What I did this Summer (ha 'Summer'! *snort*) PART ONE

With a vaguely self-satisfied smile, because, really, who honestly gives a stuff WHAT I got up to during my Summer (*snort*) holidays?  I mean, REALLY?  Who CARES?! here's what I've been up to.

Clearly the Counselling still has a way to go with confidence issues, but I digress...

The main reason for writing this post is to see if the result will make me feel any better about myself and/or my 'achievements'.  I may not even publish it.  Ha - publish... now THAT's a whole other post for a whole other day and whole other time. And like the oven which SCREAMS for an appointment, my own interior remains stuck firmly with grime and caked-on years of overflowing.....well, stuff.

Anyway, the list.  *clears throat, taps on champagne glass... but not really 'cause it's 11.05 in the morning and that would be WAY wrong.  ahem*...

1. A window shut and a DOOR opened.  I know - a WHOLE door!

At least that's how it felt, in my little brain.  On the very last day of term, I was visited by our Headteacher who'd heard through the grapevine (Hello Luisa! *waves*) that I was very keen to become involved in the creation of our school's (now 'Academy', thank you very much) new website.  I mean, I have a blog, I write for another one, I've got halfway through creating one for the Hubs, how much harder could making a website be, right?

Rrrrr-iiiiiight...

Nine days later and at least three of them into the wee smalls, I still hadn't quite managed to get it looking exactly how I visualised it, and so I created my OWN website in its entirety first, just to check I was able to perform all manner of confusing stuff with only myself to blame if it went wrong.  But it didn't.  And call me old fashioned but I was mightily impressed with my result.

I HAVE A WEBSITE.  

Here: http://www.wix.com/debsricci8/debsriccio 

I KNOW!

And like the newly-recently-redecorated room, I can't stop popping in and having a wee proud glance around.  I know.... I know.... little things please little minds.  That should go on my gravestone.

2. I read some books.  And from now on, I'm ONLY listing books I enjoyed.  It's not nice to publicly scorn a book you don't like becasue (and here I'm going to sound scarily like some Agents I've heard from in the past) reading is SUCH a subjective business.  In fact only yesterday I put back books I was reading and loving five years ago.  Tastes in everything seem to change. So, books, and in no particular order:

'A Spot of Bother' - Mark Hadden (he who wrote 'The Curious Incident...') I nearly peed laughing and it's such a lovely, perfectly crafted book filled with the minutiae of life and how it can get all tied up in knots at times. I immediately re-read the first chapter again right after I'd finished it.  That's how much I LOVED it.

'Alice Hartley's Happiness' - Philippa Gregory. I'd read one of Philippa's book before - not her historical stuff (she wrote 'The Other Boleyn Girl' amongst other successful historical books and the film was a JOY) 'The Little House' and as I'm only just dipping my toes into Historical Fiction, I thought the premise of this sounded less daunting - I'm very easily confused with Kings and Queens and Landed Gentry - whatever they are. And this was SUCH FUN.  I could actually feel Philippa's enjoyment tumbling through the pages as she wrote it - it was as if she'd taken all her clothes off (metaphorically you understand, and these would be regal clothes dripping with heavy ornament and dignity and duty) and decided to run naked through a field of cornflowers just to see how it felt.  Okay, then that's how it made ME feel.  It was perfect madness and I'd urge anyone who can get a copy (it's out of print now for some reason - I got mine from the charity shop down t'road) to GET ONE.  She even made up a word - which was a typo but which fitted the description she was aiming for so well, she kept it in!  Loved it.  Oh, did I say I LOVED IT?

'A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian' - Marina Lewycka.  This was something I'd started to read last year and for whatever reason, I didn't get past the first 2 chapters.  I think it was in the wrong room - a book HAS to be in the 'right' place to get the most out of it, don't you think?  Anyway, my friend on Facebook (Hello Jacqui *waves*) suggested I persevere as she loved it so much... and I'm very glad I did.  Slightly on a par with 'A Spot of Bother' it made me feel fuzzy all over with the minutiae of working class family structure and all the little battles they contain.  Some of it made me squirm with delight and some of it made me squeal like a loon.  I could see it all in my head - which is always a good sign for a book.  I'm a very visual person, me.   I did skip all the technical bits about tractors which, I felt were unnecessary and kind of stilted the flow of the story a bit, even though I know it's like... important to the title and everything.... I just couldn't see why it had to be 'that' important... oh I'll stop now.  It was a great read.

This is already feeling like it might be a Two-parter, so I'm going to stop now and take a breath* and continue later.

*tea, biscuits, bread, butter, (in the style of 'Spam') stodge, stodge, stodge, stodge*

The Best Laid Plans

During this year's summer break I'm tricking my brain (*snort*) into believing that I have all manner of industrious things lined up for it... for example:

1.  I shall be going through my wardrobe and drawers with a fine-toothed comb and eking out any disturbing items of clothing I may have lurking within - items that are, for instance:
a) too tight
b) too loud
c) too young
d) too old
Let somebody else enjoy them, I say! Someone skinnier, bolder, younger and older!

2. I shall be spending every dry-weather day in the garden plucking anything unruly or weedy-looking from it's roots and turning our frontage and backage into something that doesn't cause our neighbours undue consternation.

3. The skirting boards will be cleaned.  (they are cleanable, right?  And they are that long stretch of wood that goes all the way around the house at the bottom of each wall, right?  Yeah, I thought so - just, y'know, checking).

4. The doorframes which I started painting last summer will be given a 2nd coat of gloss.  I'm guessing I've allowed the first coat enough time to 'settle'.  It's important to allow plenty of 'settleage' - I've heard it can be dangerous in certain circumstances.

5. I will visit a garden centre (and this means I will have to drive - which I still don't like to do - so even more bravery involved here) and purchase a couple of cheery and hardy-looking shrubs.  Maybe even a nice bushy bush... something that doesn't mind being drenched in shade and cat pee for half a day at a time.

6. I will download some tunes.  Can you tell I don't know what I'm talking about here? I have never downloaded a 'tune' in my life (are they still called tunes?  Am I showing my age by not calling then a 'track' or a 'line' or something?) and I shall - apparently - have them on a nifty little memory stick which I'll be able to take in the car (*gulp*) and play randomly in the background - on mute - when I'm on the computer. Oh, technology I embrace you!

7. I will re-train myself to paint.  I never learnt the finer art of watercolours at school before I flounced out of my A-level Art exam (for 'flounce', read: my Nan was in hospital dying and I couldn't concentrate) and I will teach myself how to use oils - something I've never done and which I never thought I'd be any good at if I tried.  Who knows?

8. I shall smile a lot.  In fact every day.  I shall paint on the biggest, happiest smile I can manage whether I'm happy or not and my brain (lol) will be forced to believe it needs to follow suit - otherwise all kinds of space-time continuum bad-stuff could very well happen.

9. I shall cook 1 different dish a week for 6 weeks.  Not only will this flex my scared-in-the-face-of-recipe adversity kitchen muscles, it will also surprise and delight both husband and daughter. Just so long as I don't muddle up spatula and paint palette and end up with omelette on my landscape.

10.  If I convince my brain that this is my definitive list for the summer holidays then there is EVERY CHANCE I shall write a whole book instead.  Cunning plan, eh?

A Suitable Candidate

I wouldn’t say I’m a connoisseur of counsellors (although I DO love the alliteration) but I am beginning to see that they’re not all ‘the same’. 

Not that I tend to geneneralise… But  when someone mentions the word ‘counsellor’, I do see a lot of beige. The room has to be, of course.  The pictures on the wall have to give off a soft glow of reassurance at best.  At worst there are probably directions to the Fire Escape – so quite reassuring if you’re a claustrophobe I should imagine. And nowhere on the counsellor’s wall will you ever EVER see a print of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’’ – however much you’d love there to be.

*I’d* love there to be.

