What’s in a name? (daftness mostly)

Charlie and Norman

I’ve never been great with names.  My kittens are called Charlie and Norman because, as I explained to my parents, ‘I’m probably too old and too single now to give you any grand children so instead I’ll name the kittens after your Dads.’  They didn’t look quite as thrilled as they could have I’ll admit, and I think the neighbours may be a little concerned that I have a bit of a coke habit when I am frequently heard calling ‘Where’s my Charlie?’ but hey ho. 

Lucifer. Not looking particularly intent on world domination.

It’s better than the worry they may have had when they heard me shouting for the last cat, Lucifer (so called because he was an evil bastard intent on world domination).  At that point, devil worship may have been the greatest fear of those in the vicinity.  God know what neighbours thought when in my teenage years I named one ‘Ambrosia’. (Yes, I had an obsession with rice pudding)…

I think this issue with coming up with a sensible name may go back a long way.  When I was 5, my parents told me I was getting twin sisters and in a fit of loveliness / stupidity said I could name them.  A decision I am pretty sure they must have regretted immediately.  Topsy and Tim were my first choices (‘Topsy and Tim are learning to swim’ was my all time favourite book) and I could not understand why anyone had an issue with calling one of my new sisters Tim if I didn’t.  That was vetoed though, so instead I suggested Buttercup and Daisy (I had two stuffed cows that were in favour at the time).  Again my parents overruled me and I was made to come up with some rather more usual names.  Within year or two the usual names had been replaced with Spanner and Wormy, so frankly they should have just stuck with Topsy and Tim and been done with it.  (I should probably point out that my sisters, now 28 are no longer referred to as Spanner and Wormy although they have gone through a variety of nicknames since then.)

They're twins...people need help (bet it would have been easier if they were Topsy and Tim...)

Even further back, I started calling everyone by their first name, then Pog.  The joke is on me on that one though as the favour was returned, my first name was dropped and 32 years later I am still Pog to many. The only time I find that embarrassing though is when I am shouted at in crowded places… 

It’s just as well I have never been solely responsible for naming one of the next generation.  I dread to think what I would have come up with:o)

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The un-fatness plan

happy autumn leaves

I had a routine doctor’s appointment on Friday and mentioned the amount of weight I had put on since giving up smoking.  Doctor weighed me, fell of her chair (presumably stunned that anyone could manage to expand so effectively in a relatively short time) and promptly filled in a form to get my thyroid tested.

‘And if it’s not my thyroid?’ I enquired

‘Then you’ve just got fat.’

OK, honesty is a good thing but no girl wants to hear that.  Still, no point wallowing. Instead it was time to make a plan.  This required a two pronged attack:

1)     De chocolate the house.

I admit I may have approached this in slightly the wrong way and that I probably should have distributed the chocolate around my family.  Instead I could only part with a small packet of fudge (and to be honest, that was only because I am not keen on the stuff.)  I ate everything else.  But still, it has all gone now so the sensible health eating can start.

2)     Purchase the necessary to enable increased exercise.

So 8 hours exercise a week is either not enough or has got too same-y.  A bit of variation may be required.  I duly visited the local sports shop to buy a swimsuit (even though I hate pools that are not outdoors in a hot place) and a knee support so I can attempt something approaching running (actual running could be a little hopeful at this stage).  I may have scared the small child who was serving me when I requested a knee support ‘for very fat knees’, but believe me, he would have been terrified had he seen me trying on the swimsuits.  For some reason swimsuit sizes are in inches, but nobody seemed to know what this was a measurement of, which resulted in me trying on one of pretty much every size available.  I should have started big and gone down, but no, I went the other way.  And got trapped when the cross over straps of the first one pinged around my considerable backside.  As if I needed any more of an incentive…

So here we go.  I will get rid of the muffin tops and I will not only get back into my jeans but I may even be able to sit down in them…  Well, I’ll give it a go anyway:o)

Spot the (fat) Pog

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How to have happy feet

A word of advice ladies: even if the shoes are reeeeaally nice, if it feels like you are walking on stilts on your tip toes, it’s probably best not to try to wear them for a whole day.

These are happy feet that have not been subjected to torture (mine are less furry)

And if you do, when, a week later you have forgotten the pain and the fact that you had pins and needles in your toes all day don’t be tempted to try them again.  It will still hurt like hell, you will still get numb toes and you will not look good hobbling around the office in your socks when it isn’t possible to keep them on a second longer.

And if you get through all that somehow, for God’s sake, don’t attempt Tescos even if it is Thursday…

On the upside, once my toes have regained feeling and maybe even uncurled a little I am sure the promise that I will not subject them to these shoes again will make them very happy feet:o)

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Must engage brain before hitting ‘send’….

Engaging my brain before I open my mouth is not one of my strong points, but I had thought I had mastered the art of engaging my brain before hitting send when I type an e-mail.  Apparently not.

Having spent weeks chasing a manager in the US for some information, he finally got back to me just as I was on my way out the door.  Knowing I would still have his attention if I replied straight away I pinged back a mail without really thinking.

