Saturday, 23 March 2013


I’ve returned to the motherland this weekend but this evening I’ve been abandoned. Chris has temporarily flown the nest and is testing the parents’ nerves by jaunting off to Thailand for a month (with ambitions of being photographed alongside elephants, dog meat, ladyboys and all sorts). The parents are combatting the post-traumatic stress of his departure by having a jovial evening at the annual tennis club dinner. Anyway, in their absence, I've taken the opportunity to declutter my hard drive (OH YEH). In my clean up, I’ve realised that I have nearly as many un-posted blog entries as I do ones which were passed for public consumption.

This one was very interesting to read back…


I should be revelling in the fact that it’s Friday night. The night I have looked forward to all week. The distant night on the horizon, so close but so far away. However, instead of basking in it now that it's finally arrived, I have not long recovered from what could be called a mild panic attack (face tingling and everything). See, I am occasionally inclined (or not so occasionally, depending on who you ask) to feel sorry for myself when it comes to workload. I have mentioned said workload previously, so I probs don’t really need to spell it out. (But in case you’re not sure what I’m alluding to – I work like a friggin machine. Constant.)

Looking forward to the sanctum of Friday night, I left school at 6pm and headed to Sainsbury’s for a quick sweep.  Exhaustion crept upon me and I made my way home with only some Innocent smoothie, a packet of prawns and some leaves. Got back, and tiredness, plus a messy flat, plus hunger, plus carrying in bags and heavy boxes of work like an overladen donkey, plus an unrealistic expectation that on the stroke of 6pm I'd be washed in some sort of ethereal elation for the coming of the weekend, plus over heating (must banish the ski jacket to the cupboard) equalled despair. Much despair. Thankfully, post panic comfort came in the form of cuddles, a long soak in the bath and a sizeable glass of plonk.

Now, this probably didn’t make the cut originally because I didn’t want to come across as negative, which might make you wonder why I’m posting it now. Well, I’m posting it now because, reading this a year on, I’m feeling rather pleased about the realisation that my workload related resilience has obviously improved. Last week was mammoth (two parents’ evenings plus assessments galore served to challenge my capacity to cope) but, somehow, it was ok. I won’t lie, I suffered a few, intermittent bouts of minor malaise but I got over them. Any discontent seemed to be outweighed by positive stuff. It was a week of epic proportions but it was ok. This is progress. Progress has been made! This calls for a sizeable glass of plonk.

Saturday, 16 March 2013


Over the past couple of months, a number of things have made me increasingly aware of the fact that I’m closer to thirty than I am to twenty. 

The first of these realisations was when Radio 1 recently rebranded the Breakfast Show. When Chris Moyles presented it, I quite enjoyed my journey to work, especially on a Tuesday (when I say pub, you say quiz – pub – quiz! - pub – quiz! When I say Rob, you say DJ – Rob – DJ! – Rob – DJ! When I say fan, you say dabbydozy – fan – dabbydozy! - fan – dabbydozy! etc...)  But then Nick Grimshaw took over and I thought he was crap. His laugh is annoying and I care not one bit for his choice of subject matter. Suddenly I felt shunted from the Radio 1 target demographic and I wanted the pub quiz back. As soon as I realised that nobody was making me listen to the drivel, I switched over to Classic FM (which is normally reserved for the holidays) but it’s not exactly the upbeat kick start I need each day. Not thinking that there were other alternatives, I switched off altogether and spent a week or two trundling along in the morning with my own thoughts. But then I realised that there might actually be other options. So I flicked hopefully through the airwaves one morning until I found what I was looking for: Radio 2. I didn’t ever think I’d find solace in Chris Evans but now he, along with Lynn and Vassos, are my little morning crew. But Radio 2 is for old people. Ergo, I’m old.

Secondly, I have a confession to make: my hair colour isn’t entirely natural. If I don’t get it dyed in the next couple of weeks, I will have a more than a few white hairs infiltrating my youthful chestnut locks. I’ve dyed my hair relatively regularly for a few years now but I had the scary realisation today that for a while I’ve been getting it dyed out of necessity, which means I’ll continue to need to visit my colourist every seven to eight weeks until it becomes acceptable to let go and sport the salt and pepper look. This is at least another twenty years away, which means that I’m going to be spending over £6000 of my hard earned money on keeping my hair brown. Yikes. What's more worrying is that it won’t be long before I can say that I have a relationship with my colourist.

I also seem to be partaking in significantly more conversations about marriage and babies than I did so in my early twenties. I’ve received enough wedding invites now to justify having a pretty little box to keep them in and, although The Boyfriend doesn’t know it yet (he does now), I have allowed myself to jot down an idea or two from weddings I have attended, you know, because one day they could potentially come in useful. Also, a close friend has recently announced that she’s with child, which is unbelievably exciting, so I’ve been imparting as much advice as I can from my extensive experience of One Born Every Minute. She also asked for baby name ideas and I had a ‘Monica’ moment when I was genuinely hesitant to offer up my favourites just in case she liked them too much. I’m also a bit jealous of her buying a baby names book. (I’ve secretly always wanted one. Not joking.)