...And then it was time to prepare for the last 2011 Bank Holiday.

"Ah, and how will you spend yours?" I hear you cry.

"I'm going to London with Frank" I will respond

"How lovely, where are you staying?", your retort may be... or else "What will will do you do?"

I know the answer to the first question but sadly not to the second.
I have booked a lovely room at a surprise hotel - oh that's the other thing, Frank doesn't know where we're going. He knows which tube station to meet me at, and that's... well that's about it.

And unless I plan something lush and fun to do, we shall just spend two days in our hotel room looking at each other and twiddling our thumbs.
(Quite obviously this is not the case, but I do need some ideas and sharpish!)

I have the standard things in mind, places to visit and the like, but I want something special. I shall now speak in hushed tones in order to keep this secret from Frank...
I can't get us in to afternoon tea anywhere. It's all booked. So if some delightfully well-connected reader would like to pull some strings so that my chap and I may enjoy a lovely pot of tea and crustless cucumber sandwiches, well then good golly - that would be wonderful!

But Frank likes other things too, so it's not too much of a lost cause if we don't.

It all has to happen on a small amount of pennies though. I forgot that I have to pay lots of train fares this weekend. I also forgot about my lovely phone bill. Oh phone company, you shall remain nameless, but thank you so much for charging me a measly £90. So generous.
My Mastercard has taken a bit of a battering too, what with car insurance and other pretty things. I even stuck a bright yellow post-it note to it. "IS IT AN EMERGENCY?" but even the shame of removing the sticky paper would not prevent me from sliding it into the chip'n'pin reader....
Oh you reckless spender, why can't you save more!

I have very few pennies to my name.
In fact so few, that I'm poorer now than when I was a student.

Frank - would you mind if we just sat in Hyde Park in the bank holiday rain and searched for scraps of food in restaurant bins.
I hear you can create some rather delightful gourmet dinners.


So ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the last of the long weekends, the nights are drawing in and its almost time to bring out the winter woolies.
Hoo-jolly-ray!

...And then Frank took me to Essex

For the first time in our relationship Frank is driving me home for a weekend in Essex. Finally, after many moans, blogs and rants I have a date for friday night. The inbetweeners at the cinema? Dinner in a very nice restuarant? Or a film and takeaway on the sofa? Of course not. True to form and my ongoing passionate affair with the M25, we are sat in Franks peugot with The Wombats for additional company. We have taken a break from our stop-start traffic jam and had a frappuccino at South Mimms services. A wee and coffee always calms you when 2 of 3 lanes are closed, everyone knows this! Including those sad and distressed faces that littered the airport style services. I treated myself and offered Frank a starbucks too. I am no stranger to this coffee company or its soothing effects. "C'mon I'll buy you a coffee" I said to the slightly disgruntled Frank - we were meant to have arrived an hour and a half ago. "No thank you, I'll have a milkshake". So he queued at a famous fried chicken fast food chain. Ladies and gentlemen, never purchase a "krush'em". They are not worth your hard earned £2 pieces! Frank was mightily impressed. I'm quite enjoying my tall skinny coffee frappuccino in the comfort of the peugot. And yes, I have been sharing it with Frank. You have to keep your driver sweet. So it appears the traffic has picked up and I've put my fruity smartphone to the test.... Well done blackberry!! N.B If we're still here at midnight, I'll hunt down some flares and flag down some help! Enjoy your friday evenings!

...And then it was a quiet sunday afternoon.

What a delightful afternoon.
The sun is warming my toes as I write this.
Whilst being warmed, I'm also online window shopping.

Obviously, I'm meant to be doing other things. I have e.mails to send and other sensible things. But instead I have shopped.
Oh and the things I have seen.

If money were no object.
Christian Louboutin.
Jimmy Choo.
Manolo Blahnik.
Christian Dior.


I looked at handbags and the Mulberry which I have been admiring ever since I decided I would treat myself to a graduation present. Well, the sad thing is Graduation was a year ago. And still no bag.

I have Brian, but as loveable as he his, he's pretty useless. Sure, he has wheels and helps me get around... But he isn't quite the beautiful accessory that shoes and handbags are.

Oh dear, listen to me, Miss Materialistic. I promise its not always this way.
Its a monthly thing.

I buy Vogue and ... well, my brain gets carried away. It makes me want all these beautiful things.
I don't think that it helps that I have the 'Sex and the City' movie on.

On busy days I can avoid all these materialistic urges and my list of "When I get paid I will buy this...." but on quiet sunday afternoons when you haven't made plans?
The quiet just doesn't cover it up....
Thank god my mastercard is upstairs, and right now I'm just too lazy to move. It's all probably a good thing. My shrinking bank balance won't cry with pain.

...And then two weeks had passed. Again.

"Golly Gosh, two weeks!" I hear you cry.
Yes, Yes I am afraid dear people that I have left you to your own devices for two whole weeks (it might be more, but two is a nice easy number). I have left you to read other things, to delve into the inner most workings of another human being. But... you have returned.
For this, I thank you.

I have returned to reality (a soft landing with a minor bump - but no cuts or grazes). To say that the last fortnight has been a bit manic,would be a substantial understatement. "A bit manic" does not justify one's lack of commitment and complete disappearance. Even my friends did not see me, many thought I might have mysteriously fallen down a rabbit hole. I was caught up in a drama of sorts. . However, I am back, raring to go, and with a new respect for words, their strength and subjectivity.

I have had a little holiday in the meantime and a visit to Clapham, but in the reverse order. I drank myself silly in the sunshine with friends at an assortment of establishments, and decided it was high time for a summer holiday and found myself curled up in a chilly tent whilst everyone around me was jumping onto a surf board.


Clapham, for once, was a sad and sobering place. Sobering for the fact that Carrie was moving out of her very lovely top floor apartment to a house in Balham. Of course in order to pack and move one's life possessions, one must be in possession of their brain.
Unfortunatley mine was laying at the bottom of a bird cage, shrivelled and craving water, diet coke, gin.....liquid of some kind. I opted for the safer H20 option. Followed later by the cold and sugary goodness of a pint of Diet Coke. Like Carrie moving in to another place with old friends, the ninja hangover joined and cohabited in my tiny, hurting brain with the small pain hiding at the back. Together they wreaked havoc.

We hadn't consumed a lot of alcohol. At least, I hadn't. I had gone to "The Falcon" at Clapham North, with the best intentions. A pint of lime and soda between every slightly alcoholic drink would build the defence against the tiny ruthless japanese attacker that hunts me down about 3 o'clock the following afternoon. Alas, my plan did not suceed. On one  (of many) trips to the crowded bar I had forgotten to ask for my 80p worth of hangover cure, and the rest they say is history. It takes a long time to build a habit, but a moment to destroy it. I found out the hard way.

Anyway I'm sure the soda tap went quite unused for the rest of the evening. Our companions, Carrie's assortment of friends (Charlotte included of course) who had joined her for birthday merriment took advantage of the celebrations and laced poor Carrie with multiple glasses of wine. Then, there  a sambuca shot shot was purchased. However, I don't think it made it too her because I'm sure it was at this point in the evening that she slid slowly off the bench into a small Carrie shaped heap on the floor. A little while later we escorted her home.
Now I lack any sort of scientific evidental proof that in the process of sleeping on the floor on a drunkenly engineered bed made of sofa cushions and IKEA blankets, her hangover dripped out her ears and into mine. Many would deem this impossible. However, it did set up camp and Carrie was feeling quite sprightly whilst my health deteriorated rapidly.
I didn't think I even drank enough to warrant a poorly head. Well, think or not, it was there. And it hurt all the way home.