The first counsellor I ever met was a hirsute, be-suited Indian man called Dr Rah (*name changed for protection purposes – although I’m now not sure he actually wasn’t called Dr Rah… anyway this was decades ago – he’s probably dead by now).  And we used to meet on Wednesday afternoon in his office at the Psychiatric Wing of our local hospital.

The fact that I was driven there by my mum and dad who sat shame-faced in the waiting room for my 45 minutes to be up didn’t help me relax any, I can tell you.

The company I was working for at the time was paying for his counselling (being part of the Private Healthcare American companies liked to give their employees in the 80’s) and all I can remember of our sessions was the way he spent Sssooooo long tapping the tobacco out of his stinky old pipe under the table we ‘shared’ and refilling it with fresh leaves from his pouch – an exercise he took far more interest in than he ever seemed to do with me, his patient. 

I didn’t really understand everything he said to me and the only thing I can remember being slightly worried about was when he pushed a half dozen tablets across the desk at me and asked me to arrange these as ‘people who are important in your life’ – with the biggest tablet being me.

Considering I was there mostly because I’d tried to overdose, I think the irony was lost somewhere. Either that or he hadn’t read my notes properly.

And so I lined up my tablets accordingly.  My boyfriend being the closest followed by my best friend, other best friends etc. 

He stared at them for an awkwardly long time, sucking on his stinky pipe and nodding (think Peter Sellers in ‘The Party’) and then made the statement “so in order to become closer to you, the one before has to be eliminated?”

I don’t think I’ve ever rearranged anything quite so hastily (and guiltily) and this sentence – clearly – has stuck with me.

The next Counsellor was a nice lady who smiled a lot and unbeknown to her, gave me the validation and assurance I needed that I wasn’t wasting her time and I was a suitable candidate for counselling and that if I wasn’t happy with my life then I was the only person who could change it.  I liked her and I only ‘needed’ three (NHS) sessions with her before I’d rather extravagantly interpreted any  ‘advice’ she’d given me into “Find the first guy you meet who takes an interest in you, no, no… of course it doesn’t matter that you’re both completely rat-faced at a house party in Aberdeen… and move him in with you and your bewildered 6 year old daughter until you realise he’s an idle alcoholic who’s hell-bent on self-destruction and doesn’t mind who he takes down with him.  Oh and let him buy a dog that will turn into the size of a donkey before it’s 5 months old and scare the living sh*t out of  anyone that might want to beat a path to your door. (Perhaps to rescue you and/or daughter). Um..  Okay?”

Suitable candidate for counselling?  Yup, she wasn’t kidding!.

The third counsellor I had was the lady I started seeing last year, following the 2^nd car crash in five months and she was a private, fee-handler, recommended by my doctor who needed me to be ‘fast-tracked into the system’. Again, she reassured me I wasn’t wasting her time (of course not – I was paying her for it, after all!) and that she considered me a suitable candidate for counselling. 

Oh, I think I see a pattern emerging.

But as the weeks drew on, I realised that she wasn’t actually paying much attention to me.  For instance we’d stop after 50 minutes and she’d always say: “we’ll take this thread up again next week” and we never did.  Of course I COULD have informed her of this fact, but I rather thought that was more her job than mine and so I silently seethed until I’d relaxed enough to just blether on about whatever was angsting me that week – usually the Hubby or Road Users.

And after 8 weeks I didn’t feel I’d got anywhere.  And I kept asking her if we were making progress, to which she’d reply: “Do you  think we’re making progress?”.  All very “bah” and frustrating.

So when the snows started before Christmas and I was told that my lovely hubby wasn’t allowed to wait in the Waiting Room for me and would have to endure sub-zero temperatures outside in the car for 50 minutes, I decided that was my last session with her. 

I was even dismayed not to get so much as a ‘feedback’/report’ or even flippin’ Christmas card from her and wouldn’t recommend her services. She knew how to drag it out a bit and still achieve nothing whilst being paid handsomely for whatever it was she thought she was qualified to do.

*breathe*.

Now the lady I’m currently seeing – and have only seen twice – is someone I like very much.  She’s already right Up There in my estimations, not merely because she remembers what we were talking about last week (okay, so it’s only been 2 but hey…) she also makes comment.  This week, after I’d told her how my mum had died, she said: “you look terribly sad” – which I know sounds like an obvious thing to say but I never realised my mother’s death actually made me sad until yesterday when she told me how my face had reflected the words I’d just spoken.

We have only 8 sessions before the NHS runs out but already I am confident she will help me find out what's holding me back and preventing me from leaping at life with arms outstretched and a giddy smile on my face.

She’s used two words so far that I have chewed over and over in my head endlessly and which I’m becoming very familiar with and have even started to attribute to parts of my life that have, for whatever reason, gone ‘wrong’ and these words are Blocked and Shocked.

Quite apart from anything else I’m oddly gratified that they rhyme.

Things I learned today

1. It takes at least 24 minutes before my brain will accept I have to open my eyes and move limbs.

2. The first cup of tea is the BEST cup of tea (and not just because I didn’t make it. Hang on, maybe it IS because I don’t make it).

3. Chris Evans’ voice is tinny and irritating if listened to from another room. But then the same could be said of anybody, perhaps.

4. I like working alone. I know where stuff is, I can do things my way and I don’t get annoyed with anybody not doing stuff MY WAY.

5. Janet Brown died. I never liked her impersonations but I’m sure she was a lovely lady.

6. The Beckham’s are expecting a girl baby but I don’t GET why Victoria can’t smile just ONCE for a photo. It’s not like she has to come home from work and wash up the breakfast things and spend the rest of her day wondering what she’d buy first if she had loads of money. Even SOME money.

7. Our flippin’ Prime Minister, David Cameron allegedly spent £68,000 of taxpayers money on refurbishing his flat at 11 Downing Street. The article in the Daily Mail actually hurt my heart and made me think (not for the first time today but still…) ‘what’s the bloody point?’.

8. My best writing friend in the world, one who constantly tries to keep my head above water and sent me a link about self-belief and creative confidence is on a hiding to nothing. I am thoroughly unhelp-able. Unassistable.?

9. I can teach myself pretty much anything so long as it is written down, in sentences of not more than 1.5 lines long and does not contain too many technicalities of the computerised kind. I password-protected our wireless network! I know!

10. The rare pockets of bliss and joy I feel last less than the time it takes me to realise I am undeserving of them and will be smote for enjoying even a millisecond of them. Don't ask me why, it's probably something to do with the way I was brought up and means I need therapy.

Stop looking over the fence

My Note from the Universe this morning made me think more deeply than I think I ever have before actually getting out of bed.  And that's saying something.
Usually I've thought through a myriad of things, such as what the weather is doing and how it will affect  a) driving conditions b) frizziness of hair c) choice of clothes - i.e. vest or no vest basically - that most mornings I'm exhausted before I've put one foot on the floor.  I don't know how on earth I got through a day when I was raising a child on my own; I'm guessing age and steely determination not to (be seen to) fail had a lot to do with it.

Anyway, the Note.  Basically said that I'm Great - which they generally do.  Which is nice and that, but I know that about a gazillion other people are also receiving Notes at the same time, saying the same thing - so cynical old me normally scoffs and says "yeah right, thanks" and plods onwards into a new day not really giving the Note another thought.

But today was different.  It was a long one.  And if I'd been getting ready for work (especially if hair-frizziness was also in the equation) I wouldn't have had time to read it properly whilst holding the diffuser attachment, a mug of coffee and a toasty bagel at the same time.  But it's school holidays and so I was in bed with a nice cup of tea and a good book ("The Secret History" - Donna Tartt) and it came through.  In fact it felt so important that I read it three times in the end.  And I've saved it in my Words of Encouragement Folder.
... (excerpt)
It's like everyone's given seeds that are capable of growing into the garden of their dreams, but no one's been told they even have them. Then, when they see their neighbor's garden growing, whether it's because their neighbor actually found their seeds or accidentally spilled them, there's a rush to see what's happening.
...
There are seeds that grow into private gardens. Seeds that grow into best sellers. And seeds that grow into happy families.

