OK so we're talking bodies, in particular my relationship with mine which, I'm sure, will mirror that of many of you reading this
When I was about 17 I went on my first diet. I'd gone up to a size 12 - gross! - and just HAD to get back to a size 10, NOW! And so I stepped on the multi-billion pound rollercoaster that is the weight loss industry - lose weight, feel great. It was the worst ride of my life. I'll try and be brief.....
I've been on every diet imaginable; Weight Watchers, Slimming World, Slimfast, 1 Tuc biscuit and a beetroot three times a day, Atkins, raw egg mixed with orange juice and sieved (bleurgh), fruit only, 1 meal a day but not after 6pm......I even wrote to a Sunday mag's diet guru and ended up featuring in it, 'Confessions of a yo-yo dieter', January 9th 2000. I've still got a copy. They all succeeded in one thing and one thing only. They messed up my relationship with me.
Looking back, the times in my life when I've occupied size 10 jeans have been no different to when I've occupied size 16 ones. That delusion that 'everything would be much better if I were thin' just isn't true; the way I've felt about me has been consistently crap.
It's taken years of positive self-talk and the kind of self-awareness and self-confidence that comes with age to get me feeling remotely comfortable in my own skin. Fact is, my 45 year old eyes see things very differently. I think when you're young, it's all about appearance. It's quite shallow but you do judge - and get judged - by the way you look. I guess that goes on when you get older if you're presented with an image of someone that falls into the 'unconventional' category. In the main though, you start to value people for their inner qualities and it's these that add to their attractiveness. I bet we all know at least one person that could be described as 'ugly' in the conventional sense but have something about them that makes them attractive. And I bet that 'something' isn't their Body Mass Index!
Generally, I think that the female form is a wondrous gift from Mother Nature, a beautiful thing to behold. Given the choice, I'd much rather look at an image of a naked woman than a naked man. (Mum, Dad, if you're reading this, it doesn't mean I'm gay, bisexual or promiscuous. Just normal). And the beauty of a woman has got nothing to do with size, it's got to so with that 'something'. Let's look at a few women we all know....
At the thin end of the wedge, quite literally, is Victoria Beckham and Kate Moss. Both very skinny but both, in my opinion, gorgeous, sexy women. Then at the other end there's Dawn French. A confident, sassy and, again, very sexy woman. And the hundreds of thousands in between. Incidentally, I remember there being a photo of a naked Dawn French in the paper years ago. She was lay on her tummy and looked amazing. I remember Dave, my hubby, proclaiming at the time, 'Phwoar, look at her!'
Ah yes, Dave. My poor (and fabulous) other half. Over the years he's been confused, bewildered and exasperated with my body issues. He's always stated "I love you no matter what'. And I'm ashamed to say that more than once this has been met with 'well that's no good. If you said you'd only love me if I was thin then I'd BE thin'. Truth is, if he were that shallow I'd never have married him. Through the years he's often tried to get me to appreciate my better qualities only to have his efforts met with derision.
You're a nice person. So? I'm not thin.
You always look nice. So? I'm not thin.
You've got a great personality. So? I'm not thin.
You've got nice teeth. Are you taking the p***? He really did say this trying to make me feel better about myself - it's become a long-standing joke.
Now though, as I've gotten older and more confident my feelings about me have changed to 'I'm not thin. So?' I'm a UK-average size 16, probably around the middle of the wedge. I quite like me and the fact that I've got curves. I am, as the title of my blog suggests, what I am. OK, so I'll never wear a pair or gold hot-pants a la Miss Minogue but if someone is going to judge me for having a big arse.......well, it says more about them than it does about me.
I've recently been diagnosed with osteo-arthritis in both knees and one hip. It's been there a while and probably dates back to some knee-related incidents when I was young. The pain has only recently got worse and was brought on by a bout of serious gym activity after years of doing not much exercise besides walking the dog. The doctor's advise was to lose weight - because I carry most of mine around my bum and hips, it's putting pressure on my knees.
I must admit it really brought me down. I wavered a little and thought 'this wouldn't be happening if I were thin' but it would. So, I'm trying to nudge a little closer to the thin end of the wedge but this time purely to avoid having to either move my bed downstairs in later life, or buy a bungalow.
Meantimes, if any of you reading this are thinking 'that's me', remember the words of the wonderful Gok Wan. 'You've got it all going on girlfriend. Celebrate those gorgeous curves!'
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Friday, 19 September 2008
Teenage Kicks
I was listening to the radio the other day and The Clash 'Rock the Kasbah' came on. It took me right back to when I was about 15, at school, and the world suddenly turned dayglo. So I thought I'd blog about my memories of being a punk rocker...well, kind of.
The Sex Pistols' 'God Save the Queen' was all over the place as was their album 'Never Mind the Bollocks...it's the Sex Pistols' with its dayglo cover. It was all very exciting and me, plus the gang I was in, wanted to be part of it. At the time I was going out with a boy called Geoff, you know, usual school romance, nowt special. BUT. Yes, big but. But, what neither of us realised was that we were about to become the Sid n Nancy of the school! The cool kids that everyone wanted to be like, wanted to know where you got your stuff, records, clothes, accessories.....oh little did they know that it was all totally fake. In fact, it was our very own 'Great Rock n Roll Swindle'. Shall I get on with it?
It started with that Sex Pistols album. Someone brought it into school and we used to take turns holding it, daring the teachers to tell us to put it away, they never did. We used to go to a local youth club 3 times a week and on Wednesdays they had a disco. Suddenly the music changed from Saturday Night Fever to this loud, fast stuff that everyone jumped around to. Jeans became tighter, t-shirts blacker, hair shorter until we eventually realised that Punk Rock had arrived and we wanted in. 'Cept we were a bit too young to be real ones so had to make the best of what our Mums would let us get away with.
Geoff was quite arty and used to make his own badges. We'd spend hours at the table in his house making these badges from teeny pictures cut from mags, placed carefully on top of old smiley badges or whatever and carefully covered with cling film. But they were expertly done and looked for all the world like shop-bought ones. We had loads, on our clothes, school bags etc. And, best of all, no-one else had the badges we had! So, it was a teenage version of colouring in whilst his Mum made us bacon butties.
On Saturdays Geoff and I would go to Liverpool to a shop called Probe. It was in Button Street, just off the main drag in the city centre and it was cool hangout for real punks. We'd go there in our jeans and baseball boots and just stand and flick through the racks of records taking in all the outfits, hairdos - everything. We were actually a bit scared of the real punks cos they were so much older than us and cos they had piercings and mohicans, like the punks you saw on telly. My favourite was a girl who worked there who only ever wore black and white. She had a number 1 haircut which was dyed in a black and white checkerboard design, she had a normal length fringe which was black and a normal length pony-tail, also black. The only colour on her was her pillar-box red lips. She looked amazing. She never spoke to me, smiled at me once or twice that's all. No-one spoke to us and vice-versa except 'Scuse me. Have you got Banana Splits by the Dickies on yellow vinyl please?' And 'thank you' after being served. Hardly Sid Snot!
One Saturday I was shopping with my Mum and Dad in Wigan. We didn't shop there often and didn't really know our way round but this turned out to be fortuitous. We stumbled upon this tatty shop off the beaten track, run by a scruffy old woman. She sold old tat. These days we'd call it 'vintage'. And amongst this old tat were shoes but not just any shoes. They were proper winkle-picking-heels-as-thin-as-pencils-pointy shoes. Proper relics from the 60's that would be great for the glam punk look. I bought some with my pocket money. I also bought some dayglo pink ankle socks.....a perfect punk outfit was being created in my head. I told no-one about it except Geoff. We agreed that we should make a grand extrance at the youth club disco that coming Wednesday as by then his Mum would have finished knitting him a black mohair jumper :))
Wednesday tea-time. I was sooo excited. I was getting ready and my heart was thumping just a bit faster than usual. The Look consisted of black eye-liner - think 60's, don't think Amy Winehouse - bright red lips and short, spikey hair. Outfit: tight black skirt, black t-shirt, studded belt, black tights, pink ankle socks (come on, I was 15!) and The Shoes. I was gonna look great!
All ready, I slipped The Shoes on, just like Cinderella....and catastrophe struck. I was 15. I hadn't yet learned how to teeter in heels!!!
I practised up and down the path - why had I left it till now? Mum and Dad were stood laughing their heads off.
Dad: Put your baseball boots on. Waahaahaa.
Me: Shut up!
Mum: That's a good idea! You could take those shoes in a carrier bag. Hahahaha
Me: Ugh! I am NOT walking along with a flippin' Asda carrier bag. You could give me a lift Dad.
Dad: Hey, I've been working all day and it's only along the road. Hop along yourself. Hahaha
Me: Pleeease
Dad: Nope. You wanted them shoes, you'll have to learn to walk in them. Hooohooohooo
So off I flounced, getting my heels-as-thin-as-pencils stuck in the tarmac, wobbling like Bambi and probably looking like Dick Emery in the 'ooo you are awful but I like you' sketch. Bloody hell, that was a long walk.
I arrived at the bus-stop just before the youth club were I had arranged to meet Geoff so that we could go in together. He was already there in his hand-knitted mohair jumper and black jeans tucked into a pair of Doc Marten's. 'You look great.' 'So do you.' And in we went.
I like your shoes. Where did you get them?
Where did you get your jumper?
Have you done that make-up yourself?
Where do you get your badges from?
Did you really go to Probe?
Is that Banana Splits by The Dickies on yellow vinyl?
We were cool. And this went on every week. I bought more shoes, Geoff wore the same jumper week in, week out, we kept our badge stock replenished. The staff at Probe welcomed us as part of their in-crowd (a small white one). Checkerboard Red Lips was my New Best Friend (a big black one)....etc etc etc....who needed Sid n Nancy when there was Paula n Geoff. BUT. That word again.
I'd heard a new song. There was a new vibe on the street and I wanted in. Jazz Funk. Baggy jeans, waspy belts, music that I could dance to. "One nation was under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it". Out went the punk garb, in came the funky clobber. 'Cept Geoff was a bit of a die-hard punk and suddenly we didn't look cool together anymore. It was like, the only thing we had in common were the personas. So, I got dumped for a girl with green teeth and blackheads. No, I wasn't bitter, no.
No really, I wasn't. I went shopping with my Mum in Liverpool, found a trendy little boutique called Bus Stop, bought some red trousers with blue piping and strolled (in netted pumps, very comfy) to the youth club that week.
I like those trousers. Where did you get them?
I like your pumps.
Will you go out with me?
And my new boyfriend, Ian, said this song reminded him of me.