‘Thanks for the stats.  Will work on them when I get back and send and questions on to you – just on my way out to go pole dancing now.’

I can’t complain I guess.  He did reply straight away.  The response?

‘Oh my…’

For the record:

morning glory

I did think about adding a picture of me pole dancing, but didn't want to be responsible for anyone being ill. Frankly, these are far more attractive.

  • It is pole dancing lessons I go to, not a second job to help with the mortgage.  In fact, the only way I could make money from it is through the comedy value that people may get from watching an uncoordinated elephant attempting to do tricks
  • It is not even a little bit attractive to watch (as has been said of the spectacle: ‘how is it possible to look more sexy in your pyjamas than you do when you get within two feet of the pole?’)
  • It is an exercise class so I wear trainers, shorts and t-shirt.  Nothing any more erm…revealing than that.

I just wish there was a way to slip those details into a mail to the manager in case he has a very wrong idea of me now.  But I have a feeling it may make the situation worse so for once I will engage my brain and keep quiet…:o)

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Where is the greenest grass?

In case any of you occasionally, like me, suffer from ‘the grass is greener’ syndrome and yearn for the single life, I thought I would take this opportunity to give you a brief look at my weekend, which may give you a view of the weeds over this side of the fence.

My Saturday morning started early.  Not with a walk of shame after a night of drunkenness and debauchery as would befit someone of my single status.  Oh no.  I was walking to the local village hall to take part in an indoor boot fair organised by the WI. 

proof of the stall!

My lovely sisters came along to help (or in the case of one, stuff as much of our goods in her bag as possible).  Despite earning the equivalent of the minimum wage between us we had a giggle people watching and trying to work out why anyone would want the electric foot warmer on the stall opposite ours (we all felt it would carry a high chance of electrocution should the wearer spill a mug of tea into the ‘bootee’ that was designed to plug into the mains…).  Still, I couldn’t help feeling that maybe I should only just be struggling out of my bed with a pounding hangover as I packed up the unsold goods and left at mid day.

Next, though was coffee with a friend which was more like it.  Far more like it when I got there to discover that coffee had been passed over in favour of a couple of glasses of dry white wine.  A good gossip with a side order of steak sandwich made me feel that the grass was very green and I left with a big smile and a feeling that all was right in the world.  

and todays model wears...um...a cat tunnel

Meandering back to the car I was phoned by Friend-I-was-born-next-to-in-hospital who was going to visit in 20 minutes with her two little ones.  A panicked drive home was followed by the fastest hoovering on record, a spot of speed cookie baking (as a single bod I feel the need to demonstrate some sort of skill somewhere and cookie baking is about my only option).  Luckily, Friend-I-was-born-next-to-in-hospital and smallest little one felt I was domestic goddess in the cookie baking department.  Bigger little one preferred a Kinder Egg and putting the kitten tunnel on her head.  Two out of three ain’t bad.  I however,  felt in awe of friend-I-was-born-next-to-in-hospital who really does seem to have eyes in the back of her head and an ability to laugh and smile at all times…despite the noise that little people can make.  Now that is a skill!

As they left I lay down on the sofa conscious that if I wasn’t going out I should at least open a bottle of wine….but by the time I woke up I just settled down with a cup of tea, some cheese on toast and x-factor.

And that is kind of how it is.  Today was different but the same.  The only grunting that took place early this morning was as I cycled up hills, the only being sick was the small child I was holding for its mum that threw up down my black top and the strongest drink I have had is an espresso.  It’s not quite the excitement that you picture for someone single and in their 30’s, but it’s great in its own way.  Yes, I like the colour of the grass this side and even the occasional weed, thank you…:o)

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Do you laughsnortle?

sometimes I'd like to be able to hide in the nearest bag too...

sometimes I'd like to be able to hide in the nearest bag too...

I did a laughsnortle today.  You know… one of those unexpected laughs caused by a friend that catches you while you are in the middle of something else.  In my case, in the middle of coughing.  So the laugh only partly escapes from your mouth.  The rest falls out your nose.  Along with anything else that has taken up residence there whilst mid-cold.  It is not attractive.  To add to the embarrassment factor, this laughsnortle was instigated via instant messaging in a silent office, so of course everyone heard.  Obviously it was also just as I was about to go into a meeting with some quite senior bods and had been trying hard to cultivate my ‘career woman’ image until this point (not hugely successful on any day, I will admit).  Of the whole day though (and it was a full 11 hours in the office) that is the bit that is making me smile while I sit here typing.

I think an occasional laughsnortle is probably a good thing.  I recommend it (although you might want a tissue handy for nose debris).

Having a friend who can make you laughsnortle is an even better thing.  Thank you laughsnortle friend:o)

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Travels of a Pog

irrelevant, but spotted up north and it made me smile:o)

 This weekend I went ‘up North’.  Cheshire to be exact (and lovely it was too…thank you Northern Lass friends).

1)     Even if a train ride is only a couple of hours, if it is a different journey from my usual commute, I am incapable of getting on the train without vast quantities of food

2)     The purchasing of this food does not follow my usual rules.  Euston station suddenly becomes a place full of culinary delicacies.  Lunch can require a second mortgage and I won’t bat an eyelid.  £10 for lunch?  Bargain.

