your chin. Pudding is so often that little row of three teeny tiny same but different things. One is so so, one is revolting, and the third is the smallest one, that is delicious and you wish you could have just had a big portion of that. Then there’s the coffee…..don’t get me started…see previous post…!!

Speeches. Oh hoo bloomin’ ray! Does anyone, ever like the speeches. Sure, everyone laughs politely, claps a bit, but really we are all wishing we could get to the bar (the wine on the table went very early on). Awards to be given out. Endless awards, with endless photos to be taken. By this time, I am nodding off, possibly with a bit of dribble coming out of the side of my mouth. Then the ENTERTAINMENT. A misnomer. Need I say more.

Of course, there is always the disco at the end. Dad dancing at it’s finest! It does liven everyone up a bit though, and I actually start enjoying myself. Of course, it’s enjoying myself with the abandonment of more than enough glasses of wine enjoying myself. Heaven knows what I look like. My shoes, taken off discreetly during dinner, lie abandoned under the table, I’m tripping over my frock and trying to shimmy despite my big keks, and slippy bra. Doubt anyone else remembers anyway, and it’s giving me the chance to bitch about everyone else’s odd choice of clothing for the evening. I wonder why that woman’s boobs are such a funny shape – could it be her bra?
Oh god, it’s a mirror…

by

Power to the Pink Parade

DSC_0213I was one of those sad kids last left in the line-up.  I couldn’t (and still can’t) run, throw, catch, jump or hit a ball with a bat, or racket, or my foot.  I am categorically, pants at sport.  It’s ok though really, ‘cos I haven’t got a competitive bone in my body either.

However, in June I will be doing the ‘Race for Life’ in aid of Cancer Research UK.  Last year I did the 5k with a friend, and this year I’m upping my game to do the 10k with one of my daughter’s for support (or to carry me…).  Of course, you will have guessed, I have no intention of doing any actual running, but I’ll walk as fast as I can.  Last year Net and I did run the last bit, the bit where people were watching and cheering, and I think we may have fooled one or two into thinking we were capable of running the whole thing.  My body knows different though.

I have to be honest, 5k isn’t that bad.  In fact, it felt almost like cheating, as I regularly walk the dog that far anyway, which is why I decided to go the whole hog and attempt the 10k this year.  It could be a mistake. An over-estimation of my motivation.  We’ll find out soon.  Whatever happens though I know it will be fun to be part of.

Its heartwarming to see thousands of ladies, all dressed up in pink, most, like me, who don’t do ‘that sort of thing’, going for it en masse.  Huffing and puffing our way round the course, chattering, encouraging, moaning, groaning… and, in a sad reflection of how pervasive this diabolic disease is, each of us have, pinned to our backs, our own story of encounters with cancer. Most, like me, are running in memory of family or friends that they have lost.

So, I’m in training.  Long walks, with an occasional 30 second burst (most I can manage) of jogging for good measure.  I’m looking forward to it in a quite nervous sort of way, and am hoping to raise just a little bit of awareness and maybe a bit of money for the wonderful work Cancer Research do.  Have a look at their website, and if you’d like to support them you you can do it through my sponsorship page here.

The event takes place after my birthday, so I’ll be a very proud pensioner when I finish!! Oh yes, I’ll finish…it may take a while….

by

It’s all a matter of taste

‘Can’t eat ’em. Don’t like the look of ’em!’ the checkout blokey said to me at the supermarket the other day (yes, it was an older gentleman on the checkout, we’re very pc  ’round these parts ya’know).  He was referring to some mussels that I’d bought for our tea.  I love mussels, funny looking bits an’ all.  In fact I like pretty much most sea food, although on further discussion with said blokey, we decided whelks were overall a bit too chewy, unless you’d got the odd half hour or two to eat them.

I’ve always thought you shouldn’t be put off of trying anything by the way it looks.  Seafood in particular can look a bit, err, shall we say, challenging (come to think of it, so does a lot of my cooking… you should have seen my summer pudding the other day.  The special effects team from ‘Bones’ would have been proud).  It got me to thinking about likes and dislikes, foodwise, though.

