TwentyEleven sounds bollocks.

Right, I might as well succumb to all this - "Hey, it's an arbitrarily dated day stemming from a religion you don't follow...how rejuvenated are you feeling?!" nonsense and write some stuff about it being the first day of the year.

How have you spent the first day of 2011? (Please read that as Two-Thousand-And-Eleven, not Twenty-Eleven or any other version as I'll hear your thoughts and be annoyed.)

I have not gotten dressed this year. I've not eaten dinner this year. I've not showered all year.

In my family, it's important on New Year's Day to emphasise everything you have not done that day as being something you've not done all year. You can do that ad nauseum. For example -

I can't believe I haven't blogged all year. Got it? Right, now take it away and bother someone else with it.


So far this year I've started and finished reading Michael McIntyre's autobiography. It's a charming read - it's not particularly funny and it's not particularly interesting but it's nice if you want to find out about his life. I can't imagine why you'd begin reading it if you didn't want to find out about his life. What with it being his autobiography and all. I've read it all in one day which bodes for it being written in a nice and friendly manner. I've read it with several films on in the background and a brief spell of 'The Diana Years'. Apparently she and Charles were happy between '82 and '83 and he touched her bottom a lot on their honeymoon.

My day was briefly interrupted in the middle when I declared I wanted a sandwich. My mother raised her head and asked why I didn't just make dinner for everyone. I thought this was slight overkill as really I just wanted a sandwich and I didn't think I could eat enough food for 5 people.

Nevertheless I went into the kitchen and began to cook. We were having what's known in my household as 'a tray' where we all gnaw on a flat wooden device used for carrying plates. A tray is where you basically just eat nibbles. So I was despatched to the kitchen to put the 'Chinesey bits' in the oven. I got the Chinesey bits out of their box, laid them on a tray and put them in the preheated oven. I read the box, it said cook from frozen for 10-12 minutes, and I cooked them from frozen for 10-12 minutes. Upon them having been cooked (from frozen) for 10-12 minutes I removed them from the oven and served them to my family.

They were instantly whipped from the living room and brought back to the kitchen where I was preparing egg mayonnaise.

"Are you sure that was long enough?" Enquires my Father.

"They were in for 10-12 minutes. From frozen. That's what it said on the box" I reply.

"Are you sure? I could have sworn it was 18 minutes."

I could have enquired at this point how on earth he got that idea into his head given that he's never cooked them before or seen the box, but I refrained.

"Are they not done then?" I ask coolly, perhaps as coolly as my half cooked Chinesey bits (not a euphemism sadly).

"I don't know, no one's tried them." Replies my Dad, switching the oven back on and hurling the offending Chinesey bits (sweet and sour parcels since you ask) back into the furnace.

Within seconds, every member of my previously dozing family were in the kitchen, bustling around and fixing dinner. What they had basically done was to look at some food I had cooked, nay, not even cooked - heated - decide without even putting them to their lips, that there was no way I could have read a box and heated Chinesey bits for long enough and that what was needed was an intervention.

Somehow, in the space of 10-12 minutes (give or take egg mayonnaise prepping time) I had petrified my family into cooking en masse to save themselves from the certain death of my undercooked prawns in filo pastry.

I should be hired out to cure laziness. Do it yourself or SHE'LL have a go... at which point I appear from a plume of dark red smoke, dressed like supernanny (ill fitting suit in horrific colour) and cackle maniacally over a box of Chinesey bits.

There'd certainly be limited benefit scroungers. I'm tempted to say I could solve this whole 'recession' issue. Cleggy, stick to your promises or there's tepid sesame toast coming your way...

No one likes a luke-warm prawn.

That was the year that was...

Well, 2010 - you're on your way out aren't you?

It's difficult to know what to write about at this point. Do I review all the incredibly epic things that have happened in the world this year? Elections? Broken promises? Riots? Chaotic weather patterns? Murders? Royal Engagements?

I mean, as a nation we've been busy. If someone asked us to fill in a form showing our productivity as a nation for the last 12 months I think we'd be ok to say - "We've definitely done more than the odd the finger painting." We've even survived a recession. Most of us have survived the recession by wondering if we'd know we were surviving one without the papers to keep harbinging doom our way.

To be honest, I don't think I can remember all the stuff that's happened this year and The Big Fat Quiz Of The Year will probably shoe horn everything I had to say into a tight Jimmy Carr witticism anyway so I'm not really sure I need to bother.

