...And then I was on a slow train bound for London Victoria

And so after a labourious week I am sat on a train. With a badly packed over night bag. I have a toothbrush, make up bag, LBD and two pairs of skyscraper heels. Of course its perfectly packed for a night out with Charlotte and Carrie. The only things missing are the painkillers! This night out has been planned for weeks. Not meticulously, just booked in diary. Now that the three of us are working women, its not quite so easy to spontaneously meet in a bar. Especially when one of the three (the one on the train) doesn't live in the city, but out on the coast. Where not a lot happens. Each time I pay a visit to the smoke I am reminded of two things: 1) How much I want to live there. 2) How much I don't want to live there. Funnily enough I still can't make up my mind. Maybe after a few cosmopolitans, woo woo's and harvey wallbangers I'll have decided which side of the fence I sit on.

...And then we perused, purchased and pranced.

I may not be able to remember the last time I went running, however I have experienced some extreme physical exercise (I should not sail if it hurts this much). And I may be a long way off payday however it was definitely to time to treat my aching self to some retail therapy. Except I feel that I am even more tired now. Miss USA advised this would the result of "...hope and expectation rising and falling very quickley...", the recovery period knocks it out of you. I am emotionally drained.

Miss Hendo and I escorted (the soon-to-be birthday girl) Miss USA on a sunday afternoon shopping trip. It was delightful. We have scoured the shops and avoided the usual weekend crowds by shopping in blazing sunshine(and intermittent rainstorms). It appears the people with sense spent the last day of their weekend in a beer garden or walking on the beach. But they would have got wet.

After removing much of my clothing in yesterday's over zealous clear-out, today was the time to replace it. And Miss USA wanted friendly advice and guidance on many different purchases. (I must say, its quite a strange feeling when you help to spend someone else's money - no counting the pennies flying out your account) Miss USA has some lovely new additions to her growing wardrobe. In fact, I think aside from shoes and a handbag, which are of course the finishing touches, she walked out of the very warm shopping centre with an array of new outfits.

Miss Hendo's crowning moment was not only locating but also purchasing 'The Skirt'. We call it 'The Skirt' because that it is precisely what this fantastic creation is. Miss Hendo has had a watchful eye on the stock of a particular swedish store (not Ikea) since previewing this particular item in a supplement to a recent edition of Vogue. The scream of delight (and I use 'scream' because it was) announced the arrival of this tulle-being into our lives.
Ever since I saw the Chloe design in the Spring/Summer 2011 edition of Vogue and Elle, I have craved the flowing ballerina-esque layers with a simple ribbon edge waistband. The RRP of that skirt isn't even worth discussing... especially when this wonderful swedish store made a copy-cat for a fraction, and I mean a tiny fraction, of the price. Thanks be to the clothing God's who fill our lives with materialistic entities.

I really do hope that Miss Hendo doesn't mind that each of us left the store with the last three of these skirts - you can't play the "I'll come back for it later card" with this store, the turnover of stock is very impressive.

In the changing rooms, we lost ourselves in fashion advice/tips and parading about in numerous outfits - each with a SATC style glamour. I like to think the queue of impatient women forming outside enjoyed our 'oohing' and 'ahhing', our prancing around. I'd like to think that we filled their afternoon with wonderful advice and ideas for their wardrobes - however I believe the reality might've been a little different judging by the huffs, puffs and looks of disgust as we left.
It is important to be completely satisified with your items before your purchase them. If that means spending thirty minutes in the changing room, then it means spending 30 minutes in the changing room - it means the clothes are perfect, you've created stunning ensembles and saved yourself petrol and parking charges when driving all the way back to return them later.
As a rule - this shopping tactic shouldn't be employed when shopping with boyfriends/husbands/fathers/small children. They will become bored and restless and want the football/sleep/all their money back/bag of sweets to make up for the torture endured. Your gay best friend is exempt from this rule.

The only downside to today's trip is that I am still searching for the illusive high heeled tan sandals. I don't want them too chunky, too strappy, too dark or too light. The musn't be too high and under no circumstances are they to be flat, this nulifies the point of them being heeled. They must be comfy as I intend to live in them this summer and there is no way I am wearing a wedge.
I have a personal vendentta with wedged footwear. I shall not go into it. Just be warned, never purchase a pair of wedges for me - even if your intentions are good. Thank you. And if you weren't intending to, then forget I said anything.
As you can see the criteria for these shoes is vast, and as of yet - I'm still hunting. I've now resorted to browsing the internet. A deadly habit. You end up getting the bank card out for things you never really wanted and before you can stop yourself the 'thank you for purchasing with us today' pop up message appears. I have avoided this so far this evening. My purse is downstairs.

Miss Hendo seemed entirely content today - until misplacing her bank card. After a panic, the steps were retraced and it was found in the shop that by name should only sell Tops. Although Miss USA and I are searching for the perfect footwear, Miss USA is plagued by a consuming hunt for the perfect tan handbag. A search that I know from experience can take months. It is not pleasant.

The fuel of choice for today's mammoth trip(this clearly means a long shopping trip and not a trip with a mammoth, that would just be silly)? A hearty plate of srambled eggs on toast and a strong coffee- a breakfast choice that I often forget I like. Of course the coffee is always appreciated regardless of accompianment. Followed by a frappucino (one needs large amounts of caffeine to prevent retail exhaustion). Liquid refreshment of choice when strolling? A chilled bottle of sparkling mineral water, all the fizz of fizzy drinks without the sugar. Good for your teeth and good for you - what other drink pleases the GP and Dentist?

My only dilemna now is which combination of new and old items do I wear to the Office tomorrow?
It frustates me that Carrie Bradshaw makes it all look so easy, and her wardrobe is twice the size of mine.

...And then I woke up with nothing to do.

After I'd done the standard hairwash which was surprisingly difficult as a result of the physical exertion of yesterday's sailing shenanigans, dressed and made a cuppa - I realised that for the first time in a long time I had nothing to do.

So I found a hammer and screw driver from the garage and set about on those DIY tasks that needed to be done in my room. Now, I don't mean putting up shelving or building flat pack furniture from Ikea (you know the kind where even when you follow the instructions word for word or picture by picture, you STILL end up with the spare screw? My Billy Bookcase is still standing though)
The extent of my DIY was screwing a hook into the wall to hang my hairdryer on and I attempted to screw a set of hooks for other 'hanging' things.  It's not straight, and I'm pretty sure that it will probably pull out of the wall when it has too much weight on it. I didn't use those red plug things that I'm pretty sure are needed.
But , that's what happens when you badger the house owners/parents for help and they forget.
So if my stud walls collapse in the night, I can blame them.

Besides, I felt like I accomplished an impressive achievement.

I surveyed my room for other tasks. I chose one that I thought would be the most interesting. With the rain falling heavily outside, I decided to spring clean.
I have been ruthless.
Anything unworn in the last year was sorted into two catagories - 1) the swap bag 2)the dump.
You have to set the time limit for a year rather than six months otherwise you'd end up chucking out the entire summer wardrobe. Then you would need to completely rebuild - which in this case, might not be such a bad idea if it weren't for the complete and utter lack of funds. I think I was naive to think that I would one day be able to fritter my pennies away.
I now have drawers that shut and wardrobe with hanging space. The shoe boxes are still overflowing though - I couldn't bring myself to touch them. They can't help being the most expensive items.
The swap bag was unknown to me until my final year of Uni, when Family Longbrook (aside from Mr Furry) showed me how to renovate my wardrobe with some simple 'swapsies'.
On these occasions I merely collected their discarded, unwanted and often unworn clothing rather than donating my own. So now is my opportunity to give. I don't know if it will be gratefully received...

