The 4th milestone

Two weeks this coming Monday, I turn 30. Now if life had gone to plan (according to 18 year old me), I'd be a window dresser for Selfridges, Oxford St. I'd have gotten married at 26 and be considering, or have started a family.
I'd have gone to Cardiff's University of Music and Arts, done Set Design. Maybe met the guy of my dreams, some pretentious public school guy with an edge, as he's seen the real world. He'd be opinionated and overly intelligent, well read and been classically trained on an instrument. We'd have an uber cool flat somewhere, I'm not sure what he'd do as a job, probably something edgy and arty. We'd be that couple everyone hates, as everything is always peachy and fab.
I'd be the gorky, slightly awkward, laid back female friend, the accepting of everything, chilled friend always ready with support, laughter and a bottle of wine.

In reality, I didn't go to college, I applied, in fact I applied to circus college instead of one of my chosen universities. I wanted to be a child for one more summer, which I was. I moved in to my friend's family home for a fortnight, we hung out and partied for most of the summer, it was awesome. I worked at Waitrose and had a laugh. After a year and a half, I left and got a fantastic job, where I stayed for 9 years. During this time, I worked at The Zodiac nightclub, which opened up the rest of my life. I met some of my best friends through this, worked at a couple of awesome pubs (even though I thought I was done with pouring pints after The Zodiac), have 1000 amazing memories from this time. It was like having a double life, working at the office in the day time and having a great time in Oxford by night

The way I see my life, is via these milestones:
At 15 I knocked on my new neighbour's door to welcome them to the village, I remember it, as it was halloween. I got a babysitting job due to that. I ended up babysitting for their friends. Meanwhile, I went to college to due Graphic Design, due to some software at school suggesting it, and I had no ideas. For two years I did graphic design, still life drawing and photography. At the end of that, I got to have an incredible last summer holiday. I got a stop gap job at Waitrose.  I went through a horrid experience at Waitrose that caused me to leave, I bumped in to one of the ladies I babysat for in the village shop, the day I handed my notice in. I informed her of my leaving Waitrose and got offered an interview for my job of 9 years. Due to that job, I went to work at The Zodiac. I met some of the greatest people known to man. I moved out of my parents and in with three of my now best friends. I then moved from there in with two the best male friends/housemates anyone could ask for. I worked at a couple of pubs and got some more awesome friends in my life. And now, I live with my boyfriend, who I'd never have met unless those situations had occurred.

I'm not saying he's the one, or my life is now 100% complete. I've stopped making those sorts of plans, or grand gestures, and even after two years together, I still check myself every time I speak about "our" future, I catch myself tentatively suggesting the future, not sure why "tentatively", I think it's more a learnt pattern, knowing that regardless of all plans and choices you make, you can count on nothing in particular. You can hope it comes to fruition but placing all your hopes and dreams on it, makes you question life more than it's worth.

I'm not saying, I don't plan, I'm purely saying that I don't worry when I reach a milestone and I haven't got where I'd hoped I'd be at that age, when I was younger. It's not worth it.

Some Mama Cass

The Big Kahuna

I recently watched 'The Big Kahuna' starring Kevin Spacey & Danny Devito. It's based on a play 'Hospitality Suite' and circles around two mature salesmen and a younger rep, hoping to land the big kahuna, as a client.
It explores interesting views, sales approaches and opinions on religion, but I think the entire film become a great work of production, from one of the final quotes by Danny Devito's character: "It doesn't matter whether you're selling Jesus or Buddha or civil rights or 'How to Make Money in Real Estate With No Money Down.' That doesn't make you a human being; it makes you a marketing rep. If you want to talk to somebody honestly, as a human being, ask him about his kids. Find out what his dreams are - just to find out, for no other reason. Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it's not a conversation anymore; it's a pitch. And you're not a human being; you're a marketing rep".

I must!

I must stop blogging while drunk, especially while drunk and alone!

