Breaking Bad

So...you're thinking of breaking a bone on your body are you? Might I recommend something in the leg region, particularly the lower leg? We have a fabulous range of outpatient appointments, calf cramp and crutches to suit your every whim and need. But before you go off racing to break say, you ankle, why not have a read of our pro's and con's list of breaking a body part so that you can ensure you are making an informed choice.

Pro's of Breaking An Ankle:

1) Endless sympathy from strangers, people you know and generally everyone you meet on the street as you hobble from destination to destination.

2) A permanent seat on the bus/tube/train or anywhere you go

3) Endless cups of tea appearing on your desk, on your coffee table, everywhere all the time.

4) People who work in supermarkets taking your basket off you and doing your shopping for you.

5) Drivers letting you cross the road without having to run for your life.

6) Being able to come into work an hour later and leave an hour later so that you avoid rush hour.

7) Allowing your house to get messy as there's not much you can do about it. Kind of changes your whole raison d'etre but maybe that's not a bad thing?

8) Not having to cook as hobbling around your kitchen while you measure spices can result in turmeric on work top disaster.

9) Single-handedly saving the local economy due to Reason No.8 by getting takeaways from local eateries.

10) Even Ryanair staff are nice to you when you travel with a botched ankle. Though if you are prone to a weak heart as well as a shattered ankle, I wouldn't try this as the shock of them being pleasant and treating you like a human being may actually tip you over the edge to Croaksville.

11) Cutting down on snacking involuntarily as I can't get bored and just run off to the kitchen for a KitKat. My teeth and waistband are happy.

12) Inadvertently having your vow of getting Londoners talking to each other, actually happen!

13) Making a bus buddy who has been on the same bus, at the same time, in the same seat for three days running.

14) You get to wear beautiful dresses and skirts all the time because your silly skinny jeans are too silly and skinny to go over your cast.

15) Fierce triceps and biceps by the time you are off the crutches.

16) Staying in and hibernating as it's too wet/too far/too many slippery leaves/ too cold for your toes outside.

Con's of Breaking An Ankle:

1) Breaking your ankle, it really hurts.

2) Being on crutches is not nearly as much fun as you thought they were when you were a child and would steal your Dad's crutches and then abandon them as you went to school leaving him to hobble to the other side of the house every morning. Every. Morning. Sorry Dad.

3) Not being able to get up whenever you want and do something. Having to plan your next move carefully is not something I have ever done in the past and having to constantly survey my surroundings to see what obstacles are in the way of where I need to go.

4) Not being able to drink as much tea as I used to.

5) Having people constantly looking after you can get tiring, you feel like a burden and although you appreciate the help immensely, you feel incompetent.

6) Feeling guilty for asking for help and receiving it, even though you really, really, really do need it.

7) Your house is up in a heap. Grand if you are messy, but if you are OCD about a tidy house,  you will faint like a Victorian each time you see your kitchen.

8) Your plants are dying as you can no longer hop up on the counter to water them.

9) You envy people who are walking.

10) You cannot hold an umbrella and use crutches at the same time resulting in a rather fetching drowned rat look in the morning.

11) You have to wear skirts and dresses in the depths of winter as your lovely skinny jeans are too lovely and skinny to go over your silly cast.

12) Your cast isn't really a cast any more, it's just some damp bandages wrapped around your leg. You can't even pimp it by having people sign it.

13) Having to sleep on your back. If this is your default sleeping position, then you are quids in. If it's not however, and is in fact the position that makes you snore like a gutted boar, then I am sorry but you must deal with it. Either that or cause yourself untold agony by lying on your side and hurting your ankle even more.

14) Aching calf muscle from all the tip-toeing on your fractured ankle side.

15) Scummy bandage on the bottom from walking to the bus each day.

16) Having to use four buses to get to and from work each day.

17) Making a bus buddy who has been on the same bus, at the same time, in the same seat for three days running.

18) Not really leaving the house that much as everywhere is too feckin' far to walk in crutches.

19) Sore hands.

20) Sore bum cheek from having to do all the work for two bum cheeks.

21) Living up to your nickname of Calamity Jane

23) Cold toes.

As you can see, the Con's have outweighed the Pro's as far as this particular breakage goes, but if you think this is the right course of action for you, then please, allow me to recommend a dramatic forward tumble on your left ankle as a clear path to breaking. Ensure you are carrying your wallet and a book so you can fling them out into the middle of road and please don't rely on anyone around you who sees you fall to help you. Best be sure to have a good friend with you who will carry you to the taxi

Fool for Life

Beardy Man rocks up to roadside bar, storms in the front door and walks up to the insanely gorgeous waitress behind the counter.

'Are you alive' smoulders Beardy Man
'I turned the music up' says Insanely Gorgeous Waitress to the unseen interviewer.

They hop up on the counter and dance together like Gray and Swayze, suddenly everybody in the bar is on the pool table, the pinball machine, dancing, dancing, dancing...

'And?' prompts unseen interviewer.
'I quit my job' she says.

Parting shot is her frolicking in a car driving down a deserted highway with three guys.

Diesel, Fuel for Life.

     Well let me tell you something Mr Diesel, its not Fuel for Life, its idiocy of the highest degree. What kind of person quits their job for  the first bearded hipster man who wanders into their bar and leaves with three guys they've never met before? Perfume ads...my God they infuriate me. 

     They don't make sense, they never have, they never will. To see what I mean, lets dissect the Diesel ad that's really gotten under my skin shall we?

     So the three achingly cool men in their convertible, screech to a halt outside the dingiest looking dive ever to be cunningly created by a company. In all my life, I have known two people who have driven a convertible, I don't know anyone of hipster origin who would be seen dead in one. First mistake Diesel, do your research! 

     Beardy Man, as you can see above, asks her an inane question: is she alive. Is she alive? Hmmm, good question Beardy Man, I honestly don't know, but lets look at the evidence will we? Exhibit A, she is standing upright without the aid of a wall. Exhibit B, she smiled at you while you sauntered up to her. Exhibit C, her eyes were open. Exhibit D, and perhaps the most important piece of evidence, she was breathing. Now, I am not the brainiest person in the room, I don't excel at the sciences such as physics or biology, but I know the basics. And with the examples just given, I am inclined to believe that yes, yes she is alive, ergo your sentence was pretty nonsensical and looks to me like you were too busy looking cool in school to be bothered learning anything about what separates us, the living, from them, the dead. But it's OK, you can grow facial hair and wear dementedly tight trousers oh so well, so we'll let you away with it.

     Now, lets a shine a light on what Insanely Gorgeous Waitress has presented us with. She turns the music up for a start. If I were a paying customer, even in this dingy bar, I wouldn't be too happy with her behaviour. She has left her post behind the bar, what if I decide I want another drink? Who's going to serve me, the customer? Bad customer service, I expected more, even from the dingy dive bar. The music is now too loud for me to enjoy my quiet drink, which is the only reason people come this far out to the middle of nowhere to have one, its not called a Quiet One for nothing! And then she's up on the counter, and suddenly everyone around is a professional dancer, who knew? And they're off on all available surfaces like some sort of flash mob. One particular hipster is dancing a jig up on the pool table kicking the balls around, with nerry a regard for the delicate green fabric of the billiards table. Such disrespect! But look at how pretty his mouth is, and marvel over how firm his jaw line is... Oh did I mention the bar is now full of models? Yeah. Of course.

     She is prompted by the Unseen (and possibly unnecessary?) Interviewer to continue her story post-counter dance, and she responds with what I'm sure is supposed to be a life affirming hook line, I quit my job. Oh did you? Good girl! And why did you do that if you don't mind me asking? Because Beardy Man implied that I wasn't alive because I was working as a waitress. Oh right, so how are you going to support yourself? Well I am insanely gorgeous so I'm confident money will come my way, and Beardy Man's future is secured with his ability to grow facial hair and wear dementedly tight trousers, surely he can just walk into any job he wants? Sure, sure of course. And were you never told as a youngster to not get into a car with strangers? I'm sure you were, but hey, who cares, three beautiful men don't come along like that every often so off you go, kick your old life to the kerb, the one where you were laden with responsibilities such as working, thinking for yourself, being independent and head off on a most likely fruitless adventure with three strangers you met in a bar who have beards and a convertible. 

