Dancing Like The Way You Move

So...the dust has settled enough from my epic night out on Saturday to be able to contemplate it. Yesterday was a total wash out filled with food and much recovering - there was certainly not enough brain power to consider a review!

We awoke hurting and hanging and had just about enough wherewithall between us to put together a fry up - an epic fry up. Every thing with the potential to be fried food went into this breakfast. Twas a feast for kings...and about 30 minutes after we'd finished this my mum phoned to see what time we were coming round for the roast she was cooking. Now, to be fair I'd had ample warning that she was intending to make this roast. In fact, this roast was being cooked in my honour and was stuffed with parsnips and sweet potatoes just for me. I'd forgotten about passing on this vital information or limiting my intake of food so as to leave enough space for said roast. Error.

We rocked up to my parents' house and tried our best to cram in as much of this delicious roast as possible but it was difficult. I didn't even know parsnips could look smug.

Saturday night was a night of two halves. It began with a sedate meal - desperately trying to cheer up a slightly heart broken younger sister. It turned out all she needed was vodka and a jug or two of a drink that tasted like Berocca. We drank a fucktonne of it and quite frankly it did not result in 'me, but on a really good day'. It resulted in me, but on a day where I can't see and am incapable to choregraphed movement.

We finished up our night in a greta new club - the only great club Taunton has ever had, and one that has sprung into being since I moved. Gutted. While in there we realised that the small (now drunken) sister was catnip to local men. Older sister, also giggling drunkenly into a Smirnoff Ice, was a magnet for whorebitches in stilettos who like to bruise people's feet. I, it seems, am a magnet to group dances. macarena? Yes. Just yes.

The taxi home at 3am was definitely good craic. I had the phone number for a lawyer with nice teeth, a sister who was pretty ssure her foot was broken, a sister who probably had the phone number of the 40 odd men who had fallen over their own feet to speak to her and a giant grin on my own face. Now, if only I could remember what the lawyer was called or whether he had any interesting features other than shiny teeth I'd be laughing...

I am too tired for this...

It's just taken me a long time to negotiate a busy road home. Here are my findings from today -

Beeping at me will only encourage me to slow down and scowl.

If I shout 'Bellend' at you it's because you are, in fact, a massive bellend and you should just pull your car over and walk home and stop being such a disgrace to the rest of us.

There is nowhere on the planet you need to be urgently enough to excuse you undertaking in the dark and pouring rain.

There should be 'tourists' and 'locals' lanes on all major roads in pretty areas. Just because I choose to live in the West Country doesn't mean I should have to slow down past Stone Henge and marvel at it's mundane audacity. I would like to zoom on past in the 'I have somewhere to be, this is not a novelty' lane swearing at you and laughing at your bored children who are plotting your deaths for lousing up their childhoods with these 'interesting things' to see on the journey. Get them to a theme park.

Sign posts need to be erected upon EVERY junction between you and your destination because guessing is fallible. Either that or the centre of towns need to have bright lights shooting right up from their centres so you can follow the beam in the right general direction until some useful official puts up a post with a title on it. It cannot possibly be that difficult?

I should never spend 5 hours alone in a car. My mind wanders to places it shouldn't and I have a general hatred of everyone. Including you.

I'm Back In The Shi-i-i-ire

So I've just touched down in Somerset...wha' Zummmmerzet? No fuckwit, that is not how I said it so please do not repeat it back to me like the fact that I've just revealed where I'm from has made you start imagining I have a thick rural accent and a piece of straw hanging out of, my frankly slack, jaw. I do not meet people from India and suddenly start repronouncing Mumbai for them in their own accent in some sort of hideously racist attack. So don't do it to me.



Have been greeted with a new wardrobe from my generous little sister and a chance to babysit my nephew tomorrow morning. This is excellent news as it means I can start forming a set for my Comedy 4 Kids gig next week. I'm pretty sure 1 4month old will be an excellent judge of material. Sure...

Right now we're all gathered round watching old, seriously old, home movies. This would be a really lovely experience if it weren't for that fact that I went through a long phase of wanting to be a boy. I insisted on having a Damon Albarn inspired hair cut and mainly wearing felt shirts. Hideous.

Tomorrow I am out on the town. Taking my new boots out to meet and greet the folks of Taunton town. Taunton's an interesting night out. By rights it should be a little bit crap, and it is, but it's also a little bit amusing. The convenient location of a marine camp just down the road makes it a bit of a slag magnet. So it can be a very amusing place to go and judge people. I'm a massive snob. It's paining me slightly that I intend to wear Jeggings out tomorrow. I've tried quite hard not to let wordsquishes into my general day to day life - I don't follow Jedward and I certainly wouldn't buy tickets to SuBo. But somehow a pair of jeggings have vaccuumed pack themselves to my legs and have chosen to look great with my boots. C'est La Vie.

So I am off to nestle deep into the bosom of my beloved county. It's good to be home.

My Naughty Little Sister

Today's blog is entirely dedicated to my naughty little sister. Or, it would be if I had one. I do have a little sister. Only she is not naughty. She's not really naughty in any way.