The girl moving into Carrie's very empty room, made it very apparent that she wanted somewhere to live. We packed the last item into a pillowcase at just after 12 noon. Then went for breakfast/lunch/brunch. (If ever you get the chance, you must try 'Bread Etc'. I won't ruin the surprise, just go. Be prepared to queue and don't eat anything before. Whatever will I do when she lives in Balham -  aaah, fear not, "The Nightingale".)
 With the room only freshly emptied of every trace of her existance, the new girl wanted Carrie's keys at 2 o'clock. Now, I thought this all a little insenstitive and too much like grave jumping. I wanted to remain in the cold shell, and mourn Carrie's life there. All the times I had lost make up to the depths of her floor and the piles of stuff. All the times I had left half drunk glasses before leaving for nights out, only to find the smell of wine/rum/punch positively revolting the following morning. Many a night I have shared with Carrie in her bed, unconcious with the fumes of unknown beverages and the grime of London on my feet. Oh those happy, happy times - only to be masked by some other randomer's excursions and adventures. I wanted Carrie to sign her name on the wall, a lasting memory of the previous tennant. But as Miss O'Riley put it so eloquently, " London has no sentimentality."

Many might argue this fact, but in this instance, I nodded solemly.


I spent Sunday afternoon on the sofa in my very quiet home, sleeping. I should have been packing. But like most (and I make a severe generalisation) women I hate packing. I hate that I have to have a vast selection of outfits. What if I get to my destination and suddenly realise that "oh poo, I wish I had packed my scarlet sequinned strapless dress." I don't have a scarlet sequinned strapless dress and if you're focussing on that obscene concoction  then you have quite clearly missed the point.
I had not bought anything for my holiday. No new bikini. No new flip flops and not even a new pair of sunglasses. Even the suntan that I (eventually) packed had been gathering dust at the back of the bathroom cabinet.
Now a new bikini or any of the aforementioned items were really not important. I (and Frank) were going to be joining my family at our caravan that they had towed and pitched on a site in Croyde, North Devon. The neighbouring site was called 'Surfers Paradise'and there I rest my case. I was told I would just be living in  a wetsuit. We've all seen the extent of my fitness and I'll admit now quite shamefully that I don't like getting my face wet, (with the exception of showering) and the concept of standing, or attempting to, on a piece of fibreglass (?) as it flies through the water, did not appeal to me at all. My little (surf obsessed) sister was utterly disgusted. Even Frank donned a wetsuit and ran into the waves, while I lay on the beach trying to catch the few summer rays and completely engrossed in one of many books I had purchased only a few weeks ago. Oh how wonderful to have the the time to read and not worry about all those other idle things one should be doing instead....

In my haste to pack, because I'd left it so late, I forgot to cover every eventuality. I had packed shorts, three 'vintage' (not in the trendy use of the term, more like - these are old because I haven't bought any more) bikinis, t-shirts in every colour, for every combination.
I think secretly, I had hoped that my geography was wrong, and that Devon's climate actually resembled that of the Caribbean. Having studied there for three years, this was most unlikely. Perhaps Frank was included in some practical joke and actually we were going to be driving to the aiport and flying to the tropics.

So I didn't pack thermals, wellies, waterproof jackets, blankets, woolly socks, jumpers and coats. Last week I would have paid a lot of money for these on the black market. When you live in a house with central heating, and work in air conditioned office, and drive a temperature controlled car - you forget how cold it is a night. Especially when the wind rushes up off the sea and whips itself into a frenzy.
Poor Frank. I think I spent most of the evenings wearing his clothes. My bikinis made it to the beach once, my shorts left my suitcase twice - quickly replaced by a pair of jeans that were packed last minute, and my poor pasty white body saw the sun once. I'm sure to some of the small children building sandcastles I looked like a ghost in a huge floppy hat. ( I was protecting my newly coloured hair from turning ginger in the sunshine - or what there was of it!)

I really should refrain from berating my holiday, I sound so unappreciative. It wasn't all bad. We ate a lot of BBQ'd food. If I eat another prawn, I might look like one. Drank copious amounts of wine, apparently my liver had given up punishing me. And played one too many board games. Obviously they're much more fun when played with other slightly tipsy adults.

The highlight of my very brief holiday in the west country was saturday night. Now, I have never been one to sleep all that well in a tent. I like beds. I like heating. I like being able to shower in the morning without having to walk across a field. But I can put up with a tent for a little bit. And put up with it, I did.  I may have moaned about being cold, but I did not once whinge about the tent. (My sister and Frank might suggest otherwise).

But Saturday night, oh saturday you feisty little weather witch! The wind wanted to pull Frank's green and purple tent out of the ground, with us inside. Had it not been for Frank's expert pitching skills, I'm sure we would have been whipped up like Dorothy's house in "The Wizard of Oz".
We spent the night camping through a hurricane, or the dregs of one at least. Never in my life have I heard such ferocity. Such power. And so much bloomin' noise.

Actually, I was quite frightened. I burrowed beneath the duvet (yes duvet, no sleeping bags for me) and stuck my fingers in my ears. But it was to no avail. If Frank had heard it, he made no indication other than his initial "It's actually quite soothing", before falling asleep. Git.
I think I was awake for most of the night. We woke on sunday morning (the last day of our holiday) to bright blue skies and singing birds.
There was no trace of the hurricane other than in the the bleary sleep deprived eyes of those residents who were not knocked unconcious by the potent west country ciders.

We packed our tent, bid farewell to my family ( who are remaining in this beachy haven for another week, and if they return with caribbean tans I might weep and hang myself, cocoon-like from a tree in a sleeping bag) and drove home in the pouring rain.
Naturally I welcomed my home, the big sofa and my lovely comfy bed. And a bathroom at the end of a corridor. With hot water and no screaming children. Hoorah.

I returned to work this morning and already it feels as though I never went away. Oh and I'm broke.
Maybe the further away you go, the longer it takes to return to reality.

Frank - we're going to Oz next year! Better start popping those pounds in a piggy bank, eh?

...And then it was payday.

And so, her barren bank account has pennies again.
Or so she thought.

Once she pays out her rent (which she happily hands over), the car insurance (which she is less than happy about), her credit card bill (should she chop that up again?) and the money she owed Frank (for christmas flights to Berlin)... there aren't that many pennies left.

Certainly not enough to purchase all the beautiful items she has been coveting in this month's Vogue. Really she should stop buying it, but it's a little taste of heaven once a month. A little look at the dark side, those things she might be able to touch but never wear.

Save, her Father says to her. He has been saying this since she had her first money box.
Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, says her Grandfather.
Fancy lunch? says her best friend.
Oh my god - you have to have those shoes, says the other.

It's no wonder I never have pennies she moans.
Her Papa says that the more you earn the more you spend. He gives it a special name. She just calls it greed. The more you have, the more you want.
(Of everything in fact... except maybe ice-cream, although Frank may disagree. Never too much ice-cream)

If I had nothing, she mused, would I crave anything? I don't think I would realise what I was missing.
Perhaps I should sell everything, give my pennies away and move somewhere simple!

But if I sell everything, would I keep anything? Does the box of momentos in the attic mean anything to anyone else? Do they have a value? Would anyone buy them?
Perhaps I should get famous, she said to the Dog who was staring at her blankly. If I was famous then someone, somewhere would buy something I touched. Well, then if everyone did that, then I would have sold all my things and more. Like the pavement outside my house. Then I would make lots of money. I could get rid of all my things and then give all my money away too... after I had bought a ticket to somewhere simple of course.