It's quite a riot, and often good fun, but Debs, would you believe that one of the biggest impediments one has to discovering their own seeds, these days, is their fascination with the gardens of others?

It was the final few words: "one of the biggest impediments one has to discovering their own seeds, these days, is their fascination with the gardens of others" that I kept being drawn back to and I realised how right and sensible and apt it all was.  This is ALL I'VE EVER DONE.... believed not in myself but that I'm never going to be as good as the next person.... the last person, hell, even the person standing right next to me.  And there's a very simple reason why I've always felt like that and it's about time I  let it go beause the only person it's damaging is... well, me.

A common comment on School Reports used to be "Deborah does not have courage in her own convictions" or "Deborah lacks self-belief", and I always wondered how I'd get it. When I'd get it.  I assumed I'd have it when I was a grown-up, but no.  It never came.  I have a great idea, I buzz with it, I HAVE to tell someone but  if I don't get the encouragement my buzzy idea needs to flourish then I'm afraid it kind of withers and dies. I don't ever, EVER have the courage to think "It IS a fab idea, and I WILL make it work"  I just assume that everyone else knows better.  They know far more than I can ever hope to, so they must be right. I'll just shut up and hope it goes away.
OR I'll just write about it and that way it's out of my head.  
That's how the writing started all those years ago.  The paper listened.  Actually the dog did too, but I never felt as attuned with a collie-cross as I did with a Petite typewriter or a ball-point pen.

I have to learn that although it might look as though the neighbours know precisely which seed to sow where and that their garden looks positively majestic from where I'm standing on a tuft of sad-looking weed, that it doesn't mean that what my garden has to offer isn't just as fascinating to another neighbour. Fascinating in a different way, but just as delightful.


Have A Message from the Universe sent to YOU every morning.  Go on, sometimes I positively squeal with delight for a minute a morning -  and that's got to be a good thing, right?

Cut Back!

Sit back, relax, wind the window down a bit, turn the radio up and soak up this lovely ECONOMY DRIVE we're currently enjoying!

Thanks to strict parental upbringings, I am delighted to report that we have already, over the space of four days – and even with the country tipping the 20 percent VAT scale – made a cumulative total of £30 per month savings! (That’s if you average out each individual saving over the course of the year, divide it by twelve and take away the first number you thought of. Of course).

What we didn’t bank on (d’you see what I did there?) was the unhelpful manner in which our quest to Cut Back would be dealt with.

Virgin were never going to be an easy mark, so we thought we’d start by culling the TV channels we don’t need. I mean, I grew up with BBC 1 and 2 and a little-known-never-thought-it-would-catch-on channel called Anglia. And THAT was too much choice at times. Nope, if there’re more than two channels then there’s too much chance of missing something on t’other side – which is why God invented TV recording devices. It’s like the proverbial wardrobe, isn’t it? What woman in her right mind needs more than two pairs of shoes? There’s a Staying In pair (they’d be soft, fluffy, silent) and there’s a Going Out pair (durable, comfortable, ideally slip-on). Who needs another pair of footwear when you can’t afford to go anywhere to wear them anyway?

And after we’d managed to convince the nice person at Virgin that No, we Didn’t Want to Upgrade – we wanted to DOWNgrade, we asked if they could suggest anything else to help reduce our monthly outgoings with them (Broadband, Landline) to which it all went silent. They are clearly not used to being asked these things.We mentioned abandoning the phone line, which we very rarely use, at which we were informed that if we cut this service then we’d automatically lose our monthly discount for using all 3 services and it would end up costing us more if we got rid of one of them.
Mad.

The Bank were no better really.
After we’d told them we wanted to revert back to a Standard Current Account with no monthly service charges, they immediately suggested reducing it from £12.50 to £7.50 for three months and then reverting back. Not helpful. Not really. Not long-term anyway. And did we realise we’d lose ‘key benefits’ like RAC membership (we still have 10 months of this assistance with our car, so this is needless duplication). Mobile phone insurance (which is covered on home insurance – at least parts of it are) and travel insurance (which, considering we go away on average ONCE per year it’d still cost us less than £20 when/if we do take it out) so thanks, but losing ‘key benefits’ would still mean we’d be saving money in the long term.


They just don't like the idea of having to melt down our Gold cards and replace them with whatever colour card indicates the pond-scum equivalent of the Banking fraternity.

The Go Compare people were altogether nicer. At least you haven’t actually got to lift the phone and TALK to anybody anyway. We dutifully went through our online Gas/Electric statements for the past 12 months, added up all the energy Units we’d used for each over the year and then entered it into the little comparison box. Lo and behold were are immediately told that if we switch to a lesser known company, then we will save £350/year. Which, I know remains to be seen, but it’s a step in the right direction, right?

Add to this the fact that we’ve VOWED not to visit Sainsbury’s again until every last crumb has been scraped off the bottom of each freezer drawer, then I think we’re going to be moving in the right direction.
Or at least not be in such dire financial straits as we find ourselves right now.

And I don’t particularly fancy having to downsize the house just yet – not when I’ve just hoovered the stairs anyway.

The Spin-Doctor will see me now

Unusually, totally out-of-character, I have decided to put a positive spin on things.  In particular, these things, and, as Dermot always says, in no particular order:

• the shite wet, freezing, bastard miserable weather outside today is, I’ve seen reported, apparently the tail-end of Hurricane Jedward which hit the UK from Ireland last night.  And even though I’ve never know of an upside, Jedward-wards, this means that when the husband gets home he will be building us a fire of castles-at-Christmas proportions and we will slurp soup from our laps (and, in a bowl, obvs) in front of a Downton Abbey catch-up and flick synchronized birds at the inclement goings-on outside the snugness of our front room. And answer the door to no-one but the lady who delivers the news of a Lottery win.

• my NanNo word count is remaining at a rather unimpressive ZERO, or maybe just 2, counting the title. Because I needed to unburden myself of additional pressures this month and it actually does feel like a great weight has been lifted.  Therefore I will NOT be obsessing over how many Buddies-of-mine are haring towards the 50,000 word mark, nor will I be reading their impressive excerpts of literary creation and thrashing myself with a metaphorical birch twig at my own pathetic attempts at writing, and more pleasingly, I will NOT have another book that is half-written half-loved and half-baked.

worth enlarging, if you know what I mean

• the menopause is just another way of telling me I’m as normal as the rest of the female population who’re also ‘enjoying’ (see what I did there?) this condition.  It doesn’t mean that I’m a dried up, unproductive old prune who'll give up the root-retouches and hack her hair into a short-back-and sides to ease air circulation and reduce full-on-tropical hot flushes. Nor does it mean that I will be spending any more time scrutinising my upper lip and chin areas for unwanted hairgrowth than I already do.  It does mean, of course, that I shall be turning the central heating down a lot more and encouraging other house-users to wear more clothes.  If I’m going to ‘enjoy’ this metamorphosis then I don’t see why others shouldn’t enjoy it too.
• ...piggy-backing this period (did you... yep, I know, I didn't mean to insult your intelligence)  of transition, it also means that I don't have to spend a small fortune buying silly little panty liners, awkwardly-shaped internal sanitary devices,  ringing dates on the calendar and constantly wondering if I'm pre-menstrual or not - I was clearly born irritable. I will learn to embrace it.  No, I will. What? You want to make something of it?

• the so-termed ‘writer’s block’ is merely another way of giving me more time to spend doing proper, houseworky, housewifely things.  Like cooking.  Dusting.  Cleaning.  Cooking.  Dusting.  Cleaning. Nope…. This is one ‘thing’ that I honestly can’t put a positive spin on….

• Ah well, I had a go.

Time well wasted

I'm not liking Car Salesmen.  Almost as much as I've come to not like Estate Agents or Insurance People or anybody else who thinks it's their job to sell you something you need at an over-inflated price you can ill-afford.