She's 5 years younger than me and entirely more mature and level headed than I suspect I will ever be. When my parents had children they carefully chose names that couldn't be shortened into irritating familiar versions of the names they had painstakingly chosen. I completely sympathise - there must nothing worse than agonising for 9 months (or longer) over what to christen your ball of genes only to find his grubby urchin street friends have had a get together, thought 'Miss Lexx you are clearly a fool. We've had a little chat and decided 'Tezza' is a much more appropriate tag for him to take forward into the adult world.'

So for myself and my older sister they settled on Sarah and Laura. These never get shortened. Occasionally some one will attempt to call me 'Law' which results in me adding the 'ra' to the end. This means that these friends don't last for long becuase they inevitably think I'm barking at them and they run for the hills.

So, when it came to my next sibling - what changed in their pattern of thinking? They chose Megan. For one, we are not Welsh, we are a pretty mongrel family in terms of heritage but there isn't really a jot of Welsh, so Megan is an odd choice. We are primarily of Scottish/South African decsent making us stingy with a tendency to aggressively colour coordinate. So the Welsh thing is pretty baffling.

Poor little Megan has learnt over the years to answer to any one of the following nicknames that has been cast upon her;
Meg, Mog, Peg, Peggy, Meggy, Mogwin, Egg, Milly Moggy Moo, Peggity, Peg-a-leg, Megalith, Meggity, Megwin, Pegwin, Mogwyn (the y is important) - and, at family occasions where people like to tell her that the name stems from Margaret, she also has to cope with Margaret (original), Maggie, Mag and possibly worst of all Marge. No self respecting 19 yr old should have to roll her blue eyes, toss her beautiful blonde hair and answer to Marge.

Megan is 5 years younger than me and unfortunately for me we don't look a lot like sisters. We look a lot like a waify blonde model has attracted a needy midget with uncannily similar eyebrows. I have a desperate need for approval from my little sister. Our relationship has always been a little backwards. She often gets midnight phone calls from me wailing about my latest panic and she calmly and collectedly tells me to pull myself back together and go to sleep. She was promoted to department manager in her job after approximately 16 hours on the job. I travel the length and breadth of the country telling jokes and asking people to read my daily outpourings of barmpot. She is altogether a lot more, well altogether than I am. And I applaud her for it.

When she was little she honestly looked like a cartoon cherub. She had perfect blonde curls, was, well, fat. She was fat. She was a little marshmallow baby. And I delight in this fact because at some point in our lives I have been skinnier than her - even if it did only last a few years. Or until she had control over how much she ate. Actually, my earliest memories of her having control over what she ate were of her controlling several snails and woodlice into her mouth and delightedly crunching and chewing. I don't know if you've ever scooped well masticated snail shell and woodlouse legs out of a cherub's mouth but it really does make you wonder if religion is all it's cracked up to be.

On the few occasions I managed to get her to come to University to visit me I immediately wanted to pack her on the next train home and get her as far away as possible. Not because she was a pest - I am the pest - but because a vast horde of male admirers would be offering to buy me drinks in exchange for an introduction to my sister. I'm pretty sure had she stayed for more than a few days she would be married by now. Albeit to someone far beneath her, but hell, that's what divorce is for.

I like to bother Megan. Bothering Megan is one of my favourite past times, and like a true adult she dutifully puts up with it because she knows this is just how our relationship works. When I've been away from her for too long it starts to show, because I start to bother other people who don't react to it so well and bad things happen. She is like a vaccine or a drug that I am dependent on for release of botherness.

I suppose I don't really have anything to end this on. It's just a little dedication to my eternally wonderful little older younger sister. Long may she sigh and wish I was easier to be around while I am poking her in the back of the neck and marvelling that it is the only place on her body that she has fat. We call her neck fat deposit Carlton. Well, I call it that. Because I'm pretty sure if you shaved her head she would look like Uncle Phil from the Fresh Prince. But I mean if some slightly hidden neck fat is your only worry, you're laughing?

The Invention of Smiling

Face - I just want to be with you.

Hand - It's not that I don't want to be with you. I just can't be with you all the time.

Face - Why?

Hand - Because I've got shit to do. I gotta be shaken, I got to wipe, I got fingers to support. I'm busy. You just sit there all day.

Face - Exactly. That's why I get so bored. I got nothing.

Hand - You need a hobby.

Face - But what can I do? You used to think I was cute. You used to stroke me all the time. Now you're just always busy with buttons and typing and stuff. You don't even moisturise before you come to see me any more.

Hand - I would if I could. But I just can't have you hanging on my every move all the time. You know? You gotta relax. All that frowning - you're gonna be exhausted.

Face - You'd frown too if you had my rotten luck...

Hand - I can't frown and you know it! That was a dirty thing to throw in my palm.

Face - Oh all right then - ball a fist. Whatever. Don't point the finger at me in this argument.

Hand - You're the one always turning your nose up at me! Like I'm not even good enough for you anymore. And I've seen the way you look at my twin.