"Are teenage dreams so hard to beat
every time she walks down the street
Another girl in the neighbourhood
wish she was mine, she looks so good
I wanna hold her wanna hold her tight
Get teenage kicks right through the night
Allright"
Yes, it was fine by me.
The Sex Pistols' 'God Save the Queen' was all over the place as was their album 'Never Mind the Bollocks...it's the Sex Pistols' with its dayglo cover. It was all very exciting and me, plus the gang I was in, wanted to be part of it. At the time I was going out with a boy called Geoff, you know, usual school romance, nowt special. BUT. Yes, big but. But, what neither of us realised was that we were about to become the Sid n Nancy of the school! The cool kids that everyone wanted to be like, wanted to know where you got your stuff, records, clothes, accessories.....oh little did they know that it was all totally fake. In fact, it was our very own 'Great Rock n Roll Swindle'. Shall I get on with it?
It started with that Sex Pistols album. Someone brought it into school and we used to take turns holding it, daring the teachers to tell us to put it away, they never did. We used to go to a local youth club 3 times a week and on Wednesdays they had a disco. Suddenly the music changed from Saturday Night Fever to this loud, fast stuff that everyone jumped around to. Jeans became tighter, t-shirts blacker, hair shorter until we eventually realised that Punk Rock had arrived and we wanted in. 'Cept we were a bit too young to be real ones so had to make the best of what our Mums would let us get away with.
Geoff was quite arty and used to make his own badges. We'd spend hours at the table in his house making these badges from teeny pictures cut from mags, placed carefully on top of old smiley badges or whatever and carefully covered with cling film. But they were expertly done and looked for all the world like shop-bought ones. We had loads, on our clothes, school bags etc. And, best of all, no-one else had the badges we had! So, it was a teenage version of colouring in whilst his Mum made us bacon butties.
On Saturdays Geoff and I would go to Liverpool to a shop called Probe. It was in Button Street, just off the main drag in the city centre and it was cool hangout for real punks. We'd go there in our jeans and baseball boots and just stand and flick through the racks of records taking in all the outfits, hairdos - everything. We were actually a bit scared of the real punks cos they were so much older than us and cos they had piercings and mohicans, like the punks you saw on telly. My favourite was a girl who worked there who only ever wore black and white. She had a number 1 haircut which was dyed in a black and white checkerboard design, she had a normal length fringe which was black and a normal length pony-tail, also black. The only colour on her was her pillar-box red lips. She looked amazing. She never spoke to me, smiled at me once or twice that's all. No-one spoke to us and vice-versa except 'Scuse me. Have you got Banana Splits by the Dickies on yellow vinyl please?' And 'thank you' after being served. Hardly Sid Snot!
One Saturday I was shopping with my Mum and Dad in Wigan. We didn't shop there often and didn't really know our way round but this turned out to be fortuitous. We stumbled upon this tatty shop off the beaten track, run by a scruffy old woman. She sold old tat. These days we'd call it 'vintage'. And amongst this old tat were shoes but not just any shoes. They were proper winkle-picking-heels-as-thin-as-pencils-pointy shoes. Proper relics from the 60's that would be great for the glam punk look. I bought some with my pocket money. I also bought some dayglo pink ankle socks.....a perfect punk outfit was being created in my head. I told no-one about it except Geoff. We agreed that we should make a grand extrance at the youth club disco that coming Wednesday as by then his Mum would have finished knitting him a black mohair jumper :))
Wednesday tea-time. I was sooo excited. I was getting ready and my heart was thumping just a bit faster than usual. The Look consisted of black eye-liner - think 60's, don't think Amy Winehouse - bright red lips and short, spikey hair. Outfit: tight black skirt, black t-shirt, studded belt, black tights, pink ankle socks (come on, I was 15!) and The Shoes. I was gonna look great!
All ready, I slipped The Shoes on, just like Cinderella....and catastrophe struck. I was 15. I hadn't yet learned how to teeter in heels!!!
I practised up and down the path - why had I left it till now? Mum and Dad were stood laughing their heads off.
Dad: Put your baseball boots on. Waahaahaa.
Me: Shut up!
Mum: That's a good idea! You could take those shoes in a carrier bag. Hahahaha
Me: Ugh! I am NOT walking along with a flippin' Asda carrier bag. You could give me a lift Dad.
Dad: Hey, I've been working all day and it's only along the road. Hop along yourself. Hahaha
Me: Pleeease
Dad: Nope. You wanted them shoes, you'll have to learn to walk in them. Hooohooohooo
So off I flounced, getting my heels-as-thin-as-pencils stuck in the tarmac, wobbling like Bambi and probably looking like Dick Emery in the 'ooo you are awful but I like you' sketch. Bloody hell, that was a long walk.
I arrived at the bus-stop just before the youth club were I had arranged to meet Geoff so that we could go in together. He was already there in his hand-knitted mohair jumper and black jeans tucked into a pair of Doc Marten's. 'You look great.' 'So do you.' And in we went.
I like your shoes. Where did you get them?
Where did you get your jumper?
Have you done that make-up yourself?
Where do you get your badges from?
Did you really go to Probe?
Is that Banana Splits by The Dickies on yellow vinyl?
We were cool. And this went on every week. I bought more shoes, Geoff wore the same jumper week in, week out, we kept our badge stock replenished. The staff at Probe welcomed us as part of their in-crowd (a small white one). Checkerboard Red Lips was my New Best Friend (a big black one)....etc etc etc....who needed Sid n Nancy when there was Paula n Geoff. BUT. That word again.
I'd heard a new song. There was a new vibe on the street and I wanted in. Jazz Funk. Baggy jeans, waspy belts, music that I could dance to. "One nation was under a groove, getting down just for the funk of it". Out went the punk garb, in came the funky clobber. 'Cept Geoff was a bit of a die-hard punk and suddenly we didn't look cool together anymore. It was like, the only thing we had in common were the personas. So, I got dumped for a girl with green teeth and blackheads. No, I wasn't bitter, no.
No really, I wasn't. I went shopping with my Mum in Liverpool, found a trendy little boutique called Bus Stop, bought some red trousers with blue piping and strolled (in netted pumps, very comfy) to the youth club that week.
I like those trousers. Where did you get them?
I like your pumps.
Will you go out with me?
And my new boyfriend, Ian, said this song reminded him of me.
"Are teenage dreams so hard to beat
every time she walks down the street
Another girl in the neighbourhood
wish she was mine, she looks so good
I wanna hold her wanna hold her tight
Get teenage kicks right through the night
Allright"
Yes, it was fine by me.
Wednesday, 13 August 2008
And I'm tellin' it to you straight, so you don't have to hear it any other way
Early in 1993 my Grandad died. He'd been suffering from cancer for quite some time, had undergone an operation to remove part of his tongue and eventually his time here was done. He spent quite a lot of time in the months leading up to his death in hospital. A few nights a week me and Mum would collect Grandma and visit. After returning from one such visit when it was clear that Grandad's days were numbered, there came a revelation. Me and Mum were sat in my car outside her house.
Mum: 'I've got something to tell you.' looking at the floor.
Me: 'What? Something's wrong! What?' heart thumping.
Mum: 'It's your Grandad. He's....well....he's not your Grandad.'
Liverpool 1942. The war is on. Annie Riley, a glamourous, if a little immature, young woman was lodging with her Uncle. Annie's Mum had died when she was just 7 and her Dad, being a rough-handed, hard drinking man had decided to put all of his children in an orphanage. Annie had ran away and was eventually taken in by her Grandmother who brought her up as best she could. When she died Annie remained in lodgings with her Uncle. Her Uncle, John, was a hard working, very gentle man but sadly suffered from schizophrenia and therefore Annie became the 'Mother' of the house.
Being brought up by her Grandmother had left Annie devoid of anything that could be described as 'streetwise'; she was an innocent, naive young woman so when a charismatic GI came along, showering her with the kind of attention she'd never experienced before, she was swept off her feet.
And so in April 1944 Annie gave birth to a daughter, Colette.
It must have been a very traumatic time for an un-married young lady in those days in war-torn Liverpool. She must have been shunned by many, many people. The GI stood firmly by her side throughout and proposed to Annie several times. However, the proposal came with conditions; that Annie and baby Colette would return to America once his post in Liverpool ended. Annie was torn. Uncle John had stood by her all her life since her Grandmother had died and now he needed her to stand by him. Who would look after him if she left for America? The day came when the GI had a date to return home and he asked Annie, for what would be the final time, to marry him and come with him to start a new life. She said no, she couldn't leave her beloved Uncle to fend for himself, she wanted to stay in Liverpool.
The GI returned home but kept in touch via letter. His parents did too. They'd regularly send parcels over containing beautiful outfits and other gifts for baby Colette. One day a letter arrived from the GI's parents with a request. They felt that they could give Colette a much better life in America and would Annie consider letting her come and live with her Dad permanently. Given Annie's lack of family unity as a child, the thought of losing Colette terrified her and so she stopped all correspondence with the GI and his family. They stayed in Liverpool looking after Uncle John who doted on Colette who loved him right back.
Some years later Annie met Stephen, known as Sonny to all who knew him. They married when Colette was 8 years old and went on to have a son, Billy.
Back to 1993 in the car outside Mum's. I was in tears by now. Not so much at the thought that Sonny wasn't my real Grandad, cos he kind of was anyway. I was crying for my Mum; for knowing all these years that she has a family in America that she's never met, for never knowing her Dad. And for my Grandma; for having to make such a difficult decision. I wonder what she thinks today? I wonder whether she ever regretted that decision or whether she glad she made it?
I wonder a lot. Especially about who my family are and where my heritage is...........
Mum: 'I've got something to tell you.' looking at the floor.
Me: 'What? Something's wrong! What?' heart thumping.
Mum: 'It's your Grandad. He's....well....he's not your Grandad.'
Liverpool 1942. The war is on. Annie Riley, a glamourous, if a little immature, young woman was lodging with her Uncle. Annie's Mum had died when she was just 7 and her Dad, being a rough-handed, hard drinking man had decided to put all of his children in an orphanage. Annie had ran away and was eventually taken in by her Grandmother who brought her up as best she could. When she died Annie remained in lodgings with her Uncle. Her Uncle, John, was a hard working, very gentle man but sadly suffered from schizophrenia and therefore Annie became the 'Mother' of the house.
Being brought up by her Grandmother had left Annie devoid of anything that could be described as 'streetwise'; she was an innocent, naive young woman so when a charismatic GI came along, showering her with the kind of attention she'd never experienced before, she was swept off her feet.
And so in April 1944 Annie gave birth to a daughter, Colette.
