Musings of a week free from social networking

Why hello! Long time no see! Thought I'd revive this blog beast with some insight into an experiment of mine.  I decided to go offline for a week, not using social networking sites or my phone. It was an eye opening, time expanding, stressful, enjoyable time. Here are some of my musings from the week:

Day One

8:30am Feel a bit weird. Automatically tried to go online and as my housemate has changed my password, I was denied access. DENIED. Felt very naughty.  It’s a little freaky how I go on it almost unconsciously first thing in a morning.

4:30pm Annoyed because I can see I have learnt to rely on my phone. I don’t know where this shop is and I can’t look it up. I think I’m going to have to ask an actual human being. Hmph.

Day Two

7:30am My housemate had to knock on my door to wake me up, as I’ve given her my phone and its my alarm clock. Actually felt much calmer getting ready for work. Normally I check my phone and emails several times, as if something vitally important had happened in the two minutes I’d been brushing my teeth. But I felt much more relaxed not constantly looking at the time.

4:30pm Feel like I have free time really. Tinkled on the piano for a bit. It was nice but a bit odd. I guess I spend more time online than I realised.

Day Three

6:45am   I woke up naturally and went downstairs, feeling spritely. My housemate pauses in eating his cereal and looks at me in alarm. “Why are you up at 6:45?!”  Why WAS I up at 6:45?! I guess because I didn’t know the time so didn’t lie in. But weirdly I felt much more awake and lively for it. I even did my pilates DVD before work. I find I’m focussing more on each individual activity rather than thinking ahead to the next one. Perhaps it helps because I’m saving time not being on my phone/online.

4pm I was a lot more productive writing creatively this evening. I still need a break after working for a while, but because I couldn’t get sucked into facebook for half an hour and lose my motivation, I ended up going for a walk and getting some fresh air then coming back and working more. I guess I work much better with a change of scene every hour or so instead of staying on the laptop.

Day Four

6pm The dark day. I went to my friend’s house. When I arrived I realised I didn’t know which floor her flat was on, or indeed, which number. I didn’t have my phone to ring her. I was already 20 minutes late and she was cooking me dinner. Crap. I paced each floor like a crazy woman, knocking on the occasional door and sheepishly asking strangers if they knew of a Christina in this building. No-one did. I went up every floor to floor EIGHTEEN, at which point, sweating and drained, I reluctantly admitted defeat, drove home, got my phone, rang Christina, got her flat number and drove back, at this point an hour and a half later than originally planned. Thankfully she saw the funny side.

Day Five

10am My sister came to visit and we explored Leeds. Then we drove to visit mum and dads. To be honest I wasn’t noticing the lack of communication at this point, as I usually leave my phone/laptop off when I visit mum and dad so I can completely relax. Maybe the reason I don’t feel relaxed at home is because I use t’internet in a bit of an OCD way.  I feel like I have to reply to all messages IMMEDIATELY. There is some validity in this, as I have the brain of a sponge and so if I don’t reply I am likely to forget for a good few weeks, leaving my friends feeling a little disgruntled. (love that word.) But I think perhaps it is a bit much to reply to everything right away, especially when you are really busy. Maybe it would be better to set aside half an hour every day to reply to emails and messages, and not keep going on it throughout the day.

Day Six

10am Went for a walk on the beach with parents, sister and the dog, perfect start to the day. I’m looking forwards to catching up with friends online tomorrow, which is a good feeling. I don’t normally allow myself time to look forward to checking it. In fact, if I’m being completely honest, when I’m really busy it can feel like a chore. But I’m excited to message my friends and organise plans for the week.

Day Seven

Back online! I did feel a little intimidated by long threads at first, having to wade through and figure out the gist of plans with friends. But overall it made me smile seeing thoughtful messages from friends, and grateful I have such lovely people in my life.

Overall thoughts

Social networking can be a positive way to share and keep in touch with friends, find out about opportunities, see fun links and be inspired. I think, like anything in life (except laughter and kindness), it needs to be done in moderation, and not excessively or dependently. I think people shouldn’t feel nervous at the prospect of not being connected to the internet for one day of the week. Everyone needs a day to just be. And perhaps if we learn how to be alone for a bit, we will then appreciate the connection of friends online all the more. Also, where possible, don’t look at the time. If you are absorbed and relaxed, you don’t need to know it. Your body will tell you if you are hungry/tired. You don’t need to know the time, all the time J. And if you want a deeper analysis than that, you’ll have to catch my upcoming play, “Plenty of Fish” (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT)

Thanks for reading! If you have any opinions, thoughts or suggestions, send them my way, I’d love to hear them. 

The Art of Mexting

Hello peoples.

Hope everyone is dandy as dandelions today. I am aware I have not provided you with some light comical relief at my expense recently. I can only apologize, and grovel with this brand new shiny post of snippety goodness.

Have you ever tried 'mexting'? It is a new phrase I have just coined, because I'm brilliant like that. 'Mexting' means moving while texting, and whilst some people seem to be able to achieve this multi-tasking challenge with grace and skill, surprisingly, I am not one of these people.

I mext quite frequently, which isn't a good idea, but based on the amount of blogs I have written about my life choices and abilities, it is clear that I don't/choose not to catch on fast. Whilst mexting I do tend to slow down inadvertently, and occasionally find myself cruising into the direction of another human being and mumbling my apologies, but usually it is no worse than this. Usually.

On this particular fateful day, I was mexting away. I was also walking fast as I was late for meeting someone, its not an excuse for what happened, but do bear it in mind when you scoff at my silliness. So I was hot footing it down this road, mexting and mistening (moving whilst listening to an mp3/iPod if you're more fancy than me). This essentially means that my vision, (texting) hearing (mp3) and judgement (mental problems) were impaired. Not ideal. Suddenly, I felt a sharp scratching sensation across my face.

