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.