'Mr P'

Take for example... oh, let's call him Mr P... whom we met with the other day.  For an appointment.  A proper, pre-arranged appointment we'd made about 3 days previously.

We arrive 5 minutes early and we're asked to take a seat as Mr P is busy with somebody else at the moment and would we like a tea or coffee?  No, we wouldn't,  we've just had one.  We'll just sit and wait for 5 minutes.

15 minutes later, we are asked if we'd like a cup of tea or coffee and that Mr P has had to re-schedule so we'll be seeing another Mr P (they're all made of the same transparent material anyway) when he's finished with his customer.  Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?

No, we wouldn't.

I would like some Panadol, something to eat, and to get to Sainsbury's before sunset please.

A further 20 minutes later, during which time we have read all there is to know about every model and shade of car post-1914 and I've lost a few challenging games of 'BallBreaker' on my phone, Mr P strides up and shakes the Husband's hand meatily, not even glancing my way.  I could kick him.  *I'm on tablets, I'd have every right.  I roll my eyes, sigh and follow the Hunter-Gatherers to Mr P's desk.

'So what are we doing today?' Mr P asks our expectant faces.  Clearly he hasn't the first idea.  And the other Mr P hasn't had the professional foresight to enlighten him.  *I sigh again and probably roll my eyes again too.

I let the Hubs explain (in case I lash out which is very probable as my stomach is now turning on itself) that although we bought our current car from them a scant 5 months ago, that it's not really working out for us.  i.e. it looked great with it's top off in the sunshine but we didn't realise it had such a voracious appetite for fuel, that it drives like you're taking a dead dog for a walk and it costs more in road tax than it does in insurance - and that's not cheap.

Upshot is, this car was clearly a mid-life-crisis panic purchase (don't look at me, I was a quivering wreck who never wanted to get behind the wheel of another car in my life) we can't afford it and we want something more economical.

Please.

That's why we're here. Which is what we already told the nice receptionist lady when we made this appointment in the first place.

Mr P takes out his forms and starts filling them in.  Name.  Address. Telephone.  Drone.  Drone.  Drone.  Why the hell couldn't this have been done BEFORE our appointment?  We've been here nearly an hour and we've got PRECISELY nowhere.
And when Mr P realises our current car is in MY name, he finally decides to recognise that I exist.

Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?

No, we'd really like to find out how much we've got left to pay on the finance agreement with this car and sort out what our options are with a more sensible car.  That's what we'd like to do.

All through the inane form-filling process I am acutely aware that the only thing Mr P is interested in is trying to persuade us to buy a totally brand new car - even to the extent that when we're shown the car he HE wants us to buy (probably been on the forecourt too long and needs shifting) and we walk past a cute, cheap little Citroen, he steers us right past it, ignoring my "coo-ing" and "aaahh-ing"  (it's such a lurid colour that NOBODY would miss me on the roads). And we again end up facing him over his desk.

When he's finally worked out  how much deposit our current car WON'T make, that if we sell our respective souls on E-Bay to scrape together a down-payment, we are told that repayments will be more, we'll be repaying for longer and at the end of the term we'll still have a final settlement figure nearing £6,000.

You what?

And this helps us HOW?

I have to ask him how he sleeps at night and he looks a little curious. I explain that although his little scenario might earn him some top commission, it doesn't help us in the slightest.  If we were looking for a way to increase our debt and push us into more money misery, then by involving much more interesting things than a heap of metal with wheels, we could handle it ourselves thank you very much.
'I love my job,' he tells us.  'I wake up every morning with a thrill, knowing that this day is going to be more exciting than the last.  I've been doing this for nearly 20 years and I wouldn't want to do anything else.'
I smile charitably.  Bless his poor, sad, deluded heart.  He knows no better.   So I decide to turn the other cheek.  And if I don't get to Sainsbury's, I will eat his forms without ketchup.

'Can we book a test drive?' I say kindly, standing to leave.
'Absolutely,' he says, pound signs "ker-ching-ing" in his eyes, and excitedly scampers off to put us in his diary for... oh about three minutes ago.

I know it's *childish, but it made me feel slightly better.

And how do you feel about that?

*see below*

So the counselling is still happening.  And throwing up the occasional surprise, it has to be said.
Bearing in mind the initial reason for having these sessions was because of my shattered confidence behind the wheel of a car - due in no small part by having two die at my hands in 5 months, as regulars will already know - the 'conversation' occurring once a week doesn't seem to be tailored to re-building my assertiveness on the road or anywhere else.

I don't know what I expected to be frank (although it IS quite refreshing to be Frank once a week). But I think I kind of imagined it would be a bit more structured than it is.  I mean, I  seem to go inside the room, sit on my chair and just vent my spleen.  Not in an altogether *bad* way - although last night I did seem to simply sit and bitch about The Husband for an hour solid (I was still making mental addendums on the way out for next time.... sad, but true). And  I think I thought that by now we'd be... I don't know... doing psychological exercises in self-delusion techniques so that when I get behind the wheel of a car I imagine I am an Invincible (female) version of Damon Hill or Jensen Button or whoever is the greatest driver of all time.  So not Jeremy Clarkson.

This doesn't seem to be happening.
But these things I have learnt thus far from my sessions:

1. I can recall a six digit code to enable my entrance through the front door of the therapy centre after only having looked at the piece of paper once.  (I was unbearably smug at parties with the *guess what's missing off the tray* game).

2. I don't blame my parents (as much as I thought I did, anyway).  Or maybe this has more to do with "not speaking ill of the dead" than proper, actual forgiveness - my counsellor has yet to give me the 'nod' on this one.  That's how it works, right?.

3. Whilst I can speak for a whole 53 minutes without repetition and hesitation,  I can still deviate for England.

4. I think I'm stupid.  Every time I say it, it echoes through my head.  "I know that's a stupid thing to think" I say.  Or "I know I'm being stupid".  And she doesn't do what 'ordinary' listeners would do in a 'usual' situation.  She doesn't frown, shake her head and say back "Oh no, no you're not...".  She just sits and waits to see if I need to quantify my stupidity and when I don't (because I'm waiting for the 'normal' noises of assurance that I'm not stupid, and that's a stupid think to think) she says something like "you say you think you're stupid a lot...".  Which makes me think.  And then she'll say "why do you think you're stupid?".  And when I think about it properly, I realise I actually don't think I'm stupid, I just need assurances that I'm normal.  

5.  Even though I was never a Brownie ( they scared me and I couldn't even go into the village hall to join them because I was convinced they'd all laugh at me and hate me) or a Girl Scout, I have a very real need to Be Prepared.  This manifests itself in my kitchen cupboards.  There is nothing there that hasn't got a back-up.  And, as the Girl and the Hubs will confirm, my mantra is "we never run out".  Which is currently not working at the moment because both we and Sainsburys have  run out of Tomato Puree and for this reason I am mightily glad I have sleeping tablets to get me off of a night otherwise I'd be lying awake 'til the small hours re-scheduling meal plans for the remainder of the week or until I have enough bravado to scale the winding car park of the nearest superstore (ironically Sainsburys).


6. The tiniest glimmer of understanding can make me weep.  As I was leaving my session, my counsellor said 'see you next week' and I must have looked a bit non-committal.  'Do you still think you're wasting my time?' she asked, and I nodded.  'I'm sure you've got better things you could be doing,' I told her, 'people with far bigger problems than my stupid (see?) ones...' and she smiled like I'd imagine the Virgin Mary would, if I believed she ever existed.  'You're not wasting my time,' she said.  And with that reassurance I left, in tears.

Then on the way home I realised that she could also have meant that I am a prime candidate for counselling, I'm as mad as a box of frogs* and will keep the Counselling Centre afloat single handedly for the forseeable future.

And I still don't know how I feel about that.