 But good friends are great liars and will give my clothes a wonderful new wardrobe to fester in. I suppose I might see them in the next swap bag.

...And then I was a seafearing wench.

And so it was on this balmy evening, that I immerged from the sailing club dressed in my finery.
Borrowed from my youngest Dodd sibling, I looked like a seal.
Wetsuits were never meant to be the most flattering of outfits, though I had hoped that it may be possible to look less like a vacuum packed sausage. Apparently not.

Papa Dodd had been busy prepping 'Cloud Nine' (for the record we didn't choose this name, the boat came with it, and it's bad luck to change it - according to maritime folklore). Our sails were ready, the ropes and pulleys and stuff were all ready too.
These ropes and pulleys and stuff all have proper names, however I still haven't learnt them. I spend most weekends with Frank, so therefore I am exempt from joining the crew aboard our 16" Wayfarer. Except not this weekend.

One (of many) of my jobs as crew was to return our boat trailer back to its resting place while we were racing. Boat trailers are harder to manouvre than they look, and what with my apparent lack of skills for reversing Brian, the combination of this two wheeled contraption and myself was never going to produce perfect parking skills. I managed to hit one poor fellow sailor as I left the pontoon (for this, kind Sir, I apologise) I also nearly managed to run it off the edge and into the gloomy depths, and when parking it in our bay ... I could have been very close to gently nudging neighbouring boats and dinghies. However, they remained unscathed.

My secondary job, and the one I love the most because I feel like a seasoned sailor/yachtie... launching the boat. With Papa Dodd inside and ready to race, I have to take hold of the all important rope, push the boat away from the pontoon and 'jump' aboard. I nearly always panic that I will push it too far off and then misjudge the gap and fall in. Tonight this did not happen, but I am sure at some point, when I think I have perfected this 'move' ... I will immerge shamefaced from the depths of the Hamble river with seaweed and barnacles in my hair.

The essence to the term 'race', is beginning simultaneously from a start position, completing a course and the first person/team/boat/animal/insert other choice, to cross the predetermined finish line in the shortest amount of time is pronounced the winner. When on the water in boats, it is impossible to line up at the start as you would for a 100m sprint, so you all pootle about in the water. Practising pulling ropes and sliding all round the boat is great for 5 minutes, but then I got fidgety and was keen for the race to begin so that Papa Dodd and I could showcase our incredible skills and seamanship.

I believe 'Cloud Nine' is cursed. Obviously we shall blame the boat and not ourselves, but somehow we always manage to be one of the last boats to cross the start line. Always. So we begin the race at the back of the pack.
Our boat is one of the largest in this racing pool, and when in some cases that would be something to impress someone with, when racing little dinghies - you need something small and nippy. We are to racing as an elephant would be to ballet.

But, ever since it was drilled into me at school ( I shall never forget it) - it's not the winning, but the taking part that counts.
This may be true to the egg and spoon losers at the school sports day, but every once in a while it would be nice to come first.And I am sure this phrase was concocted by a smug winner just to comfort his/her upset second best competitor. Pah.

So after a 'hairy' hour and a half sailing around the mouth of the Hamble river in Southampton water, we finally crossed the finish line. Last.
A mere 15 minutes later than the previous boat.

We shall blame a tatical choice that perhaps Papa Dodd shouldn't have made. One may also blame my inability to pull ropes and slide round the boat quickley. I would like to blame my panic at nearly falling into the water head first... three times. (Apparently I don't learn).
The murky depths of these waters are not as inviting as the Mediterranean or Caribbean Seas, and a lot colder. I know this because my feet got wet.

My other favourite bit of acting as second mate to Captain Dodd, is sailing back into 'port' - aka the pontoon and docking. Or whatever sailor-y term I'm meant to use. I have to stand on the 'hull' (oooh, get me!) and jump on to the floating deck, with a special rope in my hand and tie us up.
The first time I did this, I had shorts on (they were slightly too big). Sometimes shorts expand when wet, I hadn't realised this - stood up to jump ashore and found myself with my shorts round my ankles.
Now that I wear a wetsuit I don't have to worry, and Papa Dodd doesn't have to apologise to members of the sailing club on behalf on his daughter for 'mooning' the entire River.

When your Father is from a naval background, you are taught that there are many knots and ties to fasten rope. I have listened and humoured him, but never actually learnt. So I tie 'Dodd knots'. It is very difficult to undo these, and involves a lot of huffing and puffing.
Last time I was aboard the Dodd boat, I was instructed not to tie knots any more. So I jumped onto the pontoon and held the rope while Dad fetched the trailor. I looked like a windswept simpleton.

Within five minutes of us leaving the water, the sky turned black, the clouds rolled in, and the wind speeds were up at 50mph ( as I found out from the club weather station).
This is called a 'squaw'. And its pretty much like the Pirates of the Caribbean scene where the medallion around Keira Knightley's neck emits a pulse... remember? Well, there you go! Warsash was like that for all of 15 minutes.
The River was a raging torrent and the clouds curled over. And then, boom!

Flat as a millpond.
Like it never bloomin' happened.
Tell yer what, this weather stuff - bloody spooky.

I'm now sat in bed and we've got thunder, lightning and torrential rain. Love it. I don't have to clean Brian tomorrow.

I am nursing my bumps, bruises and very sore abs. My eyes are red from the salt water and my lips are tingling from the wind. I'm aching and very tired. I'm trying to decide whether or not I'm suited to a life on the high seas.

Perhaps I could dress like a yachtie without needing the skills to sail? And worse case scenario, if I wanted to purchase a boat to enjoy on delightful summer evenings I could buy one with an engine and no sails.

Then I wouldn't even need a seal suit.

...And then there was a wedding and another bank holiday weekend.

Congratulations to the new royal couple. I would like to admit (on the internet) that the beautiful service brought a little tear to my eye. And Kate? Bloody love that dress. No street party here at Frank's to watch it, but I did drink a lot of good old english tea in my pyjamas. Lovely. And now, because it is a bank holiday weekend and because you feel like you must do things on bank holidays, I am going on a bike ride with Frank. He has a small collection of two wheeled-transport so it doesn't matter that his broken bike (see earlier post) is still being fixed. No doubt I shall ache from chasing after my uber-fit chap. And will probably resign myself to the sofa later for a large glass of wine and a crappy film. Yup, this will happen. Take care in the sun, layer on the spf30. I will make sure Frank's ears don't burn. It might just be wind burn rather than skin damage!

...And then the blogger couldn't keep up

So here we are. A week on from when I was last sat at this laptop, and would you believe it? So much has happened.

The new job, post promotion, started on Monday. So I had to find my way around that... still feel like I've been stood reading the instructions to Ikea's most complicated bookcase, and I'm still totally clueless as to how the shelves, wooden pegs, swedish screws and crappy PVA glue fit together.