     So what next for our band of gorgeous adventurers? Where does the road lead for our merry men and women? Do they get jobs like in real life? Or do they keep driving down the road randomly stopping at dive bars and roadside cafés and pick up modelesque men and women? What will they do when they run out of petrol? Or worse still, run out of room in the convertible? Who knows, and frankly who cares. Obviously perfume and aftershave companies think we do, why else would they make such irritatingly vapid adverts apparently designed to attract us and fool us into buying their scent? Oh look, Kate Moss is on a beach in nothing but a pair of jeans and the scent of Obsession on her skin, I must have it! Aha, there is David Gandy on a boat in the middle of an impossibly blue sea in his skivvies, it must be Cool Waters time! Ryan Reynolds is stalking down a corridor and changing a shirt and then looking lost and confused on a roof top terrace, must be the waft of Hugo Boss that brought him up there. And don't get me started on Nicole Kidman in Chanel. Yet another person who shirks her responsibilities, leaves her former life behind to go running up a tower and dance with a Brazilian male model. You mean, that hasn't happened to you yet?


Fragrance - by Somebody, Fool for Life

I'm Laura Howley and I'm Tired

I am tired of living in a world where my gender are still seen as second class citizens.
I am tired of the women in Mauritania being force fed to attract husbands and male interests as it is decreed by the men in the country that it is the sign of a rich wife.
I am tired of women in positions equal to men not getting paid the same money for the same work.
I am tired of the women's football teams not getting enough coverage for their matches.
I am tired of Andy Murray being declared the first British Wimbledon winner in seventy-seven years when actually a woman did it thirty-six years ago.
I am tired of schools for girls being burnt to the ground.
I am tired of fourteen year old girls being shot in the head as they try to attend lessons.
I am tired of women being raped, truly one of the most vile, anti-woman acts that can be perpetrated against us.
I am tired of childcare costs which mean women can't afford to go back into the workplace after having a baby.
I am tired of children being mostly the mothers responsibility.
I am tired of women having to cover themselves up because others can't control themselves.
I am tired of women not being able to walk home, in any outfit and in any state and not get home safe.
I am tired being bombarded by cosmetics companies for not using the right moisturiser,  for allowing the merest hint of grey hair shine through, for having a wayward bikini line, for having stubbly legs every so often, for having crows' feet and wrinkles,for not having blindingly white teeth that can be seen from space.  
I am tired of being boshed by fashion houses into wearing the latest trends and not conforming.
I am tired of saying no to a drunken fumble and being called the C word for doing so.
I am tired of No no longer meaning No.
I am tired of the enormous pressures put on our teenage girls for giving up their virginity, wearing the right clothes, being the right size, having the right skin, wearing the right glasses.
I am tired of being lectured on how to get a man, how to keep a man, and how to please a man.
I am tired of women not being fairly represented in parliament and in governments.
I am tired of the systematic abuse of women and young girls day in and day out.
I am tired of being from a country where the life of the unborn child means more than that of the woman carrying it.
I am tired of being from a place where young,scared girls and not-so-scared adults have to travel to a different country to have an abortion.
I am tired of women being judged for their sexual history.
I am tired of women being judged on their looks, constantly, and berated for not being up to scratch.
I am tired of articles in newspapers and magazines circling the flaws in a woman who happen to not be Photoshopped.
I am tired of Photoshop full stop, giving people unrealistic and unattainable views on what women should look like.
I am tired of people being attacked for being overweight, underweight or even slightly off the mainstream idea of a perfect weight.
I am tired of the same articles telling me that my stomach needs to be tight, my bum needs to be high and firm, and my arms ready for battle.
I am tired for a bad mood or an irritation about something being put down to my time of the month.
I am tired of women being labelled bitches for wanting to be successful and being ambitious.
I am tired of "new evidence coming to light" that if you have breasts you can't be a top athlete as they get in your way. Imagine telling a male athlete that his balls are too big for sprinting? No, me neither.
I'm tired of going into a DIY shop and being asked "Do you have a fella you can send in, love?" when all I wanted were paint samples.
I'm tired of being judged for not liking or wanting children.
I'm tired of women's bodies being exploited in films and music videos.
I'm tired of women being raped while they are trying to protest an evil regime in Egypt.
I am tired of women being seen as a soft target.
I am tired of the sexism shown to women all over the world Every. Single. Day.
I am tired of the ridiculous standards of beauty we face and that are imposed on us.
I'm tired of women being told they can't breastfeed in public because it's disgusting, it's obscene and no one wants to see it.

Before you think that I am gone all man bashing, I'm not, trust me. I love men, I adore the boys, and all the men I know are good people, forward thinking and progressive,generous and lovely, but Bon Dieu I am a Woman, and I am Tired

http://pinterest.com/pin/80150068340611787/
http://planet.infowars.com/weird-news/bill-cosby-im-83-and-tired

The Lesbian Queen, the Artificially Inseminated Heir and the Swivel Eyed Loons.

     You are standing at the top of the Shard gazing out over the late evening vista of London. Feeling quite content with life, you sigh a sigh of happiness and feel your lovers arms wrap around you from behind. They untangle themselves from you and you turn around to see what made them break the embrace. You look down. They are balancing on one knee, with a lovestruck look on their face. And your eye is caught by a small black box with a glittering centre.Visions of a future together flash before your eyes, as you imagine yourself walking down the aisle on the arm of your dad, seeing your family and friends gathered around you grinning and taking pictures like papparazzi, buying your first house together, strolling hand in hand on a beach on a romantic holiday, watching your child takes its first steps, seeing them start university, enjoying your retirement, looking after your grand-kids.
     But you know that you cannot walk down the aisle. You know that everybody won't be delighted for you and wish you well. You know that there will be abuse hurled at you at some stage of your couple-dom and married life, with the potential for violence against you never too far away. This isn't sub-Saharan Africa under Sharia Law in the Middle Ages. This is Western Europe in the 21st century, where your same sex union won't be recognised as legal or as marriage.
     Imagine, despite the happiness you feel through finding that special someone, falling in love with them and all that entails, wanting to spend the rest of your life in domestic bliss with that person, you are told that a big, fat no. You are told that your love does not get the same recognition that a straight couples love will get, your love isn't enough to warrant a marriage. By all means, you can enter into a civil partnership, but for me that sounds more like a business contract than a coming together of two people who love each other, like two men from the 1950's sitting on a bench with canes smoking cigars and talking about the stock exchange and how to maximise their potential through a civil partnership. Jolly good etc etc
     I cannot understand, in this day and age, why two people who want to come together in view of their families and friends and vow to love, honour and obey each other, would be denied the blessing of a marriage? Personally, my views on marriage and weddings are mixed, and it's not something I see in my future, but that would never mean I would want to deny anybody else the same choice to wed or not to wed. Being gay in a predominantly heterosexual world is hard enough, why continue to single-out people of a different orientation in such a manner. A human is a human, and humans are capable of profound love (profound hate too, but that's not the point) should it matter if the love is between two people of the same gender? Cousins can marry, they can fall in love, come together in matrimony and have their union classed as a wedding. Yes, cousins. First cousins. Your parents niece or nephew can be married to you. There is overwhelming scientific proof that cousins marrying can lead to physical and mental disabilities if they have children, which many opt to do. They share genetic makeup, and yet it is still called a marriage. As far as I was aware, that was incest... Two people from the same gender however, are restricted from having a traditional marriage.
     What would the world will be like if segregation was still in play, and black people and white people couldn't have their wedding recognised as a marriage? There would be uproar.So why segregate the genders in this way? But fear not! The Gay Marriage Bill was passed last night by the House of Commons, and is currently winging its way to the House of Lords for the final hurdle in getting it passed. You know, the House of Commons, that young, radical, forward thinking, gender equal institution that embraces the future with open arms and leads the race in progressive measures to ensure every single person in the UK is treated equally? No, me neither. Yet these are the people that stand between a civil partnership for same sex couples, and a legal marriage for them. And while it cannot legally stop a bill from being passed, it does have the power to use delaying tactics to "persuade" the House of Commons to reconsider and make changes to proposed bills. The people who sit in the House of Lords form part of the UK government, yet the majority have not been voted in by the people for the people. Say what you want about the current coalition government in Britain, but at least Cameron and Clegg were voted in by the citizens of this country. The House of Lords? Well, look to the internet for answers to your questions. But they do have space for twelve Church of England Bishops to sit in the House. Religion has no place in politics, and neither do out of touch elderly statesmen who are seated in the House due to inheritance of their place.
     Marriage does not exclusively belong to religion either, no religion cannot lay claim over the institute of marriage, not Catholicism, Protestantism, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism or Paganism. It belongs to people in love. Who are we, and in fact who is anyone to decide who gets married? This will be a huge step forward for human progression and equal rights for all if it goes through. The era of homophobia should be well and truly behind us, and the more we normalise sexual orientation, the less stigma will be attached to people who are gay, and will hopefully and eventually lead to a world where everyone be open about who or what they are. Hardline opponents to the Gay Marriage Bill believe that the sanctity of marriage will be compromised by allowing gay people to marry. No other universe around could possibly think that having more people in love be allowed to legally enjoy a marriage is a bad thing. Its time for people to grow up and stop being prejudiced. Being human is hard enough!