Meet Jacqueline Hyde

I've never counted properly before, but I've probably lost about half a dozen jobs/boyfriends during the grip of PMS.  I very nearly said "particularly bad PMS" but then I don't think I've ever had "particularly good PMS" to warrant the existence of an opposite.

I do remember once, a guy at work scowling up at me from his desk saying "Are you on drugs or something, because your mood swings are unbelievable?" and I was so gobsmacked that I couldn't even answer.  I wasn't.  On drugs I mean.

I'm guessing he was referring to my Premenstrual episodes - with which always came the biggest downers of my entire life.  Every month.  And back in the 80's it wasn't as trendy to go around sharing chronic PMT stories - we were only just getting to grips with having a female prime Minister and tottering about in stilettoes and tight pencil skirts and being all affronted at being leered over by our colleagues - men, mostly.

But I don't think I ever equated the little red ring on the calendar with how appallingly bad everything I thought, said and did became.  Ever.  It must've been a kind of denial or I was just shocked that... once again I was grouchy, bad-tempered, irritable, touchy, weepy, at time suicidal, and always, always misunderstood.  As far as I was concerned, Mum and Dad were right and they really HAD raised a spiteful, selfish bitch of a daughter who wanted everything her own way and was ungrateful and bad tempered about everything. "We just DON'T understand you!" they'd rage.   Of course, by the time my period had come and gone (surprise!), they were still bearing the PMS-grudge of how abysmal my behaviour leading up to it had been and I was still in The Cooler.  And, a fortnight later, after they'd (almost) forgiven me, the whole PMS-cycle returned and, sadly,  this pattern was never broken. It's just a shame it was never discussed.  I'm sure everyone would've been a whole lot happier if they'd known the only reason I was acting like shit was because that's how I felt.

Sometimes I'd just shut myself away.  I couldn't explain how I felt, so I didn't even try.  This was easier when I'd moved away from my parents.  Attempting to explain to my mother why I wasn't going into work, whilst  all my motor functions were operating normally would've been like trying to explain to Jedward that they have no talent, X or otherwise.  As far as she was concerned, if I breathed, I worked.  Like it or not.  Hormones were some new-fangled fashion that would never catch on; seeking professional help or even support for the raging torments I endured just wasn't an option. And therapy was for the idle, rich and famous.

I have stormed out of two jobs that I recall.  "Flounced" is probably a more apt description.  (I watched too much 'Dallas' and 'Knots Landing' and clearly thought that Joan Collins was the way to go). And never went back. I certainly changed jobs with alarming regularity (I wish I'd kept a 'red ring' for those times too - for scientific purposes) when I had convinced myself that I just couldn't cope with it anymore.  And the more my colleagues saw of my 'moods' the greater the desire to flee and find somewhere new - where nobody knew me and would judge me by my seemingly unstable personality.

Because that's what I assumed it was.  I was just a Bad Person.  I was hell to live with, hell to work with and so erratic that  nobody in their right mind would ever want to be with me for too long.  So I kind of decided to save them the bother and the embarrassment of working how to to tell me I was crap;  I got out before they got rid. I'm sure I lost a couple of decent jobs/blokes with this perverted course of action.  But I didn't know what else to do.

Secretly, even though the pains were severe and I sometimes couldn't even focus straight for the first day, I actually welcomed my period.  Because I felt 'normal' then.  I was doing what every other woman on the globe did -  I was going through a cycle which meant I was behaving like a regular human being and I didn't have to try and disguise or explain why I was looking , acting and feeling the way I was because I didn't understand it myself.  This, I understood.

Someone gave me a picture once of some pigs in their sty, and it said  "Don't try to understand me - just love me" and although half of me resented the heck out of this because to (paranoid, cynical, probably premenstrual) me it screamed I was "difficult" - the other half made me feel like perhaps I deserved to be taken just the way I am - any day of the month. 

So,  for the days when I'm displaying the following, I have a nice, harmless alternative:

Weepy = emotional

Angry = determined

Paranoid = sensitive

Tactless  = refreshingly honest

Depressed = introspective

And now I believe  it's all just part of my 'natural charm'! 

Instruction MANuals

"Plug and Play" is a phrase I like.  It implies minimal effort.  It positively oozes simplicity and this is something I like.  Simple, effortless stuff.  Like lying in bed reading on a Sunday morning.  No instructions required.

So this week, after three hours trawling through the reviews on Web-Cams on the Amazon website, I gave a sigh of relief when I finally found one that had 39 five stars and only 4 or 5 less.  The comments were pretty heartening too.  Everyone said they liked it, it did what it said it would and apart from a couple of eejits who didn't realise they had to take a lens cap off for it to 'see' anything, it was perfect.  (actually I'd also have been one of those eejits, had I not already read this... lens caps are tricksy little buggers, aren't they? )

And the price was right.  anything over £15 to me is expensive - even for clothes.  No, seriously.  I get sweats (more of those in another post) and I have to endure a full-blown argument with myself over the merits and drawbacks of such a purchase until I either end up getting it and never using/wearing it because I didn't quite justify the decision properly in my head, or else taking it back because I didn't feel I 'deserved it' in the first place.  Acts of rashness, for me, are few and far between. I'm surprised I'm not a Catholic.

So, the Web Cam.  I almost floated when I got it, because it also arrived in the same box as 'Tell Me Lies', the Jennifer Crusie book I decided I deserved (as it was 0.01p probably, I can't remember, but I like those prices and I don't mind giving the Post Office/Amazon packers £2.75 for 'handling' it for me.  A delivered book is worth it's weight in stamps as far as I'm concerned.  In fact if I were on a desert island, my one item of luxury would be a letterbox.  Or loo rolls;  I'm undecided).

And it reminded me of that cutesy little film trailer before the first Toy Story Movie, you know the one the dancing Pixar lamp?  So it was love at first sight.  And I assumed Plug and Play would also be much the same.
Not so.
Three hours later and after sticking it's (two - one for image, one for audio) leads into every available orifice visible on my pc tower, I grudgingly gave up and The Girl and I spent most of this time miming, laughing noiselessly, typing (vintage Skyping, no doubt) and lip-reading after I'd worked out that all I was going to get was vision.
Until the Hubs came back from a job and found me pulling out hair and slumped in heap of snarlingness over the keyboard yesterday morning, after another two hours of  Plug and (no)Play.  20 minutes later, he'd worked it out.  Because he'd followed online instructions.
Pardon me?
So I've now amended the useless little piece of paper that merely says 'plug and play' to something similar to those washing machine instructions in that picture up there.
And he's already reminded me how clever he was.
He's going to be insufferable this week.
But then I did *wish* for a man who was good with his hands AND his head.

More of this soon, promise, Michele!

"I Believe I Can Fly...okay then, meow really loudly"

My lovely (separated-at-birth) writer-sister Fionnuala blogged about self belief/confidence today here and she couldn't have posted at a more appropriate time.

I my teens I had a book of Quotes.  The most heavily-thumbed section of which was self-belief/worth/confidence/ goal-achieving; that kinda thing.  And it didn't matter how many times I repeated whatever quote I liked best that day/week, it really didn't seem to have any major influence on how my life was going at the time.  And now I know why.
Because the words were just that.
Words.  On a piece of paper.  Whereas what was most important was how much I believed in these words inside.  And how hard I really wanted these things to happen.  And how much confidence I had in myself that these things could really come to fruition.
Which I clearly never did.
I was always too distracted by others achieving their personal goals and marvelling at the way they seemed to have managed success so effortlessly (it appeared to me, the bystander) that I lost sight of what it was that I really wanted.  And in the end I convinced myself that it didn't matter, it was nice that fortune favoured others and I was probably just destined to be part of the audience in this great performance called Life.  Even if that's all I had, it was still probably quite important.  But it's never felt quite enough.


And even though I vehemently oppose the whole "I blame my parents" adage, I am completely convinced that had I been brought up surrounded with a lot more (for "more", read "any") encouragement and support and just unconditional love of wanting the best for me, as a child and growing adult, then I certainly wouldn't still be beating my head against my literary blocked wall and wondering when it's all going to happen. (oh, I didn't say 'If'  I wonder if that means anything?).