Argh!!

 I lifted my hands in horror, unsure what was going on, getting my fingers tangled into my mp3 wires in the process and ripping the music out of my ear in a most unpleasant fashion. Whilst trying to twist my way out of the wire web I had created, failing and flailing, I managed to crane my head to see what had attacked me unawares. It was a petruding branch with thorns on it that was the culprit. (Honestly, keep those hedgerows clear from the paths people!) But this was not the end of the tale. Oh no.

Dazed, confused and still trying to de-tangle myself from my own device, I stumbled out into the road. At this moment a large van, merely metres away from me at the time, came screeching to a halt and began honking indignantly. Oops. Embarrassed and stunned by the drama of the last 30 seconds, I continued to saunter across the road like a confused pheasant. This unfortunately gave me the opportunity to lip read what the lorry driver was saying in response to my little slip into the road. It wasn't pretty.

The saddest thing is, I really can't remember who I was texting, or if I even sent the text with all that kerfuffle going down. So, if anyone hasn't received a reply to a text they sent me and is feeling a bit miffed, you should know I suffered thorny brambles and was almost squished by an oncoming vehicle whilst trying to contact you. Perhaps you could be more polite and email next time.

The Involuntary Giggles


Hello, sorry its been a while folks. I was washing my hair.

So it occurs to me that, through this blog, I am starting to get a bit of a reputation for being a ditz. What, I hear you cry? Squid, the very essence of elegance and grace is getting a clumsy reputation? Why, how? Well I'll tell you. Recently I was staying with a big group of friends at the Edinbrugh Fringe, and we were playing a game in which you point to the person you think most likely fits the question. I got a pretty much unanimous vote for "Who is most likely to wall paper themselves to a wall whilst decorating" and "Who is most likely to throw themselves down a bowling alley instead of the ball". I feel I should set the record straight. My life is not so disastrous, and to prove it, here is a list of non clutsy things I did today:

1.) I walked downstairs. I didn't fall over.
2.) I made a cup of tea.
3.) I wrote some emails.
4.) I printed and stapled several CVs effectively.
5.) I dressed myself.


Well, I think that successfully set the record straight. Now for the embarrassing tale...

So, in Edinburgh, some of us decided to go and see a performance of '"Wuthering Heights." It was one of those intimate theatre spaces where you are literally right next to the cast as they perform. Just as the audience started to go quiet, I heard a funny gargling throat noise. I look at my friend sat next to me. She looked back, with a deer-in-headlight's look in her eye. Her expression was so funny that I spluttered into laughter, but just at that moment, the lights went down, and the performance began. I had not had chance to laugh. I needed to laugh. I tried so very hard to keep a straight face, I mean, we were on the front row! And Wuthering Heights is not a comedic story, the actors would think we were laughing at them! I tried to think of something serious, I put my jumper in front of my face to hide my inane grin, but every time I thought about my friend's startled face, I would let out an involuntary snort, and then in the corner of my eye see my friend crease up into silent laughter. It took us about 10 minutes to stop setting each other off, a good fifth of the show. If anyone from that production happens to be reading this, it was not you I was laughing at. It was my incredibly embarrassing friend. I can only apologise.

The Forgotten Pants

Hello everyone!

Hope everyone is enjoying the glorious sunshine. Actually scratch that, I hope everyone is inside on their laptops enjoying my blog.

Today's tale of hilarity focuses on an issue that I expect all parents have to go through; at what point is your child capable of dressing themselves?

When I was a wee squirt just starting primary school, my mum decided that it was time for me to start dressing myself. The first few days went without a hitch, I was fully dressed for school and proud of my garment assembling achievements. However, after a few weeks went by, it seems I had a little set back. I was in school assembly one afternoon, singing my little heart out to "All things bright and beautiful", legs crossed, as was the norm back then. My father was holding the assembly (he was headmaster of my primary school at the time) and at the end was discreetly informed by another teacher that his daughter did not appear to be wearing any pants. Awkward.

Luckily there were lots of pants on stand by for those anxious children who couldn't hold it in 'til break time, so I was taken by the hand and assisted into a pair of pants. My mum still finds it bizarre to this day that after weeks of dressing myself perfectly, I forgot to put my pants on. I like to think it was a conscious decision on my part; I was making a statement, speaking out against the lack of freedom for our bits and bums, constantly tucked away and restricted in underwear and the like. I have to admit though, the likelihood is, I just forgot.

I am rather pleased my parents chose not to tell me this story until I was grown up, as I would probably have been too mortified to show my face in front of the teacher who noticed my lack of underwear ever again.

So, the moral of this story is, always check your child is wearing pants before they leave the house. And after that, check you have remembered yourself.

Drowsy Driving Fail

Hello again.

It's me, the funny blog lady. My car wouldn't start this morning (dead battery) and it occurred to me that perhaps it is rebelling against me and my occasionally dodgy driving ways. Today's story may explain why dear Maximus quakes in fear whenever I get into the driver's seat and start the engine...

As some of you know I used to be a carer, and this job involved getting up at the crack of dawn most days (6am usually - especially painful in winter). Now I would not say I am the best morning person. I am one of those people who wanders round the house, bleary eyed and unable to form a sentence or change facial expression until I've had a cup of tea and time to recover from my slumberous state. This particular, bitter cold, February day was no exception. Waking at the harsh, uncaring trill of the alarm, my heart sank, knowing soon I would have to get out of my warm, cosy bed haven and into the cold, dark world. I munched my breakfast, slumped on the sofa. I put on my uniform. I tied my hair up and put my contact lenses in, as best one can when their eyes are 90% closed. And I wandered outside to get into my car. Now, our drive is complicated as we have four cars; normally two are in the garage and two side by side on the drive. This time, I noticed that dad's car was next to mine on the drive, as usual, but my sister's car was parked at an angle behind my dad's car, presumably she had come home too tired to bother getting it in the garage.  Some small, almost awake part of my brain let out a tiny, faded glow of light, almost registering that I should be careful when reversing not to catch it. Almost.