It must have been a very traumatic time for an un-married young lady in those days in war-torn Liverpool. She must have been shunned by many, many people. The GI stood firmly by her side throughout and proposed to Annie several times. However, the proposal came with conditions; that Annie and baby Colette would return to America once his post in Liverpool ended. Annie was torn. Uncle John had stood by her all her life since her Grandmother had died and now he needed her to stand by him. Who would look after him if she left for America? The day came when the GI had a date to return home and he asked Annie, for what would be the final time, to marry him and come with him to start a new life. She said no, she couldn't leave her beloved Uncle to fend for himself, she wanted to stay in Liverpool.
The GI returned home but kept in touch via letter. His parents did too. They'd regularly send parcels over containing beautiful outfits and other gifts for baby Colette. One day a letter arrived from the GI's parents with a request. They felt that they could give Colette a much better life in America and would Annie consider letting her come and live with her Dad permanently. Given Annie's lack of family unity as a child, the thought of losing Colette terrified her and so she stopped all correspondence with the GI and his family. They stayed in Liverpool looking after Uncle John who doted on Colette who loved him right back.
Some years later Annie met Stephen, known as Sonny to all who knew him. They married when Colette was 8 years old and went on to have a son, Billy.
Back to 1993 in the car outside Mum's. I was in tears by now. Not so much at the thought that Sonny wasn't my real Grandad, cos he kind of was anyway. I was crying for my Mum; for knowing all these years that she has a family in America that she's never met, for never knowing her Dad. And for my Grandma; for having to make such a difficult decision. I wonder what she thinks today? I wonder whether she ever regretted that decision or whether she glad she made it?
I wonder a lot. Especially about who my family are and where my heritage is...........
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Just mooove yourself and gliiide like a sevenfortyseven
'Cept this flight was more boing than Boeing.
I'm having a deviation from 'This is my life' to tell you about the comedy of errors that was our flight over to Corfu but first I need to give you a very quick bit of background information. Ready?.......deep breath in....and....GO!
2 trips to Corfu per year. 1 week in May, 2 weeks July/August. Flight only. School holidays. Need to book early. Booked in January. Always use XLair. Reliable. Good onboard facilities. Clean. Good crew. Tickets arrive in May. Outsourced to Air Malta. Prove to be 'the airline with tiny personality'. No onboard facilities. Too few crew. Senior cabin lady had chipped nails. Ugh. Delayed return flight. Further delay in UK as couldn't find steps to enable disembarkation. Tickets arrive July. Air Malta. Grrr. My friend Steve: 'It's a means to an end'. Flight on time. Correction. Delayed 1 hour. Board. Further delay 1.5 hours as handlers forgot to load baggage.......and.....exhale. Phew!
The plane's engines were right at the back, not under the wings like usual, and it had a T-shaped tail fin, like a whale. It looked like a modified Army plane. I could see it catching on, 'Pimp my Chinook' (sp?) has a certain ring to it. Our seats were on the back row. They were so close to the seats in front that there was no way we could walk into the seats then sit down. We had to raise the armrests then adopt a seated position in the aisle and side-step, crab-like, into our seats. Once there I took in our surroundings. We, along with 4 other rows of passengers, appeared to be in our very own mini cabin. There was only one window located at the front next to Mr and Mrs Zebedee (more later). No windows? Then again we'd have only been able to see the engines anyway. Then it dawned on me. This bit of the plane hadn't orginally been designed for passengers! They'd shoe-horned extra seats in which is why they weren't equidistant!
The seat directly in front of me was occupied by Mr Fidgetypants. To be fair to the poor bloke, his seat veered sharp left so he spent the entire flight tyring to defy the gravity that was tugging his left buttock left and down. Either that or he was body-popping! Either way, he was too close to me for comfort and I hoped he didn't recline.
When the engines started the noise was deafening and we started to vibrate from head to toe. Only one thing for it. iPod on full blast. Nicola slept, as did all of our mini cabin companions. I've no idea how. Dave and I had no option but to sit bolt upright for the duration. Sleep was out of the question. Added to that we had to take turns to hold Nic's tray table up. It had a faulty latch and kept falling down, so we had to stop it from clonking our slumbering child on the head. And so the fun began.....
The toilets were next to me however as you approached the mini cabin from the front you came to a teeny galley area, the entrance to which was mistaken for a toilet door. And as people searched for the non-existent door handle in the non-existent door, their performances resembled Marcel Marceau impressions. They were hilarious! Me and Dave guffawed. Eventually I put the performers out of their misery by booming 'IT'S HERE', pointing to the real door. I say 'boom' as I had my iPod on and Dave advised I was a bit loud. I didn't wake anyone but I did notice Mrs Zebedee boing in her sleep every time I boomed. And so it went.
Marcel Marceau. BOOM. Boing
Marcel Marceau. BOOM. Boing
MarcelMarceauBOOMBoingMarcelMarceauBOOMBoing.
I'd leave the performers for a while if they were good. It was like 'Plane's Got Talent' with me as Amanda and Dave as Simon. There was a clear winner however I'd laughed so much I was unable to BOOM and had to wave to get his attention then point to the loo. I wonder what he said when he got back to his seat? 'Hey love, there's a couple of nutters at the back, both sat bolt upright, both have maniacal grins and one of them has their finger on the tray table.'
Then the inevitable happened. Mr Fidgetypants reclined. If I'd had my table down I'd have been severed. I had to ask him to move so I leaned over and tapped his shoulder.
Me: Hello
Him, opening his eyes: aaagghh. Well you would. There I was, face inches from his but upside down. Anyway, I asked him politely to move and he obliged.
Refreshments were served. Coffee, tea and water please. Here you go, knife, fork, spoon. Knife and fork?
Me: Is there food?
Hostess, above engine noise: Do you want a wrap? It's chicken.
Me: Er, no thanks. Just wondered why the knife and fork (holding them up)
Hostess: It's a chicken wrap. Do you want it?
I shook my head. Well one of us had to end the conversation, we only had 3 hours! And I found a use for the knife and fork - I used them to slice my coffee. Gaaaggh!
It was daylight now and Mr Zebedee was stood stretching his legs. Suddenly, Mrs Zebedee boomed 'Oooh quick! Look!' 'What? What is it?' exclaimed Mr Zebedee leaning over. I waited with baited breath wishing I had a window. 'I can see the sea!'. No. Really? Fancy being able to see the sea from up here. Boing boing. They both bounced around taking turns to say 'oo look' and point out the window.
And soon we landed. A very disconcerting experience given that we didn't know exactly when we were going to touch down because we couldn't see out. So when we did touch down the whole mini cabin, with the exception of Mr and Mrs Zebedee, went boing!
And Steve was right. It's a means to an end. We could've been transported here by spinning plates and it would have been worth it!
So, if you find yourselves travelling Air Malta don't get angry. Look on the bright side; there'll be a catalogue of events for your amusement.
Back soon, P
I'm having a deviation from 'This is my life' to tell you about the comedy of errors that was our flight over to Corfu but first I need to give you a very quick bit of background information. Ready?.......deep breath in....and....GO!
2 trips to Corfu per year. 1 week in May, 2 weeks July/August. Flight only. School holidays. Need to book early. Booked in January. Always use XLair. Reliable. Good onboard facilities. Clean. Good crew. Tickets arrive in May. Outsourced to Air Malta. Prove to be 'the airline with tiny personality'. No onboard facilities. Too few crew. Senior cabin lady had chipped nails. Ugh. Delayed return flight. Further delay in UK as couldn't find steps to enable disembarkation. Tickets arrive July. Air Malta. Grrr. My friend Steve: 'It's a means to an end'. Flight on time. Correction. Delayed 1 hour. Board. Further delay 1.5 hours as handlers forgot to load baggage.......and.....exhale. Phew!
The plane's engines were right at the back, not under the wings like usual, and it had a T-shaped tail fin, like a whale. It looked like a modified Army plane. I could see it catching on, 'Pimp my Chinook' (sp?) has a certain ring to it. Our seats were on the back row. They were so close to the seats in front that there was no way we could walk into the seats then sit down. We had to raise the armrests then adopt a seated position in the aisle and side-step, crab-like, into our seats. Once there I took in our surroundings. We, along with 4 other rows of passengers, appeared to be in our very own mini cabin. There was only one window located at the front next to Mr and Mrs Zebedee (more later). No windows? Then again we'd have only been able to see the engines anyway. Then it dawned on me. This bit of the plane hadn't orginally been designed for passengers! They'd shoe-horned extra seats in which is why they weren't equidistant!
The seat directly in front of me was occupied by Mr Fidgetypants. To be fair to the poor bloke, his seat veered sharp left so he spent the entire flight tyring to defy the gravity that was tugging his left buttock left and down. Either that or he was body-popping! Either way, he was too close to me for comfort and I hoped he didn't recline.
When the engines started the noise was deafening and we started to vibrate from head to toe. Only one thing for it. iPod on full blast. Nicola slept, as did all of our mini cabin companions. I've no idea how. Dave and I had no option but to sit bolt upright for the duration. Sleep was out of the question. Added to that we had to take turns to hold Nic's tray table up. It had a faulty latch and kept falling down, so we had to stop it from clonking our slumbering child on the head. And so the fun began.....
The toilets were next to me however as you approached the mini cabin from the front you came to a teeny galley area, the entrance to which was mistaken for a toilet door. And as people searched for the non-existent door handle in the non-existent door, their performances resembled Marcel Marceau impressions. They were hilarious! Me and Dave guffawed. Eventually I put the performers out of their misery by booming 'IT'S HERE', pointing to the real door. I say 'boom' as I had my iPod on and Dave advised I was a bit loud. I didn't wake anyone but I did notice Mrs Zebedee boing in her sleep every time I boomed. And so it went.
Marcel Marceau. BOOM. Boing
Marcel Marceau. BOOM. Boing
MarcelMarceauBOOMBoingMarcelMarceauBOOMBoing.
I'd leave the performers for a while if they were good. It was like 'Plane's Got Talent' with me as Amanda and Dave as Simon. There was a clear winner however I'd laughed so much I was unable to BOOM and had to wave to get his attention then point to the loo. I wonder what he said when he got back to his seat? 'Hey love, there's a couple of nutters at the back, both sat bolt upright, both have maniacal grins and one of them has their finger on the tray table.'
Then the inevitable happened. Mr Fidgetypants reclined. If I'd had my table down I'd have been severed. I had to ask him to move so I leaned over and tapped his shoulder.
Me: Hello
Him, opening his eyes: aaagghh. Well you would. There I was, face inches from his but upside down. Anyway, I asked him politely to move and he obliged.
Refreshments were served. Coffee, tea and water please. Here you go, knife, fork, spoon. Knife and fork?