3)     The food can contain two weeks worth of calories and it wont worry me in the slightest.  Despite the fact that I am going to munch through it in record time and then sleep it off.

Another station essential for no particularly good reason is the urge to use the delightful station toilets.  For 30p.  Now despite the fact that spending a fortune on food is reasonable when in the confines of the stations walls, spending a fraction of that on the toilets make me feel a bit grumpy.  A grumpiness that I made myself feel better about by using the ‘wide access’ toilet.  No, I’m not sure how that works either…something relating to value for money I guess…

The good news is that I am not alone in the food obsession.  Despite an enormous Sunday morning breakfast, Northern Lass friend packed me off home with enough food for three days (I’m not joking…I had lunch and dinner from the picnic yesterday, breakfast this morning and I still have some left for lunch tomorrow!)

hungry callipitter

He didn't take a big enough packed lunch...

So that is the train – food obsession.  The plane – food obsession is even worse.  Luckily for both the bank balance and the waist line that is less frequent though…

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A smile, a compliment and erm…

Today was one of those rather stressful ones that makes you feel like a stretched rubber band that is about to go ‘ping’.  To redress this, I jumped on my bike when I got home and cycled my fastest ever 20 miles. (Who says stress is a bad thing?!) About 10 miles in I was sweaty, panting and altogether not looking my best as I passed a pub with a group of people drinking outside.  Then I passed it again.  And again (I cycle in weird loops).  On the third time I was encouraged to ‘Gworn ma luv’ which I think translates from Kentish farmer into ‘Go on my Love’.  Now, I know if I adhered to political correctness I should probably have got a bit humphy about this, but it just made me smile and shout back that I was doing my best…  It also reminded me of the nicest compliment I have ever been given.

You need to understand that due to some weird genetics, my parent’s skinny legs bypassed me and my sisters.  Where our legs should be, we possess tree trunks.  We are all a little sensitive about this which is why it is surprising that on this particular night last year, I was wearing a short dress and knee high boots.  As is usual for me, I fell asleep on the train almost as soon as it pulled away from London Bridge and woke up minutes before it pulled into Country Bumpkinsville.  Minutes were long enough to see the scrap of paper on the seat next to me with a message on it though.  I looked around to see who it was really intended for, then realised it must be me (there was nobody else on the train at this point, so it had to be).  It said:

(It really is the original. I still may frame it.)

As you can see, I kept it (sad but true) but it has made me realise that compliments can mean a lot more to the person that receives them than we sometimes think. 

(For the record, ‘well, yes,  in another world I probably would sleep with you cos looks aren’t important to me’ is not  a compliment although it is hilarious when slurred at you by a drunken mate…you know who you are..;o)  )

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The intrepid Mr Spider

Usually, my bike rides are just me and usually that is the way I like it. Not today though. Today I had a friend to keep me company. All the way from the shed, for 15 miles around the local villages and back again Mr Spider sat on my handlebars and admired the view. Well, actually, he cowered in the only gap he could find but then it was cold first thing. I’d like to be able to tell you that between us we found the solution to world peace or some equally impressive cause, but to be honest, conversations were a little one sided and mainly consisted of ‘You ok Mr Spider?…Good’.
Mr Spider

Mr Spider. The most travelled spider in Kent.

I’m hoping tomorrow he might join me again and the conversation will progress. I’ll let you know if we come up with any momentous solutions to world issues…

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Achey-ness and a few tips

How achey people should spend the day (only minus the fur and tail)

How achey people should spend the day (only minus the fur and tail)

I’m a bit achey.  It’s a happy sort of ache though.  The sort where you have pushed your body hard and know you don’t have to do it again for a long time… I finished the 80km Cyclo Sportive on Sunday in a (for me) rather impressive 3hours 14minutes.  Unfortunately I was so happy to have managed it in under 3.5 hours that I forgot to stretch, even a little bit.  So now I am rather creaky.  I couldn’t tell what was the bike and what was my knees on this mornings I-must-keep-moving ride but at least I am in one piece and can tick off ‘long bike ride with 899 others’ from my to do list for 2010.  (My speedy friend lived up to his name by the way with a stunning finish time of 2 hours 42 minutes).

So,  my tips for you after my bike ride:

1) Don’t cycle over a level crossing at 26mph. You bounce off the road and loose the jelly babies in your back pocket.

2) When surrounded by about 800 men in lycra, do not start wondering what the worst colour cycling shorts a man can wear are (in terms of erm…being able to see more of their bits and pieces than you should).  It results in accidently staring at crutches and getting strange looks.  (The answer is definitely white though.)

3) Straight men do not like taking part in discussions about the shape of other men’s legs or how muscley they are.

4) Don’t forget that you are surrounded by other cyclists who may not understand your need to baa at sheep, quack at ducks or sing at the top of your voice.

Anyway, I hope they help should you ever be taking part in a Sportive.  Tomorrow it’s back to the pole dancing and a bit more pain..:o)

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