I could review my year for you - it's been busy. Busier than the average. Returned from lapland, moved to London, got a job, got dumped (repeat that as often as necessary), moved house, went to Edinburgh, got a new job, moved house again...busy nah?

However, mostly my year has been absolute turmoil and me running around as though both my arse and hair were on fire going "Oh bugger bugger" In a terribly Bridget Jones manner. I'm not sure I want to subject you to reading that as large portions of my year were repeatedly giving into the same dumbass man and getting my self esteem battered. Yum, cod.

Well...not any more. Huzzah. 2011 is going to be...

...oh fuck off anyone that thought I was going to write some free spirited bullshit about how great and different 2011 is going to be. Of course it isn't. It'll be exactly the bloody same. Of course I'm hoping not to move house so much having found one with limited numbers of rodents. But let's not kid ourselves that I'll do anything like make good decisions or not be a whiny bitch about it once I've done it.

Good. I'm glad we're all on the same page.

Now, what are your plans for this evening? Excellent. Good work. I'm glad to see you're celebrating properly. If you need me I will be with my sisters playing Singstar and Cranium until the wee small hours and possibly singing Auld Lang Syne into a mug of wine. Or a beaker. One of the best things about being an Aunt is access to children's cups, meaning you can sup your alcohol in a wholly inappropriate fashion. That is, if you're not just drinking the wine straight out of the box.

So, New Year's Resolutions?

1. To always be having fun.

Anything else can go to hell.

Slow On The Uptake

Well blogosphere, how are we all?

I've a confession to make - recently I've watched the Twilight films. I watched them in the wrong order apparently, meaning that I've now seen Eclipse, New Moon (the 2nd and 3rd ones) but not Twilight (the 1st one).

They are not good films.

I know, I know. I'm about 6 months behind the rest of the known world in watching them and coming to this conclusion. I didn't mind watching them - I've tried my hardest to watch only films this festive period (films and Porridge, truth be told) so I quite enjoyed their epicness. They seem to get better the firhter you get into the series. Sadly for me, this meant that I watched it peak and since then have been watching the desire to live drain out of myself.

I've not brought myself to watch Twilight yet, although I'm going to have to, and soon.

I've bee doing a lot of reflecting the last few weeks. I guess when you find yourself doing a Christmas as a singleton for the first time in 3 years, you reflect on what it means. Never, I REPEAT NEVER, do this whilst watching the Twilight films. It will lead to a conversation like this going on in your inner monlogue -

Man that girl is boring.
And pale.
And definitely not fun.
Who is that pale man kissing her and delivering a constant soliloquy about how she is his reason for living?
Wow. He really likes her.
She is not fun. Why does he like her?
Ah, well. Let the boring folk run riot together in their grey little world.
Wait a minute...who is this beautifully sculpted man? Why does he have that squashy nose?
Never mind the nose, he's taken his t-shirt off again.
Why is HE kissing her now?
Why is he saying he'll never give up on her?
I haven't seen or heard her do a single interesting thing yet and all these men are in love with her?
She is not fun.
Wait, who is this beautiful man with a Tom Selleck like moustache?
He doesn't seem to be kssing her?
Oh crap. He spawned her.
I miss Tom Selleck.

My trail of thought will trail off here and I might end up watching 3 Men and a Baby or Meet The Robinsons, but you catch my drift.

Now I'm going to have to watch the first film to find out what she did in that film that was so great that she can act like a drip for two more films and there will still be a puddle of hottie around her ankles humping away wildly and begging her to stay.

I'm hoping she had some kind of super awesome cat fight where she clawed the face off a ho and then stole her fledgling porn career. Poor Selleck-tache-Dad would be gutted but it'd make great viewing.

Of course this blog won't make much sense if you haven't seen the films but then maybe it'll save you the pain of ever being curious enough to watch them. I certainly wish I hadn't. If you see me in 2011 with lank hair, no make up, no smile, and a penchant for doing the stupidest option have available to me then you will know that I have cracked and sacrificed everything in order to snare a manbeast.

Not that either of her options are particularly appealling. Pale face talks faaaarrr too much about 'His reason for living' (ie - MiseraBella) which is all very well and good - but it's not fun.

Hey Reason For Living, fancy doing karaoke?
I can't, I'm contemplating eternity.
Hey Reason For Living, do you want to watch Crocodile Dundee with me?
No, I just can't bear to watch such peril. It reminds me of when you were stupid enough to risk your life over an angsty row we had.
Hey Reason For Living, can I do you from behind?