Her sister overheard her talking to the Dogand chipped in with, but if you had once had everything and then gave it all away, you would know what you were missing. How do you know if you'd be happy then?

Oh and what a question it is...

... And then I learnt the hard way.

Do not cut fresh red chillis and touch your nose (even after washing your hands) apparently chilli oil is remarkably hard to get rid of and now my nostrils are on fire! Ice cubes please.

...And then I made a purse.

Apparently I'm too poor to buy one.

Actually I blame Frank.
I spent the whole afternoon trying to recreate something I pictured in my head for the briefest of moments.
There appears a communication error between my brain and my hands.
The little purse looks nothing like I imagined it to, and looks awful with the new handbag.

Ahhh, the handbag. My worst (or best, depending how you look at it) impulse buy in a long time. The problem with Sevenoaks, Frank's temporary home, is that it has lots of little boutique shops. The second problem with Sevenoaks is it has traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. And the third is that the cute boutique shops are right next to the lights and crossings.
So naturally, whilst waiting for a group of yummy mummies to cross with their troop of pushchairs, a very pink clutch handbag caught my eye.

The honk of a car horn brought me round, and I left the bag in the window. Unfortunately for Frank, who I hadn't seen for three weeks, the handbag was the first thing I spoke about.
Naturally I dragged Frank back to the shop and used up the last of my birthday money and a donation from him to make the bag my own.

Of course it matches nothing I own. Oh well.
But my purse doesn't fit. My lovely tan  "I'm-made-for-a-big-bag" sort of purse doesn't fit. So, I decided to make one.

What is more ridiculous is that I partly decided to do it because I didn't want to drive to town and pay to park. So... I spent the afternoon sewing and stitching the monstrosity that has now been destined to a life in the bin. I don't even want to associate myself with it.

oh dear.

So Frank has a share in a pink clutch bag, I have a home-made purse I hate (and a very clean car) and because Mumma Dodd is sofa bound (the bucking bronco incident) I have renewed and refreshed (not that I really needed to) by love for Miss Carrie Bradshaw.

Oh what a sunday.

...And then it all went up in a puff of feathers.

I'd not seen a pigeon explode on impact until this evening on the A3. It was an unfortunate incident, however I blame the stupid bird for flying across the path of a speeding Honda Jazz at roughly 70mph. The driver (female) looked incredibly shaken and distressed as I overtook. I, the heartless creature I am, tried to stifle the giggles. Any one overtaking me, would have thought me a crazy woman. Upon looking in the rearview mirror after pulling infront of the pigeon-killer, I saw the birds headless carcuss mushed up against the grill.

I shouldn't laugh really, the pigeons can't help being brainless (or in this case headless) and I wouldn't  like to be the woman peeling the pigeon from the front of her car. What a nice surprise she'll have had when she reached her destination. A balding dead pigeon.

So the weekend finished with the bird explosion, the most exciting event to have happened in the past 56 hours ( I must include my Friday night, because my weekend starts at 5.01pm)

I find that my weekends are primarily for relaxing, catching up with friends and doing all those activities in the week that you have no time for (or more likely, can't be bothered to do). But this weekend was another weekend without Frank, and Miss Hendo and Miss USA were missing too. Unfortunatley for me, they had decided to book annual leave at the same time. Needless to say it has been a rather uneventful and quite week in the office followed by an equally quiet weekend.

On saturday morning, Mumma (now an invalid due to a intoxicated incident with a bucking bronco) lounged on the sofa with an ice pack, catching up on a television box set that she missed when it premiered.
Now I will be the first to argue that Sex and the City shall never lose its place in the heart of many women, each of them hoping their lives might be a little more like those of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. Or if not like them, then at least worthy of an internationally acclaimed series.

After watching any episode of this brilliant programme that has a cult like following, I pretend that I lunch with friends all the time, that I live in a beautiful brownstone and have an incredible shoe collection. Of course none of this is even remotely true or even likely to blossom into future reality, but I pretend nonetheless. So on saturday afternoon, spurred by desire for new reading material and a little escapism from the mundaneness of the week - I slipped my feet into my favourite pair of heels, put on my new trench coat (for a little of that classic chic-ness) and my film star sunglasses (a gift from Frank to complete the look) and drove into the city, parked and wandered through the throng of saturday shoppers to the quiet escape of Waterstones. Now this is not something that any of the SATC girls would consider (with maybe the exception of Charlotte) but I felt I looked the part, regardless of my selected activity.

So call me an oddball, I really don't mind - or choose another carefully selected endearing term for 'weirdo', but I love bookshops and libraries. I prefer the shops because they have a particular smell, and all the pages are crisp (See? Strange girl) I spent two and a half hours perusing the shelves in the basement of my favourite bookshop. It has comfy chairs and low lighting and it's so unbelievably quiet. Nobody makes a sound. Even the cash registers don't beep. Its odd really, to find somewhere so peaceful amidst the hubub of the high street, and people respect the tranquility. Never have I heard a rowdy bunch of shoppers enter the store, and if they have I believe they were escorted quickly from the premises.

I intended to purchase only three books with the remainder of my birthday pennies from the parents. But the problem with  the "three for two" offer is that you want to make sure that you are buying the best three books possible.

I kept picking books up , reading the back, putting them down. Selecting another, reading the first chapter and then returning it to the pile. It was this indecisiveness that resulted in my careful selection of not three, but six books.
You see, you can't select four or five in this instance because the third and sixth book are free - it would be rude to leave the shop without the literary work of some potentially unknown author when you aren't being charged for it.

I felt like quite the educated young lady, until I reached the 'classics' shelf and realised how few I had read. I will not disclose the actual figure for fear of it ruining any predetermined ideas about my education and knowledge. I shall make it known however, that not once did I pick up one of those "chick flick" books. They have the brightly decorated covers that scream "fun" and "simple". I love them (on occasion, when my brain is addled and requires easy words to mull over) but I felt that that nearly three hours of perusing and careful selection would be wasted if I left with an array of simple reading.

I paid for my six books, and refused the offer of a Mr Men bookmark. Apologies Roger Hargreaves, I would rather not have Mr Bump looking at me as I read. No hard feelings of course.

I wondered what else I might do to fill my solitary afternoon. There were no museums and no art gallery to wander around to expand my capacity for knowledge and culture. So I went to Starbucks. When in doubt a double shot, extra hot, tall skinny cappuccino with a shot of irish cream syrup always sorts me out.
So I sat at the window of this coffee franchise (which doesn't smell like ground and roasted coffee beans and more like stale air conditioning) and watched the world go by. Soon the coffee was gone, and I wished I had bought a muffin to silence the grumbling from my tummy. But no. I refused the option of additional extras because Starbucks have now printed the calorie content of all their beverages on the menu board. Now, I am no calorie counter, but when someone shows you how much 'stuff' is in your drink, you begin to feel a little self concious when you order cake too!

Naturally my parents were shocked by the amount of pennies spent, when I'd only intended to buy one book (alas the well considered marketing strategy of book offers and impulse purchases). So much money for words!

So now I have five books to read (sadly I am a quick reader and the stack of books was just too tempting. You must all read "When God was a Rabbit" - and no, I am not blaspheming). However I feel these five books will provide great comfort when the delayed shock of bird manslaughter sets in.

And because it is such a great way to spend a quiet rainy afternoon, I shall never buy a Kindle.


N.B Isn't it odd that a word to describe the unlawful killing of another being without malicious intent, contains such a happy word? Man's-laughter ... makes a mockery of the justice system don't you think?