Me: Is there food?
Hostess, above engine noise: Do you want a wrap? It's chicken.
Me: Er, no thanks. Just wondered why the knife and fork (holding them up)
Hostess: It's a chicken wrap. Do you want it?
I shook my head. Well one of us had to end the conversation, we only had 3 hours! And I found a use for the knife and fork - I used them to slice my coffee. Gaaaggh!
It was daylight now and Mr Zebedee was stood stretching his legs. Suddenly, Mrs Zebedee boomed 'Oooh quick! Look!' 'What? What is it?' exclaimed Mr Zebedee leaning over. I waited with baited breath wishing I had a window. 'I can see the sea!'. No. Really? Fancy being able to see the sea from up here. Boing boing. They both bounced around taking turns to say 'oo look' and point out the window.
And soon we landed. A very disconcerting experience given that we didn't know exactly when we were going to touch down because we couldn't see out. So when we did touch down the whole mini cabin, with the exception of Mr and Mrs Zebedee, went boing!
And Steve was right. It's a means to an end. We could've been transported here by spinning plates and it would have been worth it!
So, if you find yourselves travelling Air Malta don't get angry. Look on the bright side; there'll be a catalogue of events for your amusement.
Back soon, P
Friday, 18 July 2008
Karma Chameleon
3rd January 1969. The day we moved to our new home. It was snowing. Me and my Mum were in the back of a removal van and I was watching the thin strip of icy road whizzing past in between the tiny crack in the middle of the van doors. Dad was up front with the driver. When we got there we met our new neighbour and she made us all a cup of tea. After that it's all a blank until my first day at my new school, Blessed English Martyrs (aslo known as, I discovered much later, English Martyrs - squashed tomarters).
First morning. It was cold outside, very warm inside. I was the new girl. They all looked at me and giggled when I spoke cos I 'talked funny'. I didn't. They did. They said 'noooor' instead of no. They said 'yeeeaaar' instead of a quick yeh. (No-one says yes do they?). They said 'loooook' instead of look. They called me 'Paaaawrlerrrrr' and not Paula. They talked medieval.
I was sat next to a girl called Tracy Maine. She was to be my new best friend cos she lived in the same street as me. Tracy said 'I feeeeel siiiiiiiiiick' every day. And just like the boy who cried wolf, no-one took a blind bit of notice of her until one day she was sick. All over my new school shoes. So she was sent to the beds for a lie down for the rest of the day, I was given a paper towel and told to clean my shoes with it.
What did you just say? You had beds in the classroom? You mean you didn't get sent home if you were sick?
Yes, we had little beds and a stash of fresh underwear for those little accidents that inevitably happen to all of us at some point during our first year or so at school. And we didn't get sent home. Then again how could we? We didn't have telephones so had no way of contacting home anyway.
I learned a new song one day. Being a Catholic school, Mass played a big part. One day we were all singing a song in Church. The other kids had already had a term to learn this song by heart and as I was the new girl, I didn't know the words so had to read their lips and join in when I could. But my young brain didn't think 'don't forget the accent'. So I quickly learned this new song with the rousing chorus 'God bless our bull'. I loved that song so much I even requested it one day.
'Please Miss, can we sing 'God bless our bull'?' Stifled giggles from kids.
'I dooorrrn't knooooor that one Paaaaaaaawrlerrrrr, how does it goooor?' More giggles.
'God bless our buuuuull, God bless our buuuuuuull'. Fits of laughter.
'Ooooooh. You mean 'God bless our Poooooorpe''. Hysterics. And one very red face.
They didn't sing 'God bless our Pope'. No way. Their lips were definitely mouthing 'bull'.
That day I deduced that if I was going to fit in round here I was going to have to change the way I spoke. And quick.
And so I too said 'noor', 'yeeaar' and that my name was Paaawrlerrr. But only when I was at school. At home I reverted to being a Scouser. And I went off 'God bless our Poooorpe' pretty smart-ish.
I soon became quite popular at my new school. I was bright (always in the top 3 for tests) and confident and spoke the lingo. I even got a Jammy Dodger from the Headmaster one day for knowing that xylophone began with an 'x'. Get me!
You know what? Life wasn't so bad out in the sticks. And during school holidays I got to spend lots of time at Grandma Mary's whilst Mum and Dad worked.
I even eventually overcame the horror of having my own bedroom, as long as I slept with the 'Big Light' on.
Next time, toys, games, friends and falling in love with Donny Osmond.
P
First morning. It was cold outside, very warm inside. I was the new girl. They all looked at me and giggled when I spoke cos I 'talked funny'. I didn't. They did. They said 'noooor' instead of no. They said 'yeeeaaar' instead of a quick yeh. (No-one says yes do they?). They said 'loooook' instead of look. They called me 'Paaaawrlerrrrr' and not Paula. They talked medieval.
I was sat next to a girl called Tracy Maine. She was to be my new best friend cos she lived in the same street as me. Tracy said 'I feeeeel siiiiiiiiiick' every day. And just like the boy who cried wolf, no-one took a blind bit of notice of her until one day she was sick. All over my new school shoes. So she was sent to the beds for a lie down for the rest of the day, I was given a paper towel and told to clean my shoes with it.
What did you just say? You had beds in the classroom? You mean you didn't get sent home if you were sick?
Yes, we had little beds and a stash of fresh underwear for those little accidents that inevitably happen to all of us at some point during our first year or so at school. And we didn't get sent home. Then again how could we? We didn't have telephones so had no way of contacting home anyway.
I learned a new song one day. Being a Catholic school, Mass played a big part. One day we were all singing a song in Church. The other kids had already had a term to learn this song by heart and as I was the new girl, I didn't know the words so had to read their lips and join in when I could. But my young brain didn't think 'don't forget the accent'. So I quickly learned this new song with the rousing chorus 'God bless our bull'. I loved that song so much I even requested it one day.
'Please Miss, can we sing 'God bless our bull'?' Stifled giggles from kids.
'I dooorrrn't knooooor that one Paaaaaaaawrlerrrrr, how does it goooor?' More giggles.
'God bless our buuuuull, God bless our buuuuuuull'. Fits of laughter.
'Ooooooh. You mean 'God bless our Poooooorpe''. Hysterics. And one very red face.
They didn't sing 'God bless our Pope'. No way. Their lips were definitely mouthing 'bull'.
That day I deduced that if I was going to fit in round here I was going to have to change the way I spoke. And quick.
And so I too said 'noor', 'yeeaar' and that my name was Paaawrlerrr. But only when I was at school. At home I reverted to being a Scouser. And I went off 'God bless our Poooorpe' pretty smart-ish.
I soon became quite popular at my new school. I was bright (always in the top 3 for tests) and confident and spoke the lingo. I even got a Jammy Dodger from the Headmaster one day for knowing that xylophone began with an 'x'. Get me!
You know what? Life wasn't so bad out in the sticks. And during school holidays I got to spend lots of time at Grandma Mary's whilst Mum and Dad worked.
I even eventually overcame the horror of having my own bedroom, as long as I slept with the 'Big Light' on.
Next time, toys, games, friends and falling in love with Donny Osmond.
P
Thursday, 17 July 2008
Misty water-coloured memories
Well I did say I was gonna start at the beginning.
So, on Wednesday 4th September 1963 at approximately 10pm I burst forth into the world. You know that rhyme, 'Monday's child is full of grace' or it might be 'fair of face', I'm not sure as I am allegedly full of woe given that I was born on a Wednesday. What nonsense. It should be rewritten; 'Wednesday's child is full of fun'....but then that may have meant that Tuesday's child had a face like a currant bun and the rhyme may not have caught on. Oh I don't know or care, it's a stupid rhyme is my point as I am so not full of woe.
Anyway, I spent the first 5 years of my life in Liverpool. Mum and Dad lodged with my maternal Grandma and Grandad (there's a wonderful blog on the way at some point about this) Annie and Sonny (Stephen really but called Sonny by everyone). So what do I remember about being a Scouser (note the capital S!).
Home was a three-storey tenemant, long since demolished, we lived on the ground floor. My other Grandparents lived across the road, also on the ground floor of a three-storey tenemant. My paternal Grandparents were my favourites, I know I shouldn't have them but they were. They were called Mary and Joseph!! (Which prompted Nicola, my daughter, when she was about 3, to ask my Dad if he was Jesus, waahaaaa!). Grandama Mary used to give me raw (I kid you not) sausage sarnies as a treat, she used to chop my eggs in a cup and give me a threepenny bit if I ate it all up, she used to let me stay up late and sit her knee, she idolised me and me her. So much so that when she died - I was 9 - my young heart was torn apart. I am actually crying a little right now. I keep a beautiful photo of her and Grandad Joe on my bedside table, it's amongst my most treasured possessions. On a lighter note, she also used to give me pigs trotters to chew on - oh shut up! They'd been cooked!
School was across from Grandma Mary's, so everything was in a nice row; home, Mary and Joe's, school. Our Lady's, Eldon Street. I was only there for one term and the only things I can remember are playing in a wendy house which I loved, being a shopkeeper with tiddlywink money which I loved and practicing doing full-stops which I didn't love as mine, according to Miss, looked like footballs. I also remember having to stand in a line in my vest and knickers to be given a sugar cube with some revolting tasting stuff on it and have someone look in my ears. Someone in a white coat.
My Mum worked in a department store in the town centre. On Saturday's Grandma Annie and I used to go along there, we'd have something to eat and a cup of tea (I can't believe I used to drink tea from such an early age) then we'd go and see my Mum. But before that Dad used to take me to the paper shop (newsagent's) still in my nightie, wrapped in a blanket and sit me on the shopkeeper's counter whilst he got his paper. I used to get a Caramac and a bottle of orange juice. We'd head back home and snuggle back in the bed, me eating my treats, him reading the paper. He'd go to the football every Saturday, he's an Evertonian. He brought a football rattle home once and I was terrified of it. I was also terrified of putting my bare feet on grass and sand - says a lot about urban living!
You may have heard of 'Greaty Market' in Liverpool. It's actually Great Homer Street market. It was thriving then, still is I think, and it was just around the corner from where we lived. I'd be taken there quite a lot and I remember en route, there was an old lady who used to sit on a chair on her doorstep, she was dressed in a long, black dress, like Queen Victoria. She was always there, we always waved to her and she'd just smile, I don't think she could wave, she was so old. She frightened me a bit.
There was a row of shops near us. Long before supermarkets were invented. We had a newsagent-cum-sweetshop, a green-grocer, butcher, fish shop and launderette, all in a row. Quite cool when you think about it. And great for building a community.