George Carlin, you're my hero

"How come when it's us, it's abortion, but when it's a chicken, it's an omelette"

There's a new clinic in Ireland.
Well actually it's in Belfast.
And actually you can only avail of this up to the nine week stage.
Oh and actually you must be able to provide proof that to continue on with this pregnancy, that your mental or physical health is in danger.
And before I forget, if you live in the Republic of Ireland, you actually still technically have to travel to a different country to avail of the service.

     I could go on with the terms and conditions, but I won't. Abortion involves many different procedures from simply taking a pill to make the lining of your womb inhospitable to the egg, to surgical dilation and removal up to twenty-four weeks of pregnancy. It's not pleasant for anyone involved, and I cannot imagine what someone must be feeling when they make the decision to do this. Any female with a working uterus and fully functioning fallopian tubes can fall pregnant, not just people who are careless, people who go out solely looking for a shag, people who practise safe sex and those who don't, people who are doing it for the very first time on their fifteenth birthday or the fortieth time on their anniversary holiday, it can and does happen. There are of course ways and means to prevent an unwanted pregnancy, the pill, condoms, the coil, the implant, abstaining etc known preventatives  but still sometimes, every so often, the strongest swimmer will earn his stripes and get to the egg before his buddies do and boom: Preggersville: Population 2. Because at the end of the day, that's what pregnancy is, it's a woman and her body carrying a child.

     I cannot tell you what I would do in the situation where I found myself pregnant, because it has never happened to me. But as a woman, there has been a scare or two along the road, happening at different stages of my life and both having different reactions to the same situation. It happened first when I was nineteen and I was late. Not a couple of weeks late, but enough days had passed for me to begin to panic. We've all been there! For me, a termination was the only option. There wasn't a hope in hell I could ever have brought a child into this world. Having to tell my parents, having to let the extended family know, having to tell people at work, having to carry on with a pregnancy that I didn't want to have a child that I couldn't cope with, would have been too much for my nineteen year old self to deal with. I had already started making plans in my head to call my sister, tell her what happened, somehow raise the money to get rid of it and then carry on as is possible normal. The other scenario happened a while back, and this time instead of panicking, I actually coped OK with the thought of me, Laura Child Allergic, having a kid. I thought, yeah, I could do this, I've not got much money but if there were a child on the way I could start saving. I have a good job with a maternity leave clause, I'm old enough to kind of settle down and be a bit more responsible, I could actually maybe do it? I could have a baby? Lucky for me, nature stepped in and I wasn't pregnant. But despite all the precautions I had taken, it could have happened. And it does. And who knows, if I had been actually pregnant at nineteen and decided not to terminate it, but to have it, where I would be now or how my life would have ended up. But surely it's my choice right? It angers me that the country I am from, women still have to travel to the UK for this choice.

     So, really shouldn't there be that option for people like nineteen year old Laura who find themselves pregnant against (or precaution-less) the odds? Shouldn't there also be an option for the seventeen year old who was raped to be able to terminate the foetus that grew out of a frenzied sex attack? Shouldn't there be the option for any woman of any age who knows better than anyone else that her bringing this child into the world would be a bad mistake and wants to get rid of it? I'm not lobbying for abortion clinics to appear on every street corner, and I am disgusted with the people who use this service as a means of contraception. I'm looking for The Option. The Choice. A Woman's Right to Choose. Her right to make a decision for her body. Not a politician in a suit making it for her. Not someone who has never been in the throes of misery that an unwanted pregnancy can bring. Something this personal to a female should never be decided by someone else. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has said it better than I ever could. "The decision whether or not to bear a child is central to a woman's life, to her well being and dignity. When the government controls that decision for her, she is being treated as less than a full adult human responsible for her own choices". I agree wholeheartedly with her. It's not that I am pro-killing, I find it hard to kill a fly or a wasp, preferring to shoo them out of the house with a newspaper and an open window. You can choose to work or not to work. You can choose to go to college and university or not. You can choose which car you buy, which supermarket you shop in, or which airline you fly. So why, when the situation is a serious as whether or not you feel it's right to bring another person into this world, why does it create such a fuss. I choose Pro-Choice.

Coming out of the cleaning closet

I was watching television last night, thinking about how annoying adverts can be, when it struck me. There are ads featuring mums cleaning the house with help from the mysterious stranger who randomly pops up to give them handy tips for getting stains out of things. There's ads for sons and dads mucking about in the park or driving around in a swish BMW. There are ads for the whole family, seeing them out and about in their now unstained clothes getting out of their pristine new BMW while walking a dog. There are ads for couples looking for the best hotel room for that night. Where are the ads depicting gay families? It's not like there is a shortage of them is there? It's not like families with two mothers or two fathers don't also like getting stains out of clothes or driving around in new cars, so why are they not portrayed? 

     The ad that struck me as something that could really have broken a barrier, is the new Lynx ad, which shows men and women from around the world being suddenly drawn inexplicably to each other due to the (ahem) intoxicating smell of Lynx (now available in some putrid smell for women) ignoring the planet crashing down around them. How ground breaking would it have been, just in the midst of all this, without making a big deal, having the women drawn to each other every so often, or two of the men being attracted to each other. You know, just slip it in there, no fuss, no mess, just show it like it is?

     But they haven't. It seems to be that ad agencies pretty much around the world, are ignoring the huge amount of gay and lesbian couples and families that happen to live in the same world as the rest of us do, breathe the same air, eat the same food as us, and are exactly the same as us, they just happen to be attracted to the same sex. Why are they being cast aside? Surely Tom coming home from a hard days work and greeting Daniel who's cleaning the kitchen with this new fandango cleaning product with a kiss on the cheek, is just as accessible to people as seeing Tom coming home from a hard days work and greeting Susan who's cleaning the kitchen with this new fandango cleaning product with a kiss on the cheek? Do ad agencies and indeed the companies for whose products they ask these agencies to come up with marketing strategies for, not think that Tom and Daniel's home is just as important as Tom and Susan's? Do Claire and Rebecca's white shirts not need the same cleaning power of Vanish Oxi-Action as Rebecca and Stephen's shirts do? Do Karl and Stefan not want to invest in a new swish BMW with snazzy sound track and drive around a freakily deserted city? Or is that just for Stefan and Germaine to enjoy? Do Anna and Eva and their two children not deserve to be a bit too happy about the cleanliness and freshness of their toilet? Or is it strictly Anna, her husband Frank and their two children that should enjoy a gleaming loo?

     Of course not. Why should gay people enjoy these luxuries and delights? It's wrong! They're dirty! They're going against God! Against nature! And against cleaning product and new car laws. It's just plain wrong.

     Except it's not. Tom and Daniel, and Claire and Rebecca, and Karl and Stefan, and Anna and Eva are people. Just like me and you. With hair, teeth, eyebrows, eyes, mouth, chests, ribs, arms, legs, feet, bums, toes and fingers. They grow up, just like you and I did. They go to school, just like you and me. They go out, get drunk, vomit, eat a kebab, go to college, meet someone special, fall in love, want to get married, buy cleaning products, new cars, have children, get a dog, argue over the remote, the dishes, the hoovering etc. So why, when most of the human race is slowly coming around to the idea that just because you are gay, doesn't make you any different to any one else, why are these companies who's cleaning products, clothes, drinks, cars, shampoos are sold to gays, lesbians, straight people, transsexuals, cross-dressers, bi, old, young, little, large etc so slow to recognise that the families and relationships of this world are changing? That family no longer implies mum, dad and children. It implies, single mothers, single dads, grandparents in charge of children, step brothers and sisters, half brothers and sisters, two fathers, two mothers whatever! They need to recognise that the face of family can no longer by typified by what I outlined above, that it is changing rapidly, and they are falling behind for not keeping up. If I saw Tom and Daniel marvel at how clean Daniel got their floor due to some product, I wouldn't give a toss that it's Tom and Daniel, I would be more interested in my new fandango mop that does such a great job. 