We all have things we don’t like.  I have two brothers-in-law (brother-in-laws?? well, you know what I mean). Even though he’s 50 and should know better, one of them won’t touch any veggies except the odd teeny bit of a carrot, and is a proper carnivor, the other one doesn’t like meat all that much, much preferring to pile his plate with the green stuff.  My little niece rejects practically everything she is offered, except sweet things and…. black olives.  How weird is that?  My daughter’s wouldn’t touch olives until they were in their twenties.  They seem a grown up sort of taste.

Is there such a thing though?  We tend to give children bland uninteresting food, or sweetened stuff, or things in funny shapes – alphebetti spaghetti etc and then wonder why they are fussy.  I never did make different food for my children, they had what we had, and on the whole they ate it…curry’s, cous-cous, stir-frys, chilli – olives were one of the exceptions.  We didn’t give them much in the way of sweets (I know, I’m a cruel mother) but they are thanking me these days as, at the age of 26 they are still filling free, and they are open to trying all types of food both here and when they are in foreign parts.

Personally, there are two  things I really don’t touch (three if you count coffee…see previous posts).  Steak and jelly.

I have had an aversion to steak since seeing my dad’s plate graced with a whopping piece of meat that was oozing blood – he liked it rare.  Put me right off it did.  I’ve no doubt that if I tried it again now, I might like it, as long as it was cooked gently and not too chewy. I just can’t be bothered to try.  However, jelly is a different matter.

Apparently, when I was just a few months old, my mum tried giving it to me as one of my first steps towards solid food. I spat it back at her with contempt.  It was revolting then, and it is revolting still.  All jelly.  Strawberry, blackcurrant, orange, that gelatin stuff that holds the fruit together in flans, that grey wobbly stuff that makes a perfectly good pork pie into something totally inedible for me.  Any of it.  All of it.  Yuck.  Don’t know why, just, well, yuck.

My mum always insisted we had jelly and blancmange at my birthday parties.  I used to look at the hideous wobbling monstrosity, and was often tempted to push it from the window sill where it sat setting in the sun, but the thought of gobbets of the ghastly stuff splattered across the garden path, and me probably having to clear it up, stopped me.  The blancmange was equally bad by the way.  Basically thick milky jelly.  Yuck, yuck, yucketty yuck (to paraphrase Hugh Grant in Four Weddings).

Anyhoo, next time you invite me ’round, remember, I’ll eat most things, but for goodness sake don’t serve jelly, you might get it spat in your face.

 

by

Little white ones

Its taken me a long time, but over the years I have come to realise that pretty much everyone spends their working lives ‘blagging’.  From the moment they put pen to paper to write their first CV to the moment they give their retirement speech.  Politicians might call it ‘spinning’, others might call it ‘white lies’ or ’embroidering the truth’.  Come on, admit it, you’ve done it.

Just a tweak here and there on exam grades perhaps.  Or a ‘yes of course I’m very experienced with that programme’ said confidently at an interview, when inside your saying ‘what the..!’ And somehow asking for a raise can feel more morally acceptable if you add one or two additional skills that you’ve acquired since starting.

Yes, you know you have.

My own blagging comes into it’s own at conferences and meetings.  I generally dread the things.  Making small talk with strangers is not my forte.  Nonetheless, I’ll stand and chat, nodding sagely at appropriate moments, filling in gaps with a ”oh yes, dreadful’ or ‘yes, that’s what I’ve been hearing’ without having the first clue about the subject, and hopefully, without the chattee catching on to my ignorance.

When I told him this, my ex-boss and friend, who is a high profile professional, confided in me that he only has a very vague idea about some of the subjects when he’s chairing conferences, and another, very high profile colleague has been known to nod off on stage when chairing, wake up, and then carry on as if nothing has happened. You just need the ‘front’ to do it.