...And then it was a totally amazing Friday night.

Or not.

It turns out that I forgot to make any plans. I got this week, next week and last week nicely muddled. Very well done!

But rather than spend the night infront of awful british television waiting for sleep to consume me, I decided to embrace some physical activity and... move my room around.
Oh what a enthralling Friday evening.

However, laugh all you like - I shall have no hangover in the morning and I found a pair of earrings I thought I'd lost months ago. Would you believe it?
So while the parents were dressing themselves up in a long dress and penguin suit ready for a night out with a free bar, I ate shop bought pizza from a famous restaurant chain... the fast pizza place. (Its never as good without the doughballs. And I've got quite used to the missing chunk in the middle and replaced with green leaves.) Mine was burnt this evening and came with onion rings and bahjis.
Don't ask. I let the smallest Dodd cook.
Never again.

I thought I would tidy at the same time as reshuffling furniture, y'know be ruthless and throw out things I havent needed or touched in a year.
Realistically I've just found new homes for everything. I can't even claim that there will be logic involved in my tidying, the smallest Dodd was involved and I was drinking gin. After all it is a Friday. I just haven't treated it like one. What a waste.

I think I might blame it on my lack of fun pennies to spend, all because of stupid Brian. I will admit to my naivity and say that I thought my car would only cost about £150 for MOT and service, and I think I just expected my insurance to be the same as last year.
Actually its not. According to the insurance companies I am a boy. Even though I am female (obviously) because I am twenty-two I must drive like a twenty-two year old male. My premium reflects this.
I will also admit that I am no pro at reversing, but I'm not worth £892 of bad reversing. Don't even do it that much. Always try to move forward....


So what a night.
I ate burnt pizza, dragged bookshelves across my carpet and scuffed the wall (sssh, no one will ever know because I strategically placed a picture!) and compared the meerkat dot com for cheap car insurance.
I need to get a life!

...And then I lost my policeman virginity.

No. Not like that.

And no, I didn’t spend the evening in a cell either.

I have lost my lovely v-plates to the threat of a delicious brown envelope crashing through the postbox.

Smile and say ‘cheese’?

Yes that’s right, there might be three points and a £60 fine on their way to me as we ‘speak’. I am quite the angry person, and it’s just in time for my insurance renewal.

Where does this £60 go, eh? I know I’m not the only one who drives a little over 35mph in a 30-zone, so there must be a very nice pot on the desk of some office in London, waiting for the Policeman’s Ball when it’s given out as a prize to the Officer who scored the most speed traps.

There wasn’t even a chance to be pulled over and bat my eyelashes “Oh gosh Officer, I am ever so sorry.”

It was a mobile unit.

They were too ashamed to even show their faces. It’s okay chaps, I know that you speed too!

Those mobile trucks must be thug/idiot/driver proof to stop people like me going back, pulling up, getting out and knocking on the door. Obviously I was going to be much calmer that your average speeder. But by the time I’d planned what I might say I’d already gone sailing up the other side of the hill. Nearly jumped a red too – what a laugh!

I’m just praying for an empty doormat next week. Otherwise…I’ll be £60 less rich, £60 less close to my Mulberry handbag and you know that every insurance company will double my quote, just because they can.

If I was only a 2 mph over the ‘allowed limit’ I shall cry. A lot.

And to think that I avoided the motorway to save petrol money! PAH!

...And then I should've listened to my instincts.

It appears that I have a complete inability to listen to my gut.


I don't know when I'm full, so I keep eating until I am a proud Mumma of a glorious food baby. I complain. I moan. I decide to exercise to boost my metabolism, which makes me hungrier, so I eat more. And the circle begins.


I know that purchasing cinema sweeties is a bad idea...but I do it anyway. And spend £6, that's right - the cost of a cinema ticket on a small coke and pic'n'mix jazzles (the white buttons with sprinkles). I only had one type of sweetie (oh and chocolate raisins, that were actually peanuts in the wrong contained. Vue - I am glad I don't have allergies) so they should give me some sort of discount, it was hardly a mix. Pah! ... Should've bought your own sweeties, I hear you cry. Yes. Yes I should.

I know that there are better fitting dresses out there, but I purchase an 'okay' one anyway, only to drive back to return it the following day. (Along with an array of other items, that were solely impulse buys and should never have left the store - thank god for refunds) I know that parking in a 30 minutes free parking zone is a risk, but I do it anyway. Only to run back to my car, because every store had a queue, to see the traffic warden scouting the car park waching the clock so they can slap a ticket on your windscreen as soon as your time is up. I think I had seconds to spare. I'm getting good at cutting it fine, if that is of course an admirable trait to have. My gut says no.

I also didn't listen to the little voice who told me to change out of white jeans (which did not belong to me) before I began to serve up a lasagne. I was so preoccupied with the 'perfect' serving, and not splashing myself that I didn't see the crispy cheese stringing along and the dollop of meat sauce land on my foot.
But I felt it.
I have a blister on my foot. It's huge. From a lasagne. I can't even pop it because then I can't wear shoes.And if I can't wear shoes? ...Lets not consider this. Havaiana's would not be appreciated in the office. So I am stuck with an unsightly postule of my foot.
Perhaps next time I might wear steel toe capped boots?
If I suggest it to myself, I probably won't listen.

I think I have what can be called a minor split personality defect, not enough to be deemed dangerous or medically unstable, but enough to cause seemingly insignifcant problems, which snowball into catastrophic proportions.
Not that my burn fits this classification, nor the returning of goods or even the expensive sweeties.
However we could play the game of consequences and my purchasing of expensive sweeties results in my lack of change in the purse, which means that I am unable to pay my parking fee, which means Brian and I would be stuck in the carpark, there would be a parking officer and a clamp involved and because I had already bought a serious amount of ill-fitting clothes, there would be no money to pay for the removal. Therefore he would be towed and taken to a scrap heap. And where would I be?
Still in the carpark. Car- less. With a student overdraft, loan and no money to buy a replacement. And Frank would never see me.

See? So maybe I should start paying attention to that little voice.
It sounds spookily like Mumma Dodd (or Papa Dodd if it involves pennies) and they're always right. Or in the unlikely instance that one of them is wrong, then the other one won't be. And if in the unlikelier event that they're both wrong, then there probably wasn't a right answer anyay.

So now it's time to pay attention to those (sometimes conflicting) opinions, perhaps  I'll be more productive because I'll spend less time recitifying the things that could've been done right in the first place.

And so it appears that I have reached a life changing observation...
But an observation is merely bearing witness to something, so it doesn't neceassarily affect how I move forward. Gut, what do you think?

N.B
I am almost certain that addressing your internal organs is a secondary sign of insanity.

...And then it was time to call in the big dogs.

I have decided, though secretly I have known it for quite some time, that I am awful at exercise.

I cannot pretend to be one of those people who love to exercise. It’s the first thing they think of the in the morning, and when they eat they are far more concerned with how they will burn it off.

As you are all aware (from previous blogs, which weren’t about shoes!) I have been running. Or at least attempting to run frequently and to power through the pain and stitches that I suffer after about a mile sometimes even less. On one occasion I got cramp tying my shoes laces.

I do not want to be long distance runner, I just want to be fitter. I don’t care if I can run a marathon (would be nice, but ridiculously unachievable at the moment)  - I would just like to fit enough so that I that my chest doesn’t explode and so I don’t look like I’ve been swimming when I get back.

Is that too much to ask?