But then as is apparently the norm here, there were various nights of sociable beveraging on 'summer' evenings. Followed by a four day weekend in Essex county with Frank and his family.Where contrary to previous blogs about the ridiculousness of shorts in March/April, I swallowed my pride in fear of sunstroke and decided to bare those milky white pins that I call legs.

 In the middle of this a trip to the glorious home of English rugby with Mr Quiche - a journey across London that took me longer than my drive to Frank's, thank you kindly National Rail. This rugby/cider/curry binge was followed by another day in the sunshine at Frank's with his godson. (Who almost sailed high over the garden hedge a la hammer throw courtsey of Frank's brother Will.I.Am - no Cheryl Coles bessie mate!). I feel we must note, that even at this point in the sunfilled, short wearing weekend - my skin has not changed colour. There is no hint of bronze, nor tan line and even worst no slightly scorched bits. All this was quite worrying since my skin only ever turns various shades of pink under UVB rays...and it didnt even do that. Heatwave? What heatwave?

And all this was topped off with another garden party here at Chez Doddy, in the sunshine whilst (for the first time in a long time) drinking only soft drinks. Namely a brown tinged beverage that rhymes with poke-a-hole-ah!

So as you can see - quite a merry few days. And with another four day weekend on the way (we thank you very much Wills and Kate) I am sure it shall be much the same all over again, although perhaps without the Indian summer!

Finally, any bets on the which colour the Queen shall be sporting on Friday? I think it's about time the nation saw her in some leopard print.

..And then we awoke to another Monday Morning.

Except this Monday was quite unlike any other.

Rather unusually I was in a lot of pain. It was not in my head, and nor was it the result of an alcoholic binge or the side effects of going cold turkey from caffeine.

For a start I had muscles aching in my bottom that I never knew even existed. From a lengthy bike ride with Frank – a story we shall elaborate upon later, my friends.

 My ankles were a bit sore too. This ache was from a bloomin’ long run (with the pooch), that was unfortunately my idea (so I can’t even blame the pain on Frank) followed by a wonderful trek around a large shopping arena.

Thursday evening saw the arrival of a particular Mr Frank. And so, he was home with my charming and delightful family when I was able to deliver some excellent news relating to a specific job of mine... in essence it was so fantastic it felt rude not to open a bottle of bubbly. It was not of the champagne variety but was a superb bottle of Cava. This was followed by a compulsory visit to the local alcoholic house, where we were able to consume cool, refreshing and intoxicating beverages in the last of the Friday evening sun.

Miss Hendo and Miss USA joined us for a rowdy few hours, only to be accompanied by Papa Dodd himself, coupled with the Pooch. Half a traditional Irish beverage later, (consumed by PD and not myself) we made it home. I was already nursing the early stages of the post-drink sleeps. And so after eating my weight in a perfectly concocted lasagne ... I fell asleep.

Would someone please locate my other-self? I feel I am missing an essential part of my being... the part that lets me drink a lot and stay awake for hours. The student half. Perhaps you subconsciously hand this part over when you collect the expensive piece of paper that states we are wonderfully employable?

Keen to prove my newfound fitness to Frank, I forced him from the comfort of the pillow and made him run with me on Saturday morning. I’d already selected a route. A more picturesque place to run, and unfortunately about three miles longer.

Frank is fitter than me. He was fitter than me before I started my regime and because he continued to exercise at the same pace, he is still fitter than me. I stopped. Whined. Ran a bit. Then moaned some more. I wiped the sweat off that was pouring down my face (I am not a woman who merely glows when participating in cardiac activity, and I despise the women who do – darlin’ you aren’t working hard enough)

I announced on a number of occasions, when running up a slight incline, that I hated Frank.

I don’t really Frank, but exercise does funny things to me. I made it home, practically dead. With a dog who’s tongue could touch the floor. We’d been out for 40 minutes and I never thought I would walk again.

After refreshing hair wash and a covering of make-up I miraculously recovered as I happily declared that Frank and I were going shopping. Up until this point he had been blissfully unaware of this impending doom.

Doom for doom it was. The sun was shining. The afternoon was full of football, there was cold beer in the fridge but I forced him to escort me in spending lots of money I just don’t have.

I was searching for the perfect pair of chinos to wear elegantly with a pair of strapped tan high heeled sandals which would also accessorise a short floral print dress. None of which I own. And none of which I found. Emerging from yet another shop without a bag of goodies after 30 minutes of rummaging and 20 minutes of prancing around a fitting room, prompted Frank into a chorus of sighing and “What? We’re going into another one?”

In each shop we had to find a man seat, perch or corner in which to leave Frank with other unhappy males while I perused. It was in one of these corners that his interactive smart phone and only tool to combat utter boredom, died. He was not a happy Frank. He joined the hoardes of similarly bored looking men. I believe there may have been enough for a football team.

Ironic really, since that’s where they would rather have been.

Now a note to the architects of these fashion mecca’s. I feel you should spare a thought for the long-suffering men. Please build them a sports bar, in the centre of each fashion bubble, where they may relax in a testosterone fuelled environment. Or build them a five-a-side pitch so they may compete against other fashion widower’s and pass 6 hours without even realising.

I feel Frank would appreciate this more than watching me hand over my battered card to pay for yet another pair of shoes. However, he did not complain. And so he was, like a young child, rewarded with an ice-cream for behaving so well... and he even got to choose it himself.

To compensate for spending most of Saturday inside, I suggested (here was the mistake which ruined the muscles in my bottom)that we venture into the great outdoors and go on a bike ride. I had chosen somewhere I knew to be flat – I enjoy calming cycle routes, where one may collate ones thoughts without having to get off and push the bike up a hill. We put the bikes in the van, lathered on the sun cream (no tan marks for me thank you very much... or as it turned out – no tan at all) and drove off.

We had packed sandwiches. I had made both sets, one for Frank and some for me and naturally Frank’s tasted better. So I ate his instead. Much to his disgust. I don’t know how far we cycled. But it was long. The problem with cycling  a straight line is that you have to come back that way. Luckily we were on a pub route, so liquid refreshment was always a target. We were doing exceptionally well, if you discredit my attempt to break both wrists by cycling over a huge pothole without suspension, the pedal grazes that I gauged in each shin, and the large number of flying insects I swallowed. But then Frank broke his bike. We won’t go into details as it is rather distressing and involved him hollering expletives across sedate English countryside.

He broke the derailer. A bit that guides the chains over the gear wheels. Basically the bit that makes you move forward when you pedal. Cycling back was not an option. We’d bypassed the first pub because I knew the second one was nicer but had conveniently forgotten how much further it was. So we turned around. I sat aboard/mounted the broken bike and was pushed along by Frank , who was riding my bike and pushing my saddle.  My instructions were clear “keep going straight and do not peddle”. Why is it, when you’re told not to do something it makes it so much harder to resist?

Anyway, resist I did. We arrived at the pub. Frank was exhausted and I was well rested from my leisurely trip. He left me with his wallet (bad move), no phone ( he took his and I hadn’t brought mine in order to feel completely at peace with the great outdoors) and a broken bike. He abandoned me outside a pub so he could continue back, fetch the van and gallantly return to pick me up.