     Which is why it has angered me that there is still such a debate as to having same sex marriages. Why oh why in this age of Aquarius and enlightenment,  is this a big deal? Two people fall in love, want to make the ultimate commitment to each other, get married and maybe have a family. I think that's lovely, really lovely and I say good luck to them. Isn't that really what most people want? Just to find someone to do this with, even if they don't bother getting married? Who are we to stand in the way of someone's happiness by condemning them for being dirty and it for being wrong? We are just people! Just like Anna and Eva are people! And why are One Million Mums lobbying NBC about a new show called The New Normal, in which a gay couple hire a surrogate to help them start a family? Apparently it's because it is desensitising their children. Which, when it comes to desensitising people of all ages to race, gender, sexuality, is surely a good thing?? I don't think children should be watching gratuitous sex and murder films, TV shows or computer games, but "subjecting" them to see people as people, and not type them in terms of gender etc is the way forward. 

Trooping around on the internet, I came across this video in support of same sex marriages. And that's all I have to say about that. Because the ad says it all really.

Adults of the revolution

     Try for a moment, to imagine yourself as a seventy-year old person. How do you envisage spending your retirement? In your own house, surrounded by your family and trinkets from your life that you know and love? In your villa in Spain with your partner or on your own? Or stuck in the alleyway of the Last Chance Saloon; the nursing home. With that in mind, imagine you have been diagnosed as suffering from dementia. Memories from your former life wiped away to the point where you find yourself forgetting why you are sitting in a certain chair, what you came into a room for, or who the person beside you is even though you have been speaking to them for an hour. Would you again, like to be in your own house, surrounded by your family and trinkets from your life that you know and love? Of course you would. Me too. But for many people suffering from dementia, even with the best intentions they end up in dull and clinical nursing homes, being prescribed a cocktail of medicine and drugs to keep them from "being difficult", having their daily life routine turned on its head to meet guidelines set in place by nursing home management. I know that these places would not be where I would want my parents to end up if we were not able to take care of them, and for myself personally, I would rather rot in my own house than enter into a soulless place like so many of these care homes are.

     However, there is an alternative, currently in practice in Holland, with a new one being rolled out in Switzerland and one on the books for opening in Germany. It really is a revolutionary place, currently being dubbed The Truman Show for dementia patients, and I for one, have been astounded by the amount of care, foresight, and thoughtfulness that has gone into turning one former care home of doom, into a model of how we would all like to end up when the time comes. To the naked eye, Hogewey  looks like a village you will find anywhere across Europe, with little grocery stores, cafés, restaurants, hairdressers and a cinema all located within easy reach of the apartment building where the residents of Hogewey live. But upon closer inspection, you will find that the check out person in the shop is actually specially trained to deal with dementia sufferers, the managers of the restaurants have degrees in mental health nursing, and so on. The residents, from all walks of life, are asked to fill in a survey to find out their likes and dislikes, their backgrounds, working lives, family lives, location of where they once lived, musical interests and are grouped into seven different categories judging by their answers. From there, instead of one central unit being the main living room for numerous residents of a home to congregate, the buildings have been divided up to share houses, accommodating an average of eight people, from generally the same backgrounds or religious beliefs. There are working class accommodation where by the staff are almost part of the family and can be found standing in the living room ironing the residents clothes while watching television with them. The upper class homes have servants, along the lines of Downton Abbey, whereby the staff are never seen, the silverware is always polished and the napkins neatly folded. They cater for people who have lived in the countryside all their lives, ditto people who are used to living in towns and cities. There is a pub, cookery clubs, wine tasting clubs, reading clubs, a local library, where perhaps if you were a bar man once upon a time, you can actually work behind the bar serving the other residents. It serves the purpose of people being looked after by health care professionals, yet are still able to keep hold of their former lives whereby they felt wanted and needed. 

     Why hasn't this been done before, is one of the many questions rolling around my head as I read more and more about Hogewey? Granted, you can expect to pay €5000 per month for this, but for the safety of knowing you or your family will be looked after without being smothered or left to rot in a magnolia painted room and staring at the walls. They have freedom to basically do what they want, but under the watch of people trained to look after them. In short, it seems an ideal solution for not only dementia sufferers, but for anyone reaching the care home age. Of course, with the UK and Ireland a Health and Safety regulated mess, could this ever work off the continent? I hope so. Hogewey's motto is Different til you Die, whereby they treat the individual rather than blanket treatment for anyone suffering from the debilitating disease of dementia. It's a place where they find out who the resident really is, and act accordingly to their needs. If I had my choice by the time that period rolls around for me, then Hogewey is where I would like to go, not some hospital-like home where you go by the homes routine, and not your own, eat food that you cook yourself, not something that magically arrives on your table as if from nowhere, where the stay chameleonise themselves to suit your needs and your lifestyle. 

     It's about time the elderly were treated with the respect they deserve, and with the dignity they should have. Think of any elderly person you know, be it your grandparents if you are lucky enough to have them, or a neighbour or a friend, and think about any of the stories they told you about their lives. Chances are, they had it tough for a long time, surviving wars and rations and poverty and high mortality rates, working hard for little money, striving to keep a family afloat. If any of us endured the hardships that most people over the age of seventy have gone through, you would want to see out your life in the way you are accustomed to. How thrilling does the prospect of a place like Hogewey seem, where you can live in a houseshare of like minded people, ones who enjoy a drink and a life, ones where people are quiet and keep to themselves, but still enjoy the company of others, or any other kind of lifestyle you can imagine. If, of course I am in no position but to go to a place like this, having no family around to look after me or being corpus mentos enough to take care of myself, then I will be booking myself a one way ticket to Hogewey. Different Til I Die: not just for the young uns. 