Reason For Living, are you still there??


But she wouldn't still be there. She would be away somewhere else, because she is not fun. Not that agreeing to be done from behind is a prerequisite for being fun (unless the toilet wall is your bible - 3rd cubicle, paragraph 19)

And the buff one that loves her? WHY IS HE HAIRLESS LIKE A BABY?

He is meant to be a werewolf and yet he has been waxed within an inch of his life. This is not good. Not good at all. Real men have hair. Just take a look at Selleck-tache-Dad...he knows how to do it.


So there you go, now I can go back to my Porridge reruns and a trip bowling with my family. I am an awful bowler...

Call me Macauley...

It's a worrying week for my nerves. The entire world has gone ballistic over the snow...the media is barely content with criticising the government for the financial world crisis - we are now being led by morons incapable of stocking up on enough grit to keep us safe in these Arctic times. I'm biting my tongue. I'm not asking the obvious question - "Hey Daily Mail, if we did have enough grit supplies to deal with this weather would your headline by any chance be - AFTER TEN YEARS OF WASTING MONEY ON GRIT INSTEAD OF USING IT TO SEND PEOPLE BACK TO WHERE THEY CAME FROM IT FINALLY COMES IN HANDY".

It's not that I want the country to be at a standstill - far from it. I'm currently on my way to Leeds - havign got up at 5:30am to be delayed by 90 minutes with no real idea as to whether I'll even be able to get back once I arrive at my destination. I'm sort of imagining a Home Alone style Christmas at this point where I'll have heaps of fun, cause some damage and then learn something poignant. Only it'll happen in Leeds. Which might mean I'll need to glam it up a bit. Glam? Is that the right word?

Last time I went to Leeds I got licked by a hobo. Sitting, incredibly hungover, in the foyer of my hotel trying to remember where I lived and why I was in Leeds I was set upon by a man insistent on showing me his tummy. Once he'd shown me his tummy I was licked. Joyeaux Noel.

Even If I do get back from Leeds today, I still have to make it back to Somerset on Friday. Friday - Christmas Eve - at 5:30pm when I finish work. Sheesh when did being a grown up become such a ball ache? I don't even have balls! Am I not meant to be rolling around in the snow, playing with family and preparing to be snowed in, not out?

With any luck there'll be plenty of snow to go around but it will just manage to happily miss the stretch of the M3 and A303 as I desperately try to be in my bed by midnight to wait for the big man.

Fingers crossed.

Writer's Block

I have writer's block. So, ironically, (is it ironic? I'm nto 100% sure I know what ironic is any more in this post Alanis aftermath of questions.) I am doing some writing to try and help me with my writer's block.

How are things? Are you well? I mean, it's been a while hasn't it?

I think we're just going to have to accept that for a while, a weekly blog is all I can manage. I'm really sorry to let you all down. I realise you depend on me for entertainment in this age of CGI and JLS and other 3 letter phenomenoms.

I'm on a bit of a downer if I'm honest. This time last year I was approximately 24 hours away from being up to my neck in snow as I pranced around Lapland in my elf suit and generally had the time of my life. Prancing was slightly inhibited as the snow necessarily makes that difficult. this year I'm having to settle with watching Elf on my bed and preparing to go into the office tomorrow. It's just not as good, let me tell you.

I think next year I'll go back to Lapland. An adventure like that definitely shouldn't only happen once - look at Lord of the Rings - there's a reason it's a trilogy. The vague plan right now is to go on a big tour of Scandinavia and Northern Europe and see the Norwegian fjords, ice hotels and more northern lights. With any luck I can persuade someone to pay me to write about it while I'm there. That way you can come too. If you want to. But you're not obliged.

I guess I went on a date last night. I think it was a date? You know when you go on something and it kind of seems like it's a date but you're not sure if it's definitely a date? I met up with a boy and went to a bar and had some drinks? That's a date right? It's been a freaking long time since I went on a date. Maybe I need to start keeping some sort of checklist for features which make an evening a date?

I'm not sure why I went on a date: historically I loathe dating. I find it tedious and boring and the vats majority of the date is utterly superfluous. You know within the first 10 minutes whether there is chemistry and then beyond that it's just waiting to finish dinner and pay the bill. Baffles me as to why people continually subject themselves to this mind numbing shite.