I got into Maximus. I turned the heater up to full, shivering. As I started to reverse back, (without looking in my side mirrors) I was just trying to remember whether my ID card was in my pocket or not, when...

SCRAAAAAPE.

Oh no.

I got out, waking up abruptly. That had been quite an ugly noise. I felt along my sister's car worriedly. Yep, sure enough, I had scratched my sister's car. It was still too dark to see the extent of the damage yet. Pants. After standing in the cold for a couple of minutes, flailing, I decided, being the grown up, responsible adult that I am, that the best thing to do was to drive away and text my sister the bad news when I was far, far away.

Luckily for me, my sister had a rainbow of scratches already on her car and said she couldn't tell which one I had done, so she let me off. As for my Maximus, he has a fresh new dint in him, with a few red specks wedged in there that had been peeled off my sister's car. Oops.

What I learnt from this experience, which I hope will help you all in life too, is that operating a vehicle, or heavy machinery, is not advised whilst still half asleep. However, if you are going to attempt it, park it near a car that is already scratched, and maybe the owner won't notice the difference.

Have a good day everyone, and careful driving.

Kind regards,

Your loving squid.

The Wrong Cord

Hello all. Did you miss me? I thought so.

The moral of today's story is the importance of checking before doing, girls and boys. This is a useful thing to do in several areas of life; before crossing the road, before buying a carton of eggs, before eating a pie that a four year old child has made. Checking is extremely important folks. And here is what happens when caution is overlooked...

   So, as some of you know I used to work as a carer, and in some houses people have emergency cords attached. This is so that if they are in trouble for any reason (ie, a fall, sickness) they can pull the cord and it will alert the on-call warden, who, if needs be, can come over and check if they are alright.

So I was in a lady's house and I was desperate for a pee (one of those situations where it niggles at you early on, and you think, huh, I'm busy, I'll go later on. And it goes away. And then it comes back, MEGA strong, and you end up adopting a funny walk, and get a worrying sense that if you don't find a loo within the next few minutes, you will be going regardless). The lady kindly said I could use hers and that it was just down the hall. Down I waddled. Now, it's worth mentioning that the bulb in the corridor light had gone, so it was very dark on approaching the bathroom. I reached the toilet, uttering a sigh of happiness at my imminent relief. I yanked the light cord. Only, it wasn't the light cord. It was the emergency cord.

Immediately a box started beeping loudly. Panic, panic! My original crisis now put on hold, I had to head over to the box and try to figure out how to stop the scary bleeping I had started.

"Hello! Do you need assistance?" Said the box.

"Umm... No, I'm just the carer and I needed to pee... Sorry."

"Ok, good bye then."

It was a little humiliating. I sheepishly headed back to the room where the lady was to see if she was worried about all the curfaffle. She hadn't noticed a thing (I think 'The Cube' was on, and I can vouch that it is a very gripping show.)

I went back into the toilet, as cautious as I could be whilst crossing my legs for fear of going on the carpet. I could see now as my eyes adjusted that the cord I had pulled was red. Avoid that one this time! I could see another thinner, white cord next to it so I pulled that one. Nothing happened. Darn, it must have been the shower cord. This bathroom was booby trapped with misleading cords! By this point I could mess about no longer. I hobbled blindly in the dark, whimpering, located the toilet and sat down abruptly.

What utter relief I felt to finally go!

I don't know what the lady thought I was doing all that time, probably suspected a number 2. It is irritating how the more pressure you feel to do something, the less capable you are of actually doing it. So, here are my words of wisdom. Even in an 'emergency' situation, do not assume that the cord/switch/face you are touching is what you think it is. Or, God forbid,  you could end up with a blog just like mine.

The Giving Blood Fail

Yo.

So, today's story involves giving blood, and don't worry, it's not groce so the squeamish are safe. No images of blood squirting or screams of agony are going to be described in this blog, I assure you.

My mum had been giving blood for years and I could see it was a very worthwhile thing to do. She had even just received a certificate for donating so much, and gotten a free pen - definitely worth it. So I decided, what the heck, I'll be a good citizen, I'll generously give 'em a bit of the old squiddly blood if they want it. Little did I know, it was me that would be jumping through hoops to try and get them to take it in the first place...

Attempt One

Arrived at Leisure Centre. My name is called. I go into one of those little booths, I get  asked all the funny questions ("Have you ever had sexual intercourse with a man who had sexual intercourse with a ferret that had HIV?")

 It's all going well so far. Then they take the iron sample; for those of you who have never been, the iron sample is where they place a drop of your blood into a small tube of liquid and if it sinks to the bottom in under 15 seconds, you have enough iron in your blood to donate. So the nurse puts the blood in the tube, and starts the timer. I'm telling you, you feel like you're being judged, I was inwardly urging my blood on; Go on! You can do it, just sink!

 But it did not listen to me. It meandered around half heartedly, and the time ran out. But sadly, this was not the end of the test. I then had to have a proper needle (boo hoo) and they took a larger sample of my blood and put it on this machine thingy to give us a more accurate reading of my iron count. After a tense few seconds, the machine bleeped, 129. One below what was required to give blood. Pants.

I went home with a sore arm feeling sorry for myself and my poor, rejected blood.