Holidaying in Britain!

Stylist is the magazine which is handed out on Wednesdays at Tube Stations in London, free, fun, interesting, perfect for a couple of days reading. I love it. Recently, it had a competition to write the perfect 100 word travel review, 100 words, are they having a fucking laugh in the office??? The following is what I actually submitted:

A good holiday isn't about the location, it’s about the people and choice of spirit you arrive with; a group of friends and I recently rented a place for my good friend’s 30^th, which was perfect.

The open plan barn conversion, in Devon, which meant we ladies could dance and sing to our favourite “guilty pleasure” songs, while the guys entertained themselves between the makeshift cocktail bar, and the games room.

Along with muddy/wet walks, pebbly beaches and Cornwall, what more could be the perfect 2 night break from London’s rat race.

No jetlag and no currency converter required.

What I wanted to write was:


I love going on holiday within Britain, it's not all I know, but it's all I want as a weekend break. I mini holiday, while saving on jet leg, cash and the hopes being spared on good weather. I adore Britain.
I might sound crazy, but once you get past raised hopes, raised desires and the "idyllic holiday accommodation", all you're left with is the perfect place to holiday. Don't get me wrong, I'm not delirious, I'm a realistic and I love nothing more than an out of season let.
A proper good holiday, isn't dependent on the location alone, it's down to the location, people and choice of spirit.
To me, a group of good friends and some randoms, a great selection of all the bad foods and a cracking selection of booze, is all you need for a good holiday, and that is all located within the British borders and all 100% perfect for a fantastic holiday. Take my recent visit to Devon for my oldest friend (in numbers of years knowing me, not actual years of birth) birthday and you've the perfect setting for a truly fantastic weekend.
6 couples set off to the South-West, by 1am on the first night, all of us had arrived and were prepared to party. My friend's who's party it was, isn't "party party", she's "funtimes", so we were all edging that way...it was the perfect setting, a secluded barn, open plan so we were all together but at least 10-15 feet apart, so the "cosy couples" felt close, yet we were totally independent. Alone enough to sing in a stupid fashion, and our counterparts were happy enough to drink onwards, instead of wondering at which point to interject?!
The following day, after a 4am ac-cappella version of Damage's "Forever" being sung "like sopranos" (who look like 90s kids within the dance routine and sounded like trees falling within an overly populated, well hearing public forest", we all sprang from our beds to our un-suite showers, as if from a musical, honest we did!
After some minor dramatics and wearing of sunglasses at the breakfast table, where under cooked bacon turned my stomach personally, we started on our potter to the nearby beach, only 20 minutes walk away?! 20 minutes if you're galloping on horseback.  
(To be honest, the walk was perfect, as all walks are when you feel like you've fairies junping on your belly/windpipe and trolls squeezing your stomach as if they're bagpipes), as in, there were moments when we all felt like we'd fall over in the mud, we were all startled of the pheasants flying from the bushes, we met random dog walkers* who were nothing but charming, yet once on the beach the guys started enjoying the old game of throwing a rock at a rock and we ladies enjoyed, well everything, being alive and it all being so beautiful, and the fog of our hangovers finally lifting, after much futile pray!

There is something crazily incredible about holidaying within Britain, you feel as if you're 1000 miles from your own door, yet you could be no more than 10 metres down the road, counts as a holiday to me. The best thing about holidaying within the UK is, in no particular order: knowing the currency, a huge bonus, no preparation required. The travelling most of the time being the same time (any car journey can be fun, it's all down to you the passengers!), yet no time difference. And being in a different climate to your everyday life; grey countryside, is hugely different to grey city, trust me!

*One of the greater things, which you won't believe, is that one of us lost their earring on the walk and accepted it was a no brainer, only to get a knock on the door later that day, to ask if the earring found on a walk earlier was ours? Seriously, it happened, now I'm not promising that to everyone, of course, if you're thinking about a 5 mile walk, don't wear 5 inch dangly earrings - simple, but yet....no where else!