A lady I know owns a successful antiques dealership. She knew nothing about dealing in antiques when she started, but she told me

‘I just said I was an antiques dealer and people believed me, so I was’

Of course, I’ve been blagging for a while about being a writer.  Ok, I blog. I write short stories. I have self-published poems on a poetry website that lots of people say they enjoy.  I’ve done a creative writing degree. I even wrote a radio play that the BBC only just rejected – they gave me a really good critique! (I’m very proud of that! Anyone that’s submitted anything to the BBC will know what I mean) but I haven’t been paid for anything yet.  One day…

My latest blag is listing myself as a ‘Social Media Consultant’.  Fair do’s, I am doing exactly that for the company I’m working for, but only because I can use Twitter, and Facebook, and Linked-in, and Pinterest, and WordPress, and all the other social sites.  It’s not rocket science.  Let’s face it, most nine year old’s could do it with their eyes shut.  But still, I suddenly find myself spending an awful lot of time marketing the company through these sites, having never done any marketing in my life before.

But, do you know what?  Having blagged my way in, I now find that is exactly what I am.  I’m learning on the hoof.  Gaining knowledge and experience rapidly. In a round about way, I’m even being paid for writing.  Just the tweets and blogs and stuff, but it is still writing. After all, I do have to think creatively about what to write, and sometimes that’s no mean feat.

And that is why all the best people blag.  It pushes you to do new things, to find ways of picking up skills fast. To achieve more than you thought you could.

Of course, I’m not condoning it – entirely.  We should all be truthful.  But if a little bit of embroidery on your CV can get you a job that you know you are capable of when otherwise you would be at the bottom of the pile (obviously, you have to have some confidence that you can pick things up quickly) then perhaps it’s not such a bad thing to do. Is it?

by

Wouldn’t Chips be Good?

IMG_0223So, it’s going to become a requirement for all dog owners to have their furry friend microchipped.  Quite right too. Our dog was chipped when we got her from the RSPCA and knowing how barmy she is, it’s comforting to know that if she manages to get herself completely lost, she’s got a chance of getting back to us.  But I’ll bet there are a lot of folk out there who are whinging about it nonetheless.

Actually, it’s made me wonder how far off we are from us humans being micro-chipped. Sounds a bit radical doesn’t it? But, surely its going that way.

Now, a lot of people in this country are completely opposed to identity cards. I can’t see the problem really – I already carry a photo driving licence with me, and lets face it, with our use of credit and debit cards ‘big brother’ abounds.  ‘They’ can already see the last time I bought loo roll, where I bought it, and how much I paid.  There are cameras on every corner in town (for all the good they do) and they can even be used to shout at people if they espy any one misbehaving.

Yep, we’re all monitored.  Get over it, it’s only going to get worse.  I actually don’t mind at all.  I’ve nothing to hide and have a clean conscience.  I think a micro-chip in my arm might be a jolly good idea really.

I could carry all my medical records around with me in safety.  All the fuss that is currently being made about on-line records would be solved.  Ambulance crews could carry a scanner and they’d instantly know my blood type and any drugs I’m taking.  Bob’s yer uncle.

We wouldn’t need to carry our credit cards we could pay with a wave of our arm – no fear of anyone pinching my pin!

My house would be fitted with ‘home scanners’ so that any uninvited guests would be scanned and their details recorded. If I had my way, they’d automatically get tazered big time at the same time. That’d teach the buggers. (you may guess from this that I’ve been burgled once or twice and have some serious security neuroses).

We wouldn’t need keys or pin numbers or passports – all those things we forget so regularly.  It’d be great!

Ok, so I’m on a flight of fancy. I might be going a bit far and it certainly won’t happen in my lifetime.  Maybe one day though.  So if you’re a rogue or a villain reading this, you’d better mend your ways a bit sharpish matey!!

by

The Bob Curse

Ha!  I bet you thought this would be about a bloke (probably a dark gypsy Bob) who spat at me in the street and threatened catastrophe should I not buy his wife’s lucky heather.  Well, no.  Sorry, it’s not about Gypsy Bob.  It’s about haircut bob.

I’ve just returned from the hairdressers.  Most women return from the hairdressers feeling wonderful.  They have glossy shiny, shimmery locks that they can toss carelessly in sunny locations.

I have come home with wet sticky hair.

‘It’s your own fault’  I hear you, and the hairdresser cry.

I complained. Yes I did.  Sorry.

What is it about hairdressers that they completely fail to understand it when I say

‘I don’t want it ending it up in a bob, just loose and casual.  Sticky outy instead of sticky inny.  Just scrunch dry it – it will be fine’.

I did, I said all that to her.  I did. I swear it.