But now I need to locate, pin down and trust in this elusive 'self-confidence' thing.  I was never shown where it was kept before.  And on the rare occasions I do think I 'found' it, I was told to 'stop being such a selfish show-off' or berated for 'having ideas above my station' or even (seriously) that I wasn't allowed to have an opinion whilst I still lived under my parents' roof.  And, no, I'm not blaming them. Anymore, anyway.
No, I have come to accept that that was the way they thought parenting should go.  After all, they must have learnt by example, so if I want to 'blame' anyone, then I could just keep going back and back through generations of them and still never stop. A pointless exercise and one which sounds too exhausting to begin.

That's why God invented  Support Groups, Friends, Counsellors (fee-earning Friends) Networks and the Internet.
Just for me.
I know He didn't really.  I thought I'd just write that to see how much more important it made me feel.  Which it didn't at all.  It made me feel a bit blasphemous to be honest.  Which is another childhood throwback.
Oh, and which is also why I get a lovely, encouraging Note From the Universe every (week) day, telling me how great I am, how much fun I'm going to have and how my dreams, if I want them hard enough, WILL come true.  And for the time it takes me to read it, I really DO start believing it.  Until I realise that a hundred million other people are also receiving the same mail.
But  if we went around believing in ourselves then we'd all be happier, wouldn't we, and everyone would be nicer to and love one another more, and really, isn't that what IT's all about?

Where I live, in my head:

Other women wake up with perfectly applied (natural, naturally) make-up and hair that just needs a bit of a shake before they’re good to go.

[they don’t need to shut the curtains and pull the bedcovers over themselves AFTER they’ve left the bed for fear of husbands catching an unsightly glimpse and demanding a full refund]

Other women still have their natural, although sometimes highlighted, hair colour (yes, Trina I'm talking to YOU!).

[they don’t have to book their husbands in for a root re-growth touch up every third Sunday in the kitchen]

Other women reach tantalisingly manicured hands into their capsule wardrobe full of beautifully organised clothes that compliment and flatter (is that the same thing?) their body shape and colouring. They automatically know that anything they pull out will make them look effortlessly stylish and enviable.

[they don’t keep everything they bought for £2.99 on E-bay just because they can’t be arsed to re-list it, hoping that one day they’ll wake up with snake-hips and a 36DD bust because that wasn’t how it looked in the frikkin photo.

They ALSO don’t systematically go through everything they have, even if it’s ten years old and try it all on, get into a sweat and a lather and then cover it all up with the faithful long cardi they wore yesterday, the day before that and the decade before that one]

Other women know exactly how to walk in a nice straight line with pointy heels on. Without looking the slightest bit like Dick Emery in his “Ooh… you are awful” days.

[they don’t have only ONE pair of heels that only ever come out for a wedding or something. Maybe a New Years Eve – so long as it’s an entirely sitting-down affair]

Other women know precisely what to say in any given situation. They have poise, they have command, they know some big words and they even know what they mean.

[they don’t fumble and bumble and look – literally at times – deep into their cavernous handbag for some kind of inspiration, resorting to a meaningless moan about the weather because that’s the only certain, albeit changeable topic of conversation, in such a cruel, uncertain world]

Other women have a confident attitude to everything they do. They KNOW what they want. They KNOW where it is and they KNOW how and that they WILL get it.

[they do not have airy-fairy ideas that change with the wind, the season, the underwear. Ideas that are only good for as long as they’re still listening to the person who has them. Mostly a TV/Radio personality. Because they HAVE what they WANT. Which IS a personality]

Other women go to the gym three days a week, they cycle, they swim, they jog with aplomb (whoever she is) and they have a cardio-vascular system that demands accolades. And still their hair looks lovely and bouncy when they’re performing these health-giving feats.

[they don’t have to swill back a handful of tablets and coffee before they have the energy to pull the bedroom curtains back. And then find the stretchiest thing to pull onto their body without putting anything out in a major muscle area. And then have to have a quick lie down through the exhaustion of having got in/out(shake it all about) of the shower. This is cardio-vascular taken to it’s limit. No, seriously]

Other women’s multi-tasking skills include holding down a high-powered job, putting on a wash AND hanging it out before going to it; being all high-powered and bolshy in an executive position for 8 hours, coming home, making dinner for 5 (maybe even entertaining an extra 8 really important people from high-powered career place after putting the kids to bed) Twittering about how fun life is, putting pictures on Facebook of how happy and shiny and healthy their family/house is and then blogging about it before finishing off the latest book in bed (that’s writing it, not reading it).

[they don’t spend 4 hours in a part-time job where the biggest worry of the day will be if there’s a spare box of staples in the cupboard or not,  whilst working out whose turn it is to fill the kettle up next. After which, deciding the prospect of watching Loose Women on demand is a lot easier than having to visit Sainsbury's on the way home and then having a small wail about how there was just “no time” to start anything for dinner and forgetting that the chippie is shut on Monday and so having to eat stuff from tins at the back of the cupboard]

My husband is one very special man, that’s all I can say.

Effortless Energy Saving Tips!

Tip #1

Let there be…

Worried about things boiling over or turning into a plastic puddle in the microwave, but equally anxious about keeping a watchful eye on the cooking proceedings because of the 80’s warnings about microwave rays melting your brain? Then worry no longer, folks! Take out the lightbulb! (Or in our case, just forget to replace the one that stopped working). That way you need never know what’s happening inside the microwave, you won’t be tempted to take a peek, and what a surprise you’ll get when you hear the ping and open the door! (I didn’t say it’d be a ‘nice’ surprise, though, did I?)
*Note: This works equally well with lightbulbs in other parts of the house. Especially in rooms where you’d forgotten how much younger you look in a subdued light i.e. bedroom. And imagine the fun you can have guessing which (and whose) body part you’ve got your hands on! And visitors will always remember the subtle ambience in your living room when they get back to their stupidly over-lit homes. You’ll be the talk of the neighbourhood! And maybe they’ll bring torches with them next time they visit so you won’t have to turn on ANY lights – what a win-win situation!

#2

Flying the nest…

Encourage your children to leave home. The sooner the better! Not only will you not have to wash clothes that have only been worn once on a daily basis, you won’t have to iron five times a week either! And you’ll save a fortune in petrol money, pocket money, clothing allowance, and all power-source consumption generally.
You’ll also notice that the fridge is that much emptier. And an empty fridge means the perfect excuse for not having made anything for dinner!
Husbands? Heck, they’re just Wives with more muscles and louder voices. See how much fun you’ll have watching your male counterpart trying to work out what he can do with a solitary crust of bread, a lump of Wensleydale and a Whiskas pouch. And watch how much weight you both start to lose with the simple eating plan we like to call “No Ingredients? No Meals!”

#3

Feeling hot, hot, hot…

Why not start the menopause? After all, you’ve spent the vast majority of your life with cold extremities, it’ll be much better now you’re getting sweaty on an irregular basis. Watch how high your husband’s eyebrows can go as he sees you fling your cardy off  for the fifth time in as many minutes during ‘Deal or No Deal’. Marvel as you see him trying to better the last sigh he made as he watches you prostrate your glowing torso over the cool, leather sofa, waiting for another ‘flash’ to pass.
See how your hair becomes fuller, frizzier, using simple body-heat with no need for a diffuser attachment! And see how you start deciding you might not bother having showers anymore because it’s just not worth the hassle of having to wash and use deodorant which is only good for three minutes. The energy-saving capabilities of going through the change are limitless! Just wait until the winter when the heating won’t need to go on at all!