I counted the paving slabs. Bought two drinks. Watched people come and go. And decided that I relied on my blackberry a little too much – surely I would be able to entertain myself for a short period of time without it?

What an easy way get rid of a girlfriend with a terrible shopping habit. Leave her in a pub with a limited amount of cash, no PIN number for your cards and no way to get home.

But he did come back for me. About 40 minutes later.

So my weekend has provided me with an insane amount of exercise, though I still deem shopping to be the most beneficial – after all, you are multi-tasking. I have grazes and gashes on my shins, intestines full of minute flying creatures dissolved by stomach acid, and a greater love for my blackberry than I ever deemed possible. And because of my aches and pains I even forgot it was Monday. And I forgot I wasn't meant to drink coffee. Caffeine has amazing pain relief capabilities.

...And then I imerse myself into another bland Monday.

So here we are. Monday evening. Currently sat at the kitchen table poised with gin in hand. For the record I have mixed this gin (it goes by the name of Gordon) with small amount of tonic, ice and thrown a lemon slice in for good measure but for the record, it’s also pretty good straight. Through the eyeball.

I joke. I haven’t reached these desperate measures yet. The day I do, you may cart me off in a straight jacket and hold me in a padded cell. And no doubt, it will happen on Monday. Just to make a Monday exciting.

Nothing out of the ordinary has happened today. Nothing especially bad has happened today. Nothing to completely ruin my life. Nothing to make me say “Well did you know what happened to me today?”, or to look back at my life and remember that exceptional day that was April 1th 2011. It was just mundane-ness. All day.

I went running (again). I didn’t fall over, scrape up my knee or twist my ankle. I did sweat the ganges though. However, this is not unusual.

The only delay this morning was deciding which pair of shoes should accompany a standard outfit. No different from every other morning. Nothing extraordinary.

My car started without fault this morning ( thanks, Brian – I would have loved some drama this morning) I fed him Brian juice because I was early for work ... on a Monday? My card was accepted without any problems by the chip’n’pin and I pulled away without stalling. I found a parking space in a crowded car park. And remembered my security pass.

I knew all the answers to all the questions I was asked today, and I even helped Miss Hendo with her workload.

All of this is standard Monday stuff.

I would have like to been driven to work in horse and carriage, wearing one of those fancy dresses and ridiculous sized hats with a colourful plume. I would like to have been hijacked by a masked highwayman and whisked away for ransom. I would like to have remained unharmed and to have unknowingly fallen head over hills in love with my masked captor.

Sadly this was not to be.

I would like to have a huge bunch of flowers delivered to my desk and to have been embarrassingly serenaded by a barber shop quartet. Just to add some cheese to my life.

I would have quite liked an anonymous email to arrive in my inbox giving me instructions to get myself to the Eurostar platform at Waterloo station by 5 o’clock. Upon arrival I would find out that I had been headhunted by MI5 and was now being sent off to save a British diplomat and to find the scoundrel framing them for a dirty crime.

My inbox remained empty.

I would like to have cut a certain Miss Hepburn from a particular movie revolving around food consumption in a jewellery shop and played the role myself. Word for word. Problem is, I don’t like cats and I don’t smoke. Nor do I have the perfect LBD, or her wonderful clipped tones. I don’t live in New York or meet criminals in prison.

I will never work for MI5, because my numerical skills are ... blank. (I skipped that gene) And due to the legislation regarding kidnap and the abandonment of dowry’s and ‘selling’ off one’s daughters to an eligible bachelor, neither shall I ride off on horseback with a masked gentleman.

The sad thing about having an overactive imagination fuelled by caffeine is that often you write yourself into beautiful period dramas with ruggedly handsome men, or become a female Bond and save the British government in a pair of Christian Louboutin’s. When your normal life is bland, there is nothing to stop this internal film producing company from going into overdrive.

You write the script.

Film the shots.

Direct.

Produce.

And applaud your own efforts and award at the Oscars. Except I have this amazing ability to avoid the dramatic sobs in the “I want to thank Frank, and my Mum and my Dad, the dog who lived next door who was my only friend as a child” speech.

Then you realise, its Monday. Again.

And Monday’s are always this bland. So you always run away into Imagi-World (the best theme park ever) And every Monday you make the same realisation.

“Today is Monday. I am five days from the weekend. And I shouldn’t drink anymore coffee.”

N.B

I found out this weekend, that after excessive drinking on Friday night I no longer possess the amazing bounce-back reflex . The incredible reflex reaction to hangovers when you don’t feel a thing the following morning, your face is free from smudged make-up and you are doe-eyed and wide awake.

Not only do I no longer have this. But now that slightly-not-quite-right-because-I-definitely-drank-a-lot-of-alcohol feeling lasts two whole days. What is this?

...And then I ignored my shin splints.

When something is bad for you, you just want to do it more.
Drinking stupid amounts of coffee, followed by stupid amounts of gin.
Yes caffeine makes you hyperactive, and yes - gin might be a depressant, but if you were super happy to begin with then it just levels you out on par with normality. So this is fine.

However, when you have self diagnosed shin splints, running on a delightfuly warm evening with a dog who may at any point keel over is not a good idea.

This is a much better idea when you run to the baywatch theme tune.
No one else can hear it. You feel like a very attractive and fit lifeguard, your legs seem to work faster and you're so much more empowered.


And the you make it home. The dog collapses and you realise that you have no movement in your legs. It hurts a lot. And you look more like the flailing bodies that are rescued from the water, rather than the beautiful people running in.

And so to an ice cold gin and tonic with a large wedge of lemon to numb the pain.

I must say it works.
And this still seems to be legible. Result.


N.B While we're enjoying sunglasses and warm weather which we aren't meant to have in April, can we please spare a thought for poor Frank. The wonderful snow he was meant to have, wasn't quite so wonderful. Bet he's glad he didn't pay for the ski trip now. See you next week Frank!

...And then it was half way through another week.

It’s Wednesday. We are closer to the weekend than we were yesterday but not quite close enough. And already I have been a busy little bee. A slightly superstitious little bee.  But a bee all the same.

I’m sure if you are a bee, then a magpie probably isn’t your best friend. I know this sounds like the sort of thing a crazy cat lady might say (apologies to any crazy cat ladies) but I am being followed by magpies. It might be the same little cohort, but I can’t be sure. They’re all black and white. And they don’t appear to have any distinguishing marks.

But the strangest thing, stranger than admitting to be ‘followed’ by birds, is that rather lucky things have been happening. Not unlucky as per the normal silly superstitions. Nothing mega though, I haven’t won the euro millions. But if these little birds could sort that out then I would obviously be eternally grateful. Just little things.

Like seeing bollards in car parks BEFORE I hit them.

And finding £10 in the pocket of a jacket (I think you’ll agree that this is a very special moment!)

And ...the really odd thing, which is maybe related to the moon (now I sound really crazy) ... I actually wanted to exercise this week. Three times! I know! Madness, right? It was even in the outside. I ran in an environment devoid of automated climate systems, piped music, and unattractive sweaty men huffing and puffing on electronic machines next to you. I ran outside. With the dog. For half an hour.  Three times! I haven’t quite got over it myself, to be honest.