The problem with being a self-motivated home-exerciser is that somehow there is always a reason not to go. “Its not sunny enough”, “its too sunny”, “its raining”, “it’s just been raining so I might fall over”… or my favourite and most well-used, “I can’t be bothered”

So it was time to call in the big dogs.

I have recruited the help of happy and enthusiastic exercisers – but who turn on you in an instant if you are rubbish. The bulldogs of fitness.

Yes, I have joined exercise classes with the Mr and Mrs Motivators of this world.

… And Miss USA and Miss Hendo come too.

It seemed the next logical (and only) step. I ignore myself when I tell myself to keep running to the next lamp post, but when there’s some one yelling at me to “…grape vine to the left, squat, squat, grape vine to the right, and squat. Squat lower ladies…” then I feel like I have to.

If I don’t she might single me out as the weak and feeble one, and make me run laps round the studio. And the nightmares of gym lessons at school return – Always the aspiring athlete!

So last night it was the turn of the aerobics class. And no – it was nothing like an Eric Prydz video.

 There was a lot more sweat and less flesh on show.

The problem with the exercise studios (apart from the squeaky floorboards, lack of ventilation and the wall length mirror), is that they have clocks. So for the unfit people in the room, watching the time move slowly is torture, more torturous than squats and crunches and looking at your glowing red and soggy reflection.

I try and kid myself that I am one of those fitness goddesses … then I catch myself in the mirror. Oh dear god!

I realised how totally uncoordinated I am since finishing dance lessons. My ability to watch and copy has disappeared. My feet go one way, I go the other, I’m four steps behind every one else and just as I get the hang of a routine, it changes. How the women at the front remain perfectly in time, without breaking a sweat or going red in the face is a miracle. If someone was to look at the class, they would see all the perfect people at the front, with their perfect moves, and then it falls apart the nearer to the back you get.

By the end of the class, I was at the back with the geriatrics.  And at least they were keeping time.

Stretching after these classes is always such a great feeling. It makes all the pain and aching so much better. And it’s a great chance to breathe. Something which I am convinced that I forget to do in the class.

So we finish up the class looking like we’ve been swimming and a grab a yoga mat. As soon as I lay on it I could feel the full body imprint being transferred. Mmm, yum!

And then Miss USA and I got the uncontrollable giggles in a room full of silent people and heavy breathing people, everyone concentrating on pulling the muscles out. It’s hard to pull out a stretch when every part of you is dripping. Sweaty skin is not very good for holding on to. How we were meant to lie on our backs with one leg in the air and pull it gently towards us when our hands were just sliding down our shins, I will never know. But no one else seemed to struggle. Except Miss Hendo, who rather than sweaty shins, had clammy hands. No grip there either apparently.

Anyway, I drank 2 litres of squash and had the remnants of the days make up dripping down my face. In my post exercise delirium, just as the endorphins kicked in – I agreed to go again next week. And some how managed to sign myself up for legs bums and tums on Thursday.

N.B I

To my disgust, I managed to spend £380 yesterday without even being present. Brian went to the garage. Even less money for coffee and shoes this month, especially as my insurance is now the same as teenage boy’s. Very unimpressed

N.B II

Yesterday, Gatwick air traffic control centre was struck by lightning, causing ridiculous train delays. Yes that’s right, the air traffic control centre was affected…And I thought “leaves on the line” was a bad excuse. Thank you Carrie for letting the world know that our train network doesn’t function in thunderstorms.

...And then I realised I had a friend

Shall we just for one moment consider this word - friend.
It's a very lovely little word but means so much and when someone calls you a friend (provided you like them) its actually quite touching.
And I have just found myself with another one.

My beauty therapist.
Its not surprising really. One's beauty therapist is a very trusted person, and someone who you quite look forward to seeing. Even if it is just because she will restore that wonderful smoothness to your legs by ripping all the hairs out.
I like seeing my friends, they make me feel calm when I'm stressed, they know lots of things about me and they make me laugh... a lot.
She does the same. Its amazing what secrets you share to a woman you only see every four weeks.

Admittedly there is quite a lot of pain. Honestly, I always tell other people it doesn't hurt ... that's a mini white lie (bang, there goes my trusting trait, sorry friends) It does hurt a little bit - sometimes quite a lot. BUT, if your therapist (your friend) is actually a good therapist (friend) then she will never intentionally inflict pain on you. Unless of course you upset her - which I'm sure is quite like your normal, non-beautician friends.

My BT (Yes, I shall now use this ultra trendy acronym, I hope it isn't also shared with some other adverse meaning) is fantastic. I feel instantly calm when I walk through the little door that goes ping to announce my arrival. And the smell of expensive and luxurious products makes me feel happy. ( I still can't afford these yet, but never mind)  I don't even mind the hot wax. I accept that it's part of the treatment... that's how relaxed I am. Who ever thought it was a good idea?
(I'm guessing maybe it was a bloke. Or an accidental discovery by a prehistoric ape-woman)

I hear all about her life, her little boy and the trivial events of daily life. And she gets to hear me off-load about my job, and tell her all about my adventures of the past couple of weeks.
Today I found out that her Rottweiler is bathed with Tigi/bedhead shampoo. Hilarious. For the record this is a very nice shampoo brand for ... humans. Apparently they make a special dog shampoo too. This very butch (male) pooch is regularly bathed in strawberry scented shampoos. I laughed so much that I forgot I was having hot waxed dripped on my legs.

She also told me, and this I cannot quite believe, in fact I am quite shocked and impressed. This weekend her husband suggested that they go shopping.  Yes, you read this (and I heard it) correctly, HE suggested the shopping trip. She tried on a beautiful pair of cream shoes in John Lewis (who are never knowingly undersold). According to my BT, these shoes were perfect. I do not doubt this, especially when you consider the £150 price tag. She hadn't noticed this lovely tag and removed them from her feet and gave them back to the shop assistant. At which point her husband (who never spends money) said "Go on, I'll treat you".
Another very impressive trait. Lots of brownie points for the BT hubby.

But she point blank refused!!!
Crazy woman.
 Had she been on her own, my BT admitted she probably would have bought them, but she couldn't bring herself to let her husband to purchase them. He even took her to the desk to pay, and she still said no. I'm impressed. I think she's a bit of a wally, but I am impressed. She had her realistic head on that day, and if they had been any other colour but cream they would have gone home with her. But cream shoes are destined for a lifetime spent in their box at the back of the wardrobe with a polaroid to remind you what your box contains. I have a pair - minus the polaroid. (I'll agree that it's a great organisational tool but I don't have a polaroid camera.)

I told her that I thought he was employing some sort of reverse psychology. She nodded and then said "yes, but..." ......Guess what? He offered to buy a Fiorelli bag instead.
I am shocked by this complete ignorance of the male stereotype. Congratulations BT hubby. You deserve an award. Unless of course it was some sort of backward ploy in which case, well done on fooling your missus! She's been telling all her clients about you and now with your collection of brownie points, when you ask hog the remote and watch the sport - then of course she will say yes!

My stomach muscles hurt just as much as my legs did, just from laughing. The only thing that would make my lovely little salon experiences even better would be a cappuccino/ latte or espresso depending on my caffeine need.
Except that in hindsight, coffee, hot wax and laughing lots would probably not be such a great combination.
Perhaps I could drink it out of a flask through a straw.
I'll suggest it to my friend in four weeks time.

...And then it was time to say goodbye

Waking up at 6am on a Sunday is never fantastic. It's even less exciting when you know that you have to say goodbye to a sister who will be missed.