So what’d she do.  She bloomin’ cut it in a bob.  She dried it in that big brush, big hair, taking forever, drying that hairdressers seem specially trained to do.  Then she straightened what she’d just done.  Then..

Then… she curled it with the straighteners.  I looked like bloomin’ Shirley Temple.  Who wouldn’t complain.  M’eh.

To be fair, my hair, being fine and straight, is inclined to look like its cut in a bob whatever the hairdresser tries to do.  Sometimes its a long bob, sometimes its short.  Even with layers it will hang straight down given the slightest encouragement with a brush.  Nobody else in the world seems to have hair that is just so very, very boring.  I have pictures of myself from an early age with a bob.  Sometimes even a bob with a big blue bow.

The bob I had in those days was (truly) the result of my mum putting a bowl over my head and cutting round it.  A curved fringe….nice.

So…this morning, instead of accepting the inevitable, I told her.

‘I look like a five year old’ I said (lets face it, she wouldn’t know who Shirley Temple was), and put my hands in the offending mop and zhoozhed ( don’t know if this is the correct spelling of zhoozhed, but do let me know if you know different).

‘Do you want it diffused’ she asked

‘eh?’ I responded with my usual eloquence.

‘I’ll spritz it’  For those unfamiliar with the technical terms, that means spraying it with water.

So she did.  She spritzed it, until it was dripping wet around my shoulders.  She’d already stuck half a ton of mystery product on my hair which didn’t take kindly to being dampened. Nevertheless, I zhoozhed it again. Goodness knows what the other victims/customers thought.  Let’s hope they were thinking

‘Blimey, I wish I could be that self-assured and rebellious’

Though it was probably more like

‘What does she think she looks like?’ whilst feeling sorry for the young bint that was doing her best to drown me.

Actually, now I’m home and have tweaked it, it looks ok. Sticky outy in a tousled sort of damp way.

Just like I wanted.

 

by

Fun, fun, fun!

Anyone can make up a word.  Children do it all the time. For instance, the five year old Fabulous Ms V entertained us with her variations on ‘poo’ on Saturday. The trick, however, is to get them into wider use. To worm them into other people’s everyday vocabulary.  In fact, one of my more recent new year’s resolutions was to get one of my own made-up words into the Oxford English Dictionary.  Needless to say I have not yet achieved that particular goal.

Actually, 58 years worth of new year’s resolutions and I can only think of one that I’ve managed to keep to, and that was recycling wine bottles, which, frankly I should have been doing anyway.

This year’s, though, is a goer.  I’m sure it is.  Can’t go wrong. This year’s resolution (insert your own drum-roll here) is….

To have fun at every available opportunity.

There, I’ve said it.  Written in black and white and sent into the ether.  Everyone knows.  I’ll just have to keep to it.  None of that whining, misery, or cat-bum-mouthed sulking for me this year.  Oh no, just fun all the way.

I did consider the option of

Not being lazy

But that seemed a little out of reach.  A lot out of reach if I’m honest.

I did wonder about

doing something good every day

That also seemed a little unattainable.  Neither do I want to be seen as one of those po-faced do-gooders.

No, I think  I’m on to a winner with the fun thing.  And actually, it doesn’t have to be partying or going on roller-coasters (though any excuse for either is good), sometimes being a right old misery and having a good ol’ sulk can be fun  too.  Yep, I can do that.  Yep, its a winner.

May all your resolutions be as stickable-to.  Happy New Year!

by

I’ve gone all work shy

Hmmm…I’ve got an offer of work.  Oh blow.  Of course, this is good. It means some dosh coming in, it means I can go back to spending normally instead of keeping checks on my purse all the time.  It means I’ll be intellectually challenged again.  I won’t have to tick ‘housewife’ on forms again (I’m surprised at how much I loath that term) and  I can work from home.  Its only three days a week.  Perfect!

However…

I know I only stopped working three months ago, but really, I’m out of that mindset now.  I like jogging through my day, deciding what to do on the spur of the moment.  For instance, this afternoon I took the dog for a nice run round the playing field, came home checked a few emails, thought I’d get the bedrooms ready for the Christmas visitors, took one look and changed my mind and went and made some bread instead.  It’s great.  I am master of my own destiny.  I feel strangely fulfilled. Work is going to interfere with all that.  I’m going to have structure my day’s and everything.  I’ll have to be nice to people I don’t particularly like again. Oh blow.