I obviously didn’t run for the whole 30 minutes, that’s going a bit far. But I did the whole walk, fast walk, jog, run, jog, fast walk, jog, run, jog, fast walk. Felt like a pro. And poor pooch was almost dead. I won’t take her again.

In my keenness to get fit and embrace the early morning sunshine and because I don’t own proper running shoes, I may have given myself shin splints. Excellent.

Maybe the magpies haven’t lost their unlucky touch after all.

I am lucky in other ways. I have spent two evenings in wonderful company (present time excluded, because eating risotto on your own isn’t that entertaining). I have had my CV spring cleaned by Mr Commonwealth  (just protecting your identity Sir)and then laughed at oh so many well dressed students queuing for entry to Tiger Tiger. I don’t claim to be a fashion guru, shoe habit taken out of consideration of course, but it’s not hard to spot a walking disaster. Of which there were many! Ladies, and gents if you are out there too, if you must insist on using fake tan – please take pity on us mere mortal pasties and avoid the streaks. At least then we can actually envy you and your beautiful tan like want us too!

A jolly good evening drinking a single coke, which is probably why I missed the bollard, and a cappuccino, the catalyst in the reaction between my brain and mouth which made it all work much faster. I’m sure Mr Commonwealth a) could hardly understand a word I was saying as I gabbled at the speed of sound and b) had absolutely no idea what I was chirping on about anyway, what with my talk of Manolo’s and Louboutin’s. Shame on me, and at my first business meeting!

Bloomin’ magpie. Oh well, it can only can better.

I was also lucky enough to be able to say goodbye to Miss Alice Chamberlain before she jets off to Greece on Saturday. Secretly I’m ignoring the fact she’s going somewhere hot. She’s actually flying out to Siberia to heard mountain goats. We, ( a certain Miss Oz, Miss Hendo, Miss Skoda, Miss Alice and Miss USA) spent the evening in well decorated flat consuming a disgusting amount of quavers (other cheese flavoured snacks are available), kettle chips (quite possible the guiltiest crisps to munch – you can feel the fat build up on those bits you try so hard to hide), cheese straws, pizza and oven chips with garlic salt. And a huge array of shop bought and home-made cake-like delicacies. Only the healthiest options of course. Miss Hendo did make a contribution of tomatoes and crudités, which were much appreciated. Thank you for the vegetables.

However, this small intake of vitamins did not prevent the feeling of over indulgence and pure unhealthiness. I tried to burn this feeling away on a cross trainer this morning. It was not to be.

And so, thank you Magpie’s for making me feel worse than terrible and keeping me in at home alone while the family wined and dined in the yacht club.

This bee takes back all that she said. Magpie’s are not lucky. But that doesn’t mean they’re not stalkers. Watch your backs.

...And then it was a (not so) surprise weekend with Frank.

Brian and I journeyed to Ipswich on Thursday evening.
We managed it without spending extortionate amounts at Clackett Lane services.
We managed to sing a long to every track on every CD in the car.
We managed not to get lost.
And we managed to make it all they way there AND back on less than half a tank of Brian juice.
I was very impressed by my little KA's adverse drinking habits and believe it had a great deal to do with the lack of pressure of the accelorator. No driving in heavy boots for me this weekend.

Frank was shocked to see me before his disappeared to France on a very cheap ski trip. By very cheap, I obviously mean free. Ah, the bona fide perks of being a teacher! This fact won't feature in this blog anymore as I find it highly distressing that while I am stuck to a computer trying to operate a new system, he shall be gliding down the alps attached to two planks with the sun on his face and snow in his hair. And his only expense is his 'off piste petty cash' - AKA beer tokens! Git. But I am not bitter.


A wonderful couple of days in Ipswich in the, can you believe it... sunshine! And then time to drive home yesterday.
I decided that I didn't want to put any more petrol in the car and that I would drive the alternative route home (M25 past Heathrow, as opposed to Dartford - just for future reference) which is 8 miles longer - just to see if I could do it.
The curse of attempting to get home on quarter of a tank is your inability to drive at anything more than 65mph. However my speedo is 5 miles out so Brian and I trundled home at 60. Granny pace.

However it was sunny and I had Radio 1 playing through the speakers and was able to relish the early afternnon sunshine on the A12. The problem with driving much slower than usual is that you notice more. I counted 23 dead pheasants on the central reservation. You think they might have worked out that if the best mate Barry is laying flattened on the road it might be a good idea not to cross. Apparently not.
And besides - pheasants have wings. Perhaps they should fly. Their malting carcasses are not a pretty sight.

Arriving on the M25 I noticed something that I hadn't before, thanks to the courteous drivers on the Ipswich road. Driving at granny speed brings with it shame, humiliation and sheer embarrasement. Over the duration of my journey I was over taken by five lorries and three coaches, luckily they were empty of jeering schoolchildren.
To be overtaken by huge lorries, thundering past is very sad. But you can't see the driver so he might not be laughing/tutting/shaking his head at you - but when the chelsea tractors speed past and all the other little 'normal' people cars, you can see the families gawking at you. Disbelief written all over their faces - "why would you want to drive that slow?"
I'd like to admit that it was a concious choice to make an environmental point, and to prove that we don't need to rush everywhere. But actually I couldn't afford to fill up again.
I have no idea where the garage was that was accidently selling for for 12p per litre thanks to a system malfunction, but I should have definitely found it.

Like most people, my biggest expense is petrol. Liquid replenishment for a car. I can't even afford alcoholic liquid for me. ( I did  however treat myself to a double shot, extra shot, tall, tall skinny caramel macchiato, just to congratulate myself on my lack of fuel consumption)
I feel that I shall be driving at 60 for quite a while.
Perhaps I should get a car sticker "recovering from student debt - preserving petrol. Just overtake"


P.S Frank, please try to make sure you don't break a leg. And make sure you don't miss the bus to come home. Your trip won't be quite so cheap if you have to pay for a flight back!

...And then it was winter again.

I am sad to say goodbye to the sunshine.
It left me this morning after the briefest of visits, of which I only enjoyed two days. But what a delightful weekend it was.

Spent on the beach catching the drips off an ice cream before it makes a sticky mess over your hands and turns the cone to mush. Who'd have thought we'd be eating ice-cream in March, let alone watching it melt?
Now I am no pessimist, just a realisitc optimist, but I think we shall be done with sunny intervals until at least May. Once we've got our rainy season over and done with - look forward to it April, I really do!

But when that sunshine arrives, and believe me it will "....burn our eyeballs out...." when it does (to quote Papa Dodd), I shall be out there enjoying every second of it. At least,  every second that doesn't fall between 10am and 6pm, monday through to friday when I shall be in a climate controlled office, with two green plants and windows that won't open. And because no one will be able to see the computer screens, the blinds will be shut. So I won't even notice the beautiful sunshine and bright blue skies.

But I am hoping the sun shows its lovely face sooner rather than later, for I am really quite bored of my winter wardrobe. Now don't get me wrong, its brilliant come the middle of September, as the nights get cooler, to be able to change out of my array of flip flops and into my lovely brown leather boots and beautiful camel coloured cape (courtesy of Frank, thank you very much!) but now I would quite like to pop those flip flops back on my feet and bask in a bit of warmth.