Attempt Two

Arrived at leisure centre. My name was called. I went into the booth. I explained to the nurse what happened last time, and also told her that I tried taking iron tablets but they made me feel sick so I had to stop. The nurse said in that case don't take them then, every body has its own natural level of iron and mine was healthy but still too low to give blood. Not news I wanted to hear. She took some of my blood, into the tube, waited. Same thing happened again. Blood no sinky, nurse no takey, squid no happy. Onto the machine, needle in arm (ouchy) and my reading this time was 134. I was elated, yes! I can give blood now! But my elation was short lived as the nurse said sadly;
"Well you would have been able to give blood with that reading in the past, but unfortunately they raised the iron count required by 5 last month."

Great. Another hurdle in my quest to be helpful.


Attempt Three

Turned away because they had too many people giving blood.


Attempt Four

This time, I was not taking any chances. I ate spinach, I ironed up, I manned through the mild feeling of nausea. I was going to do it. It wasn't even about giving blood any more, it was about beating the nurses.

I got into the booth. The nurse looked at me. I looked back. She took my blood. I twitched. She put it in the tube. Silence as we both watched in anticipation. 10 seconds left, it was falling slowly. 5 seconds left, it was falling quicker...

"Congratulations, you have passed the test!" said the nurse. Well, she didn't actually say that but in my head that is the scenario.

I was going to do it! Finally! I had a huge beam on my face as I walked over to the temporary beds with all the other winners, my nurse came along and attached my bag, attached me to a machine that monitored my blood flow, asked how I was doing, I replied that I was great. The nurse said everything was going smoothly so she was going to leave me alone for a bit. I said no problem. I lay back, a smile on my face, soaking up my victory...

BEEP BEEP!

I opened my eyes. That was strange. It was my machine. My nurse came over and looked at it, she told me it was beeping because the blood flow had slowed down. She moved my arm a bit and the flow picked up. Satisfied, she left me again. I started to relax.

BEEP BEEP!

Oh-oh. The nurse came back, checked me again, said the blood flow was slow again. If it didn't pick up, I wouldn't fill the bag within the 15 minute slot, and my blood wouldn't be able to be used by a patient. In desperation, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. She said I could move my hands and feet to keep the flow going. I started twitching my fingers and toes.

BEEP BEEP!

I started waving my hands.

BEEP BEEP!

I started waving my arms and legs about manically. Other doners were staring.

BEEP BEEP!

The nurse looked at my sympathetically.

I'm sorry, but we will have to stop this donation.

Noooooo! I had failed. For the third time I had failed to give blood. I went home that day deeply saddened by my blood's inability to do as it is told.

The funny thing is, they keep sending me letters saying "Please come back and give us your blood. We really appreciate your support." It's like they're taunting me. You know what, mine is the finest blood around. Any person would be lucky to have it, you mean, rejecter people. There is another session next week and I'm intending to go. Even if I have to jump up and down on a pogo stick whilst donating, I'm going to do it. They will not defeat me.

The Missing Key

Hello everybody :)  What time is it? Blog time! (...yay.)

So, this story begins in Derbyshire, where I, being the fantastic and brilliant girlfriend that I am, had taken my boyfriend for his birthday for a couple of days. We were staying in a nice quaint countryside inn, and we were enjoying the countryside and sickening the waiting staff with our loved up state ('No darling, I love you more!!')

 It was all going swimmingly, until we were packing up to leave. We had just put everything in the car and had to check out before 11am. It was around 10:45am. The car was ready. We were ready. We just needed to hand in our room key at reception. Now, I thought I had taken the key when we left our room,and I thought I had put it in my coat pocket, but when I checked, alas, it was not there. I looked in my bag, I looked on the car seat.

We were perplexed. Perhaps we had accidentally left it inside the room? If  so, that was a complete disaster, it was one of those irritating self lock doors which are just like Kryptonite to the ditsy. I went round the side of the room and peered in through the window to see if I could spot it. I couldn't. I was getting a bit het up now. It was 10:55am. Only 5 minutes left until our check out time ran out. I didn't know what happened after check out time elapsed, but I was guessing it wasn't good. Especially without the key. Perhaps they would hold our luggage as hostage or take back our complimentary breakfast. It didn't bear thinking about.

Stressed, I started pulling bags apart, re-checked my coat pocket, re-traced my steps in case it had fallen out my coat pocket. Nothing. Then Tom said something very condescending.

"You said it was in your pocket."
"Yes, but it's not there, I checked."
"Can I check please?"

I mean really, what did he think of me? I knew I had a bad reputation, but I was perfectly capable of determining whether a key was in my pocket or not. As he started rifling through my pockets I decided it was best to let him know how foolish this venture was;

"Look, I think I can check my own pock-"

At that exact moment, Tom brandished the key from my jeans pocket and held it in front of me, a look of amusement and incredulity on his face. I really, really hate it when your boyfriend is right and you are wrong. Of course this triggered a lot of 'my poor, ditsy blonde girlfriend' comments for the journey back. And I certainly won't expect to be trusted to check my own pockets next time. And yes, sadly I can say with certainty, there will be a next time. Still. At least in a time of feminism and female independence, it makes them feel needed, eh?

The Alcohol Related Fail (Part Two)

Hello men, women and sea life,

                               Hope you are all well and enjoying February immensely. What's not to love about a month that changes its mind about how long it is every few years?

So, today's blog, I am ashamed to say, involves myself having drunken a wee bit too much alcohol. I shall say at this point that drinking excessive amounts is not a good idea, especially whilst in the public arena where there are cameras and sober friends present.

Anyway, this particular night I had gone out with my friends and gotten very drunk, I don't really know how, I think when you aren't accustomed to drinking (which I wasn't at the time) you get lulled into a false sense of security. You've had a bit to drink, the world is looking good and rosy, and you start to think, yeah, I can handle one more glass of wine, I feel completely fine, and I'm making great conversation and I feel great. Then you stand up and the world shifts and you realise maybe four glasses of wine and a shot of tia maria wasn't such a fantastic plan. I won't go into the hairy details, but needless to say the dinner I had consumed that night didn't make it to my digestive system.