If I were a boy

Don't worry! There's no deep rooted feelings of transgenderism swirling about my brain, it's just a general musing. How much easier life would be to be a man sometimes. Think about it. I mean, everything from barely having to brush a finger through you hair in the morning, to not really giving a fudge about maternity leave, being on the other side of the gender tree seems a lot more appealing.
     Imagine getting up in the morning: shower, brush teeth, tighten up your tie, find matching (ish) socks, leave the house. How lovely would that be? If I were a boy\man, I would spring out of bed each day knowing that I only had to do the bare minimum of vanity maintenance before I left for work in the morning. You don't have to worry what your suit says about you, or do up a new tie each day (if you wear a suit and tie to work) or style and blow dry your hair each morning. You can not shave and still look perfectly presentable. You don't have to worry about your bag matching your coat, and your coat matching your shoes, and your shoes going with your bra (or something like that, I don't really know, I don't go in for all that in the morning) but you see what I am getting at yes? Try, as a woman, to get your head around a world that you didn't have to shave/wax your legs, underarms, bikini line, get your eyebrows under control, learn how to apply make up, know how you style your hair properly, have loads of make up/fake tan accoutrements, have shoes to match most occasions, buy a new outfit for every wedding you invited to, like children, suffer from period pains and periods in general, carry a baby, worry about being pregnant, get picked on for having small boobs, worry about the size of your arse, be afraid to walk home on your own after dark, getting a name for yourself if you sleep around, read chick lit, endure gossip magazines, worry about abortions, have cellulite, learn to walk normally in or even enjoy high heels. The list is endless!
     I wonder what I would look like as a boy/man? Would I be tall? Have the same kinky demented hair that I have? Still have brown eyes? Be hairy? Have permanent stubble? Big shoulders? Muscular arms? Good aim? Would I look like my brother? Drink beer? Be a skinny jeaned Kermit legged boy? Or a baggy trousered slightly shaggy kempt one? Would I be even lower maintenance than I already am? Or would I be back combed to buggery and guylinered from here to next Tuesday? Would I be funny, or boring, or intelligent? Would I shave my head just because I could? Would I grow a beard just for shits and giggles? Who knows!
     I like to think that I would live in jeans and t-shirts, would have medium length hair that required a bare minimum of grooming. My bathroom cabinet would not be chock full of things I don't really need, it would have aftershave, razor, tub of gel, some kind of moisturiser (man moisturiser of course) and condoms. My wardrobe would be as minimal as my bathroom toiletries, t-shirts, jeans, casual and smart, few shoes both casual and smart, few hats, few belts, few jackets. There, simple! As it is, and I don't really class myself as that much of an actual woman, I have an entire back door covered in hats and scarves, the bottom of the wardrobe is no longer visible due to some shoe population control issues, most of which I don't even wear or like. There is no more room for the twenty seven work and casual shirts I have hanging up, ditto for my belts, and the coat side of the wardrobe is at full capacity: no more room at the inn! The same with my chest of drawers, bursting to the seams with stuff! So much stuff that it nearly fell on top of me the other day when I was rooting through to find a pair of trousers, so heavy was one of the drawers with clothes. I don't need all this stuff, but would I really be any different if I were a guy? 
    That's just appearance, there are so many more things to wonder about if I suddenly woke up and were a guy. I would be able to switch my brain off whenever I was relaxing. Women's mental function always stays at five percent, even when we are sprawled on the couch doing nothing, there is always something tick tocking away in the backs of our minds.It could be anything from a wayward eyebrow hair that is annoying you (this happens me a lot) to a list of all you have to get through at work tomorrow, from thinking about where your white bra is to wear under your white top, to why that person on telly looks better than you do even though you look after yourself just as much as she does. This is just a generalisation, but we've all thought about it. Whereas as the lovely boys actually have the function to switch off completely and just enjoy the sprawl. Which is why we do (again, another generalisation) ask that question, what are you thinking about? Its not that we really want to hear what's going on inside your head, sometimes, it's that it never fails to amaze us that you actually could be thinking of nothing. Zilch.Nada. Emptiness! In our world, that doesn't happen. Even during sex, our minds aren't cleared to just fully enjoy the moment. There is always, perhaps deeply buried but ever present, or a lot closer to the surface, a thought of how unattractive your sex face is, or how your stomach isn't as flat as it could be and does your guy/girl notice it. Whereas ask a man what's going through his head when he is getting down and dirty, and they're just in the moment. Kind of infuriating isn't it?
     Can you try, as a female, to adopt the male approach to life? I'm not too sure, I think we are wired differently, no matter how much of a tomboy I think I am, there's still the weird woman gnawing away inside me dealing with shaving legs and matching clothes and having presentable hair and worrying about the fact that maybe I should start wearing make up and worrying about how others perceive me all the time. It's tough there, there are certain ways that a lady is expected to act, and that has been ingrained into my psyche for twenty-seven years, so to change the habit of a life time is quite a thing to attempt to do. But menfolk, go easy on us, I'm not saying it's not hard being a man either, but all it takes to ruin our day can be one misguided comment about our appearance or our reaction to something, and the good work unravels before our eyes. As a not so wise woman quoted in a script once: "every woman, whether shes 16 or 60, still has that awkward, insecure, self-conscious teenage girl inside of her"

Just a coffee please

     As soon as the phrase leaves your mouth, you can see the barrista's mental tin opener begin to fire up and soon the can of worms are writhing around on the counter. Have any other four words ever opened a more drawn out conversation like these have? Gone are the days (some lament, others embrace) where this question would be answered with a simple 'Sure, milk and sugar?' and off they pop to make you your coffee. Now its Gestapo style questioning before they will even fully acknowledge your order.

'For here or takeaway' 
'Erm...takeaway please'
'Short, tall or grande?'
'Erm...medium?'
'Tall. Mocha, au lait, espresso, latte, cappuccino, macchiato, flat white, Americano? '
'Normal filter coffee thanks'
'Americano. Would you like to make it bigger for 50p?'
'If I wanted it bigger surely I would have picked big eh?'
'What'?
'No thanks.'
'Would you like something to accompany your coffee today'
'No thanks, it's 8.30 in the morning, I could do with eating breakfast before I start on almond biscotti and a giant pound coin of chocolate thanks'
'Sorry?'
'No thank you'

     Cold hard cash is exchanged and something unintelligible is roared at the person standing flustered beside what looks like a time machine while I am not so politely told to move to the other counter to wait and before I can even say thank you, they are off shining a torture light into some other poor souls eyes. Is this what coffee shops are like up and down the country and at home? Why do we pay people to ask us ridiculous questions and basically treat us like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe, it's akin to paying a dominatrix to come and stomp all over our backs with stilettos. The questions that require silly answers with words we would never use anywhere else such as short flat white extra frothy grande skinny soy frappuccino, the up-selling of confectionery that makes me think I don't know my own mind, it's all beginning to grate on me a wee bit.
     I don't use coffee shops/houses/dens/planets as I find them all just a teeny bit pretentious and I have no time for pretension. If I wanted to be asked a series of questions in a rude and shouty manner, I would go royally piss off someone like my mum, or my boss, except I would have had to have killed someone or have stolen something huge for either of them to react in such a manner towards me.
     The noise! Oh god the NOISE of coffee shops! The person shouting to the barista, the barista doing some Saw IV style nastiness to milk, the piped music, the nervous chatter of the people in the queue, the over analysis of everything of the people who have gotten their fix and are sitting down, does it not get to you? If I were a caffeine addict the way that most frequenters of coffee houses seem to be, this kind of atmosphere would not be conducive to calming my caffeine starved morning addled brain. In fact, it might just make the anger and jitters rise to the surface and have me scream obscenities at all and sundry in the shop, only for it to be drowned out by the sound of the milk torture device. How there are not more massacres and sniper killings in coffee shops, I'll never know. Think schools are a hot bed of repression and angst? Try Starbucks on a Thursday morning.
     I am a tea drinker, nay, a tea addict, and have in fact being given a look of scorn by not only the person behind the counter when I went to order one, but also a tut of disapproval by some guy with a briefcase and a suit and a harassed face. I was not pleased, and normally, would have happily said something to Tutting man with briefcase, but this was early morning, so I'm sure coffee withdrawal was at an all time high with him, and the air was thick with coffee nerves that I didn't dare open my mouth. Glancing back at the line behind me, no one spoke, no one made eye contact, everyone was humming with a nervous energy and an almost shameful look on their faces that I was reminded of the dole queue when I was unemployed. Is this really normal?
     Recently, loveable old Uncle Starbucks have started a campaign whereby they ask your name to write it on the cup, rather than screeching out your order when the beverage is ready. The Pretentious Bells started ringing when I saw this ad, and it kind of made me gag just a little bit. 'Haven't you noticed how everything is a little, impersonal these days' the kindly voiced man on the ad tells me. Yes, yes I have as a matter of fact. It comes from the staff not making eye contact with me when I order. It comes from being made to feel idiotic when I don't want to use silly names for my coffee such as a grande skinny latte. It is in the impersonal feel of most franchised coffee houses that are really just about the dollar dollar bills y'all and nothing to do with wanting to maybe have a quick chat with you, even ask the 'how are you' question, even in a perfunctory manner. If I go into one of these places, I am perfectly OK with them yelling out my order rather than my name, it's the nature of the business and the mark of the beast, it is what it is. Don't try to lure me in on the promise that the staff will care or remember me in a giant coffee shop!
     There is one coffee shop that I do like, and when the mood strikes me, that's where I go. Why? Because even at it's busiest, and it does get extremely busy, the staff are polite and welcoming and willing to have a quick chat, it's because they don't use silly lingo to make you your tea or coffee and ask you to fill out a questionnaire when you want to order, it's from the waitress actually remembering me and giving me that packet of popcorn I loved so much the last time on the house. That's personal, that type of interaction with people and building a fleeting and mostly superficial relationship with the customer I want, and that cannot be faked, even with a slick marketing campaign.
     When will the coffee house mania end?
     How did it even start?
     Is the next step self service coffee houses along the lines of Tesco and Sainsburys? Now if that was the case, I think I might start using them. I will happily buy my tea, pick a seat and watch as the bedlam unfolds I might even buy some of that biscotti they were on about, I like a good munch when I am settling in to watch some chaos ensue. I'm off to make tea, anyone want one?