When it was hot (we had seasons then so summer was hot and it snowed in winter - always) we'd go 'over the water' to New Brighton. One time we took my friend, Claire Sweeney. Yes THE Claire Sweeney. Her Grandma lived on the top floor of the tenemant above Grandma Mary and she'd come and spend time there during the summer. Trouble is with the Claire you see today, she may be a year younger than me which puts her at 43 yet if you read about her it always says 'Claire Sweeney, 36'. She's a fibber. Still, looks good for 43 doesn't she?
So, a fairly idyllic childhood so far. But it was all set to change. You see, Mum and Dad had been saving up all this time and were about to turn my world upside down. They were about to move into their first (and only) own home. It was far away from Liverpool (17 miles but that's far to a 5 year old), where they talked funny but thought I talked funny, I had no friends there, my 2 Grandma's weren't close by and worst of all - I had my own bedroom. No, please, I'm scared of the dark, I want to sleep in your room with you, it's far away from your room........my cries went unheard.
More soon, P
So, on Wednesday 4th September 1963 at approximately 10pm I burst forth into the world. You know that rhyme, 'Monday's child is full of grace' or it might be 'fair of face', I'm not sure as I am allegedly full of woe given that I was born on a Wednesday. What nonsense. It should be rewritten; 'Wednesday's child is full of fun'....but then that may have meant that Tuesday's child had a face like a currant bun and the rhyme may not have caught on. Oh I don't know or care, it's a stupid rhyme is my point as I am so not full of woe.
Anyway, I spent the first 5 years of my life in Liverpool. Mum and Dad lodged with my maternal Grandma and Grandad (there's a wonderful blog on the way at some point about this) Annie and Sonny (Stephen really but called Sonny by everyone). So what do I remember about being a Scouser (note the capital S!).
Home was a three-storey tenemant, long since demolished, we lived on the ground floor. My other Grandparents lived across the road, also on the ground floor of a three-storey tenemant. My paternal Grandparents were my favourites, I know I shouldn't have them but they were. They were called Mary and Joseph!! (Which prompted Nicola, my daughter, when she was about 3, to ask my Dad if he was Jesus, waahaaaa!). Grandama Mary used to give me raw (I kid you not) sausage sarnies as a treat, she used to chop my eggs in a cup and give me a threepenny bit if I ate it all up, she used to let me stay up late and sit her knee, she idolised me and me her. So much so that when she died - I was 9 - my young heart was torn apart. I am actually crying a little right now. I keep a beautiful photo of her and Grandad Joe on my bedside table, it's amongst my most treasured possessions. On a lighter note, she also used to give me pigs trotters to chew on - oh shut up! They'd been cooked!
School was across from Grandma Mary's, so everything was in a nice row; home, Mary and Joe's, school. Our Lady's, Eldon Street. I was only there for one term and the only things I can remember are playing in a wendy house which I loved, being a shopkeeper with tiddlywink money which I loved and practicing doing full-stops which I didn't love as mine, according to Miss, looked like footballs. I also remember having to stand in a line in my vest and knickers to be given a sugar cube with some revolting tasting stuff on it and have someone look in my ears. Someone in a white coat.
My Mum worked in a department store in the town centre. On Saturday's Grandma Annie and I used to go along there, we'd have something to eat and a cup of tea (I can't believe I used to drink tea from such an early age) then we'd go and see my Mum. But before that Dad used to take me to the paper shop (newsagent's) still in my nightie, wrapped in a blanket and sit me on the shopkeeper's counter whilst he got his paper. I used to get a Caramac and a bottle of orange juice. We'd head back home and snuggle back in the bed, me eating my treats, him reading the paper. He'd go to the football every Saturday, he's an Evertonian. He brought a football rattle home once and I was terrified of it. I was also terrified of putting my bare feet on grass and sand - says a lot about urban living!
You may have heard of 'Greaty Market' in Liverpool. It's actually Great Homer Street market. It was thriving then, still is I think, and it was just around the corner from where we lived. I'd be taken there quite a lot and I remember en route, there was an old lady who used to sit on a chair on her doorstep, she was dressed in a long, black dress, like Queen Victoria. She was always there, we always waved to her and she'd just smile, I don't think she could wave, she was so old. She frightened me a bit.
There was a row of shops near us. Long before supermarkets were invented. We had a newsagent-cum-sweetshop, a green-grocer, butcher, fish shop and launderette, all in a row. Quite cool when you think about it. And great for building a community.
When it was hot (we had seasons then so summer was hot and it snowed in winter - always) we'd go 'over the water' to New Brighton. One time we took my friend, Claire Sweeney. Yes THE Claire Sweeney. Her Grandma lived on the top floor of the tenemant above Grandma Mary and she'd come and spend time there during the summer. Trouble is with the Claire you see today, she may be a year younger than me which puts her at 43 yet if you read about her it always says 'Claire Sweeney, 36'. She's a fibber. Still, looks good for 43 doesn't she?
So, a fairly idyllic childhood so far. But it was all set to change. You see, Mum and Dad had been saving up all this time and were about to turn my world upside down. They were about to move into their first (and only) own home. It was far away from Liverpool (17 miles but that's far to a 5 year old), where they talked funny but thought I talked funny, I had no friends there, my 2 Grandma's weren't close by and worst of all - I had my own bedroom. No, please, I'm scared of the dark, I want to sleep in your room with you, it's far away from your room........my cries went unheard.
More soon, P
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
We are fam-i-lee hey hey hey hey y'all
Except I don't have my sisters with me, I'm an only child.
OK in my last post I gave you an insight as to what I'm about and what makes me tick. I'm thinking of basing future posts on 'just life'. I'm planning to share events in my life that have shaped me and made me who I am. Nothing earth-shattering, just normal stuff - hopefully told in a way that will make you smile - that you will be able to identify with. But before all that I thought I'd introduce you to my family, given that they'll more than likely feature in future posts.
First up is Mum and Dad, Brian and Colette. They call each other Bri n Col, like tuna n sweetcorn. They had me young so they are still great-looking, fit ,soon-to-be pensioners. My Mum is already the proud owner of the government-issue bus pass, Dad's arrives next year. Basically, they gave me a great start in life, I had such a fab childhood. They taught me to believe in myself and to love myself, they gave me confidence. That said, I think I'm only reaping the benefits of all that now really. I've all of a sudden, overnight, developed this attitude of 'what you see is what you get, if you don't like me bugger off, can't be doing with pretense (pretence?), only genuine people need apply'. Maybe it's my age. I'm halfway through life now so don't want to waste the second half on no-marks.
Anyway, Mum and Dad. They hail from Liverpool, close to the city centre, and used to live opposite each other which is how they met. They've told me all sorts of tales about growing up in the 60's in Liverpool, just when The Beatles were starting off. They used to visit the Cavern Club. My Dad used to get all his suits hand made and he reckons that those trade-mark suits The Beatles wore, the Italian style ones with the short jackets, were copied from him and his mates. So my Dad inspired The Beatles look.
Mum was - still is - very glamorous. Imagine the epitome of a 60's look then add a bit of wow factor, that was how my Mum looked, she's gorgeous.So in a nutshell, they had me young, they're still young at heart, had a great childhood. Specifics will out in later blogs but for now, that's Mum and Dad.
Next up is Dave, my husband and - I know this sounds corny - best friend. He really is, I'm not just saying that. We could seriously spend 24/7 together and still have a good old chat, a laugh and be just as in love! We met in 1984 and married in 1988. He's 7 years older than me and I'm wifey no. 2. He has a daughter from his first marriage, Joanne who is living with her partner Jamie and they have one boy, Ellis aged 4 and one on the way. Dave is all or nothing. Whatever he does he does to the nth degree or he doesn't do it at all. He keep canaries as a hobby and they live in a log cabin that you or I could have as a holiday home, see what I mean, all or nothing. You'll get to know much more about about Dave in later blogs.
Nicola is our 12 year old daughter. She's a young 12 which is really nice, not 12 going on 22. She's a sweet child in public, quite shy, very well-mannered and polite. Privately she's got lots of attitude. She's into American teen shows, giggles a lot, loves getting dressed up, having sleep-overs, very girlie and bloody bossy. Musically she likes Johnny Cash!! She's now also getting into music that you would normally associate with a 12 year old girl, Rhianna, Girls Aloud etc. Boys have just started to notice her - 3 asked her out last week, she said no to all (good girl). Again, much more about Nic in future posts.
Dave is one of 6, he has 4 sisters and a brother, none of whom are like him. Sadly, Dave's Dad died in 1988, his Mum is thankfully still with us. They may or may not crop up in future posts so I'm not gonna name them here.
My Grandma on Mum's side is still here too. Her name's Annie and she's 83. She goes swimming once a week, walks as often as she can and holidays whereever, whenever she feels like it, at home and abroad. She's currently in Sweden visiting my Uncle Billy who lives there and has done for about 25 years with his partner Helene.
Pets. We have a dog, Lulu, a whippet. We have a parrot, Jake, an African Grey and yes he does talk. He does all of our voices to a tee. Nic has a hamster, George. We have 6 chickens and there's Dave's canaries.
So, that's us and our menagerie. I'll leave it there for now. I'm going to start at the beginning next time so I'll be talking about my growing up years.Bye for now, P
OK in my last post I gave you an insight as to what I'm about and what makes me tick. I'm thinking of basing future posts on 'just life'. I'm planning to share events in my life that have shaped me and made me who I am. Nothing earth-shattering, just normal stuff - hopefully told in a way that will make you smile - that you will be able to identify with. But before all that I thought I'd introduce you to my family, given that they'll more than likely feature in future posts.
First up is Mum and Dad, Brian and Colette. They call each other Bri n Col, like tuna n sweetcorn. They had me young so they are still great-looking, fit ,soon-to-be pensioners. My Mum is already the proud owner of the government-issue bus pass, Dad's arrives next year. Basically, they gave me a great start in life, I had such a fab childhood. They taught me to believe in myself and to love myself, they gave me confidence. That said, I think I'm only reaping the benefits of all that now really. I've all of a sudden, overnight, developed this attitude of 'what you see is what you get, if you don't like me bugger off, can't be doing with pretense (pretence?), only genuine people need apply'. Maybe it's my age. I'm halfway through life now so don't want to waste the second half on no-marks.
Anyway, Mum and Dad. They hail from Liverpool, close to the city centre, and used to live opposite each other which is how they met. They've told me all sorts of tales about growing up in the 60's in Liverpool, just when The Beatles were starting off. They used to visit the Cavern Club. My Dad used to get all his suits hand made and he reckons that those trade-mark suits The Beatles wore, the Italian style ones with the short jackets, were copied from him and his mates. So my Dad inspired The Beatles look.