Of course, I’m going to say yes, it would be stupid not to.  I’m hoping that I’m still going to find the time and inclination to blog, even if its only to have a moan (what are friends for?), and with any luck I’ll still be able to take control of my workload – one of the most important factors when it comes to job satisfaction I’m told.

Oh well, It’s not quite confirmed yet, so for the time being, I can carry on rebooting, and tell myself I’ve still got the rest of this year before I have to knuckle down!

by

My dad, his birds, and me

My dad became a pigeon fancier after buying a pair, quite randomly, from a bloke that he met at a pub.  It was only when he got home that he realised that he had nowhere to keep them. Undeterred he emptied out and dismantled one of my mum’s cupboards. Frantically chopping and sawing, he bought and added more wood until he ended up with a huge white ‘loft’ which covered most of our tiny square of garden. It was fit for a pigeon king.

To my mum’s dismay, it wasn’t long before he added to his stock of birds.  Fed with the best pellet mix, they grew glossy, sleek, and fit and before we knew it, dad was embroiled in the pigeon racing club.  The birds would go off in their baskets on Friday evening, and we would spend every Saturday afternoon standing out in the garden rattling tins of food, and waiting for the pigeons to come gliding back home.  When they arrived my sister and I were drafted in to catch them quickly, remove the rubber rings from their legs and ‘clock’ them.

I used to love the pigeons. They were quite tame and were happy to be handled.  Dad taught me how to hold them correctly, and I knew each and every one by name.  So I was thrilled when one day Dad turned up at home with a present for me of two pure white fan-tailed doves.  I had never seen anything quite as beautiful or majestic.  Their shiny black button eyes were set into soft snowy feathers, their cooing was gentle and musical, and their tails when raised made a perfect half circle.  I bonded with them instantly.

However, despite their being ‘mine’, Dad had plans for these beauties. He was to be a magician.

Actually, he had always rather fancied himself as a bit of a magician.  He could pull a penny from behind your ear as good as anyone.  He could make a handkerchief disappear in front of your very eyes.  And now, he practiced and practiced until he could make doves appear from nowhere.  He practiced until he perfected his act enough to offer his services as performance artiste at the local conservative club.

Mum said she had never been so embarrassed in her life.

It was a Saturday night and the large smoke filled club was full.  There was a genial, drink mellowed atmosphere and apparently the act had started quite well with polite applause, and maybe a cheer or two, when Dad did his first couple of comparatively simple tricks. His sleight of hand was quite impressive and the crowd was attentive.  Half an hour later, a recorded drum-roll signalled the big finale and the doves were produced with a flourish. TaDa!

Unfortunately, they had become a little skittish having been jammed in a bag up my dad’s sleeve for so long, and decided to make a hasty bid for escape.  So instead of sitting politely on his hand as they had been trained to do, they flew up to the ceiling and round and round the hall, getting increasingly panicked and creating chaos.  Women were squealing as the men leapt about knocking over drinks and tables in their efforts to corner the fleeing birds. Mum said it took them nearly two hours to catch them.

I never saw them again. And dad didn’t do magic much after that either come to think of it.

He did carry on racing pigeons though, and had some success.  He became the secretary of the local pigeon club and it was in that capacity that the local paper came to him and asked if he would help to organise the release of pigeons from the roof of the local Granada cinema to mark the premier of the film ‘Custer of the West’.  He was, of course, happy to oblige, and arranged for the pigeons to be taken up in their special quick release baskets on the said Saturday afternoon.  They were not only his pigeons, but those of the rest of the club members too, and it was to be the start of a proper, timed, race.