My first is in Dentist but not in Drill... or something like that

Do you like riddles?
Nope, me neither. They're too similar to clowns to be comfortable, aren't they?
But because this word rhymes with SCARY and WARY and .... okay, back to SCARY again.  And ExtraOrdinARY, perhaps... I thought I'd be all riddle-y with you as a little teaser.
The word is... *dah-dah-dah* HAIRY. And along with alluding to something in the hirsute department, it can also be synonymously-rhymed with 'scary' and 'wary' too - so altogether a nice little bundle of sense.
In my head, that is.  And we don't really want to dwell on that for too long, do we?
Anybody who knows me already knows that since the 2nd 'C'-word I haven't been myself much.  I go out even less now than I ever did - and that was hardly ever.  I have become what is known around these parts as a bit of a recluse.  A hermit.  I am the Howard Hughes-in-training of Bedford (walking about naked on uninterrupted streams of Andrex excluded - for the time being - and until we can source much thicker nets for the windows).
And a trip to the Hairdressers has never been Up There on my list of favouritest things in the world to do.  In fact it's probably equal first with the Dentist if I'm to be frank - and currently I'd rather be Frank than Debs any time of the day or night thank you very much.
So imagine my dismay when I thought my Ladyshaver had run out of steam as I pulled a great wodge of hair out from underneath my arms, only to find it still attached to my head - the shock - the horror - the hideousness of having to  find the wherewithal to even make an appointment at the Hairdressers! (Note:  the hair being stuck under the pits is my SIGN that I need a trim.  I will even walk with elongated arms rather like a Neanderthal for an extra week if it will earn me more time to put off making the hairdressing appointment.  Oh, and I cut my own fringe.  Badly, apparently.  But then that could very well be tactical on Hairdresser's part).
I digress - but then you already know that.
Don't you HATE HAIRDRESSER-SPEAK almost as much as you hate Riddles and Clowns... and Dentists?  I do.
'Haven't seen you since February - what've you been up to then?' I am asked pleasantly.
And for some reason I am compelled to NOT gloss over the past few months with an airy 'Oh you know, this and that...' - and I believe that reason has something to do with the list of "side effects" I noticed on the information leaflet inside my sleeping tablets.  Along with the usual, "depression/difficulty sleeping (WTF?)" and "headaches/hand numbness" and "metallic taste/difficulty swallowing" -, is "relaxed grip on reality" - which I always thought would be a positive thing. Not so during a trip to the hairdressers, apparently.
So I told her everything.  About the 2nd crash and how it affected me and how anxious I'd become, how I virtually quake at any thought of having to travel anywhere at any time and how paranoid I'd become generally.
And she shut up.
There was a tiny query as to how badly I'd been hurt... to which I'd repeated (maybe menacingly, maybe not, it's difficult to tell what with this relaxed grip on reality that I have) that physically I'd just suffered the whiplashy thing, but that I'd been PSYCHOLOGICALLY damaged...
Which quelled the queries again.
To the extent that I even left the salon with still-wet hair, as she told me "Professionally" that she liked to leave curly hair on the damp side because it didn't drag down the natural bounce.  Yeah right.  What she actually meant was: " Jeez, I'm not getting involved with all this crazy-shite-psycho-wank, I'll give it a cursory trim, lasting all of ten minutes... maybe just snap the scissors a bit and not even touch the ends of her hair...  reduce her price by a tenner and she can blimmin' well drive back home looking like a frightened dog that got caught in a thunderstorm, trapped, trembling in a car and given a quick run-through of the Highway Code before feeling able to drive off...
If I'm lucky, she may even get home, burst into tears in front of her husband and vow never to have her hair cut again.  By me, at any rate."
Which I did.

Because *I'm* Worth it...!?

Yep.  I wish.
The Hubs has been otherwise engaged, so I've been pretty much left to my own devices lately.  And this happened to include the getting to become rather too regular for comfort root-touch-up at the weekend.
[Ah...didn't I already say...? That along with being particularly skilled at turning the roughest piece of wood into a thing of beauty, the Hubs is also a bit clever in the hairdressing department]?
Anyway... forget about the nicely-(calmly)-worded leaflet that comes with detachable gloves/plastic hat.  Here's what REALLY happened:

1.  Locate oldest, pre-'use-by'-date-stamped (thereby possibly prehistoric) box of 'Vibrant Reubenesque' and marvel at beautiful image of pouting (albeit Cyclops-ed) redhead on box.
2. Want some of that.  Desperately. Esp. recently.  And she looks so 'together'... Well, doesn't she? I bet she doesn't tremble when faced with a steering wheel, gearknob and a 40 minute drive to work.
Anyway...
3. Starting at the roots, perform almost impossible feat of manoeuvre with pointy-end of plastic comb, parting hair along the scalp to reveal (worryingly silver) roots.
4. Ignore funny fizzing noise emitting from just-shaken bottle of colour-creme combo.  Maybe Hubs never mentions this because it's entirely  normal.  Convince self of normality of even louder fizzing noise.
5. Daub inconsistent meandering length of 'Vibrant Reubenesque' along said parting and squint worriedly into bathroom mirror.  Ignore purpley colour.  Again, probably completely normal.
Repeat.
A lot.
In fact over entire headspace.
6. Do what instructions say and relax whilst colour gets to work.  No mention of still-fizzing bottle which also 'cracks' when you squeeze it.
Still relaxing.  Kind of.
Albeit with mad-staring eyes in bathroom mirror.
7. To take mind off of strange noises and dubious colour of hair, wipe gloopy mess from ears, neck, chin, nose, bath, sink, windowsill, basin and windowframe (don't ask) and manage to turn nice cream bathmat into  underfoot Dalmation-pelt feature.
Persuade self of intention to do this all along.  Bathmat was dull anyway  Cream is SO last year.
8. Squint even closer at  blacky-purple hair roots and begin to sweat profusely.
9.  Sweat some more.  It's good for you.  And increased heart-rates are all the rage right now.  This is cardio-vascular.  Breathe in.  And out.  Enjoy the moment.
10. Check instructions and feign understanding.
11. Sweat even harder.
12. In one seamless movement fling head manically over bath, spotifying all over-bath wall tiles, swipe shower-head from stand and eradicate worryingly fizzy, black concoction from head until all that remains is a decidedly orange scalp where the first lengths of colour were squirted.
Nobody's going to notice the spots in the bathroom. If I refuse to allow anybody in it.
13. Fire up computer, enter 'Funky hats' on EBay Women's Clothing search bar and...relax...

Not.

Destination: Unexpected

It's finally dawned on me during the last (four) barren weeks of writing anything but these blog posts and making a few inane comments on FB and Twitter (I had to log out this morning after I *actually* did the shameful/unthinkable and asked everyone to tell me whether to put on a wash or not, due to the inclement weather - and this was one of my greatest fears about signing up for the Twit-fest in the first place - that 'conversation' would become so dull I would even bore myself to www.death) that one of the reasons I haven't been making any kind of contribution to my wordcount is NOT merely because of the crushed confidence thing (which was towed off with the last car) but because I'm spending far too long trawling through other blogs and writer's websites and concluding that any input I make into the world of writing will be meaningless in comparison.
That might be the longest sentence I've ever constructed - and I've spun a few out in my time, believe me.
There are writers out there - proper, fully-fledged writers (most of whom have the sense to take a Masters Degree in Creative Writing or equivalent and hone their skills to qualified perfection) who have a publishing history and future that I could only ever get a whiff of if it ever became fragrance of the week on the Debenhams perfumery stand.  And the fact I don't drive anywhere lately makes this even more unlikely.
There are writers out there who have such guts and belief in their art that they give up the day job and live on Lidl cans of baked beans for 12 months whilst honing their first book and then go out there and damned well secure their publishing deal.  Yes they do! *punches air*.  And there are those who are so convinced their writing is worthy that they send off the only pages they've thus far written and an Agent takes them on just like that *clicks fingers*.  Or they're 'discovered'.  Like the checkout girl who was talent spotted by some Model agency or other I'm sure I heard (didn't I?) or they just happen to have lunch with somebody who puts them in touch with an editor and the inevitable happens and I just sit here thinking.... oh.... oh.... oh....
Because I grew up believing that everyone gets the break.  Even Snow White got the break.  And that Sleeping Beauty.  And Susan Boyle. People seems to be getting breaks every day.  But that's not to say a lot of damned hard work doesn't go on behind the scenes - I know it does.  Yes, I do know that hard work is the backbone to every success story (apart from the amazing fairy-tale discovery-break-things I mean). And right now, after having totally convinced myself that anything I write will never be worth anything; that after 4 books and nearly 4 years of getting rejection after rejection, I am quite simply exhausted with it all. I'll probably write again when I feel stronger, because I love it too much.  But I am giving up trying to get published.  It's soul-destroying and demoralising and I don't think my weary old body/brain can take any more beatings right now. I'll stick to reading books.  I'm good at that. I don't have anything to prove when I've read a book.  I don't even need to tell anyone I've done it and how great I was at doing it.  Or that I'm even thinking about doing it again.  No pressure.
Actually, I didn't even realise I was going to end the post this way. I intended to say I'm going to steer clear of everyone else's success stories for a while (i.e. stop beating myself up constantly) and wrap myself up in a figurative blanket in the corner of a room somewhere whilst my hurt parts heal.
So,  if this is where my train of thought led me, I'm quite happy to get off and have a wander around to see what the place is like.