Mum was - still is - very glamorous. Imagine the epitome of a 60's look then add a bit of wow factor, that was how my Mum looked, she's gorgeous.So in a nutshell, they had me young, they're still young at heart, had a great childhood. Specifics will out in later blogs but for now, that's Mum and Dad.
Next up is Dave, my husband and - I know this sounds corny - best friend. He really is, I'm not just saying that. We could seriously spend 24/7 together and still have a good old chat, a laugh and be just as in love! We met in 1984 and married in 1988. He's 7 years older than me and I'm wifey no. 2. He has a daughter from his first marriage, Joanne who is living with her partner Jamie and they have one boy, Ellis aged 4 and one on the way. Dave is all or nothing. Whatever he does he does to the nth degree or he doesn't do it at all. He keep canaries as a hobby and they live in a log cabin that you or I could have as a holiday home, see what I mean, all or nothing. You'll get to know much more about about Dave in later blogs.
Nicola is our 12 year old daughter. She's a young 12 which is really nice, not 12 going on 22. She's a sweet child in public, quite shy, very well-mannered and polite. Privately she's got lots of attitude. She's into American teen shows, giggles a lot, loves getting dressed up, having sleep-overs, very girlie and bloody bossy. Musically she likes Johnny Cash!! She's now also getting into music that you would normally associate with a 12 year old girl, Rhianna, Girls Aloud etc. Boys have just started to notice her - 3 asked her out last week, she said no to all (good girl). Again, much more about Nic in future posts.
Dave is one of 6, he has 4 sisters and a brother, none of whom are like him. Sadly, Dave's Dad died in 1988, his Mum is thankfully still with us. They may or may not crop up in future posts so I'm not gonna name them here.
My Grandma on Mum's side is still here too. Her name's Annie and she's 83. She goes swimming once a week, walks as often as she can and holidays whereever, whenever she feels like it, at home and abroad. She's currently in Sweden visiting my Uncle Billy who lives there and has done for about 25 years with his partner Helene.
Pets. We have a dog, Lulu, a whippet. We have a parrot, Jake, an African Grey and yes he does talk. He does all of our voices to a tee. Nic has a hamster, George. We have 6 chickens and there's Dave's canaries.
So, that's us and our menagerie. I'll leave it there for now. I'm going to start at the beginning next time so I'll be talking about my growing up years.Bye for now, P
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
And so what if I love each sparkle and each bangle
I got so excited at the prospect of doing my very own blog. But then I thought, ‘Oh no. What shall I write about?’ You see I don’t have any awe-inspiring hobbies, I don’t really do much at weekends. I thought, ‘Chuffin’ ‘eck, I must be boring’. Then I got to really thinking and eventually decided that I wasn’t boring at all, at least my friends and family tell me so. No, I’m not boring I’m just me. And therein lies the subject matter I was looking for.
Now to set your expectations, it’s a long ‘un this blog so you probably need a cuppa and maybe a snack to keep you going. And, before I start, I’d be just tickled pink if you read it and let me know what you think. Anyroadup, if you’re sitting comfortably, I’ll begin.
I really believe that being you/me is the only way to be. We are what makes us unique. We should each stand tall and be proud and never, ever, hang our personalities on the coat hook when we come to work, we should let it shine out, share it.
So let me share with you the consequences of someone pretending to be something they’re not.
Years ago, I used to work with a very odd lady, her name was Sue (not her real name but for the purpose of my story, I’ll call her Sue) and her husband was called Derek (not his real name either). Sue was in her mid 40’s ish, the age I am now. She was quite staid in her appearance, a tad old fashioned, big specs and she was a Personnel Officer. And boy, was she true to the Officer bit of her job title!! Some called her a bulldog which was a bit mean really…I find it’s a really nice breed of dog. Not only was Sue a Personnel Officer, she was also a JP!! Can you believe that? She actually fined folk and stuff. Above all, Sue was a snob. Oh yes, she looked down her long nose at us common folk.
Now, Sue comes from Leigh. Those of you who actually listened in Geography at school will know Leigh is a mining town near Wigan. It’s an alright place, nothing special, no better or worse than any other mining town oop North…but posh it ain’t! A spade is a spade is a spade. The people there tell it like it is. If you’re thinking ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ in Leigh they’ll tell you it does before you even ask the question. Are you getting the picture?
At work, four of us shared an office. Besides Sue and me there was my boss. His real name was (and still is) Cliff. He’s since retired and the world of commerce is all the more empty for it. Cliff was the most inspirational leader I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. He was the biggest, single influence on my career and me. He was great fun, really ahead of his time in terms of people engagement, has the best sense of humour/fun/mischief….and he was posh. Yes, he had all the qualifications to make him the biggest snob of his day but he wasn’t, he was posh but down to earth. There’s not many of them about. And he was funny. Even rarer! Cliff liked his wine and his malt whisky and knew quite a bit about both. Sue admired that. In fact, she admired everything Cliff stood for; clever, posh etc. But he frustrated her because she didn’t get the irony in his sense of humour, she just didn’t get that whole sense of humour thing at all. So she wanted to really like Cliff and count him among her carefully chosen friends but he confused her.
So, in our office we had Sue the Snob, Cliff the Clown, me (can’t think of what to call myself. Maybe you can suggest something?) and Peter. Peter doesn’t really feature in my tale much. He was our head of department but he was like a cardboard cut out in the corner that used to grunt now and then. So I’m not talking about him except to tell you that Sue and Derek used to go out for meals and such like with Peter and his wife. Used to jump at the chance whenever the opportunity arose actually. Neither Cliff nor me were ever invited. Cliff was too silly; I was too common.
To explain Sue’s snobbery and how it manifested itself, I’m going to describe a typical day in our office. I’m going to choose a summer’s day and let’s pretend it’s a Monday so we have a bit of ‘what did you do at the weekend’ chatter. All of the events here really happened but they may not have happened all in one day. Hey, it’s not 24, it’s more Corrie, where a day or two are squashed into half an hour, or in this case, a quick read.
I’d be first to arrive and would put the coffee pot on. Oh yes. We had proper coffee, none of yer instant. Sue saw to that. Next in would be the Cardboard Cutout carrying his Financial Times. It’s worth mentioning, as it’s key to the moral of my story, that once, he dropped his paper and a copy of the Daily Mirror fell out of his not-so-carefully folded FT. I don’t think he ever got over the embarrassment. He’d grunt a ‘morning’ before disappearing into his office only to emerge again to go home (I’ve no idea what he did in there), except on Mondays when he went to ‘my Monday meeting’. Don’t know what that was or whom it was with. He used to walk out of the office at about 3pm on Monday carrying a big bundle of papers then walk back in again at about 5pm carrying the same bundle. Every week. Next in would be Sue, carrying a small bunch of flowers freshly picked that morning from her garden. Finally, Cliff, carrying a copy of the first paper that caught his eye in the newsagents, usually a Timeout chocolate bar, sometimes a Yorkie and always, without fail, sporting a huge grin. So we’d all get coffee and start work and catch up on the weekend’s events.
First, Sue would arrange her freshly cut flowers in a little glass on her desk and then sit and sigh at them. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she’d ask. And they were. I love flowers too. But then she’d spoil it. She’d say ‘This morning Carla (her daughter) was drinking her coffee in the garden before college and she turned to me and said, thanks Mum, for making this garden such a beautiful place’. Now some of you might say, what a lovely thing to say to your Mum. And it is. But not if you live in Leigh. In Leigh you’d say, ‘Garden’s looking reet nice Mum’. There. Just that. No more, no less. You have to remember, it was all for effect, to make us think that their family life was choccy-box perfect and so much better than ours.
The Cardboard Cutout would mutter something from behind his opaque glass wall about having lunch alfresco and it being pastrami on rye or some such delicacy. Sue would talk about what ‘Derek and I’ did. At length. And it was always Derek and I. Never me and Derek, even if Derek and I was grammatically incorrect. Neither of them would ask what Cliff or I did. Which I was glad about as my then childless weekends were spent in the pub or in bed sleeping off the effects of being in the pub. And that wasn’t as exciting as eating pastrami on rye alfresco. Was it?
Now, here come her most significant talking points. I hope you’re still sitting comfortably.
First, she told us all about going supermarket shopping. And she told us all about what she bought and how she used some of what she’d bought to make a salad. And on this salad was mange tout. At this point she paused. Now, to me, a mange tout is a bit pointless. It’s a pea-less pod and it tastes of grass but to Sue it represented posh nosh, something the likes of me and you knew nothing about, in her mind at least. To her at that time, it was the ultimate in haute cuisine. And the pause was for effect. At that point we were supposed to be ‘wow-ed’. Or, what she really wanted us to do, ask ‘what’s a monj too?’ But we didn’t. Cos we already knew.
Sue read The Times. By doing so, it meant that she could, and I quote, ‘mix in any circles’. Er, except those circles where people didn’t read The Times, which wouldn’t be that many in Leigh. But to her, those kind of people didn’t matter, they were common people’s circles anyway and she didn’t want to mix in them. Once Cliff was out and about on the shop floor and he came back to the office with a copy of the Daily Sport. Now don’t get the wrong impression of Cliff. It wasn’t for the smut content, he was a true gent, he didn’t do smut. No, it was for the entertainment factor of the headline that day. It read ‘I dug a pond and ended up in France’. And there was a picture of a bloke popping up out of a hole in his garden wearing a beret, a striped t-shirt and sporting a string of onions round his neck. Oh and he’d grown one of those curly French moustaches. Apparently he’d been missing for two weeks digging this fishpond. Cliff could barely stand up for laughing at this, which is why he’d brought it into the office, to share the funny story. Sue and the Cutout nearly spontaneously combusted on account they were in the same room as a ‘red top’ newspaper, especially That One. In the end the Cutout pulled rank and made Cliff throw it away.
Now sometimes Cliff and I (or should that be me and Cliff) would get silly and become a bit of a double act. Cliff would say things like ‘well the Good Lady Glenys (his term for his wife) and I went shopping at the weekend. And we had lunch out’. That’d be my cue to ask ‘What did you have?’ A bit like the mum in the Royle Family. He’d say ‘Egg n chips and a mug of tea, has to be in a mug. Even better if there’s more chips in the mug than there are on the plate’. Boom Boom. One time he talked about the fact that he’d had a chippy tea on a Friday. I asked him of he’d ate it out of the paper and he said, all posh, ‘Good heavens no. The Good Lady Glenys took our plates with her and asked Barbara behind the counter to warm them’. And we’d titter behind our PCs. You see Sue and the Cutout wouldn’t be seen dead within a five-mile radius of a chippy. Well maybe Harry Ramsden’s but not one called Pat’s Plaice or, like my local chippy, The Crisp E Cod. Not the Crispy Cod. It’s a play on words. The bloke who runs our chippy is called Ernie so it’s The Crisp E (for Ernie) Cod. See?