Custard Cream Biscuits and crisp apple streudels, Doughballs and SnowBalls and curried Pot Noodles

In the spirit of Lent, what with me working in a Catholic church environment, I have decided to jump on the bandwagon for the first time in about oh, eighteen years, and give up something for Lent. My vice? Or to narrow that down, my Lenten Vice? Junk food. Woman vs No Junk Food. Do you reckon HBO would take up the gauntlet of that show? Doubtful, so for now, I shall have to bring you this through the medium of the internet. Unpaid I may add.  Why that fat bastard gets to parade around the US eating fo - Anyway...
     If it were possible, I could happily live on junk food. Crisps, chocolate, jellies, chocolate covered stuff, croissants topped with almonds, savoury snacks whatever you care to list under junk food, I could and most probably have eaten it. A typical day, in fantasy junk food land, would be croissants with butter and blackcurrant jam in the morning, chocolate covered brazil nuts for snack, massive bag of cheese Doritos with dip for lunch, followed by Kinder Bueno (as this is fantasy land, it would be both the Bueno Negro and the Bueno Blanco varieties) with more crisps for afternoon snack and so on and so on, you can see where this is going. Put a big leafy, deliciously dressed salad in front of me, with an order of seabass and yeah, I would look at it and savour the smell and enjoy what I was seeing. Put a bowl of Sweet Chilli and Sour Cream Kettle Chips sans dressing beside my gourmet meal, and I would be flicking stolen glances at the crisps, in the manner of secretly checking out that other guy or girl when you are out and about with your partner. How easy is it to be sitting at your desk with a bag of chocolate nibbles, dipping in every time your left hand leaves the key board? That answer, if you work where I work, is very easy.
     Most offices have the sweetie press, bog standard, totally fine. Our office, has a weekly Sainsbury's shop delivered each week, complete with an amazing house keeper who keeps an eye on what we enjoy most and orders them for us by the bag load. I both love her and hate her in equal measures. On top of an upstairs sweetie press, we have the downstairs table in our meeting room, normally laden with chocolates, and nuts, and crisps and more chocolates. Throw in some lovely patrons of the office who like to bring us cakes and M&S biscuits and more boxes of chocolates, and you can imagine what we are dealing with here. What could be not much of an issue for a larger office, whereby the nibbles brought in can stretch to about thirty employees, is actually quite a major issue for us, as there are only seven of us, house keeper included. Enough for thirty, but consumed by seven.
       And even though it's only just a week into my forty day and forty night odyssey of going cold junk food turkey, it seems I am being harassed by sweets. The office is abound with all butter Shortbread biscuits, mini chocolate chip cookies (mini things are always so much more delicious) profiteroles with chunks of chocolate sauce drizzled generously over the pastry, Bailey's chocolates, snack sized Kit-Kats, a small cupboard full of crisps, it's wall to wall junk.  There seems to be chocolate appearing as if from no where. I go to make my porridge in the morning, opening the cereal press also opens the flood gates to the Narnia of Sweeties, they both cohabit the same building. Opening the fridge to get the milk, there are Ginsters microwaveable slices winking at me and glinting under the light of the fridge. Go to take tea break, turn your back for a moment and when you go to lift the mug to your lips, you will find that a Kit-Kat or a Terry's All Gold chocolate left haphazardly beside you.
     It's not even just in the office, but it is where I spend most of my time. Only this evening, standing in the supermarket looking for tea, I found myself in a familiar aisle, that of the one which contains all of my favourite things. To the left, jostling for space on the shelf were the entire family of Haribo, including Uncle Tangfastic, Granny StarMix and that cousin that you secretly fancy, Golden Bears. Gossiping up top were the Terry family, both milk and dark chocolate options looking down their fancy wrapped noses at the own brand chocolate covered raisins and peanuts. The crisps were there too, all onion rings and ridged Kettle Chips and Sensations and multi pack Doritos practically flinging themselves into my basket. Jelly Bean jellies committing Hari Kari to get a place in my shopping, Pringles...well they can stay there, maybe I should have given up Pringles for Lent. Fearing the worst, and knowing my penchant for all things junk, I knew I had to get out of there before I staged a sit in in the sweetie aisle. But to my horror, swinging away from the crisps giving off that crisp whiff, I turned only to come face to face with the delicious pastries on the opposite shelves. I ran my finger along the prices of each yummy sugared item, imagining what it would be like to sit and eat a donut when I get home. I only came in for tea!
     I will let you in on a secret though. I did break and eat some chocolate over the weekend. I am a homosapienette, and in being one, there will be a week of each month that certain hormonal fluctuations will result in both pain of epic proportions and an all consuming craving for sweets. I needed to have them, and due to what I was going through, I think I deserved it. So about 2am, drinking some tea, I ate the eight squared chocolate bar that was in my fridge. Did I feel guilty? Yes, yes I did. Ashamed almost, but then the endorphins that you get from scratching that annoying itch kicked in and I'm not sorry to say that the guilt left me. Still, a mere blip on the radar, akin to the electricity cutting out and waiting for the back up energy generator to start up. But sure whats a square of chocolate between friends.

No hips? Rear of the bus please.

   


     Are you vampishly curvy, with a nipped in waist, large pendulum hips and a bust line to make the boys blush? Are you athletic, like Gisele, straight up and down with the merest whiff of a waist line? Or are you like most people, average? Neither curvy nor straight up and down, just normal. Bit of a waist here, throw in perhaps a little too large a hip there and a bust line you wish could be perkier but you just don't know how to do it? Well you know what, it's high time we put an end to this nonsense, it doesn't matter if you are fat, thin, curvy, athletic, slim, podgy, whatever you are and whatever shape, make and form you come in, stop caring about it!
     I for one, am sick of every second paper and magazine I pick up telling me that curves are back and how skinny girls can eat s*** because curves have triumphed over skinniness. I have just spotted an article in the Daily Mail (I know, I know, I'm sorry, don't hold it against me) which had a headline blaring "Bad luck Skinny Girls! Marilyn Monroe is crowned best beach body of all time". My mouse cursor hovering over the article, I was about to click on it, when something clicked in my head instead. This exercise of pitting body types against each other for global domination is all a bit KKK hunting down black people for reasons of superiority. OK, maybe not as extreme as people being killed and treated like second class citizens for being a different colour but it's up there folks, with the same hate tag line as racism has. Write an article lambasting someone for their race or colour, and you will and should rightly be pegged as a racist. Write an article about socking it to possibly naturally skinny women and you are credited as an actual journalist. What if I were a journalist, and decided that white skinned women are the best in the world, took a poll backing up my claim and then published an article in a widely read newspaper saying "Bad Luck Black/Hispanic/Latina/Asian girls! Whites are voted best yadda yadda yadda..." I would be strung up by the neck and so say all of us. How can people get away with this? And why do we let them?
     It infers that skinny people are deemed uglier or inferior to so called curvy people. How awful of a sentiment is that? If you had a child, would you teach it this twisted and warped view of the world and how we see people? Comparing this type of judgement to racism may seem harsh, but judging people like that and side-lining people who might not have Marilyn Monroe proportions is just plain wrong and shouldn't be encouraged. But it is, every single day when someone like you or me clicks on a link and reads it, or picks up a magazine and gives Heat their hard earned £1.95 to dissect what someone looks like on the beach. We, as humans, are programmed to judge on appearance, it's genetic and we are all designed to think that way. So true, we may not be able to change nature in that respect, but we can stop the daily barrage of being told that skinny equals bad and curves equals good, skinny to be admonished and curves to be celebrated. How about people equals bad and people equals good? Or, maybe judging on actions rather than say, oh I don't know, waist size?
     Some are fat, some are skinny, some are slim, some are plump, some are obese, some are anorexic, but at the heart of it all, some are always people, and that's how they should be treated, celebrated, maligned whatever you want to do with them. To tell a section of people that they're out of luck and only a certain section is superior because of how they look echoes dark racist times in the Deep South of 50's and 60's America. And while we may have moved on in terms of race, it seems the media world is never going to grow up and move on from trumping one section over another, lauding plus size models one day, and then giving them literary death sentences the next for having a "muffin top". How would you feel if you, as a naturally skinny person, you were told point blank that the way you look is bad luck, and that a particular group over there is prettier, more attractive to the opposite sex and more en vogue that you will ever be because they have curves and you Skinny Minny don't. Think about it. Think about it from the other side, if you were particularly plump say, or in fact just fat, how would you feel to see a headline that said "Bad luck Fatso" etc etc You would, you would feel awful. Why do we tolerate this bullying attitude of what a few people sitting at computers think the ideal and the norm should be? Why do we go one step further and maybe even believe their claims?
     I've always loved the celeb magazines, I freely admit it, but lately, in fact the last year or so, I have cut down, to the point of buying one every few months when I am in the mood for fish food for the brain. From seeing this article's headline, it has prompted me to not want to look at the Daily Mail website ever again. However, I cannot in all good conscious do that, the Femail.co.uk section of the Daily Mail provides me with much mirth making entertainment that it will continue to be part of my day. I won't however, be purchasing a Heat, Now, OK!, Hello! or any women aimed magazine for the rest of the year. I'm not going to entertain or acknowledge an article or publication that seems to hate women and objectify people on their looks and looks alone.I know I cannot radically overhaul the way I think as nature will out, but I'm going to do my best to stop judging people on how they look and first appearances. I wasn't alive in the Good Ol Racist days to take a stand against it, but I am alive and kicking in these sad times, so here's my contribution.