Heathrow's Terminal 4 was packed full of people off on holiday and saying goodbye to loved ones. Unfortunately we were the latter. My little sister left for the grand old US of A this morning. A 10am flight. A miserable queue at check-in and a cup of coffee to the delay the goodbye. Even with the week of preparation I've had (she found out she was leaving last weekend), and a sobering coffee I still could not help but shed a few (aka quite a lot) of tears as she disappeared through security into the departure lounge, where only those with a boarding pass may enter. How I shall miss her mischievous grin and contagious laugh.

I had already cried twice by the point that her bouncing blonde hair disappeared without even a hesitant look back. First at a young couple, perhaps the same age as Frank and I, hugging and sobbing. He was leaving. And she, well she was beside herself. However, she managed to master the art of the beautiful cry. You know the  one where the tears fall daintily down your cheeks, and leave mascara perfectly intact? I'm not sure whether I was crying because it was sad to watch (and I'm an emotional person) or whether it was through jealousy at the perfect soggy face?

Second, was a Daddy saying goodbye to his two little and beautiful girls hugging their Daddy's knees as he bent down to say goodbye, while Mummy stood next to them smiling fondly and holding back the ever impending tears. And what with today being Father's Day, I just fell apart. What a soppy cow.

Airports are very sad places when you're not the one jetting off... Unless of course you're stood along the security barrier in Arrivals, when secretly everyone is re-enacting the closing sequence of 'Love Actually'. Subconsciously you know that you do it, unless of course you have not yet seen the film... in which case, where have you been every Christmas?

I wish my little sister a fantastic three months. (Secretly I am very jealous, though I am sure she know's this really) In hindsight it's pretty wasted on here, because she'll be so busy teaching small American children how to compete at Wimbledon (she's a tennis coach) that she won't have the chance to read this and by the time she does she'll almost definitely be at home anyway. Never mind - the sentiment is there.

On a more trivial note, I have also said goodbye to a productive shopping trip. Yesterday, I ventured into the city to spend some lovely birthday money. Its always fantastic spending this because you cannot feel guilty. It was a gift. Do with it what you will.

Miss USA and Miss Hendo accompanied me on this little trip. I was stupidly excited. The girls bought me an Office voucher to spend graciously.

For those that don't know me or have never spent a moment in my company, aside from buying a year's supply of Starbucks/ Cafe Nero/ Costa/ Pret a Manger - this gift was perfect. It had been thoughtfully chosen so that I could purchase a pair of beautiful shoes that I had been coveting for weeks. In fact... perhaps months. Yet, I had never tried them on. I knew that if I did I would want to buy them. I refrained. 

Impressive.

But yesterday, yesterday was the day to allow my feet to meet the shoes. To describe them makes them sound awful. But they were earthy coloured strappy high heels with a miniature peacock feathers and beading down the front. Not at all discreet. But very pretty.

And they looked awful. It transpires that my feet do not appreciate peep toe shoes. 

I tried on every other pair of shoes, and purchased none.

And this afternoon I said goodbye to the two items I did buy because somehow they looked a little less fabulous than they had in the changing room. And the image you concoct when you mentally add accessories and shoes to complete the outfit, never matches the reality. And it just looks awful.

So my shopping treatment was less than fruitful to say the least. I'm adamant that somehow the high street stores know when you don't have money to spend. They put all the beautiful things on display to tempt you into spending non-existent pennies. Yet when the pennies are bursting out of your purse, you only ever see things you would never ever want to add to the ever expanding wardrobe.

This theory is exempt from designer retailers. These beautiful stores are always cruelly tempting me, beckoning me into their depths with beautiful fabrics and patterns. Somehow ( and I haven't worked this out yet) my inner-sensible person stops me from entering and blowing inexplicable amounts of money and imprinting the credit card statement with figures that would hurt me.

So although I said goodbye to my little sister which I never wanted to do, I didn't spend a penny which I was desperate to do.

How cruel life can be. But like they say "there are plenty more fish in the sea"... I'm pretty sure this relates to men/women after a break up, but in this case it is worthy of the shoe hunt.

...And then there was the non-milestone birthday.

And so, it was on this weekend of mixed weather fronts that I turned the insignificant twenty-two. Gone are the days of the big parties with all those friends and family (who you rarely ever see) and roll on the birthday evenings in the pub.

These are the kinds of evenings that you know will end up abanding your car in the carpark for the night, and you resolve yourselves to commence an evening of visits to the bar and an ever growing collection of empty glasses. The heavy rain had passed, finally. I apologise to anyone who had weather permitting plans that were ruined by precipitation - I should have publicly announced that June 10th never passes without a rain storm of sorts.

Frank, Miss Hendo, Miss USA and my little fashionista sister (who made the trip down from Birmingham) joined me on my birthday and saved me from the shame of lonesome drinking. We drank a lot of gin/southern comfort/beer/vodka cranberry juice. And it was quite a lot.Too much some might say, but we wouldn't agree I'm sure. Much of the evening was spent laughing ( my cheeks were very sore on saturday morning) and teaching my friends how to play 'FIVES' - a 'game' that is, oh so quintessentially Exeter. Used to determine who will be making the tea, rides shotgun, takes out the rubbish, or just a drinking game played by every sport team/department on campus. It was surprising how quick it was picked up. Well done ladies. Question is, do we still remember how to play it? Or did the rules disappear with the onset of a hangover?

Papa Dodd played the role of 'ever-obliging cabbie' and picked up a rowdy group of friends. Very much appreciated Papa!
Upon returning home I realised the full scale of my intoxication and forced myself (and Frank) to drink 3 pints of Robinsons orange squash. I also took two painkillers, which is why I was able to get up bright and early on saturday morning without any struggle. I also managed to tie up my trainers, collect the pooch from her cosy warm bed and run back to the pub to collect my car before Family Dodd (minus Mumma Dodd - who is currently sunning herself in Cyprus) packed themselves and a picnic into the car and journeyed to Sandown Races for a sunny day of gambling.
Mr Quiche, my unofficial Godfather (on account of not being religious) also joined us for a glorious day. How many people won pennies? Well I am sure that plenty of people went home with pockets bulging, however we (like the majority of other racegoers) had very light pockets. Frank backed many losers, and lost many pennies, then won it all back, was £2.50 up and then lost it on the last race. Oh well, such is the unpredictable nature of odds and horses. Sometimes you just shouldn't trust either, and pick the name instead - oh "Mr Rainbow" if only you'd run a little faster.

And so the evening began with a fantastic Irish band playing on an outdoor stage. Now, everyone knows that Irish music makes you want to dance and jig and move those little feet. Apparently the English by generalisation are not aware of this musical understanding. Not only was there a 5 metre perimeter between the stage and the audience but no one was moving. (Not even any foot tapping.) No one that is, until Frank grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out into the void. Originally, he 'wooed' me with his dancing, so I was no stranger to 'the moves'. But a year ago it was in a club full of very drunk students dancing wildly to 'Summer of  69'. This was a little different. We had an audience. Had a drunk a combination of wine and very nice Champagne, but this did not stop my overwhelming sense of self-awareness. Not actually a lover of the spotlight apparently, as it turns out.
I am so grateful for my decision to wear 'posh' sandals rather than towering heels. I was able to control my two left feet, while blushing madly and avoided my bottom meeting the concrete. Frank did have hold of me, so I don't think I would have slipped anyway.

Well, until the heavens opened and everyone was soaked. Including the unfortunate lady who had chosen to wear a slightly too large bandeau dress and experienced a fashion mishap. It goes without saying that the gentlemen in the audience were more than appreciative of the increased amount of body that was exposed. They were of course, ignoring the glares of their wives/girlfriends/female best friends who have secretly been harbouring feelings for them for years.