Rather than having old men in their pigeon-pooed-on clothes to open the cages, dad had hired two young models to do the job. Unfortunately though, one of the said young lovelies was taken ill.  Undaunted, dad announced that I would be happy to stand in for her. Now, I was a skinny, underdeveloped, shy 14 year old at the time, so was mortified when I was marched off to a back office and given a white, plastic, rather inaccurate, ‘indian squaw’ outfit to change into.  The model whose costume I was forced to wear must have been of the Amazonian type, as the fringed dress was huge and the moccasins were a size 6 and wouldn’t stay on my size 4 feet. The elaborate feathered headdress constantly fell over my eyes and was stopped from slipping down round my neck only by my sticky out ears.  Dad didn’t seem concerned though as he, the manager of the cinema, the mayor, the other model and I climbed the usually off limits stairs that led to the parapet above the grand entrance to the old cinema. The gathered crowds and members of the press waited eagerly below.

The plan was that I and the proper model would pose either side of the roof while the mayor and the manager both gave speeches.  In the event, she posed in her properly fitting, mini skirted outfit, while I skulked, embarrassed, tepee like, towards the back.

The sun shone on us, the crowds clapped, and, speeches done, it was time for the big moment.  Dad had made it quite clear, briefing us at length on how to work the cage releases, and telling us with words of one syllable, that we should make sure the birds all flew off at the same time so that the race was fair..  We stepped forward, Hiawatha and mini-haha.  I tripped on my wayward moccasin, my head-dress went over my eyes blinding me.  I was thrashing about desperately trying to lift the head-dress and find the release at the same time, but before I knew it, Hiawatha’s birds were thronging off into the sky whilst mine were still behind bars.  Dad was bellowing at me to pull the cord out and shoved me unceremoniously out of the way.  Cursing rather too loudly he hastily managed to release the captives himself.

I’d fluffed his big moment. He was furious and in a huff,  barely speaking to me, for the rest of the day.  I’m not sure anyone else noticed though, and the crowds loved it.  I got free tickets to see the film, and our pictures were in the local paper.

Eventually of course Dad tired of his pigeons, and they were sold off, the loft dismantled, and a new hobby ensued.  She was the barmaid at the conservative club.

by

This post is challenging

Writing a post feels like work today.  I’ve got loads of other things to do.  It’s that time of year.  The time when I should be dashing about shopping, wrapping, writing cards, panicking about who’s doing what.  Instead, I’ve been sitting here for an hour or two, trying desperately to write something vaguely interesting, as well as vaguely entertaining.

Three times I’ve written stuff and deleted it before I’ve got to the end.

I didn’t mean for it to become work.  It was supposed to be fun.  Supposed to get me in writing mode.  But today it’s pressure.  I haven’t posted anything for a few days, I must do it.  Must post.  Must post…

Do other blogger’s feel like this?  I don’t want to lose the (very) small number of readers I’ve got by  abandoning them at the first hurdle.  Regular posting is the way to build followers they say…  Must post something…

The daily prompt wasn’t helpful.  ‘My Hero’.  Hmm. Can’t think of one. I could be cheesy and say someone who’s been battling adversity, some celeb or other, or a superhero (well, those tight outfits they wear can be quite fetching).  What about a sporty type?  Nope, not a big fan.  Besides the only sports I watch (never participate in, please note) are team jobbies – Cricket, Rugby.  Though of course, did watch our Bradley winning the tour. He was a bit of a hero for that, but overall, not really ‘my hero’ material.

What about a band, a musician that’s inspired me?  Some talented bod who’s made a ton of money by doing a bit of singing.  Nope, not exactly hero’s are they?

Explorer’s?  People that battle against tough terrain, freaky weather, fearsome animals to get….somewhere.  Why…?  Nope, don’t get it.  Just sounds reckless, feckless.

Spacemen?  People hurtling into space, thrown around, eating dried food and seeing their pens float away (not to mention pooing in funny toilets).  No, again, don’t get it.  So you see the Earth from a distance?  So what?  (I’ve bought a globe, it’s much easier) Only crazy individuals, not hero’s, would volunteer for that surely?

Bet lot’s of people would say their dad, and all I would say to that is… No, no, and thrice no.

No sorry Daily Prompt people, I failed, miserably, to come up with anyone. Thinking about it, I don’t think I even know what a hero is now.

Well, I’m gonna have to give up now.  Got to get off out there shopping, organising, wrapping, writing. panicking. Only 15 days to go aargghh…

Come to think of it,  you know I was wrong before, writing this post isn’t like work.  Getting ready for Christmas is though.