p.s. To read a far superior take on this issues, please follow this link to this amazing lady:

http://dazedandbemusedmusic.blogspot.com/2011/10/amy-winehouse-she-walks-away-sun-goes.html

Let's call her Lorraine

There was once a girl, lets call her Lorraine. Lorraine, was setting off on a voyage to the south of Ireland, to see her then boyfriends sister graduate from college. The graduation was on a Friday afternoon, and Lorraine was all set to head off on the Thursday beforehand, giving her time to land there, hang out with her boyo and his family, get a good nights sleep and then perhaps try to look amazing for the next day. But things never seem to go to plan, and what began as a fairly bog standard trip from Stansted airport to Ireland, went horribly wrong..Let's talk to Lorraine to see how the trip went:

Calamity Jane: Lorraine, describe the events leading up to the flight?
Lorraine: Well, which flight are you on about, there were many over the course of this epic adventure.

CJ: The, initial flight, lets say.
L: In the weeks leading up to the trip, I was very excited. And in fact, was jittery when I booked the flights, as I was eager to get home and see my then boyfriend. I remember booking my flights to come home for it, nervously checking that everything was in properly.

CJ: You say you left early that day to get to the airport on time, can you tell me more about that?
L: You're right, I left my office in Wimbledon at about 4pm that day, heading off to Liverpool street to get my Stansted Express train to the airport, and I left early so I could get there in good time.

CJ: Did you notice anything unusual that day, any air of what was to come...
L: To be honest, nothing really stands out, but I guess I should have figured all was not as it seemed when I boarded the wrong train, even though it said Platform Five for the Stansted Express, and it said Stansted Express in big writing across the carriage.

CJ: Go on...
L: When I looked around, I could see that everyone seemed to be in their work clothes. And when the train pulled into it's first stop, I realised that this wasn't the normal journey. On closer inspection, I saw that no one bar me had a suitcase, strange for a train designed specifically to bring people to the airport.

CJ: A sign of things to come perhaps?
L: Not really, at Tottenham Hale I jumped off, and lucky the next train to come in was the Express, and I snuck into the first class carriage and remained there inhaling silence and Brut aftershave from the stressed businessmen around me. What happens later, was maybe my Karma for sneaking on, who knows.

CJ: In your own time Lorraine, can you tell me what happened next?
L: The train journey was fine, my flight wasn't leaving Stansted until 19.30 that evening, and I made it to the terminal at 18.30, having had checked myself in earlier on in the day. I was giddy, and excited, and also nervous as I'm not an easy flyer. But I had a smile plastered on my face, and music blaring in my earphones, and had a lovely little chat about MeatLoaf to the boarding card inspector when I was queuing up.

*It is as this time I must tell you, that Lorraine goes silent, and looks down at the floor. A single tear rolls down her face as she remembers something obviously traumatic and stressful. 


L: Sorry, it's just every so often it hits me. The man scanned my boarding card, but then his face looked puzzled, almost pained. He...he looked at me and said, god I still remember those words, he said "Sorry Lorraine, but this ticket is booked for next Thursday. There's nothing more I can do" I'm ashamed to say I cried, the tears just sprang up out of nowhere. He told me to go to the Ryanair desk and see if there was anything they could do. But you know how it is, there's nothing that anyone can do in these situations, it's just life, you know? No more flights into Ireland that night, to any destination.

CJ: So what happened next, what did you do?
L: I despaired, I'm human what do you expect? But I phoned my boyfriend, and explained the situation to him. He was angry to say the least, but not with me, just at the situation. Wouldn't you be? I wasn't thinking straight, apparently mumbling about booking another flight and sleeping in the airport. But even though he was hundreds of miles away, he wasn't going to let me sleep on the floor of an airport, so he calmed me down and made me see sense. I booked another flight, this time early in the morning into Kerry airport, and booked myself a hotel room in a travel lodge down the road, on the proviso that there was a shuttle service to and from the hotel to the terminal. Happy days eh?

CJ: Ah yes, good old travel lodge's, they do come in handy don't they. Would you care to talk about your experience there on that night?
L: Yeah of course, it was fine you know? The receptionist was lovely, very welcoming which was nice, and very sympathetic after I had told her what happened. She booked me in for a wake up call and a space on the shuttle bus the following morning, so I went to my room happy. The original flight had cost me about £70. The next flight cost me about £180 and the room at the inn, ha ha, cost me another £100, so it was working out quite expensive. God, I remember I had a savings account before all this started! The room was fine, basic, small, smelt a bit like mildew, but it could have been worse, I was glad of a bed. And as a treat, I went out and foraged for some KFC so happily munched away and went to bed at the criminally early time of 9.30pm to prepare for the following day.

CJ: Mmmm, KFC. Sorry, so early start the next day?
L: Yeah, really early, about 5am start the next day, my flight was due to leave at 6.20am, so I was booked into the shuttle bus for 5.15am, so was happy to have bee woken up by the receptionist, and was following her instructions to find the shuttle bus to a t. Except I couldn't find it.

CJ: How do you mean...
L: I mean, I couldn't find it. It was dark outside, as it was October time, and the car park was full of cars and vans and trucks, it was a truckers paradise there. But I couldn't see the shuttle bus anywhere, and it was only 5.10am, so it couldn't have departed already.

CJ: So there you were, alone and vulnerable with a big bag on your back wandering around a car park on your own at 5am of a cold October morning.
L: In a word, yes. I phoned the hotel to see where the bus was, and she said it had left, how had I missed it? The next one wasn't coming until 5.30am and I feared that would be too late. But the receptionist told me to hang fire, that they would get me there. The minutes ticked past, but it wasn't getting any lighter or brighter outside. I thought to myself, that I couldn't, I wouldn't miss this flight. That I would make it on time. But when 5.30am came and went with no sign of the shuttle bus and me wandering around a car park on my own, I began to feel less hopeful, and most despairing. I called reception again, to see what exactly was happening, only to be told the bus had gone, and that I was to go to another part of the hotel to get the next one. But trying to find that part was like trying to find Bin Laden, I hadn't a clue!

CJ: How do you get out of a situation like this, what did you do?
L: I calmed down, remembering a Bear Grylls episode where he told people to not panic when faced with danger as that cloud's your judgement. So I took a deep breath, and looked around for any indication as to what I could do or where I could go.

CJ: Go on
L: Well, once I relaxed, I could see a sign pointing to the other reception area, at the other side of the hotel, so I went, and miraculously enough, I managed to make it, lumbering bag and all, for the 5.45am shuttle bus.

CJ: But that's not where it ends Lorraine is it?
L: No, no there is another part to this tale, one which I don't like talking about too much. Would you just excuse me for a moment so I can, you know do some deep breathing or whatever? Thanks.

*With that, Lorraine leaves the lounge and goes to the downstairs en-suite. Muffled sighs and cries and slaps to the face can be heard. I cut the tape recorder, and give her time. 


L: Finally getting to the airport, £2 lighter as well, I ran through security, only to be told by one of the men at the scanners that this flight had left. But I refused to believe, I had memorised the flight number, gate, and also the time of departure, so I knew he was wrong. I hadn't ran in a long time, so running to the furthest gate to catch my flight was a shock to the system to say the least, but I knew it would be worth it.

CJ: So you made it then...
L: Oh yes, I made it to the gate. Five minutes after it had closed. I could see the plane, reversing to begin it's taxi down the runway. I had missed the flight. And I had no choice but to do the ultimate walk of shame back through the throngs, tears streaming down my face. All I could do was cry and feel sorry for myself, but I had to hold it together and make the call, the call I really did not want to have to make. But I did it, attempting to make this OK, and to get to Kerry. He told me I was daft to even attempt another journey, but I was determined. I'm stubborn if nothing else, and once I get something into my head, there's not much that can get rid of it. So I sat myself down, tears still coming, at one of the internet desks in the departures hall, and booked myself on yet another flight. This time though, I couldn't process payment, it just wouldn't go through, and I had to phone my bank.