Allow me a little digression here. Talking about taking plates to the chippy has reminded me of another taking your crockery outside occasion when I was a kid. Sunday tea was always butties. Usually tinned salmon butties and served on a little hostess trolley in the living room, so’s we could watch the telly. Pudding was usually tinned fruit cocktail served with Carnation milk. Sometimes my Mum would get a box of mixed cakes from Sayers and I was allowed first pick, I usually went for the éclair, now and then the vanilla slice. During the summer my Mum (and the other Mums too) would go to the ice-cream man with her best bowl and ask him to fill it so that we could have ice-cream instead of Carnation with our fruit cocktail. Joy. But it makes me laugh out loud thinking about all the Mums standing in a queue displaying ‘bowl envy’. ‘Huh, Doreen only had a Tupperware one!’
Anyway, back to my story. Later that day (remember it’s Monday in summer), Sue made an astonishing statement. She said ‘Do you know what Derek and I did last night?’ Now before you get excited, the answer was ‘We turned off the TV (always TV, never telly) and we talked’. Again, pause for effect. I would say stuff to Cliff like ‘I talk to Dave (my hubby) all the time too, pass the salt, turn the telly over - Corrie’s on’. Thing is, she often used to say derogatory stuff about the ‘people round here, all they do is watch TV and eat chips’. She had us all painted like some string-vest wearing families with gravy stains down our fronts, and all in the name of wanting to be something she wasn’t. Sad – and at that time in my life – more than a tad annoying (I was much younger and not as tolerant!!) So, this talking lark with no telly on. Again it was to make out that theirs was a much more cultured and meaningful relationship than our common ones. I mean, what did me and Dave (Dave and I? It’s confusing!!) have in common aside from a deep and meaningful love of Weatherfield’s wet cobbles? And was it really enough to build a now 24 year relationship on?
Once, Sue found a particular wine she liked in Tesco. She said ‘It’s 13%. Is that good?’ Cliff said ‘Did you like it Sue? Then it was good’.
And this really is the moral of my story.
You see, Sue spent so long trying to impress us with her knowledge, regale us with tales of eating fancy food, drinking fine wines, watching informative/educational programmes….never once did I see her laugh. I mean really laugh till tears ran down her cheeks. She was dull. And when she got things wrong, we couldn’t laugh with her and gently put her right, sadly we laughed at her. Two occasions stick in my mind about her getting things wrong and it was to do with pronunciation. She once went to a dinner party (they just don’t do dinner parties in Leigh so it must have been at the Cutout’s house, I can’t remember. Needless to say, Cliff and I weren’t invited). Anyway, before their meal they had crudites. Only she didn’t say ‘croo-di-tays’. She said crudites. Another time she went out to a restaurant and had ‘the hali-boo’, not the halibut. Oh dear! Did I – or anyone else – bother to correct her? Did we eckerslike! We laughed. And laughed. Till our sides hurt. Behind our PCs. (Incidentally, the same restaurant where she had the ‘haliboo’ got the thumbs down and no tip due to the fact that they had served red wine in white wine glasses. Blinkin’ Nora! Would you know the difference? Furthermore, would you care? When she told us this Cliff responded, ‘Never mind. As long as they’d chilled your red wine that’s the main thing.’ She didn’t get the joke, she just looked confused. I meanwhile had to stuff a hanky into my mouth to quell the guffaw.) I could go on but I’m bordering on a Ronnie Corbett-sized digression.
You may be asking why I didn’t tell her, give her feedback. There were a few reasons. One is that I was very young and not as confident as I am now and she was more than a bit scary and she had the power to have me slung in the Chokey. But the main reason is that she didn’t deserve it. She was truly a horrible woman, would put you down to make you look foolish on purpose. When Dave and I (now that is grammatically correct) bought what is now our home, I took the estate agents blurb in to work to show them the piccies. It’s a terraced house, lovely big garden, high ceilinged big rooms, lovely, at least to my family and me (?). She looked at the pictures and d’you know what she did? She wrinkled her nose and said ‘So you’ve got neighbours joined on?’ And the Cutout added, ‘On both sides?’ And they gave each other a ‘look’. I was mortified until Cliff rescued the situation by asking if I liked it and saying that he hoped we’d be happy in it. And we are. Very.
So my point is this. Celebrate your ordinariness, be yourself and, most importantly, try and have fun doing it. If you read the Sun/Star/Mirror/Sport, so what? If you like vegging in front of car-crash telly, so what? If you like eating egg n chips, so what? (Best if the yolk is runny and you can dip your chips into it) If like me, you have no real hobbies but just like pottering about at home or here and there with your family, so what? If you don’t know any big words with which to impress your colleagues, so what? If you like your red wine chilled and your white wine at room temperature, so what? Hey, if you want to drink it out of a chipped mug, go ahead!
I’m not saying walk around laughing like a drain at anything and everything.That’d be annoying. I’m saying that life is truly a wonderful gift and it’s even better if you can live it with a smile on your face. Being happy in your own skin and being you/me is what makes the world go round.
This is me in a nutshell.
I left school with a few O levels and no real clue as to what I wanted to do however, I’ve worked hard and grabbed every opportunity that’s ever presented itself. I love my job, I love working here, mainly because I love working with the people I work with. I’m married to Dave, have been for 20 years and we have one 12 year-old daughter, Nicola. We go on holiday to Corfu, we love it there, love the place but more than that, we love the people. We went on honeymoon and never looked back. I don’t do anything exciting at weekends, I potter (I love that word) about at home with Dave and Nic and we go to the races if it’s on. I love being in the garden and it is beautiful though no-one ever thanks Dave for making it so. I read the Sun. Mainly because the columnists are hilarious (Jeremy Clarkson and Lorraine Kelly on Saturday, Jane Moore on Wednesday, Jon Gaunt on Friday and more). I like watching Corrie on telly. I also like ‘house-y’ programmes like Grand Designs, Location Location etc. I love music that I can sing along to very loudly and music that I can dance to. My most listened to tracks on my iPod are Shame by Evelyn Champagne King and Dancing on the Floor by Third World. I have no particularly discerning feature, apart from a sunny disposition. If I like something or if I don’t, it’s because it’s my preference and not because it’s the done thing. I love coffee. Fully-loaded, caffeine busting, instant coffee. I’m quite passionate, you’ll know that by the number of times I use the word ‘love’. Basically, I’m nowt special but I am unique and what you see is what you get.
And when I meet you I’d love for it to be the real you.
Thanks for reading, Paula
Now to set your expectations, it’s a long ‘un this blog so you probably need a cuppa and maybe a snack to keep you going. And, before I start, I’d be just tickled pink if you read it and let me know what you think. Anyroadup, if you’re sitting comfortably, I’ll begin.
I really believe that being you/me is the only way to be. We are what makes us unique. We should each stand tall and be proud and never, ever, hang our personalities on the coat hook when we come to work, we should let it shine out, share it.
So let me share with you the consequences of someone pretending to be something they’re not.
Years ago, I used to work with a very odd lady, her name was Sue (not her real name but for the purpose of my story, I’ll call her Sue) and her husband was called Derek (not his real name either). Sue was in her mid 40’s ish, the age I am now. She was quite staid in her appearance, a tad old fashioned, big specs and she was a Personnel Officer. And boy, was she true to the Officer bit of her job title!! Some called her a bulldog which was a bit mean really…I find it’s a really nice breed of dog. Not only was Sue a Personnel Officer, she was also a JP!! Can you believe that? She actually fined folk and stuff. Above all, Sue was a snob. Oh yes, she looked down her long nose at us common folk.
Now, Sue comes from Leigh. Those of you who actually listened in Geography at school will know Leigh is a mining town near Wigan. It’s an alright place, nothing special, no better or worse than any other mining town oop North…but posh it ain’t! A spade is a spade is a spade. The people there tell it like it is. If you’re thinking ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ in Leigh they’ll tell you it does before you even ask the question. Are you getting the picture?
At work, four of us shared an office. Besides Sue and me there was my boss. His real name was (and still is) Cliff. He’s since retired and the world of commerce is all the more empty for it. Cliff was the most inspirational leader I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. He was the biggest, single influence on my career and me. He was great fun, really ahead of his time in terms of people engagement, has the best sense of humour/fun/mischief….and he was posh. Yes, he had all the qualifications to make him the biggest snob of his day but he wasn’t, he was posh but down to earth. There’s not many of them about. And he was funny. Even rarer! Cliff liked his wine and his malt whisky and knew quite a bit about both. Sue admired that. In fact, she admired everything Cliff stood for; clever, posh etc. But he frustrated her because she didn’t get the irony in his sense of humour, she just didn’t get that whole sense of humour thing at all. So she wanted to really like Cliff and count him among her carefully chosen friends but he confused her.
So, in our office we had Sue the Snob, Cliff the Clown, me (can’t think of what to call myself. Maybe you can suggest something?) and Peter. Peter doesn’t really feature in my tale much. He was our head of department but he was like a cardboard cut out in the corner that used to grunt now and then. So I’m not talking about him except to tell you that Sue and Derek used to go out for meals and such like with Peter and his wife. Used to jump at the chance whenever the opportunity arose actually. Neither Cliff nor me were ever invited. Cliff was too silly; I was too common.
To explain Sue’s snobbery and how it manifested itself, I’m going to describe a typical day in our office. I’m going to choose a summer’s day and let’s pretend it’s a Monday so we have a bit of ‘what did you do at the weekend’ chatter. All of the events here really happened but they may not have happened all in one day. Hey, it’s not 24, it’s more Corrie, where a day or two are squashed into half an hour, or in this case, a quick read.
I’d be first to arrive and would put the coffee pot on. Oh yes. We had proper coffee, none of yer instant. Sue saw to that. Next in would be the Cardboard Cutout carrying his Financial Times. It’s worth mentioning, as it’s key to the moral of my story, that once, he dropped his paper and a copy of the Daily Mirror fell out of his not-so-carefully folded FT. I don’t think he ever got over the embarrassment. He’d grunt a ‘morning’ before disappearing into his office only to emerge again to go home (I’ve no idea what he did in there), except on Mondays when he went to ‘my Monday meeting’. Don’t know what that was or whom it was with. He used to walk out of the office at about 3pm on Monday carrying a big bundle of papers then walk back in again at about 5pm carrying the same bundle. Every week. Next in would be Sue, carrying a small bunch of flowers freshly picked that morning from her garden. Finally, Cliff, carrying a copy of the first paper that caught his eye in the newsagents, usually a Timeout chocolate bar, sometimes a Yorkie and always, without fail, sporting a huge grin. So we’d all get coffee and start work and catch up on the weekend’s events.