In preparation for the Indian summer that I have been assured we shall be having, I have begun to build my 2011 Spring/Summer wardrobe.
I have scoured the pages of Vogue and Elle. I have "ooohed" and "aaaahed" over beautiful lacey designs at Dolce and Gabbana and the neon pallette of Jill Sanders and then held my breath as I look at price tags. To be honest, I don't why I even hope to find something within my price budget - which for the record is Null, because I am desperately saving my meagre pennies for a summer holiday.

But all the searching and bookmarking is particularly helpful when locating replica designs - AKA cheap clothes.
There are some excellent copycats in the shops (Hennes, Zara and Topshop - you are superstars) ready for the sunshine, but unfortunately I haven't been able to peruse these mecca's of fashion. So I resort to the online eqivalents.

Online shopping doesn't quite create the same level of satisfaction - you can look but you can't touch!
And ladies, we all know how much we like to pick things up, look them over, make a face of judgement and A) retain for trying on or purchasing purposes or B) return to the rail and continue to explore.
But you don't get to do this.
If, like me, you're a "try-er on-er" then your online basket grows and grows (p.s never look at the basket total. Ever.) , and then you whap out the little plastic saviour. The "Yipee, I got free delivery" completely justifies the hammering the plastic got and so you await a mammoth delivery. Then you think about how much you spent and you start to panic. "It's okay" you say to yourself  "I'll send half of it back"

But the packages arrive, and as sad as it is to admit it...  your heart skips a bit and the adrenaline starts to pump. Brand new. With tags. Zips that work. That lovely new smell. And without the "I've been through the washing machine more times than I care to think" look. You immerse yourself in them.

You try it all on and, much to your (faux) disappointment, you like everything. You can't possibly send it back. You have to wear the biker jacket with the cute floral summer dress, because the dress won't look right otherwise. And you need the dress for the day at the races, that you are sure you will be going to this year.

So for the next few days you walk about in a new clothes bubble. Relishing in the compliments and the feeling of complete and utter ... happiness.

And then your credit card bill arrives.
Sad face.





This was me.
So ... I did a very brave thing on Friday. I took a sharp pair of scissors. Removed my shiny pink mastercard from the 'emergency' pocket in my purse and under the watchful eye of Glam Maggie at work, began to cut.

My mastercard still exists. In tiny little pieces in my purse. I haven't had the heart to bin them yet.

And now it is most defintely winter in my life.


N.B
Contrary to popular belief, I do not have a shopping problem.

P.S
And even if I did, I could stop at any time.

P.P.S
But just not yet.

...And then we learn a life lesson.

You may laugh, but this one is important.

If ever, when you are washing your hair, you get a dollop of shampoo in your ear - don't foolishly try to rinse it out with water.
The result? A ridiculous amount of bubbles, soap in your eyes and temporary ( I hope) deafness.

I can't think of an alternative to water. But you could just avoid getting it in your ears.
Take it from someone with first hand experience.

N.B
If you perhaps feel like booking a place on an online seminar [webinar] broadcasted from the USA, make sure you are fully competant in your understanding of US timezones in relation to GMT. Otherwise you end up biooking the wrong session and then waiting an hour with wet hair, bad hearing and an overwhelming desire to sleep. But of course, this isn't me.

...And then it all started to look a little perky.

For those of you glorious people residing on ( or fairly near to) the south coast, I am sure you will have enjoyed basking in the recent 'warmth' of the spring sunshine.
I say warmth, yet being in an office all day I don't really feel it, and although it is a gigantic burning ball of gas it isn't projecting much heat. Yet.
However we have still got a psychological heat/summer thing. - A single ray of sunshine and immediately your toes start to tingle and you mass purchase sun cream in plenty of time for the scorching Indian summer we are guaranteed every year. This is only justification I can think of for the six men I saw in shorts today, two of whom had flip flops on.
I think UVB rays damage our ability to gauge the seasons.

I can perfectly understand getting those little pasty legs out and presenting our wintery withered feet to the world in early May, but March? The clocks havent even gone forward yet.
I am a summer born child. I would quite like to make the most of our limited days of sunshine. But I think donning the sunglasses rather than bermudas and flipflops is a little more acceptable at this time of year.


So with the mid morning sun beating down on my car as I drove to work (yes, I am a lucky individual who has a much later start than most, but who reaches the pub later than the rest of the world), I realised that sunshine seems to make the world look a little more peachy.
Every morning I drive  past a rather large field covered in polythene tunnels. I'm assuming this is for the premature growing of tastless strawberries (June, people, June is strawberry munching time) and usually every morning it looks like an eye-sore. Dull and lifeless.
But this morning, when you remove those dull, grey clouds, this plastic field radiates sunshine. I actually had to put my sunglasses on and pull down the visor in my car. It was quite... I won't say beautiful because to be quite Frank, even with a yellow glow it is still a mass of plastic. But it was quite pleasant.

I even, and this is a significant step to make, joined the a particular car-owners club that I really don't like. The 'open window musical appreciation' society.
Yes call me a hypocrit, but this morning I wound down my windows and turned up the radio. I have no idea what the song was, but its besides the point - when the sun is out, everyone must know you are happy. Apparently.

We are British, we must relish in these sunny moments for they are few and far between.

The sunshine makes everything look nice. The trees with lots of little buds popping through, and blossom forming. Which is lovely until you are distracted by the mating rituals of the ugliest bird in Britain. The pigeon.
Now... we say mating, what we actually mean is unwanted physical contact and the noisiest display of "Ladies, come get me!" the confidence of which soon becomes desperation.

And no, I'm not a pigeon pevert, it is just hard to enjoy a weekday lay in with noisy creatures copulating in the trees outside my bedroom window.

So avoid the pigeons, and the influx of spring time seagulls who aim for newly cleaned cars (Brian included) and bask in the the warm glow. Forget the suncream and just frazzle.
Because lets face it, the summer will be over by sunday and the colour needs to last as long as possible.

...And then it was finally the weekend.

You would think that any weekend that begins with getting your car locked in car park would be a bad one, but I should just like to reassure you fine people, this is not the case. It is however an event that I will no be repeating.

It was of course Brian who get himself locked in, and not his negligent driver who is unable to read warning signs. But the presence of a delightful ice cold gin and tonic took away the pain of waiting behind a security barrier. It did not however, hide the embarassment at the cars driving past waving at the idiot who got herself locked in a car park.
Luckily my ignorance added to the hilarity of post work drinks to celebrate  Miss Alice Chamberlain's new job and 5 month emigaration to Greece for the summer season. (Alice: I shall be flying out to see you, just don't let me drink my weight in sambuca!)