CJ: Was there a reason?
L: Yes, good security measures were in place, whereby my bank thought someone had stolen my card, what with all this hotel booking and flight booking happening. So I had to wait patiently while they unlocked my card and sympathised with me for what had happened. But there is a twist to this flight booking. There were no more flights into Cork, or Kerry from Stansted. So I had to do something I never thought possible...I had to book a flight from Heathrow to Cork at the cost of about £210, and somehow traverse across the city to the other side to get back to Ireland.

CJ: In morning traffic, across London...does this tale end well for our heroine?
L: Oddly yes, the gods of travel were smiling on me that morning, some repairs being carried out on the M25 meant the traffic flow was at an all time low, and that driving through would be a doddle. And it was! We got there for 8am, and my flight wasn't leaving until noon, so I really did have time to regroup and relax. But there's more. Of course there's more.

CJ: Do tell...
L: Well, queuing for security before I could get to the gate for my Aer Lingus flight, I got chatting to the security man. He was an affable chap, he seemed a bit down and out, so we swapped horror stories of why our days were going so terribly wrong! He was being laid off, so my sympathies laid with him. However, seeing my plight, he took pity on me and fast tracked me, carrying my bag himself across to the fast track lane, and beckoning me over. I thought, maybe this is the start of the good things today? Maybe this is where it all goes right!

CJ: I have a feeling it doesn't.
L: Oh how you know me CJ! I've never had the x-ray machines in any airport go off for something in my carry on luggage before, so you imagine my surprise when it started to beep. Nothing to worry about I thought, or else something very wrong to worry about! Still, kindly security guard motioned for me to relax, we'll sort it all out, got one of his fellow officers to come help him find what was making the thing beep. I had to empty out my entire bag, showing my clear plastic bag of 100ml or less items to make sure that wasn't what was setting the machines off. But there was nothing, honestly nothing they could find, and I could see it in Kindly Security Guards eyes that he wasn't sure about me now, or my sob story. But the queue was being backed up, and there was nothing there, so what could he do. Repacking my belongings, I said my goodbyes and was met with stony silence. Grabbing the handle of my bag, I swung it down from the table top, only for it to spew forth the contents of my bag all over the floor as I hadn't zipped it up properly.

CJ: Oh my word, the horror!
L: Tell me about it! Knickers, bras, tampons, toothbrush, whatever you can think of spilled everywhere, as I frantically waded about on the floor of Heathrow Airport furiously repacking my bag. Hoisting it up on the table, I zipped it all up, only to find a bottle of water lodged in a pocket it shouldn't have been. Turning to face the security guards, I beamed at them, and produced the water. They were quite relieved to say the least, as Kindly Security Guard told me that even though they had found nothing, they would have had to watch me all through the airport and until I boarded my flight in case I did something. The flight went off without a hitch, was happy to be on Aer Lingus, and arrived to Cork airport a while later, to be greeted by a jazz band as it was the start of the Cork Jazz Festival. Had to travel another two hours in the car (I was met at the airport by a not so happy chappy boyfriend as you can imagine!) but I got there. I got there. And that, CJ, is the tale of how a girl called ahem, Lorraine left Wimbledon at 4.30pm on a Thursday afternoon, and landed to Tralee Co Kerry, at 5pm the following day.

The names have been changed to protect Lorraine's true identity. She works as a PA, and is in charge of booking people's flights.
If you have been affected by this story, please seek help, as that's a bit strange. Lorraine received no payment for this story. 

If it's good enough for Madonna

Randy Jackson, the most un-black Black man on earth

Reinvent: 1. To make over completely
               2. To bring back into existence or use
               3. To do something again, from the beginning


Can anyone do it or is it just the stamp of celebrities desperate to keep up with the Jones' and in the press?. Do I really want to reinvent myself as in description one, or do I want to opt for description two, bring back the essence of myself from wherever I left it last. I think I'll opt for number two, bring it back rather than overhaul completely. It's not like I am that much of a nightmare that I need to totally dig up the basement, put a loft conversion in the attic, get rid of the old kitchen and put a skylight in the new bathroom extension. No, I need a good clean down, perhaps a sky light in the already there hallway to let some extra light in? And maybe a wardrobe makeover too, and by makeover I mean getting rid of the clothes I no longer fit into, and then not being able to afford to buy any more for another hundred years or so. 
     Most people will have their identity crisis either just as the New Years Comedown sets in, or in Spring Time when people are heralding a new season by cleaning and clearing everything in sight. Not me, no I prefer to do things at the end of Summer. Yes, I realise that next week, it will be November and officially winter, what with the weather happening at the moment,  I am being fooled into thinking it is late August. Look outside the window right now and tell me you are not feeling the same? The end of the summer fidgety feeling is something I read about recently, and it really rang true for me.I take stock of what I have been up to for the previous nine months and start to notice things that need to be fixed, changed or deleted entirely. And I have started already with my diet. Don't worry, I am not going to start banging on about the power of the edamame bean (they're disgusting by the by) or extolling the virtues of the Maple Syrup Diet (really...I mean REALLY???) but just things that have bugged me and things that I shouldn't really eat anymore, I have stopped eating them. Its only been a week, but I feel better and even a wee bit lighter. And dare I say, happier.
     I know this is probably an insult to feminists everywhere and would have Emily Pankhurst spinning in her grave to hear that this is how the female's of the future were viewing themselves, but yes, I have said it, when I am lighter, even marginally lighter and a bit healthier for not stuffing my face with junk, I do feel happier. But that is a story for another day. Looking down at myself, I would like to change everything, and I think I'm going to. I want my hair to be long, so I'm growing it. I want my face to be a little bit brighter but without resorting to chemicals, so I'm not smoking. I want my teeth to be all lovely and white, so I'm using quite expensive toothpaste. I want ab muscles and toned arms, so I'm hitting the gym etcetera etcetera But how far do you go before you start to lose sight of yourself, of your personality? Will I be able to rein in the overhaul to a manageable level and still retain Laura, or will I lose the run of myself, and once I start seeing a change in my physical appearance, will my mental equivalent change too?
     Of course, there are parts of my mentality that I would like, nay love to change. The fact that I say stupid things without thinking and then repent in leisure, the fact that I can be really slow on the uptake, the fact that I feel guilty for the smallest of things, even bad things that happen to other people and that have no link to me, my sensitivity that causes me to cry and stuff that a grown woman shouldn't cry about. There are a myriad of things, but then do I want to be rid of them, as if they do go, then will I still be me? Could this be part of the reason for celebrities to go off the rails at certain points along their career? 
     Think about it, no one is born a celebrity, bar maybe a few children thrust into the limelight while they are still in-utero,  so at one point or another, they had to be "civilians" like me and you (well maybe not me, coz I've always been fabulous dahlink) with body hang ups and fat days and greasy hair and dandruff and sitting on their friends floors crying over the boy who dicked them around and sneaking home drunk so their parents wouldn't catch them and of course, wearing hideous clothes that they thought looked cool. Did they consciously decide to overhaul themselves to make it to the top? Did they refine their personalities to fit in, thereby having an inner melting pot on the simmer all day everyday, only getting to release their true selves once they went home at night? Is this where celebrity eating disorders begin, making major body overhauls and not knowing where to stop. Read any aimed at women magazines each time there will be a weight controversy issue with someone being too small or being too big, and a pull out diet supplement. This would actually be enough to drive anyone to the loony bin, so I could have a point with the eating disorder comment. 
     Going off topic there for a bit, I got caught up in my own musings. What I am really trying to get at, is wanting to change but not change beyond all recognition. I have the most wonderful friends and family (even though we argue like cats and dogs and none of us are alike in anyway except for the dark hair) and for some strange reason they seem to like me and want me around, so I don't want to not be me any more, I just want to be a polished me. Going back to the interior design analogy from earlier, maybe I should just change the outside, make it cool, calm, prettier, more sell-able, but still keep the inside just as it is, a nice, cosy and familiar place where there's room for everyone and everyone is welcome.
     Don't worry, I haven't lost the plot, I'm sure by next week I will be bored and have been distracted by fluffy puppies and a new TV show.