Am having to take a day off blogging today. OH has man flu. He is on death’s door and cannot survive without my undivided attention for another minute… He has ‘never been this sick before’ (since the last time). He is too weak to even make a phone call to cancel his hair cut. Poor boy! He will, of course, be dripping all over everything all weekend, then get up a six on Monday morning and go to work regardless. MEN!
Tag Archives: lifestyle
Jet lag has hit and I’m fuzzy round the edges. Plus, my Sky box is so full of great TV that, while my husband is at work and my son at school, there seems little point in doing anything today other than indulge myself once I have contacted my sponsors, written my DNA sample report and had tea with my parents.
The massive great flat screen seems bright to my eyes and my sofa chair, which has an electric reclining action, seems like a cloud under my backside. I’m wrapping myself in my home today. It feels great.
Sorry folks… I’m not quite ready to share all my wonderful memories of Nepal with you yet. Not today. Please come back tomorrow!
The stories are WELL worth waiting for, believe me.
So, here’s what my teenage son imagines my upcoming expedition will be like:
That’s it! No more work until I get back from my elephant expedition to Nepal!
Although I have so many other things to do before I’m free to go with a guilt-free conscience that my head feels like it might explode.
Flight issues resolved
On the plus side, I have at last managed to make the necessary changes to my flight from Delhi to Kathmandu so I will be able to make my transfer – the departure of the original flight was brought forward by half and hour leaving me with only an hour to get from one flight to another. Not a likely prospect! However, having has absolutely no luck trying to change the flights yesterday, despite hours on the phone to many different people from here to India, today the impossible was achieved in one swift, phone call for a total charge of only £6,
This experience was a real lesson learned for me. What might seem impossible one day, can be easy the next. Never give up!
Financial crises averted
Additionally, a simple one sentence email popped into my inbox today that casually averted what had previously looked like potential disaster regarding the state of our family finances in the coming month. My husband has just started a new job which made it appear that I would have to spend the last two working days before I leave scrabbling around trying to rearrange all our direct debits to match a new pay date. However, following a sleepless night of worry last night that simply turns out not to be the case. Yippee! I can rely on the bills being paid in my absence without any further input from me.
And then there’s all the ‘other family stuff’ which has popped up in need of my attention before departure. All in addition to the routine laundry, cooking, house stuff. The variety and intensity of some of these matters was – at times – enough to make me want to weep. But, it is all slowly turning out well in the end (famous last words – why did I just say that!)
I guess what all this ‘pre-expedition hassle’ means is that I’ll have nothing to do when I get home…
LOL If only that were likely to be the case!
Don’t you just LOVE being a housewife and mum? It makes you SO IMPORTANT.
I just love the way you can simply dump tulips in any old vase and they look gorgeous. No complex rearrangement required. Thank goodness. I’m so rubbish at arranging flowers that, when I am given a bunch of anything other than tulips, I have to get my mum or my cleaner to fiddle with them in order to make them look nice. I simply do not have the knack at all!
For me, the best tulips are one colour. Large, vibrant and simple in their beauty.
There is something about the way their leaves droop elegantly over the edge of a vase that makes them even more visually pleasing. Additionally, the look great at every stage of their lives. Even as they open wide. Then too wide. Showing their naked stamens and shedding dust onto their now dulling petals, they look amazing. And as those dying petals begin to shed themselves onto the table, the stems bend out and down, sagging and drooping as though to meet the shed petal tears.
Tulips are works of art. If you ever want to make me happy. Just buy me a bunch of tulips.
Once, a long time ago when life was very different and the term ‘credit crunch’ had never been said, I was invited to a very plush hotel, as my husband’s wife, by suppliers trying to shmooze him for some work reason. We turned up in our hotel room to discover the most ginormous bunch of tulips I had ever seen and a welcome note. They then spent a fortune feeding and entertaining us for the weekend with golf and spa treatments and such like. Trust me. They could have stopped at the tulips and I would have bought whatever they were selling. Luckily, my husband was more impressed by the fast cars he got to drive so their efforts weren’t entirely wasted.
My OH now routinely buys me a bunch of tulips – even when he hasn’t been bad!
Do you remember your first love?
It’s an interesting question and one to which my immediate response is; “Stupid question! Of course I do. It was, after all, my first love. How could I possibly forget it?” Then I start really thinking about it and begin to wonder. Who was my first love?
The first love triangle
Was it the beautiful firey-haired Roderick McCrae? The first three years of primary school were spent fighting for his attention with my then nemesis, Tracy.
Roderick’s dad worked on the cruise ships and was rarely home. When he did come home, he would splash out on his only son. Roderick’s birthday parties were legend! Only once was Roddy’s mum ever daft enough to include both Tracy and I on the invite list. I shall never forget the joy of attending the party without her a year later. Nor will I forget the pain of being stuck at home the following year knowing that she was sitting next to him in the pass the parcel ring! *sob*
Was Roddy my first love? I used to yell that I loved him, and that he was ‘mine!’ *stamp foot* into Tracy’s face almost daily.
When my mother told me he’d been killed in a tragic motorcycle accident at the young age of 21 I wept, but I was 38 when I first heard and had had no idea until that point.
The first… er…
Or Jimmy Green? The mysterious raven-haired ‘new boy’ who turned up half way through primary year 4 and stole my claim to being the best artist in the year. I was sickly jealous of the little running men he was famous for doodling. Everyone else loved them. I tried my damnedest to copy his comic style only to discover that my art was limited to being ‘technically good’ rather than compelling. I hated him to the point of obsessive fascination.