"Tell me about your childhood..."

So my first 'counselling session'  left me emotionally drained and physically wrecked.  God knows how I'll be feeling once  - or if - I start having them regularly and intensively.
And even though it wasn't a 'real' session (it was more an assessment and a discussion on how it could/might help, but we did touch on some very painful points) I do think I learnt stuff about myself I either never realised or else wanted to admit to before.
Here's a taster:
1. I don't *actually* blame my parents for everything.  Even though most times I feel like I do.  What I do is reason that I am the way I am because of the way I was brought up - not intentionally damaging -  but merely the only way my parents knew *how*.  My husband also helped me learn me this when we first met and it was one of the reasons (even though there are thousands) that I fell in love with him.
2. I do not cope well with the unexpected. I seem to react the same way to a sudden scare (i.e. car in side of mine) as I do with either the death of a parent/marriage or, perversely, a spider appearing from nowhere into my line of vision.  I am momentarily frozen, then shaken, then after a brief spell of bravado, I crumble.
3. Although I do not 'have suicidal thoughts' (as left decidedly UN-ticked on the checklist) I DO think about death - and dead people - every... single... day. But then so does Joanna Lumley so I'm in good company.  Although she IS slightly closer to it than I am....hopefully...not in a bad way I don't mean... god,  now I'm rambling.
4. I believe I've always had a serotonin deficiency (that's the happy hormone in the brain, right?) and that's why I get such appallingly bad PMS (which HAS occasionally resulted in *real* thoughts of No.3 above) and am prone to high levels of worry, anxiety and stress and extreme states of weepiness.  It's probably about time I got this deficiency addressed so it stops impacting on everyday 'life'.
5. I'm an emotional old pongo.  I cried openly in front of a total stranger, whether there was a hat dropped or not and felt a lot lost and vulnerable after I got back (shaking) into the car to come home. I think I need to cry more.
And not just during X-Factor or Deal or No Deal.

NEWSFLASH! Men are *still* from Mars, sadly...

Okay, there's a Matchbox-equivalent toy made in it's image - so that must make it somehow more.... um....er... well, I still can't decide what kind of status this elevates the car to, but it does absolutely nothing to convince me of the non-existence of the male/female divide.
Take the day we met Scarlett. Yes, a car will always be a 'she' for some, possibly entirely sexist reason - and here I'm almost tempted to quote Lord FlashHeart from 'Blackadder Goes Forth' as he addressed the Twenty-Minuters - but I won't just in case it offends anyone. A lovely sunny day. And it strikes me that if it had been peeing it down with rain, the impact of seeing Scarlett for the first time may have been diminished somewhat.
Because she was sitting out there on the grassy knoll of the forecourt, flaunting her undoubted sex-appeal with her top off. Right in full view of any passing trade. Which, I'm guessing was the whole point of her state of undress.
And it worked.
Cue awestruck potential customer (i.e. Hubby): 'Look at this! And it's under seven grand!'
APC's wife (i.e. Me): 'But we want something economical - like this 207. it's only got 20 thousand on the clock - and it's younger and it's.....'
APC: 'Look - leather seats. And see - it's got a built-in SatNav screen - and bluetooth attachment... and look here...it's got...'
Me: 'No bloody roof. Er...how is it going to protect me when I roll it?' (because this is HIGHLY LIKELY to happen - in my World)
APC: 'It's in the boot. And you don't have to have it down. Only in the summer. Only when it's not raining... only when...'
Me: 'You're driving it.' (I may have scowled).
APC: 'You have to admit it's got style...'
Me: 'And 60,000 on the clock. It's ancient!'
Enter Salesperson (shiny suit, slick hair, dollar-signs in his eyes): 'Lovely isn't she?'
(I cringe and wonder how I got on the set of 'On the Buses' or 'Robin's Nest')
Me: (ever-sensible Wife) 'How many miles to the gallon?'
Salesman: 'Oh, now let's just have a look shall we? Have you seen this on-board satellite navigation system?' (question aimed directly at APC and not the 'little woman' which makes me seethe as well as scowl).To which APC nods enthusiastically. 'This clever little device will tell you everything you need to know... when you're running low on oil, water, fuel, when you're due the next service... when you need to take a right or turn around...what the ambient temperature is in South Korea (I made that up but he probably said that - I'd switched off by then)...'
Me: 'So - miles to the gallon?'
Salesman: (answering APC again and avoiding any eye-contract with me) 'Let's have a little.... ah here we are - looks like the last journey was giving the previous owners an average urban of aroundabout 33, 34... not bad for a two litre I think you'll agree...'
Me: 'Two litre - the insurance'll be huge!'
Salesman: 'Yep, plenty of oomph this little baby - of course she handles like a dream. Let's take her out, shall we?'
As the slick salesman eases himself into the 'plush leather interior... you cannot have fabric in a convertible - it makes perfect sense...' and the topless temptress glides out of the forecourt, I am hissing statistics to my awestruck other half. All along the lines of fuel consumption, insurance groupage, economy of service/repair, tax, back seat leg-room and the reduction of doors by two.
'I wanted something sensible, economical, practical....' I may just as well have been peeing into the wind for all the impact my words had on APC. He'd died and gone to convertible heaven twenty minutes ago. Now he was cruising down the High Street on a summer's day with his top off and the Beach Boys blaring out of the (5-slot) CD player with Robert Palmer waiting in the wings. His sexy little sat-nav lovely telling him exactly where she wanted him and precisely where he should take her next.
And the look on APC's face when a switch was flicked and the (metal) roof went back on is something I last saw when we went to see 'Transformers II' - in fact reference to these lean, mean, shiny machines was actually made. No, I mean - properly made.
I might as well have taken a good book with me for all the input I had.
But here's the thing.
The APC is about to celebrate his 40th Birthday in about four weeks' time and I'd much rather he cavorts around with slinky Scarlett in full brazen view of his wife than creep about behind my back trying to get into one of my girdles and chatting up the lithe, sweaty ladies that jog up our road of a morning.
So Scarlett, my lovely, you are very welcome to join our little family and so long as you keep your curves in our driveway and don't go leading my lovely-but-very-easily-swayed husband astray, then we'll all get along famously.
(*ahem*)Until I write you off, of course.
(joke)
(kinda)

A lovely thing

They know who they are, the lovely ladies who got together and sent me these beautiful roses through the post and I just wanted to publicly say another thanks to them - for them - and for being so amazing and supportive and understanding and for being such wonderful, fabulous people who write amazing stuff and lead such busy productive lives and yet still find time to say and write lovely uplifting things to me, too.
I *heart* you all.
x