First, Sue would arrange her freshly cut flowers in a little glass on her desk and then sit and sigh at them. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she’d ask. And they were. I love flowers too. But then she’d spoil it. She’d say ‘This morning Carla (her daughter) was drinking her coffee in the garden before college and she turned to me and said, thanks Mum, for making this garden such a beautiful place’. Now some of you might say, what a lovely thing to say to your Mum. And it is. But not if you live in Leigh. In Leigh you’d say, ‘Garden’s looking reet nice Mum’. There. Just that. No more, no less. You have to remember, it was all for effect, to make us think that their family life was choccy-box perfect and so much better than ours.
The Cardboard Cutout would mutter something from behind his opaque glass wall about having lunch alfresco and it being pastrami on rye or some such delicacy. Sue would talk about what ‘Derek and I’ did. At length. And it was always Derek and I. Never me and Derek, even if Derek and I was grammatically incorrect. Neither of them would ask what Cliff or I did. Which I was glad about as my then childless weekends were spent in the pub or in bed sleeping off the effects of being in the pub. And that wasn’t as exciting as eating pastrami on rye alfresco. Was it?
Now, here come her most significant talking points. I hope you’re still sitting comfortably.
First, she told us all about going supermarket shopping. And she told us all about what she bought and how she used some of what she’d bought to make a salad. And on this salad was mange tout. At this point she paused. Now, to me, a mange tout is a bit pointless. It’s a pea-less pod and it tastes of grass but to Sue it represented posh nosh, something the likes of me and you knew nothing about, in her mind at least. To her at that time, it was the ultimate in haute cuisine. And the pause was for effect. At that point we were supposed to be ‘wow-ed’. Or, what she really wanted us to do, ask ‘what’s a monj too?’ But we didn’t. Cos we already knew.
Sue read The Times. By doing so, it meant that she could, and I quote, ‘mix in any circles’. Er, except those circles where people didn’t read The Times, which wouldn’t be that many in Leigh. But to her, those kind of people didn’t matter, they were common people’s circles anyway and she didn’t want to mix in them. Once Cliff was out and about on the shop floor and he came back to the office with a copy of the Daily Sport. Now don’t get the wrong impression of Cliff. It wasn’t for the smut content, he was a true gent, he didn’t do smut. No, it was for the entertainment factor of the headline that day. It read ‘I dug a pond and ended up in France’. And there was a picture of a bloke popping up out of a hole in his garden wearing a beret, a striped t-shirt and sporting a string of onions round his neck. Oh and he’d grown one of those curly French moustaches. Apparently he’d been missing for two weeks digging this fishpond. Cliff could barely stand up for laughing at this, which is why he’d brought it into the office, to share the funny story. Sue and the Cutout nearly spontaneously combusted on account they were in the same room as a ‘red top’ newspaper, especially That One. In the end the Cutout pulled rank and made Cliff throw it away.
Now sometimes Cliff and I (or should that be me and Cliff) would get silly and become a bit of a double act. Cliff would say things like ‘well the Good Lady Glenys (his term for his wife) and I went shopping at the weekend. And we had lunch out’. That’d be my cue to ask ‘What did you have?’ A bit like the mum in the Royle Family. He’d say ‘Egg n chips and a mug of tea, has to be in a mug. Even better if there’s more chips in the mug than there are on the plate’. Boom Boom. One time he talked about the fact that he’d had a chippy tea on a Friday. I asked him of he’d ate it out of the paper and he said, all posh, ‘Good heavens no. The Good Lady Glenys took our plates with her and asked Barbara behind the counter to warm them’. And we’d titter behind our PCs. You see Sue and the Cutout wouldn’t be seen dead within a five-mile radius of a chippy. Well maybe Harry Ramsden’s but not one called Pat’s Plaice or, like my local chippy, The Crisp E Cod. Not the Crispy Cod. It’s a play on words. The bloke who runs our chippy is called Ernie so it’s The Crisp E (for Ernie) Cod. See?
Allow me a little digression here. Talking about taking plates to the chippy has reminded me of another taking your crockery outside occasion when I was a kid. Sunday tea was always butties. Usually tinned salmon butties and served on a little hostess trolley in the living room, so’s we could watch the telly. Pudding was usually tinned fruit cocktail served with Carnation milk. Sometimes my Mum would get a box of mixed cakes from Sayers and I was allowed first pick, I usually went for the éclair, now and then the vanilla slice. During the summer my Mum (and the other Mums too) would go to the ice-cream man with her best bowl and ask him to fill it so that we could have ice-cream instead of Carnation with our fruit cocktail. Joy. But it makes me laugh out loud thinking about all the Mums standing in a queue displaying ‘bowl envy’. ‘Huh, Doreen only had a Tupperware one!’
Anyway, back to my story. Later that day (remember it’s Monday in summer), Sue made an astonishing statement. She said ‘Do you know what Derek and I did last night?’ Now before you get excited, the answer was ‘We turned off the TV (always TV, never telly) and we talked’. Again, pause for effect. I would say stuff to Cliff like ‘I talk to Dave (my hubby) all the time too, pass the salt, turn the telly over - Corrie’s on’. Thing is, she often used to say derogatory stuff about the ‘people round here, all they do is watch TV and eat chips’. She had us all painted like some string-vest wearing families with gravy stains down our fronts, and all in the name of wanting to be something she wasn’t. Sad – and at that time in my life – more than a tad annoying (I was much younger and not as tolerant!!) So, this talking lark with no telly on. Again it was to make out that theirs was a much more cultured and meaningful relationship than our common ones. I mean, what did me and Dave (Dave and I? It’s confusing!!) have in common aside from a deep and meaningful love of Weatherfield’s wet cobbles? And was it really enough to build a now 24 year relationship on?
Once, Sue found a particular wine she liked in Tesco. She said ‘It’s 13%. Is that good?’ Cliff said ‘Did you like it Sue? Then it was good’.
And this really is the moral of my story.
You see, Sue spent so long trying to impress us with her knowledge, regale us with tales of eating fancy food, drinking fine wines, watching informative/educational programmes….never once did I see her laugh. I mean really laugh till tears ran down her cheeks. She was dull. And when she got things wrong, we couldn’t laugh with her and gently put her right, sadly we laughed at her. Two occasions stick in my mind about her getting things wrong and it was to do with pronunciation. She once went to a dinner party (they just don’t do dinner parties in Leigh so it must have been at the Cutout’s house, I can’t remember. Needless to say, Cliff and I weren’t invited). Anyway, before their meal they had crudites. Only she didn’t say ‘croo-di-tays’. She said crudites. Another time she went out to a restaurant and had ‘the hali-boo’, not the halibut. Oh dear! Did I – or anyone else – bother to correct her? Did we eckerslike! We laughed. And laughed. Till our sides hurt. Behind our PCs. (Incidentally, the same restaurant where she had the ‘haliboo’ got the thumbs down and no tip due to the fact that they had served red wine in white wine glasses. Blinkin’ Nora! Would you know the difference? Furthermore, would you care? When she told us this Cliff responded, ‘Never mind. As long as they’d chilled your red wine that’s the main thing.’ She didn’t get the joke, she just looked confused. I meanwhile had to stuff a hanky into my mouth to quell the guffaw.) I could go on but I’m bordering on a Ronnie Corbett-sized digression.
You may be asking why I didn’t tell her, give her feedback. There were a few reasons. One is that I was very young and not as confident as I am now and she was more than a bit scary and she had the power to have me slung in the Chokey. But the main reason is that she didn’t deserve it. She was truly a horrible woman, would put you down to make you look foolish on purpose. When Dave and I (now that is grammatically correct) bought what is now our home, I took the estate agents blurb in to work to show them the piccies. It’s a terraced house, lovely big garden, high ceilinged big rooms, lovely, at least to my family and me (?). She looked at the pictures and d’you know what she did? She wrinkled her nose and said ‘So you’ve got neighbours joined on?’ And the Cutout added, ‘On both sides?’ And they gave each other a ‘look’. I was mortified until Cliff rescued the situation by asking if I liked it and saying that he hoped we’d be happy in it. And we are. Very.
So my point is this. Celebrate your ordinariness, be yourself and, most importantly, try and have fun doing it. If you read the Sun/Star/Mirror/Sport, so what? If you like vegging in front of car-crash telly, so what? If you like eating egg n chips, so what? (Best if the yolk is runny and you can dip your chips into it) If like me, you have no real hobbies but just like pottering about at home or here and there with your family, so what? If you don’t know any big words with which to impress your colleagues, so what? If you like your red wine chilled and your white wine at room temperature, so what? Hey, if you want to drink it out of a chipped mug, go ahead!
I’m not saying walk around laughing like a drain at anything and everything.That’d be annoying. I’m saying that life is truly a wonderful gift and it’s even better if you can live it with a smile on your face. Being happy in your own skin and being you/me is what makes the world go round.
This is me in a nutshell.
I left school with a few O levels and no real clue as to what I wanted to do however, I’ve worked hard and grabbed every opportunity that’s ever presented itself. I love my job, I love working here, mainly because I love working with the people I work with. I’m married to Dave, have been for 20 years and we have one 12 year-old daughter, Nicola. We go on holiday to Corfu, we love it there, love the place but more than that, we love the people. We went on honeymoon and never looked back. I don’t do anything exciting at weekends, I potter (I love that word) about at home with Dave and Nic and we go to the races if it’s on. I love being in the garden and it is beautiful though no-one ever thanks Dave for making it so. I read the Sun. Mainly because the columnists are hilarious (Jeremy Clarkson and Lorraine Kelly on Saturday, Jane Moore on Wednesday, Jon Gaunt on Friday and more). I like watching Corrie on telly. I also like ‘house-y’ programmes like Grand Designs, Location Location etc. I love music that I can sing along to very loudly and music that I can dance to. My most listened to tracks on my iPod are Shame by Evelyn Champagne King and Dancing on the Floor by Third World. I have no particularly discerning feature, apart from a sunny disposition. If I like something or if I don’t, it’s because it’s my preference and not because it’s the done thing. I love coffee. Fully-loaded, caffeine busting, instant coffee. I’m quite passionate, you’ll know that by the number of times I use the word ‘love’. Basically, I’m nowt special but I am unique and what you see is what you get.
And when I meet you I’d love for it to be the real you.
Thanks for reading, Paula
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