I was driven home to a friend's house, complaining and woozy, and ushered into bed where I fell into a heavy slumber. The next day I felt pretty awful, my mouth tasted disgusting, my head was throbbing, and I was getting horrendous flashbacks of attempting to get into a club and being informed that I was not in my best state and should probably go home (as you can imagine, I took it well). All I wanted to do was go home and rest in my own bed, snuggle up under the covers and act like last night had never happened. However, when I got back to my house, I could not find my house key anywhere. Worriedly, I emptied my bag, I checked my pockets, checked in the car, nope, nowhere to be seen. Oh no. I had work the next day, and I suspected turning up in a miniskirt and reeking of sick wasn't appropriate waitress etiquette. My parents were away on holiday in Filey. There was no spare key. I had no choice but to ring my father, who very begrudgingly drove three hours to let me into the house, and then drove all the way back to Filey. Needless to say I was not in his best books that day.

The thing was, later on I found the key wedged in my trainer. I'm not really sure what it was doing there, but I learnt a long time ago not to question the logic of my brain. I didn't dare admit to my dad that I had the key all along. I wasn't sure it would go down too well. So I would just like to take a moment now to say I'm sorry father. You drove all that way for nothing. But hey, you told me you'd never let go of me when I was learning to ride a bike and you did. I'd say this makes us about even, agreed?

The Lost Chocolate

Hello and welcome. It is very chilly here in good ol' Britain, and weather like this always makes me look back nostalgically on summer holidays. Which leads me nicely into today's blog, which is set on a plane on the way back from a holiday. Ooooh, I hear you all say, sounds good, tell me more. ...Well, I will.


So, my parents, my friend and I had been on a beautifully warm holiday abroad in Tenerife, and we were aboard the plane ready to return to our homeland. It's annoying going from different climates as you never know what you should wear; should you wrap up so you're snug when you land, but risk melting waiting at the airport for your flight for two hours? Or should you go bare legged, and risk sitting next to an air-con happy passenger on the plane and catching an unpleasant draft? It is a conundrum. I had gone for jeans, a T Shirt and a back-up cardigan. It was Easter so it wouldn't be too cold in England, but I was prepared just in case.

So, the journey was going alright, although I'm not a big fan of planes (how do they take off? Just, how??) and as it was a longish flight we got fed lunch (yum) and for pudding we got these little chocolate Easter bunnies (the only kind of bunny I wouldn't feel sad to eat). Now, my mum being the kind and thoughtful woman she is, gave me her chocolate, which I decided to save for later on. However, after dinner a film came on and me and my friend got chatting and I forgot all about my chocolate. Until I got up at the end of the flight, and realised there was a big brown stain on the seat I had just vacated. At first I was a bit confused as to what it was, had I shat myself without realising? I mean, I did get a bit nervous during take off, but surely I would have noticed such an occurrence...

 Then I remembered.

 The chocolate mother had so kindly donated, melted into the seat by my warm buttocks. Oh deary me.

Goodness knows what the air hostesses must have thought it was. I got off the plane pretty sharpish in the hope they wouldn't know it was me. But sadly the embarrassment didn't end there. My friend was stood behind me when getting off the plane, and she discreetly informed me that there was a noticeable amount of chocolate stuck to my bum. As soon as we got into the airport I dashed to the toilets to take a look. It did not look good, and no amount of desperate scraping and wiping would shift it. In the end, my cardigan came to my rescue; I had to tie it round my waist for the rest of the journey home. Even though it was blooming cold, it was better than people thinking I hadn't made it to the toilet in time.

So, if you are ever stuck with the conundrum of what clothes to wear on the plane journey home, always pack a cardigan. You never know what humiliation it can be used to cover up.

The Awkwardness of avoiding Awkwardness

Hello you.

Hope everything is great in your life right now. And if it isn't, I'm going to tell you a funny story to make it that little bit rosier. Yeah, I'm just that kind of person.

A few months ago I met up with a writer in Leeds who had kindly agreed to give me some feedback on a script I had written. We met up for coffee, I was all nervous; what would she say about my script? Did she hate it? Was she embarrassed I had written such a monstrosity and couldn't comprehend why I thought anyone might want to sit listening to my drivel for two hours?

Thankfully if she did think any of these thoughts she made a very good effort at hiding it. I got some extremely useful feedback and felt inspired to edit and improve my script afterwards. The writer wished me luck in the future (I expect I shall need it) and off I went. I wandered around the shops in Leeds aimlessly for a bit and then decided I was thirsty. I came across a Waitrose, bit upmarket for me, but hey, I thought, just this once I'll get some organic, overpriced water as a little treat. Problem was, when I got in there, who should I see? The writer I had just said goodbye to. Now I don't know if I'm the only one who feels that its REALLY awkward when you bump into someone after having said a long, drawn out, standard British goodbye. Well, I felt very awkward. So, did I man up, smile at her in a friendly manner, make some witty banter about Waitrose food stock and thank her warmly again for all her help?

No, I hid in the preserves section.

 Trouble was, she was stood right near the exit, so I couldn't make a slinky get away, and besides, I still had the bottle of water and some would call that shop lifting. So, as she moved round the shop, I had to move accordingly, pretending to look at jars of organically grown pesto and attempting to look nonchalant. Oh dear, how foolish I felt. She even ended up close behind me in the queue. I don't know if she saw me. Perhaps she was pretending not to have seen me either.