I should not like to consider how much gin was consumed on Friday night, but it was enough to feel like something had crawled in to my mouth and died when I woke from a heavy 'sleep' on saturday morning. The beauty of drinking copious amounts of gin at social gatherings is that I had two wonderful friends to keep me under control and conserve my dignity - something very important when beveraging in  an old workplace with familar regulars and ex-colleagues.  Spake and Dr. Dee, I commend you on your efforts, and apologise, I have a hazy recollection of the evening. My self control slipped, as it often does, when my inner ladette (a personality I keep well hidden, but who unfortunately responds to high levels of alcohol) escaped in the carpark. when this gin drinking lout decided to quietly release a small and lady like burp.
Echoed is an understatement. I  disgusted  myself.  And then carried on tottering to the car for my lift home.  Please do not judge me. Usually I am fine example of elegance and decorum, but if Gordon and his mate's tonic and lime arrive to join the party then I'm done for!


The only thing worse than a small hangover from gin consumption is a Ninja hangover. These are deadly. They have an uncanny ability to sneak up on you when you least expect it. You awake in the morning ( or early afternoon as it is in some cases) and are  lured into a false sense of security by your surprisinly clear vision, lack of 'litter tray' mouth and thumping of the brain. Do not be fooled. You have not escaped.

A ninja wraps itself around your head and squeezes so it feels like your little dehydrated and shrunken brain is going to burst forth from your eyeballs. It is trained to suck every once of energy from your body and turns your mouth into an amplifier of muffled unintelligble sounds that emerge from your vocal chords. The only cure? You must succumb to the pain (for paracetamol is not mighty enough to destroy the Ninja) and sleep.

I am plagued by ninja's when I change my choice beverage  from the spirits to a liquid that begins with 'W' and rhymes with 'mine'. I can't say the word (or think it) for fear the reparcussions.... stunning biological pyrotechnics.
Saturday evening announced the arrival of two very dear friends. I was of course completely ahead of schedule. Dinner was prepared and I was suitably dressed to greet and entertain fellow graduates/housemates.

Of course I am lying.
The only preparations made for the evening's antics were the bottles chilling in the fridge. The array of vegetables lay unprepared on the counter and the oven remained dark and cold. I am not one to follow recipes and enjoy a very blase cooking method:  a bit of this, a sprinkle of that, fry that, dunk that there, season this and then "Oh poo, I should have put those in to roast 40 minutes ago".  Voila!
The result? A dinner on the table at 9.30. Slightly pissed housemates and a lovely recipe that I shall never be able to recreate.
 While concocting a spectacular feast of moroccan lamb stuffed peppers with seasoned sweet potato wedges, I was happy sipping my aloholic grape juice.

"But" I hear you cry, " why would you drink if you were already hungover?". Well my friends, the answer lays in the my cultural lessons as life as a student. The only exception to not continuing to drink the day after was if you were unable to raise your head from the pillow. And because I still had the control and movement of all my appendages, I consumed a large amount of grape flavoured alcohol with Mr S Musical and Miss BBL last night.
I awoke this morning blinded by sunshine and roasting beneath a duvet more suited to winter in the Serbia, than a cool spring night in a central heated home.
It appears that a brisk walk along the beach in the sunday afternoon sunshine triggered my Ninja. Which was then made worse by lunch in the sailing club.

And so you find me here, sprawled on my bed, groaning on the inside and wincing at the brightness of my laptop screen (and yes, I have already turned it down.)
I can't even relish in the relief that I have a few more days to recover because tomorrow is Monday. What happened to the ability to instantly recover? Perhaps this 'skill' disappears the day you don the cap and gown and collect your very expensive piece of paper.

Next weekend shall be the same. Frank is returning to my family home after a prolonged absence ( a visit I am eargerly awaiting), along with a whole host of family members who are reuniting for what shall be a riot of a weekend. My younger sister, studying the art of fashion and Birmingham nightlife, is returning home, and as with most sibling rivalries I will be rising to the challenge - I shall not be beaten by her youth and ability to hold her booze like a cactus holds water.
If someone offers me an ice cold gin and tonic, I will not be turning it down.


But please may I have an extended weekend to recover?  Thank you kindly.

...And then it was time for the re-uni-on....

Last week Exeter wasn't Exeter without my family at Number 10 Longbrook Terrace, so this week Brian and I made another road trip - much to his disgust and I think my credit card groaned at being shoved into a chip'n'pin machine at yet another petrol station.

It was quite possibly the most unorganised weekend ever, and it was well deserved after what felt like a week worth of Monday's. A lot of laughing and a lot of wine, and even more food. My first ever Calzone, my first ever pub lunch in Windsor and my first ever on- screen 'moment'.

Surbiton has an ATM vestibule ( Essentially just the foyer of a bank which is still open – nothing to exciting and yet PRIOR to any alcohol I found it , like... totally amzing). And just like the episode of Friends when Chandler gets stuck in one with a model during a black out, I got ‘stuck’ with Mr S. Musical … while he took money out from the machine.

It was ruined however, when I tried to explain the importance of the vestibule and the woman by calling her a Veronica’s Closet model….

His blank face said it all.

He thought I was a loon.

He quickly (but it could have been speedier to save my embarrassment) realised that what I actually meant was Victoria’s Secret. Obviously.

It became the source of much amusement. Unfortunately.

I drowned my stupidity in wine, olives and garlic, cheese and a really good Pizza pasty – a calzone.

Just a quick note for all you Calzone virgins? ... share it with a friend. That’s a lot of dough and a helluva’ lot of filling. Luckily little Miss BeachBreak was on hand!

But with my Uni family around me, it felt like I’d never left. So the surroundings may have been a little different, and we were celebrating newfound employment rather than the bonus of a maintenance loan, but the company was still the same.

A little trip to Datchet, Royal Berkshire to visit a certain Miss Brazil fresh back from her Thai travels who couldn’t attend  our little pizza night. We planned to feed some very hungry ducks, however the lack of stale bread and a chorus of rumbly tummies meant we decided to seek food for ourselves. It was a very hard to decision to make. And I apologise to those little quacking animals. You looked at me sailing past in the car with such hunger and desperation.

Lucky for them I saw a group of small children laden down with bags of bread. I assumed they’d be feeding them. Unless five year olds enjoy stuffing their faces with slightly mouldy Kingsmill.

When you’ve had a flat week, it’s those little poorly organised reunions that put a little smile back on.

I don’t have a reunion next week – just an appointment with the hairdresser. She shall be turning my hair orange. Oh god.

But I’m sure I shall smile underneath the grimace.

 NB I would also like to pass on a heartfelt message of thanks. Florence, (of Florence and the Machine fame) you were part of the reason I missed my junction and took an exceptionally long detour a few weeks ago, but my friend, this week - this week you made me run a full  three and a half minutes on the treadmill. You are brilliant.

...And then I returned to Exeter.

And so eight months after Graduation I returned to the wonderful city that was my home for three years.

I managed to get myself and Brian lost. Twice. Then I wrapped him around a well hidden and utterly pointless bollard.
Complete with scratched paintwork and a sizeable dent he's looking a little more butch. Perhaps.

I didn't really see much of the city that I miss so much. I briefly sped (being the operative word) past the regular haunt of the residents of Number 10 Longbrook Terrace. The Firehouse. It should be listed as number one of the list of things to do in the West Country - if only for its cheap wine and huge bargain pizzas. Just to fill those late night munchies don't you know...

Drove past my department where I spent most of my days, and 'The Impy' opposite where I spent the rest - Oh the pimms memories, or lack of.
Summers spent wasting away in the sunshine of the beer garden when you actually intended to have a productive group planning session for that all important presentation.