I think the worst date I ever went on was the one that got followed up with a text saying - "It would be really nice to see you again, but I understand if you got all the material you needed from that one dinner." Ouch! Catty much? As it turned out, I did get enough material from that one dinner once he had sent that text. But he was flattering himself if he thought he'd factored on my radar prior to his insecure outburst.

I mean, Sex and The City would have you believe that dating is glamorous and exciting and either hilariously entertaining or so sizzling that you're shagging in just a pair of Jimmy Choo's before you've even ordered a starter. What they fail to tell you is that 90% of actual dates end with you both trying to manage expectations of where this is going.

I will definitely call you.

And I will definitely pick up the phone. Pro-mise.

Well, good! That's just good. That's so good. I can't wait to see you again.

Oh me neither. Well, bye!

Bye then!

*Cue running in opposite directions*

It's certainly not as glamorous as Samantha's moaning would have you believe. Lying bitch.

Bingo Jells

Never try and write the title first. That's the first rule of writing anything. Once you've not written the title first you should also not write the first line. Just because it's best to write the rest of it first and then that stuff will come to you afterwards. It's best to always start with the second line if you can but don't force it if it isn't forthcoming. So maybe just write off writing the first paragraph.

Writing's a complicated game. Without a rule book. One day - will people refer to writing as typing? There's a thought.

I went to the Christmas department in Harrods today and felt effortlessly glorious imagining the house I will one day own with a massive tree in the centre of the living room. We'll be blissfully carefree over the needles dropping lightly to the floor as we'll have a hardwood surface and so they are easily vacuum cleaned - these things are important.

The presents under the tree will usually start in nice piles for whether they're mine, Locke's, Ruby's or my husband's - but as the kids get excited shaking them and exploring they'll get messier and messier. We'll have a 'strictly no Christmas tree chocolates before Christmas' rule and although Locke and Ruby pester me I never give in. My husband gives in all the time. This is because the kids prefer me - not him - and so he has to buy their love. I pretend to be mad at him but I don't mind. I adore him and so I'm OK with the balance of our parenting. We're an excellent team.

On Christmas Eve we let the children decide if they'd like to go to church for the midnight service with their Grandma. They'll find this exciting until they're about 16 and then they'll stop. We'll all have mulled wine and I'll put the children to bed. Then my husband will let me open my Christmas Eve present from him. It's always sexy pyjamas and a nice dressing gown but I act surprised and immediately put them on. Then we snuggle up and watch a film and then we get everything ready for the next day and go to bed.

Then next morning all the family are round (this is the year we're at mine) and everyone has a great time saying hello and getting down to opening the presents slowly throughout the day. We have a huge lunch and swear blind we'll never eat again before promptly declaring we want leftover sandwiches an hour later.

I think Christmas is a really good measure of a family and people. I'd like to think a person's on my wavelength if we have similar views on Christmas and how it should go. Also, if you measure proximity to Christmas by viewings of the Coca Cola advert and a shift in TV adverts away from 'Have you had a slip or trip anywhere...' and closer to 'buy a mince pie fatty'.

I realise this may seem a little early for a Christmas themed blog - but hey ho. It was what's on my mind. It was either this, X Factor or some neurotic ramblings about how I have an inability to be cool with the opposite sex.

Children Are Lucky

I've spent the last hour watching CBBC shows on demand on my TV. It's been pretty epic if I'm honest. An hour well spend in my humble little tiny opinion. I learnt in the last hour that I don't really approve of small bears that scream and have faces like socks that have been punched. I also learnt that I'm a massive fan of giant red monsters. Also, that in children's TV - the bigger the creature the stupider it is and the deeper the voice. Those are some facts.

I've also eaten a lot of prawns tonight. A LOT OF PRAWNS. Absolutely loads. But they were delicious. And I put them in some kind of home made lemon type sauce. I feel pretty domestic and great right now. I've been wanting to be more domestic lately. I think there might be some kind of maternal strings pulling in my innards. I'll probably have a baby next week. Or something like that anyway.

I don't have a great deal for you I'm afraid bloggypoose. I've not thought a single profound thing all day. Shocking - I know. Erm, nope - I'm really dredging as much as I can think of. There's nothing.

I could make something up? Yeah, I'll do that.

So, I was staring out the window and I saw a small bird. And the small bird was arguing with a massive bird - I think it might have been a cormorant.

The small bird bottled the big one. That was it. Fight over.

I think the moral of the story is that you don't want to piss of a hummingbird. The reason they hum, it turns out, is to try and keep their tempers. If you disrupt the humming cycle then they get quite angsty and may stab you.

We're learning.