I haven't spoken to her since, so I guess it will be one of those unanswered mysteries as to whether we were both saving face or if it was all in my head. Probably the latter. Ah, the joys of being an awkward British person. Got to love it.

Making a boob of things - Part Two

Harro,

Hope everyone is well and not finding January too much of a slog. Today I shall tell thee a second embarrassing tale that arose out of misplaced garments. Those of you who are true squid snippet loyalists will remember I have already shared an amusing (I hope) boob story with you, and whilst this story contains a similar theme, I felt it was just too good a story not to share. Here goes.

So a few years ago I went on holiday with my family and a friend of mine in Tenerife. It was beautiful weather, and we had an amazing time. However one event was less welcome in my holiday memory file. We had gone to a water park as it was a fantastically sunny day, and whilst my parents sunbathed my friend and I tried out all the slides, ate food and were generally having a hoot. There was one particular slide we both loved; it was one of those curvy drop ones that look like camel humps and it ended with a big whoosh of water. We decided we wanted to take a picture of us in full swing (or should I say, full slide) so I got my mum to stand at the end of the slide and take pictures. The two of us went down the slide, squealing with child-like delight. I was hit with the forceful but not unpleasant whoosh of water, and I stood up, beaming. I  walked past the queue of people and up to my mum to see the picture, and as I got close my mum quickly yanked my bikini top. Oh-oh. I became aware that my bikini must have been wonky and revealed a bit too much. Horror dawned on me as I realised I had walked past a queue of at least 20 people plus a life guard before mum had had chance to notice what had happened. How very embarrassing.

Naturally I refused to go back on that slide, and generally avoided that section of the water park in the hope that the people who saw my boob pop out would all stay congregated in the same place, far, far away from me. Unfortunately the shame didn't end with leaving the car park. When my friend got her pictures developed a few weeks later (remember the days of developing pictures??) they put them onto a CD disc for her, and as she handed the photos to me, she added discreetly;

"You might want to get rid of one of these."

Oh dear. Worriedly I got the pictures onto my computer and started sifting through them. Beach. Sunset. And sure enough there it was, me with my boob fully out, proud and greeting the world. Photographic evidence of my humiliation.


If you have had a similar swimsuit malfunction, you have my sympathies. Especially if there is also photographic evidences of your peaches/plums/mangoes. Let's just hope I don't do anything to annoy my friend, as let's face it, she has a heck of a blackmail tool at her disposal.

The Unexpected Present

Hello peeps and poops.

Hope you all had a good new year. And what better way to start the new year than becoming a follower of my blog (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT). While you are doing that here is a good story for you.

As some of you may know, my birthday is very near Christmas, only a week before in fact. And this has been  a very unfortunate blip on behalf of my parents, as it means the excitement comes all at once. It also means that some mean individuals give you a present whilst saying airily "Oh, that's your Christmas present too by the way." I mean really. Just because their birthday is in June.

So anyway, this particular year it was my 16th birthday, and I came downstairs with that happy, special feeling one gets when it is their birthday. I got hugs from the family, I got a cup of tea, I got a big pile of presents. It was all going marvellously well. I began to open my presents, a nice scarf, a book, etc. However, whilst nearing the end of my pile of presents I got a bit of a shock. When I opened the present, it revealed a large leather thong. I held it up in surprise and confusion, at which point my mum quickly snatched it away.

"Oh! That's not for you. That's a Christmas present for your dad."

Oh dear.Not only had I been given the wrong present, I had been given completely the wrong present which had left me seeing my parents in a entirely new light. A light which I have to say wasn't preferable to the old, softer, less knowing light I had before the thong had come about.

Mum does like to joke around and get silly presents sometimes. I am sure it was just a joke present. It was a joke present. It was.

Just make sure you label your presents everyone. That should be everyone's new year's resolution.

What do you get when two ditsy blondes walk home together?

Hello all,

                     Hope everyone is getting excited about Christmas. I have only been subjected to Cliff Richard once so far; that's pretty good going for less than a week til xmas I'd say.

This incident involves a good friend of mine, who is the only other individual I have found to be on equal footing with me in terms of my general ditsy, clueless, adorable (I hope) nature. Now, the two of us were walking back from the train station after a night out (I don't know why our other friends left us unsupervised, very bad move on their part) and we were nattering away, as girls like to do. So, we'd been walking for a good half an hour, and I'll admit, I didn't recognise where we were. We weren't going the way I would normally walk back from the station, but I just assumed my friend would know where she was going. In general, I have a tendency to rely on other people's sense of direction what with my own malfunctioning so frequently, so I just assumed we were taking some sort of short cut I didn't know about. Trouble was, my friend had assumed the exact same thing. So we walked a good distance, before I stopped and questioned;
"Is this the right way?"
To which my friend, wide eyed as realisation dawned, replied; "I don't know, I was following you."
"Oh. I was following you."
"Oh."

It was hilarious. We had no idea where we were, we might not even have been in York still for all I knew. We ended up having to get a taxi home we had wandered so far. And it is difficult getting a taxi to come to a place when you yourself don't know the place. Eventually a taxi found us, shivering in some random street near a pub. And as we got in, the taxi man asked if we had come to visit York and got lost. I was perfectly happy to go along with this story and save any dignity I had left, but my friend happily replied;

"Oh no, we live here. We just went the wrong way out of the station."

Nope, the truth was out, we were that silly.

So, to answer the question, what do you get when two ditsy blondes walk home together? The answer is lost, a taxi and a good deal of giggling. Perhaps I should put that in a Christmas cracker. Or perhaps I should keep stories that reveal me to be a foolish individual to myself....

But where's the fun in that?

Making a boob of things - Part One

Hello everyone. Hope you are all well and not too chilly with winter coming in, freezing over our cars/pathways/faces. Here is a heart warming blog to warm your hearts.