We left, not because we were soggy (I'll never understand how to achieve the alluring 'caught in the rain' look), but because we had to keep our dinner reservations. But as we left the now dancing crowd, enjoying both music and rain, the band struck up a rendition of 'Galway Girl'.
This song will now forever remind me of my 22nd Birthday at the races, getting soaked to the bone dancing with Frank and has created an unexplainable desire to go to Ireland, drink Guiness in a tavern, and jig until my little feet can't dance anymore.

... And then I learnt a valuable lesson

Don't run before you can walk. I'm sure this is probably related to the phrase "Don't bite off more than you can chew" I am also sure that in both cases we aren't literally talking about running and eating. But in this case we are. Trying to run after 3 weeks of no exercise, save for walking to my car and round London a bit, is a bad idea. Not for health reasons or damaging unused muscle, but just to protect your pride. There is nothing worse than attempting to make a day less strenuous by beating it in to the road- and then being unable to beat it at all. I walked most of my route. And not even fast enough for my stressed out body to justify sweating. Even though I burnt minus calories, I piled my plate high with food. (Of the homecooked variety, morrocan chicken actaully) But it was so good I ate too much too quickley, I feel like I forgot to chew and now I am nursing a food baby rather than aching muscles. What a tuesday eh?

....And then I remembered...

...Ah yes, I have a blog!

My sincerest apololgies dear readers for abandoning you for what seems longer than two weeks - in fact it probably is. But so much has occured and in all my excitement I have been too busy living it all to sit at my trusty computer to relate it all. But here goes...

First there was a three day training course in London town. The excitement of a fully expensed hotel in Bloomsbury Square. The novelty of which quickley rubs off when you realise that you aren't really the best company for yourself. I spent an embarassingly long time flicking on all the light switches until I realised the power was turned on by a room key shaped slot in the wall. I had issues with the very confusing shower, so much so that it almost came to a bath over the sink until I decided enough was enough, swallowed my pride and called the front desk. I also learnt how not to dine alone. Breakfast etiquette in hotels requires the morning paper or some sort of reading material ( not a tabloid paper or gossip magazine) and you do not under any circumstances face the other single diners in the room. It makes the nervous, and they fidget. According to "A single-diners breakfast etiquette in hotels", you all face the same way on individual tables, and never should you greet a fellow diner. It shocks them and the spill their tea or drop their toast in the beans leaving an impressive Expressionist art pattern on their crisp white shirts. Even though I had observed these unwritten rules, I managed to forget them in my sleep and relive my embarassment on both mornings. And the unbelievably indiscreet person who does not belong in the hotel? The one who knocks cutlery off tables and clinks the cup to the saucer too loud? The one who everyone looks at and cringes? ... that was me.

Upon returning home and after the shame in realising that I was clearly not quite the well poised individual I had originally thought had subsided, I was struck down with misbehaving kidneys. Oh the pain, the tears, the painkillers and magical antibiotics.

This was followed by a delightfully surprising premature (by a week) celebratory birthday trip to London town with Frank. The city may have been the same but this little person has never been wined and dined so well. Nor has she stayed in such a beautiful hotel (it had a grand staircase with plushy carpet, and I am not ashamed to admit that I might've, on more than one occassion, pretended I was a Princess. You just have to in these situations) It didn't matter that I couldn't put my cup down quietly or butter my toast delicately, because I had Frank with me. And I didn't care if I looked like a fool. Lets face it trips are always more entertaining when its pleasure not business.
Frank is a superstar. My purse didn't leave my handbag once, except for taking out my oyster card and paying for some really cold and exciting ice cream in Leicester Square. Of course purchasing ice cream was comparitively inexpenisive for Frank, who's wallet is considerably lighter than before he met me.We had none of this, "Lets explore the backstreets" business. We were proud to be unseasoned vistors. Proud to use the concierge service to ask for directions. Frank and I were tourists by day and tourists  who explored a little off the beaten track by night. It was fantastic. For once I didnt mind gawking at my tube map on the underground or walking slowly to annoy the Suits.
And to top off my delightful bank holiday weekend? A hot air balloon flight of course. The great thing about the flight was that it prolonged that amazing view you get as you take off on a plane before you disappear into the clouds. Obviously it wasn't through a tiny square window and there was no temporary take-off face lift either. It was the calm and quiet, until we landed with a small bump on a golf course and interrupted a game. Sorry chaps!

I returned home for two days, showed my face in the office, worked through an insane amount of emails and then made my routine trip to Ipswich on friday night. The duration of this journey I would rather not discuss, however for the sake of additional comment and questions - I spent a less than desirable amount of time in  incredibly long and solid queues on the M25 (I even turned Brian off and got out for a stretch. It was a carpark in the glorious sunshine) and was stuck behind all manner of idiots with an innate inability to drive and a complete misunderstanding of motorway etiquette.
So here is a polite notice to some of those drivers in particular -
Dear M25/ Friday night/ half term drivers,
When someone is stuck up your rear end in the middle lane and clearly wants to get past, and it is illegal to undertake, would you please use your iniative and move right on over. Now.
Thankyou

Of course, this comment is now over and shall never be mentioned again. Provided they all learn.


Frank and I, once we'd recovered from the aftermath of a Friday night cocktail party, ventured into Ipswich on a little shopping spree. Now I say 'spree'... it wasn't.  I gave up on my quest for high heeled tan sandals after about ten minutes ( I don't know what's happened to me, maybe the kidneys have had a life changing affect). Frank bought a pair of chinos.
Of the pair of us, it is quite obvious that I am the impulse buyer. To be honest, I think it should be a recognised medical condition. There have been many times when I have returned home laden with bags and a battered bank account only to find that months later these "had-to-have" purchase hang tagged and unworn in my wardrobe. But the receipts are missing. Covenient.

However Frank made the mammoth of all impulse purchases. Well maybe not the most mammoth, because it wasn't a supercar or a yacht, but an impressive impulse nonetheless.
We visited a food retailer whose corporate branding "Every little helps" suggests that even if dying from starvation, their value ketchup might save me from the white light at the end of the tunnel. Or maybe that saving 3p on a tin of beans will help those pennies in your bank account grow.

We went in for beer. Had we left with only beer then Frank's pockets might be a little heavier. But we didn't. We got sidetracked. Frank decided to fill little Brian with  a very large box containing a brand new 40" widescreen telly. And a new DVD player. Shower soap and three crates of beer.
Quite possibly  the most random of shopping baskets.

Upon returning to the homestead, I allowed Frank to begin assembling and playing with his new toy. I cooked dinner. Oh Germaine Greer would be proud.
Frank developed a man crush. His new gadget fed him sports scores. Showed him other gadgets he would definitely need. Allowed him to surf the internet. Watch week old programmes on iPlayer. But it didn't fetch ice cold beer from the fridge. I did this. And poured it.

Frank, I now know how you feel when I buy a beautiful new pair of shoes, which I haven't done for quite some time but I feel that in order to fill the temporary boyfriend shaped void in my life I will need to fill it with a small pair of shoe-shaped purchases.

N.B This man crush will be over next week, once the boys have gawped at the telly and drunk all the beer. Once Frank realises that he can't have a conversation with an intellectual programme he shall come back to me... I shall welcome him back with open arms and new shoes on my feet.

...And then there was a bizarre weekend.