Fizzy Evenings

Towards the end of living at PartyCentral, we ladies had become accustomed to Fizzy Fridays, which consisted of us gathering in the sitting room, drinking copious amount of fizz. It was a beautiful thing. It was one of the 'list of many' that I was going to miss terribly.
Since I've started temping at the "posh shop of Mayfair", we've had three Thursdays in a row, where we've had events; book launches, award ceremonies and Christmas lighting events. And every single one has involved copious amounts of Champagne and canapes. I am not complaining.

So now I celebrate Fizz Thursdays! Which are amazing, as I get to drink fizz on my sofa, while watching 'Pie in the Sky', what could be better!

Tomorrow at work, I get to open my first ever magnum bottle. I am so so excited and even a little nervous!

The Queen at 89

Today is the Queen's (my Grandma) 88th birthday. In homage to the old girl, I'm dedicating this post to her!

To the left is a photo of her and my Grandpa on their wedding day, many, many moons ago. Can you tell it was during the war? He was also, 13 years her senior, dirty old dog! Apparently there is a photo of my grandpa in the Imperial War Museum (in the 2nd World War section in the basement) sitting on a doogle-bug, that he and his battalion discovered in a woods in Germany, my grandma donated it to the museum, after he passed away, so others could enjoy it. I went there last summer and didn't see it, as I didn't know it was there. I'm going back, soon!

My grandma is a bit of a marvel. Fiercely independent, and stubborn as the most impossible mule. She often jokes that god is keeping her on the earth, as a joke. A bit harsh but very funny. It's safe to say that she's always had a very dry sense of humour. She's extremely witty and dark humoured, even at her age, possibly more so, now. And sharp with it.
She grew up on the outskirts of London, within a well to do family. One great uncle started the first department store in London and another was a Whittard. Her mother was of German descent, her father English.

With a caricature of herself
in uniform, she got for her dad. 

During the war, she was based down in Cornwall for a while, training young troops how to man the spotlights, later she got moved to central England to work on the radars. She once told me that the saddest part of the job was counting back in less planes, than had gone out. Towards the end of the war, she fell pregnant with my dad and lived out the last year or so, with offspring, assisting the army where she could.
After the war, once my grandpa returned from Germany. They settled in Blackheath. Apparently, she had the greatest garden of south England and the greatest dog know to man. Since then, she's moved around a bit. Worked way passed her retirement years and had my family running around her, like mentalists. So, I'd like to raise my glass of squash in honour of the old girl's 89th year, chin chin!

From the top of the Winnebago

I'm only writing this now, as I'm hoping we're out of the woods, I don't want to temp fate.

About six weeks ago, while my parents were on holiday in Santander, my father decided he'd go up on the roof of the winnebago to do something, he'd mentioned to my mum that he'd appreciate her help in holding the ladder, she said she'd be there in a second. By the time my mum walked outside to assist my dad, she finds him laying on the ground unconscious. An ambulance is called and off they go to A&E.

My dad finally wakes up, he's dislocated his shoulder, bruised his knee, hurt his lower back, etc. The doctors check him over and say he's fine and needs some rest. Back to the winnebago they go, two days later my dad is talking about humans being made of cornflakes (my dad is a little off the radar at times, but not crazy), my mum packs him back off to the hospital, where they discover bleeding on the brain?! They sort him out, do a proper check over and admit him to intensive care.

Every day they tell my mum that he'll be moved to a general ward very soon, spends about a week in intensive care, still talking shit and being horrid to my mum, who apparently has kidnapped him and as soon as they get back to the UK, he's taking her to court.

After about a week and a half, he was moved to a twin room with a Spanish guy, where he spent time being charming and lovely to the nurses and doctors, and caused my mother nothing but a headache. One day he decided that the King of Spain wanted to visit him, and he couldn't believe my mum wouldn't let him, as she thought he'd be a bad influence on the King, etc.