So, a few weeks ago, I was at my friend's house, and she was babysitting her little nephew, only a few months old. Now I have to admit, if they aren't crying, pooing or vomiting, I am a fan of babies and can be as slushy as the best of them. So I asked if I could hold said baby. And he really was very cute, very calm, big blue eyes, no poos or tears. And he was super warm like a hot water bottle, which I found surprisingly pleasant. It seemed to be going well. Then his face started to crease. His little eyes looked distraught. His fists clenched. Oh no, I thought, it's coming. He's going to cry. I'm not a baby person. Luckily he didn't have a very loud or distressing cry like some babies do, but still, it's not nice to see the little things upset, is it?

My friend suspected he might have been hungry and went off to prepare some milk for him. In her absence, the baby started trying to suckle my boob, which was quite amusing and did not get him anywhere. So my friend returned with some food and took the baby from me.

Now, some time later, I look down at my top and realise there is a hole slap bang in the boob region. Now this might not have been so bad, had I not been wearing a bright pink bra underneath, which was now gaping through proudly for all the world to see. And it might not have been so bad if the hole hadn't been there for a good few hours before I had noticed it.

Now I can't be sure, but I'd like to believe that it was this baby's sheer determination that put a hole in my top. So a bit of advice, by all means hold a baby if it smells alright and looks like it will be vaguely content for the next five ten minutes. But makes sure you have their bottle close to hand. And if you don't, wear a sturdy top. Or a really nice bra. One of the two.

A whole new concept to the term; "Toe-ring"

Hello all. Hope you are all having a good December the 1st, and have eaten today's chocolate from your calendar (why does it taste so much better than regular chocolate??) and have fished out the old woolly hats and gloves and socks and are generally feeling festive. I expect you think I'm about to tell you a cute little embarrassing festive story involving fighting with a Christmas tree or mistaking an oddly dressed person for an elf. Well I'm not.

A few years back when I was only a wee young squidlet, I was running round the playground with my best friend at break time. Suddenly, I noticed that the back of my earring had gone missing, and I was very concerned about losing the earring, as it was a pair I was particularly fond of. I had no pockets to speak of or suitable small cases, it was quite a conundrum. My friend suggested that I put the earring in my shoe, claiming that she did it all the time. Thinking nothing of it, I popped it in my shoe and carried on with my game. Now, I will admit, I did feel a small amount of pain, but I just assumed it was just the earring bashing about in my shoe.

That wasn't all it was. By the time I got inside and was getting changed for P.E, I realised my tights weren't coming off one of my feet and felt a sharp, tugging pain. Inspecting the foot, I realised that my earring had gone directly into my big toe. Concerned, I hobbled over to my teacher and presented her my foot. Worriedly, she went and informed another teacher, and the two of them lifted me and placed my on the sofas in the reception area, foot elevated and bandaged up to the ankle (perhaps a little melodramatic, but hey, there's no taking chances when it comes to a small person's toe). They called my mum, who came straight away. After spending a good five, ten minutes unravelling the pointless bandage, mum inspected my foot. She looked at me. I, no doubt, looked pretty agitated by this stage. She thought about the long wait at A and E. She thought about me crying and wailing in fear. She made a decision. She yanked it out.

My toe is now fine (well, except for the fact in more recent years I dropped a brick on it, but that's another story for another day) and healed well, in case you were worried. I expect the story spread round the school pretty quickly, and mum still takes delight in telling it. I, however, was not best pleased, as I lost my favourite pair of tights and earrings in one go. It's not easy being a kid. Especially a ditsy one. And those who tell you that you get wiser with age clearly haven't met anyone like me.

The hardship of hearing

Hello readers. How are you today?

Today is a good day as I have finished work early and have the rest of the day off... and have decided to spend my time blogging for you lot. Yes, I am that kind.

Have you ever had one of those awkward moments in which you can't understand what someone is saying, and you ask them to repeat it and you don't hear it again? It seems to happen to me a lot, I don't know if I have bad hearing or I just seem to make a habit of associating myself with mumblers, but I just frequently don't catch what someone is saying. And like I heard a comedian say once (I can't remember which one, perhaps one of you can enlighten me) there is a rule of three. You can apologise and ask them to repeat it three times and after that, you're pretty screwed and just have to pretend you have understood, which is always a bit of a gamble. I mean, if someone was telling me that they just found out they have a terrible bladder condition and I just nod and smile warmly I am not going to come across incredibly well there.

Anyway, on this particular hearing fiasco, I was working in an Italian restaurant and I had a big table of about 20 and the room was already very noisy. And I got to a young gentleman and asked him what he wanted to drink and he told me and I noticed he had a bit of a lisp. Then I asked what he wanted for his mains. And I have absolutely no idea what he said. And now I felt just awful, but I had to say "Beg your pardon" as I had no idea what he had said. And he said it again. Nope, not a clue. Now I decided that the rule of three actually diminishes to two when the person you are talking to has a lisp, as you don't want to come across as if you are mocking them in any way by getting them to repeat it. So I asked one more time, "I'm really sorry, it is so loud in here, I missed it again, what was it?"

Still didn't have a clue. With a shaky hand, I made a squiggle on my pad and nodded, smiled, and moved onto the next person. Got back to my till and panicked. What on earth was I going to do now? I tried process of elimination. It didn't sound like pasta or salad, so it was probably a pizza. In the end I chose a pizza that was the right amount of syllables and put the check on. The pizzas came out. I watched apprehensively as another waitress put the plates down one by one. She got to the mystery order. My heart was thumping. And...nothing happened. He just started eating. I checked later on, there were no complaints. So, did he just decide he liked whatever I brought him and didn't want to make a fuss? Or, as I like to believe, did I just somehow manage to get  the right pizza in a choice of 15?