Face - Oh please! Don't give me that. You couldn't wait to jump on that other girl who came around here the other day. You literally couldn't have pounced quicker. "It was a slap" You said. Yeah, well, I don't see why you had to go. What's wrong with a kick in the shins, huh?

Hand - I ain't explaining myself to you any more Doll. I've had it. You can paint your own eyes and lips from now on. I'm sick of running around after you. Who wipes the crumbs off you when you eating? Huh? Who puts your war paint on so you can go winking at other guys? Who always, ALWAYS washes after wiping so that you ain't gotta wrinkle your pretty little nose when I gets close? Huh?

(Pause)

Face - You think my nose is pretty?

Hand - Sure do. Always have.

Face - I love your cuticles.

Stuff the Manic Wagon

In the last couple of days I've been pretty busy. Good busy and bad busy.

Firstly, I've been trying to train someone at work. This is great because it means someone trusts me with someone else. It also means I have plenty to do in the office and I get to make a new friend. Unfortunately it's showed me that my nurturing side is decidedly lacking.

I always thought I was pretty nurtuting. I like to name inanimate objects and I'm a big fan of looking after things that don't really require looking after. When I was at University I had a pet hamster which I took very good care of. Essentially my pet hamster was only aball of wool which I kept behind a trellis with some glass beads to eat. But I took care of it really well. I used to take it out to the garden with me in the summer (my housemates thought I was barmy). And once, when my housemate Will kicked it's water tray by accident, I made him go and refill it. Will was bemused and tried to say no but I was insistent that it was a hot day and bad things would happen if he didn't. Eventually Will gave in and my ball of wool got new water. I was a good parent.

But my hamster died when another of my hosuemates needed a fancy dress costume. That was a sadder day than most. So, with all this practise, and the fact that I rarely cruelly kill Sims, I thought I'd be excellent. I am not.

My attention span and patience are limited it turns out. I mean, I always knew I was bad at concentrating on things that don't entirely occupy me, but I thought I'd be better with actual people with personalities.

My trainee is delightful. She's dedicated and committed and going to be seriously good at her job. She actually already is. But I do keep looking up when she says my name and thinking 'Oh, you're still here.'

I'm terrifically lucky that she is very patient and a nice person because I'm sure it must be quite alarming to have the person shaping the roots of your new career keep staring at you bug eyed as thought she's not too sure who you are. I think she may have twigged when she came back from lunch break and I said 'Oh!' very loudly and gave her back her chair.

This is worrying me that went I have more dependents I will struggle slightly. Is it ok to put yoru baby down to sleep and go downstairs to watch TV and potentially forget it's there? Go away for the weekend and forget to poke airholes in its crib? Move house entirely and list the baby as part of the itemised contents?

It's probably about time I got a pet. Just a small one. One that I keep tabs on. I sounded out this theory to a workmate in the lift yesterday only I screwed it up slightly by not thinking before I spoke.

Workmate - "You just need to get yourself a boyfriend."
Me - "No, I don't want a boyfriend. I'll definitely take better care with a rabbit."

Sigh.

Chin Up Betty

I did not sleep well last night folks. This has lead to there being a curious pattern to my day so far. Firstly I was super bouncy and bouyant this morning. To the point where I might have used the word 'super' out loud in conversation. This, twinned with my pony tail, had members of the office community alternating between wanting to stab me and get me a job writing scripts for Sister Sister.

I got a hell of a lot done this morning. I was efficient. I was like a laser, cutting through piles of work and watching the smoke rise as I completed things one after the after. Mere mortals would have been shocked into vomiting by the speed with which my hands and brained whirred. I was all over it.

Then I went for lunch. I fed myself. I chose a spicy pizza. This was an error in itself. When you have IBS it's important to learn what is going to be ok and what is going to have you sitting very still in your concentrating very hard on not moving so that the shooting pains in your stomach don't make you whimper like a wet goat in a gale. The spicy pizza was an error which I will pay for later when my stomach starts saying

'Hey, new plan! Let's play hedgehogs.'
"What?" says I
"Yeah! Hedgehogs!"
"I don't know what that means....OW"

And then I'll see that what stomach meant was he was going to curl up in a small ball and feel all prickly. The side effect of my tummy curling into a small ball means that my whole torso has to follow suit. And while I like role play, playing the part of Quasimodo as I walk down Norwood high street is not cool. I fit in fairly well with the other nutters. But it's not ideal for someone as effortlessly cool as me. Ahem.

But anyway, I went for lunch. And now my body is confused. And it wants to sleep. This has resulted in a severe detereoration of attention span. Now, my attention span is not great at the best of times. My brain works a little quicker than the rest of my body and so I get halfway through doing things and I'm bored and so I've stopped and am daydreaming and/or started doing something else. So I'll be drafting an email to someone and then my brain starts thinking, what shall I have for dinner and while I'm busy pondering it my sneaky little hands have gone off to type into google and then all of a sudden I'm on 'What The Fuck Should I have For Dinner' .com and my email is abandoned and I haven't even noticed I've done it. Curses!

So in short, I guess what I'm going to need is a reason to stay awake. And so far, I do not have one. Answers on the back of a post card please.