Exeter doesn't quite have the same 'homely' feel when you know absolutely no one in the city, and for the first time ever you've completely lost all sense of direction and end up driving the longest route across the city at rush hour, throwing expletives at anyone and everything.
I'm usually a very calm driver. But that's only before I plough my 4 wheeled engine into things. As I keep telling my friends though, in hope to reclaim the smallest shred of my driving credibility "At least I don't hit moving things".

A friend organises an annual networking event and I was invited back to share my knowledge and experience with fresh young students, disgustingly unaffected by the real world and skepticism. Oh how I miss that beautiful bubble.

I met a lot of very interesting people. Who knew a lot of very interesting things. They were happy to share this very interesting information with a very keen bean. I think I helped some students, at least I hope I helped. If I put them off then I doubt I’ll be invited back. Which for Brian might be good news.

Aside from the extortionate cost of fuel, a rant that I shall not begin, getting lost, eating a ruddy awful breakfast that tasted like rubber egg, plastic sausage and stale muffin from a restaurant with glowing golden arches, and leaving Exeter at 4.30am without my morning caffeine fix (the kettle in my hotel room sounded like it was going to explode), unshowered and bleary eyed, I made it into work with a wealth of contacts and information to help me on my way.

People who know people, know people.


And now, having wrapped my car in bubble wrap and tying pillows to the bumpers, I am off to Kingston town to meet my housemates from that bubble we call Uni.  I will have to park somewhere.

Wish Brian luck.

...And then it was a sunny sunday.

On sunny Sunday summer mornings it seems British tradition to clean your cars until they shine, but in the Spring time - we garden.  Today I have learnt to operate and manouvre a lawn mower. Quite an achievement for an unsavvy gardener.
 But Papa Dodd has always been in charge of cutting the grass. I don't know why - that's just the way. However, Pap's has gone off to New Zealand on a business trip, leaving Mumma and I alone at home.

The garden needed sorting. So I pulled the mower out of its home. Filled it with petrol from a little green petrol cannister - how quaint.
How to get the engine roaring?
Well, I used to watch Papa pull the cord. So I copied.
Nothing.
Not even a splutter. My poor little arms (from lack of gym) couldn't yank the cord quick enough or hard enough! I am sure the neighbours were very please to hear my numerous attempts to start the stupid thing, and also my huffs and puffs of frustration getting louder and louder.


But my determination proved successful after about 20 minutes and I managed to cut the grass in the front and back garden. Though  I must add that trying to mow in straight lines is far more difficult than it looks.

We have wonky lines, bald patches, bits that I might have missed but at least it's now short grass.
Never mind.
Papa is home next week.
He'll sort us out.

...And then I masquereded as a successful young professional.

Yesterday I found myself amongst the bustling crowds of the Earls Court exhibition. My purpose?
To be honest I was just being nosy

I applied for tickets, they came. I pulled on my smartest clothes at some stupid o'clock hour of the morning and journeyed to London.
I wore a conference badge. My name and my company - a very successful, internationally renowned cosmetics company. However, when walking around an Events Management conference everyone, and quite rightly so, assumes that you work in or around Events. I don't.
I went to suss out the big players, the who's who of the world, what they all do and where... just for personal interest of course, but the other delegates weren't to know that!

I spent most of my day trying to avoid friendly (but not without added purpose) eye contact from representatives on stands. I knew that these very posh hotels and conference centers were going to encourage me, Little Miss Event Planner, to engage in some business deal. However I have no control or input into my company's event budget or how it is spent.

I was unable to avoid the friendly accosting by one such representative from the name of a hotel I cannot remember, but the photographs were impressive. I panicked. Lots.
I spouted a lot of BS about meetings and training days, and only being here on behalf of my manager. I think she saw through it.
I'm glad she didn't expose me as the fraud  I felt like and have me escorted from the premises.

She did however let me have a free cup of coffee and I left quickly. I nursed my pain at the realisation that a £20,000 DRAMA degree hadn't taught me to act better. But I did have a very nice double espresso.
After this encounter, I kept my head down.

I left 6 hours later, with a bag full of goodies. Magazines full of beautiful hotels that I will never be able to visit. And very sore feet.
As good as they look, do not be tempted to wear heels to a conference. Your feet will punish you.

N.B I should like to apologise to the events teams that I was representing by wearing my badge. Any reports of terrible imitator will undoubtedly be linked to me. But don't worry; you won't be receiving any invoices.



On another, entirely unrelated note, I decided to give my fitness regime another go this evening.
I have a Pilates DVD, and a pretty much brand new yoga mat. And a long day at the office needs to be unwound somehow. What better way than to stretch out your body and sculpt a beautiful beach-worthy body at the same time. A perfect combination.

It lasted 20 minutes. Lara Hudson, you perfect Pilates guru, I hate you. I ache in places that I shouldn't.

...And then I came home

Unfortunately, the rule with going away on holiday is that you have to come back. Unlike emigrating when you don't.

So I had to return from Essex and begin my proper life again. Gone are the days of lounging on the sofa watching daytime telly and awfully cheesy chick flicks. For the record, Frank chose 'Titanic', not me. (Frank, your identity is safe so its okay to admit this fact.)
I have eaten my weight (prior to the holiday) in very yummy food and now need an extreme sporting break to burn it all off again. Or perhaps I should just get my larger-than-it-was-before arse down the gym for some cardiac therapy.

Then again, maybe not. Let's face it, I'll set the challenge and not do it, so better not to set it at all. If I lose the jelly bum and matching belly then it will be down to a miracle of  and therefore an even more impressive feat.

But back to the holiday that gave me the jelly layer.

 Five days of welcome bliss. Apart from the rain and slight spring chill in the air. As a female I think I packed my entire wardrobe. Everyone knows that you have to be ready for the day that you need to wear the little black see-through, backless tshirt* you once bought in a boxing day sale because of course it was a bargain... even though it still has the tags in it. The day that you eventually wear this might be on this very holiday.
However packing everything apparently does not stretch to 'packing thick wintery layers'. I forgot these and spent the week wearing Frank's.
 He is now moaning that they now smell of me. Calvin Klein 'Euphoria' and Johnsons triple moisture shower gel - I don't think it's bad enough to whinge about.

N.B I do not own an item of clothing that even partly resembles this (*) description. Thank god. Of course, I am sure it would look lovely on someone. Somewhere. In a dark room.

The beauty of the last day of my holiday was that the sport was on. Three lots of sport to be precise.
Normally I would be the first to huff and puff and compete with the television for Frank's attention. But on this occassion I didn't mind the rugby, cricket AND football. It meant that I could plan our next holiday.
Maybe there is a rule that prevents you from planning a holiday before you have even finished the current one, but I was, and still am, oblivious to it. And what else was I meant to do to to keep myself occupied? I have temporarily banned myself from all online shopping. It is deadly to the Mastercard. So I chopped it up.

So because Frank wasn't really paying attention, I was happily flicking through holiday brochures for the Maldives, Caribbean and Thailand.

Frank, we fly to Phuket in September for an all-inclusive 4* break. Oh and it's on your Mastercard.



[Next time, he'll only watch one game and I get control of the remote!]