Jimmy was the son of a rigger. His dad would be on land for one precious weekend every month and had somehow still managed to build the house they lived in, brick-by-brick, all by himself. Jimmy had a pet jackdaw, wore socks on his hands in winter instead of gloves, and bit his blisters.
Jimmy Green showed me his thing!
The first elopement
Or was my first love Timmy O’Dea? My first official ‘boyfriend’. We met during Year One at secondary school. Together we ran away and spent the afternoon snuggled together in a sleeping bag eating refreshers and stealing mutually first kisses as the rain fell around us.
In our romantic bid to escape the oppression of our terribly non-tragic lives, we had made it all the way to the local park. The sleeping bag got soaking wet and very muddy and, later that evening, when I slunk back into my house, I had to hide it under my bed so my mother wouldn’t see it. I made it just in time for dinner of course. The sleeping bag was discovered a few days later… Timmy and I lasted about a week and a half.
The first ‘I love you’
Most in my family would of course pinpoint Simon Thwaite as my first boyfriend. At 15 it was the right time to be having a boyfriend and we were together for a whole year and one month so he sticks in the family memory. He is particularly well-remembered for wrapping himself in a massive box tied in a cliché red satin ribbon and giving himself to me on my 16th birthday. I was mortified when he then presented me with my first sexy underwear to unwrap in front of my entire family.
Simon popped my cherry soon after that sweet 16th. But that’s OK ‘cos I got his in return…
Together we explored our budding sexuality in a safe, mutual way over a long, drawn out period – an approach I would recommend to any young girl. One lesson I would pass on in hind sight however would be to make sure you shut the bedroom door – even if you think his parents are out.
We both said our first ‘I love you’s’ to one another and truly believed we meant it at the time.
The first passion
However, despite the fact that I wouldn’t change my introduction to sex for anything, if push came to shove, I would have to say that my first true love was probably Nick Thornley.
I was 17. He was 18.
I was in our local pub when some numpty poured cold beer down the back of my neck. I turned around to give the idiot a verbal thrashing and found myself staring into the most penetrating ice-blue eyes I had ever seen. I believe that every molecule in my entire being momentarily broke apart under his gaze. From then on I had to concentrate my entire attention on the tiny bubble that surrounded him, squeezing myself into it so that I might take residence in his soul, just to stay in one piece. The rest of the world simply vanished and for the next year and a half he was my entire existence.
Nick held me in his spell for a long time. Years after he had smooshed my heart into a trazillian pieces by sleeping with another girl during his first year at university, I still compared each and every man I ever met to him. However, even this great passion was something my heart was able to move on from eventually.
I guess, the reason why I’m sharing this is in the hope that, if some young person with a broken heart is reading this now they might realise that, however much it hurts now there is always another chance at love. It may be different, but that does not make it any the less important in the long-term. Love has many perspectives. New experiences can be just as satisfying. There’s generally more to come.
Last night I attended the last of this term’s watercolour evening classes and, sadly, this will be my last class for sometime. I have to reserve my future evenings for preparations required for when I turn freelance at the end of June.
However, I was chuffed to bits to produce something I’m really rather pleased with on my last night. The goose painting above was clearly inspired by (copied from) a photograph I took recently with my new camera. See my past blog on ‘Birds of Emberton Park‘.
Do let me know what you think!
When do you know you have become obsessed by your blog?
Is it when your heart starts beating overtime simply because you realise its fifteen minutes until the time you usually update your blog and you have not written anything yet? Or is it when you realise you’re now blogging about blogging?
I say both. And, if that is the case, then I hereby must stand and confess my obsession.
A photo is no longer a photo, it’s a feature image
Every inspirational thought I now have is automatically added to the ‘potential blog’ list. Every photo I take ranked and filed for ‘potential feature image’ possibility. Friends are now refered to as ‘readers’ and weekends as ‘blog time’. I’m done for!
Is this a good thing? Is it a negative aspect of modern culture? Or is it simply weird? You might have a different opinion, and if you do I’d love to hear it (of course – engagement is encouraged at all times), but again, I think it’s possibly all of these things.
So, where is the line? When does a happy hobby become an unhealthy obsession?
When I looked up this last question online to see what came back, the three top posts included a rather interesting item entitled; How to Not Be an Obsessive Girlfriend which was so fascinating it distracted me for some time, a less alluring forum thread about HiFi obsession, and a completely terrifying article on; ‘How to defeat a Facebook obsession‘.
According to this article; “While “Facebook addiction” or “Facebook addiction disorder” are not medically approved terms, the reality of addictive behaviors on Facebook are a growing problem for many Facebook users, and one that therapists are seeing more frequently in their patients.”
This rather suggests that ‘blog addiction’ might also be a firm reality and, sure enough, when I plug this into Google (Google addict that I am) I am affronted with a mass of articles shouting my own truth back at me. I’m even offered the potential to; Test your blogging addiction Aaargh! No! Don’t do it!!
Testing my blogging addiction
Yet, inevitably I can’t resist. So I hit the link and follow it…
…and find myself on a page that offers to both test my blog addiction and find out what my body would taste like to a cannibal! Good grief!
On the plus side, I’m slightly less concerned regarding the medical validity of this blog test now, so here goes.
Huh! To let you know how I got on I’d have to sign up to a dating service and I’m simply not that way inclined. However, you ‘ll have to trust me when I tell you that, as it turns out, I’m still a complete novice when it comes to blogging and didn’t even hit the half-way-mark on the blog addiction injection monitor. I’m a light weight.
LOL! I’ve just realised that – now I know I’m not obsessed (what do you mean it’s not a scientific test?) I can happily keep blogging to my heart’s content. After I’ve wasted a few more moments finding out what I’d taste like to a cannibal of course. *grin*
Until tomorrow then!