So, if you find yourself in a similar situation to me, my advice is, just have a bash at a guess and see what happens. You could end up saying the completely wrong thing and look like a total buffoon, or you might get it right. Either way, I'm sure it will be most amusing.

The Missed Stop

'Allo 'Allo.

Today's blog is an unfortunate account of how stressful train journeys can be if you're blonde and have no common sense. (Also, just thought I'd let you know spell check is underlining 'blog' in red as an incorrect spelling. On a blog page. ...I thought it was amusing anyway.)

So, this fateful day, my friend and I had been out all day in Leeds together looking for costumes for a show we were putting on, and were heading back to York. We were chatting away as females like to do, the train pulled up, we got on, still nattering. And we were on this train for a good twenty minutes until we heard an announcement for a stop that we didn't recognise. Thinking it strange, we had a peek outside and saw we were at the wrong station. Realisation dawned on us; we had gotten on the wrong train. The doors starting bleeping; get off the train now or  else! So my friend and I hurriedly shuffled our way down those ridiculously narrow aisles to get off. But then, to my horror, I realised I had forgotten my suitcase full of costumes which I had hauled into the baggage area above the seats. I legged it back to retrieve my bag, but my friend did not see I wasn't behind her and got off. As I got to the doors they closed in my face. I pressed the open door button, panicked. The train ignored me. And as the train started to pull away taking me to some unknown destination, the last thing I saw was my friend's distraught and bemused face...

I managed to change trains back to Leeds at the next stop, goodness knows where I was. I also enjoyed the comments of a man who witnessed what had occurred, who stated; "She's a bit of a bad friend isn't she, running off and leaving you like that."

Getting to places has never been my strong point. But at least my persuasion skills and sad face have been fully practised and perfected on many ticket inspectors and train conductors. It's amazing what magic wide eyes and feigned innocence can work. Remember that if you ever find yourself on the wrong train.

The Mystery Box

Oi! You! Read this. It's funny.

Now we've just had Halloween and given significant amounts of sugar to small children ('cos we all know how calm and un-irritable it makes them) and soon it shall be bonfire night. So I thought I'd tell a bonfire related tale of amusement, you know, 'cos its nice to fit in around calendar themes and that.

So, a few years ago, we held a community bonfire night extravaganza in the small town my family and I used to live in. We would all gather together to supply food and drink and a straw ragged man for the bonfire. And, we all used to club together to get fireworks (except me as I was only seven and so had no monies to speak of).

So, this year we are all huddling round the fire, and the stars are crawling out of their shells, and we're all swaddled in lots of layers and everyone is excited. And the fire works begin. I have always loved fireworks myself; I love the sound they make, especially those crackly ones, oof, amazing! And they are all shimmering gold like champagne. This year we had a few of the regular ones, the big ones that come down like sparkly umbrellas and the ones that shoot up impressively but then just seem to evaporate without any big climax. However, this year, dad and some of his friends had decided to get a big box, which was covered in Chinese writing and we had no idea what it did. It cost a fair bit, and it was a big mysterious box, so we were expecting a fantastic finale of sparkle and crackle and pop.

So, dad lit the box and ran away abruptly. Everyone was silent in anticipation. BANG. Everyone jumped. Ok, perhaps that firework malfunctioned slightly. We continued to wait hopefully.

BANG.

We hear a dog whimpering.

BANG.

A child begins to cry.

BANG.

It continued to do nothing but let out obscenely loud bangs for a good ten minutes. By the time it had stopped banging, children and dogs were highly distressed and everyone's jump reflexes were thoroughly worn out. It was quite possibly the worst end to a firework display I have ever witnessed. Turns out all the box did was bang extremely loudly. I don't think my father was very popular that evening.

So, have fun on your bonfire nights, but let me advise you, if you are DIYing it, make sure you know it definitely does what it says on the tin, before your dogs age ten years over night.

The Alcohol Related Fail (Part One)

Now, before I give out the wrong impression here, happy readers, I do not make a habit of getting very drunk. Mainly because when I do, the following embarrassing events tend to occur. However, it was Freshers week at uni, and alcohol seems to be a good way to forget that you are stuck in a strange place with people you don't know trying to pretend you are having the time of your life.

So, one night I am at a house party with my friend, and I make the terrible, terrible mistake that is to mix drinks. I don't have a lot of memories of this night (clearly I killed off a few brain cells) but the ones I do have are quite amusing. For instance, I remember going to the toilet and finding it quite a stressful ordeal having to figure out how to undo my jeans. This should have been a warning sign.

My friend decided I was a bit too merry to be, well, speaking to other individuals. So she kindly took me home, sadly not before I left a nice 'leaving present' on their doorstep. I do recall being incredibly surprised that I was sick, as I was convinced I was fine and taking me home was nonsense because I wasn't even drunk, not really, and even asking;

"Was that me?"

For any normal student this alone would be embarrassing enough. But not for me. I was feeling a little queasy when I got to the top of the stairs, and insisted on sitting down for a bit on the toilet. My friend decided this wasn't a bad idea (I expect she was also a little merry herself). So sit down I did. I still don't quite know how this happened. I don't know if it is the angle I sat down at, or I am much heavier than I look, but I broke the toilet seat. I have a very vague memory of my drunken self standing up and seeing blurry, black shards in the toilet bowl and stating; "I broke it".

And my friend replying in a slurring voice; "Yes, never mind. It's only a toilet seat."

In the morning, body aching, head pounding, I was little impressed to see the state of the toilet and my other housemates' bemused expressions. But what can I say? When Squids party, they party hard. But before you invite me over for a wild, crazy night, just make sure your bathroom is sturdy.