After about two weeks, they decide that he's safe and just needs to recover, so tell my mum he's good to go. Enter fear and worry for my mum. My brother, Adie, flies over to accompany her on the plane, and is large enough to control my dad, if he decides to kick off, which it appeared was standard at that time.
Every thing seems to go ok. My dad is well behaved in the taxi and on the plane. He has a little freak out back in the UK and swings for my brother (say what?!). Halfway home, my brother decides he's driving straight to A&E at the local hospital, to save my mum having to drive him in alone in the morning.

Lots of tests are done, my dad's brain is still swollen (why was he allowed to fly home?), which explains the continued confusion and unusual behaviour. Neurologist finally exams the scans, etc. Says he doesn't believe there will be any long term damage, which is great news. There might be a slight personality difference = slightly more patient or impatient, more irritable or less irritable, etc.
My mum asks what's next. Praying they don't say he just needs rest at home. Thankfully, the doctor wouldn't dream of releasing him to my mum, and they admit him to a ward.
My mum finally thinks of what to say to my grandma, as if she knows he's hit his head, it'll give her ample ammunition for visits to the bank and solicitors. So I advise my mum to say he fell over, hurt his knee and has been experiencing headaches and dizziness, due to twisting his back, therefore damaging my spine...seemed like the best option.

The first week in hospital in Oxford, my dad is fine. A little techy and short but at least he's being so with everyone, not just my mum. He constantly appears to complain that he's not getting any sleep and the tv is rubbish, you know the important things.
Second week, he's getting a bit better but is still irritable. My mum starts to mention to friends that dad is in hospital and that he's a little confused, so don't take him at face value. A husband and wife pop by to see him. He seems fine, until the husband asks him how it happen, cue the KGB snipers and the 8 bullets still inside him...lol.

Soon enough, the hospital say they need the bed, as the swelling seems to have gone down considerably.   The fear of hearing those words starts to bubble inside my mum, luckily there is a back up plan, with a rehabilitation centre nearby. Off he goes, and it seems to be ok. He seems happy, he starting to seem a lot more with it and there is a tuck shop there, what more could 67 year old male with swelling on the brain want?! A walk apparently?

A few days after being there, he just decides to take a walk, my mum arrives at the centre to discover my father missing. The police are called, they pop to my parents house to check he's not gotten a taxi there, nothing. Off they set to my grandmas.

Apparently, my dad turned up at my grandma's in his tracksuit, helped himself to some food and sat down to enjoy some TV with my grandma. Has a little chat, is perfectly content. Uh-oh, he spots the police walking on the front lawn, through the sitting room window. At which point he hides upstairs telling my grandma not to tell them he'd there.
"Excuse me madam, is your son here?", "yes, he's upstairs". Cue my dad flying down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, around the lean-to, across the road and launching himself over the walk opposite my grandma's back garden, cue the policeman following him over the wall. Accosted him, getting him back across the wall and in to the back of the police car.
Enter extra confusion for my grandma. As the police are taking my dad away, my mum arrives to try and explain everything?! My mother dodges the answers thrown at her left, right and centre, and also does a good job of not falling in to my grandma's traps. Although, the sharp old arrow doesn't believe 100% of what my mum says, understandably.

The rehabilitation centre decides my dad is too much of a handful to have there, which leaves two options, semi-secure units in either Banbury or Bicester (about as far away as you can get within the county, from where my mum lives), he's there for less than a week and my mum decides it might be easier to have him at home. Which is where he is now.

My brother Jules, says that he seems pretty with it, surprisingly. So, everything is looking up, apart from my mum's stress levels, which are probably off the chart! She's a force to reckon with and a mighty woman! Here's to both of them...maybe my dad will treat her to another holiday, to recover.

Did I mention the best bit? It was there 40th wedding anniversary last weekend, and my mum spent it travelling too and from Banbury, to see her semi-batty husband. Now that is love.