Contrary to the belief of one ...fruit loop (let's at least be kind about the man who is now missing) I think I'm still walking the earth. I'm pretty sure nothing has changed and that I am neither in heaven or hell, but carrying on with my daily routine - currently sat on another train bound for london waterloo full of commuters, suited and booted. It does appear women are in the minority. Unless of course there is now a specially allocated carriage for those with a different chromosome pairing. After the weekend of bizarreness I should not be surprised. I made the routine journey to Frank's this weekend, detouring via the town of Kings, obviously more commonly known as Kingston to collect a Miss BBL and her charming chap, the guitarist for the band previously named "hang on, look john". I will not leak their new identity unlike the Scottish Herald, in the newest twist in the tale of the philandering footballer. I do find it slightly odd that having a few more pennies that standard Joe buys you anonymity for being a cheat...at least until Twitterers outed this bloke! So Miss BBL, Mr Guitar and myself boarded Brian for the last 2hour leg of the trip. Minutes after leaving the built up suburbs of Kingston, we drove past a sheep field. The contents of which, as the name alludes, was sheep. And plenty of them. But all standing and facing the same way. Their subject of curiosity was a solitary Llama. This anomaly was stood, quite regally in the centre of the field, with a small group of sheepish followers all keen to gawp at the overgrown goat. I will now admit, to you my readers, that the first time I passed Llamas in a field, I was not much younger than I am now and asked Papa Dodd 'why do those goats have such long necks?' This of course, was not my finest hour. After the llama/sheep surprise the drive was quite uneventful. Arrived with Frank and dutifully wandered to the pub. It was here that I, even though in hindsight I'm sure I knew it already, consumed wine, gin and tonic, and a shot of a sambuca. These do not mix well when the only item of food eaten since lunch was an oreo mcflurry. A choice of 'dessert' I shall never make again, solely for the fact they (the wonderful staff of the golden arches restaurant chain) never provided enough biscuit-y goodness for the quantity of ice-cream. Saturday passed without event, aside from a country drive to a riverside pub and the crass-rewriting of a popular song from yester-year. The single of which, Frank confessed to owning. For the sake of his reputation I will not divulge the details to my hoards of online readers/followers. (By the way, thank you so much for joining me and my regular warblings!) Mr Furry joined us later the same afternoon for some deckchair delight, and duck feeding by the local lake. Frank"s newly purchased garden furniture would not have been out of place on Brighton beach, but the traditonal green and white stripes and folding mechanics of these wooden seats looked quite ridiculous round a lake with a the ducks. However they were so comfortable that any sarcastic comments and laughter were quickley withdrawn. The sunshine did of course scorch my milk-bottle glow. Note to self: always wear spf30... Or a bin liner! It all seemed to be too much of a good day for the world to end, what with the merriment, free flowing fosters and a large quantity of cocktail sausages and other picnic-y snack foods. Over a dinner table filled with a hearty lasagne (created by yours truely) we played games. No there was no power cut, removing access to telvision and music. No we had not run out of conversation and yes, there was more alcohol. The ability of Mr Guitar and Mr Furry to correctly predict answers to trivia cards was impressive. Some might say a superpower. Others might suggest it marked the end of the world. To Frank and I, it was bizarre. Later we found it was better known as 'cheating'. A wonderful game of 'codswallop' ensued, with an assortment of weird and wonderful words from the English language. My favourite? Gallymoofray - a dish created with leftovers. Sounds more upper class than bubble and squeak! Frank ran 10 miles on sunday. For fun. No sponsorship involved, just fame and recognition. He completed in an hour and 20 minutes. Frank if this is incorrect I apologise for my lie. The strangest thing about this escapade, was that he neither looked or smelt like he had run a hefty 10 miles across country. If that'd had been me... Well it wouldn't have been, but if my some miracle it had been, I would have been unable to move/speak/think and probably breathe. Congratulations Frank and mini-Frank for your impressive athletic abilities. And thank you to the fruit loop who predicted the end of the world, but actually created a delightful weekend for me. I will credit him for this rather than the killing of millions, just so he can feel a sense of achievement- even if his prediction was totally bizarre!

...And then a small part of my brain had a genius idea.

After failing to launch out of bed this morning for a pre-work run, I felt like I had failed myself. I was grouchy, grumpy and had a very sore head.
We sorted the head pain but the grumpiness needed something else.

Knowing that I probably wouldn't even attempt to run after work, I - or rather a small and usually insignificant part of my brain that usually wouldn't be listened to, decided to book myself into a group exercise session at the strange building that I used to attend so regularly. The gym.

By booking on a course, you immediatley have to attend. Otherwise there's a charge. I have no idea what this charge is, but when you have a complimentary membership any charge is bad.
So I decided that I would try something new.
"You need to feel the burn" I thought to myself, " Its only real exercise if you sweat and ache." So I listened to my inner being and crossed Pilates off. As pleasant as it is, it's a de-stresser and a toner (if you do it right). Not a full on"I've just been to the gym and worked really hard" kind of work out. My eyes scanned the timetable quickley and surreptiously, after all I was sat at my desk and supposed to be calling people to spend money. I selected my course of choice and made the all important phone call.

"I'd like to book into the Boxercise course" might be that magical phrase I'll probably wish I never uttered. Ask me on Friday (oh, Friday) when I am unable to lift my arms or walk.
It wasn't until Miss Hendo and I arrived outside the sports hall (I should've know it would never be like aerobics when they mention 'Sports Hall') that I began to panic.
We looked through the open (but not so welcoming door) and behold - there were many men. Never a good sign, they have more stamina and are stronger. And a lot of strange equipment.
That's right my friends, boxing gloves, punch bags, skipping ropes and lots of sponge mats. I'm glad Miss Hendo decided to come too, otherwise I'm pretty sure I would have dipped my head, backed away and pretend I was in the wrong place.

Now I don't quite know what I thought Boxercise was, but it certainly wasn't this room here. Miss Hendo and I walked in. We were committed. This little 'adventure' was not going to undermine our desire for summer fitness.
Well, I would say I was fairly fit. Not much stamina, but I can exercise happily. But this class?
I nearly died in the warm up. Problem with group exercise is that you have to keep the pace. If you slack, everyone looks at you and the shame is unbearable. And there was no way this testosterone filled room would make me feel weak.
I put on my acting face, tried not to sweat/collapse and kept going.

I will never know how I managed to get through 60 minute circuit training or how on earth I learned to put on boxing gloves and punch a bag, but apparently it comes naturally. I will confess, I did picture myself on set for 'The Fighter' with Mark Wahlberg. And I was definitely kicking his ass. And not soaking my clothes in the process. I had the whole 'perfect work out' look going on - just like the girls on those patronising exercise videos that make you kid yourself that you can have their body by prancing about in your living room.

I am sure I am not alone in thinking that all that fighting and boxing stuff looks easy. I used to think high kicks were a doddle (back in my dancing days) but now? This person is going to be very sore.

The only part that won't be is my pride. I finished the whole session. Did every activity... I modified the sit-ups ( for some reason I can't pull myself up...stupid abs) and I definitely didn't sprint for a full minute... can anyone? But Miss Hendo and I made it through.

It maybe the post exercise endorphines and the fact that at the moment I don't feel any pain...but we're off again next week. And dragging Miss USA with us.

...And then there was a small miracle.

After not running in weeks, the frustration of a terrible Monday, provided the fuel to run 3 miles.
Hoo-rah.
She's back in the game.
A lot of aching going on right now, and a small blister on my toe. But a great sense of pride.

Fluke? Maybe. Will I go again? Depends if the running gear is fresh and smelling sweet within the week.

Any bets on how long the fitness regime lasts this time?