Wednesday, 11 December 2013

Run 4 All & All 4 Run!

I feel like I've been steamrolled!  But in a good way.  If that makes sense.  

That wasn't a euphemism, by the way.

Went on my first non-track outing with the running club I've recently forced myself upon - Run4All Neath, and it's knocked me for six. I'm shattered!

I ran six miles, which I've done before, but not at that speed.  And to top it off, "that speed" was nowhere near that of the small cluster of older (than me - not sure by how much, am a pants judge of age) ladies we'd (my friend James and I) randomly followed in a blind panic.

"Shit, they're moving! Quick, follow someone!!"

I would have ended up lost and forlorn in the middle of Neath - an area I've only ever really visited when A and I have been on the business end of several pints - if it weren't for James.  He kept his pace way slower than he's capable of (wasn't bloody slow for me!!) to make sure I didn't get mugged/knock myself out on a lamp post.

Poor sod. I think I owe him a drink.

Point is, I'm glad I went.  I pushed myself to the best of my ability and not a single person teased me or moaned about my obvious lack of horse power(If I was a car, I'd be that one off the Flintstones that everyone has to power with their feet). And lots of people commended me on how well I'd done, even if what I'd done was something they could have done whilst tranquillized and wearing a suit made of thick, wet wool.

I only wish I'd manned up and joined a running club sooner.  

There's very little option for you to duck out mid-run when everyone around you is soldiering on, and so you're forced to push yourself a little harder than you would have done if you were alone.  And no matter your ability, you are unconditionally applauded for your efforts by people who are just being lovely for the sake of being lovely and supportive.  Not out of a sense of duty.

Lovely, lovely, lovely.  Runners are a wonderful folk.  Everyone should have one!


Seriously, though, should my sides be aching this much? That one's new...

Tuesday, 10 December 2013

Tis The Season

Ho-ho-hopeless: My current Christmassy window display. Observe sad, limp lights on the right.

It's that month!! The one where you can eat anything you like and not feel bad because some bearded guy in flip flops was born in a shed a long, long time ago!

"Oh, go on then seeing as it's Christmas!"

*eats butter from the tub with a spoon*

I'm pretty fricking excited this year.  I've bought a tiny tree in a pot (see picture above... And try to ignore the Korn doll that appears to be bumming a small replica of Whinnie The Pooh's Tigger) and my fairy lights are loosely secured with what I can only guess was joke sticky tape (because it ain't fuckin' sticky!). 

I'm going for a lonely-drunk-who-dug-their-decs-out-of-a-neighbour's-bin vibe at home this year. Successful, no?

And I've not bought a single gift yet.  But's that's okay because I have a plan up my jumper sleeve:

Enter a state of idiotic, grinning denial until the last minute when I'll have to face the cramped streets of Swansea and probably die, crushed up and suffocating in a fellow shopper's armpit.  

The perils of being both short and disorganised.

Anyhoo, so this is my second Christmas from within this whole cohbitty thing - living in a house with that guy I met when he recognised as the pissed girl he'd seen. The one who'd dropped her bank card down an impossibly narrow crack between cashpoint and pavement and couldn't get it back out.

It's a comfort in knowing that one of longest relationships I've ever been in started with the male party's first impression of me being "pfft...tit!"

I digress. Last year, we went to our respective families' homes - he to England, and I to Carmarthenshire (or as he calls it "the Iron Age"). This year, the probably justifiably terrified sod is joining me and my family for festivities.  But next year, I've no idea what's happening.  And it scares the bejesus out of me!

I'm a quarter if a century old and and I've done the same thing every single year since I was first crawling around on the carpet in a party dress. Not much change on that front, either, I suppose. 

... I dunno.  Sometimes I wear jeans now.

The thought of having to be a grown-up and pretend that I'm cool with eventually having to be anywhere other than in my mum's living room with a stocking I'm much, much too old for but all the more appreciative of, makes me want to hide under a big pile of soft things and sob like a toddler. 

I LOVE my family's annual Christmas/all-day-all-ages-piss-up.  And for all the sleepiness, petty squabbling and unexpected food coma-naps, I never want to change a thing.

So because I'm feeling nostalgic and loath to let go, I'm going to use this post to share with you a couple of my family's Christmas highlights:

The Uno Saga

Most families love a board game.  Especially simple ones like Uno, which are straightforward enough for the young and plastered alike to enjoy with ease.  Unless such games involve my stubborn and often grumpy step-grandad, and my then-teenage and equally mule-like sister.

What started out as a friendly post-dinner game turned into an increasingly aggressive squabble about the rules, culminating an explosive "FUCK OFF!!" from my sister. Neither party spoke for a month.  I don't know why, but confrontation is just that much funnier when everyone's in little paper hats and trying to stifle burps.

Nowadays, we just watch a standup DVD after lunch instead.  Much safer.

"Who am I most like?"

Last year. My grandparents' house. Everyone is settling down around the TV bar from nana, who is upstairs faffing about with something or other.  Conversation turns to who most resembles whom in the family.

Me: I don't think I'm that much like you or dad really, am I mum?

Mum: You're a lot more like your nan than me.

Me: Oh? Why's that?

Mum:  Well, since she's retired, she's been a little more...y'know?

Me: No, what?

Nan descends the stairs, wondering why she's being discussed. Everyone pisses themselves laughing.

The jumper she's gone to put on upstairs is inside out.


Only a couple of specific memories there, but there are regular features to my family Christmas that I couldn't imagine missing out on:

- Being awoken at 6am by mum's super-subtle "coughing" because she's grown accustomed to children trying to wake her up at 4am every December 25th.

- Being told to "piss off out of the kitchen" by my step-grandad while he's cooking.

- Falling out with either sister at least once for a grand total of about 5mins because we're tired and because "just fuck off, okay!"

- Drink being forced in spare hand because hand currently in use only contains a half full beverage.

- Sulking from step-grandad as he believes that we're not drunk enough and are therefore not being festive enough. Suspect he secretly desires Yuletide rave.

- My nan occasionally refilling the quality street tin with toffee pennies because she knows that if she puts them all in at once, I'll weed them all out in one sitting.

...Eee... Christmas!!! Hope you're all looking forward as much as I am.

Now, I need to dig out Elf and A Muppets Christmas Carol soon otherwise Christmas can't officially happen yet.

Thursday, 28 November 2013

I'm Not Sick But I'm Not Well

....except I am sick, but I wouldn't be able to reference a song I like then.

Some evidence of said sickness.  I would take a picture, but my appearance might offend some sensitive viewers.

Got sent home from work yesterday.  Never been sent home in the middle of the day during this job before. My guts have been conspiring against me since the weekend in a way that's best described as severe crampy bastard butterflies from Hell.

Until yesterday, all they had done was put me off my food, which meant I could afford more things. I love things. Hurrah for things. And stuff too.  But somewhere around my morning break, my body decided that to jazz up my working day, I required a headache, the shakes and intermittent dry heaving.

Evidently, my body has shit for brains.

Anyway, my manager clocked my sudden decline into pasty, clammy pre-barf mode and asked if I wanted to go home,  at which I bravely welled up and squeaked out a "no!"  Which is wimp for "yes, but I don't want you to think I'm being dramatic, and I don't want to let anyone down."

Fortunately, said manager is a surprisingly skillful mind reader, and he sent me packing anyway.  

It's now the following day, and I'm still on the sofa, dolefully gagging into a cup of tea.  And I've got to thinking that school-age me would be loving this.  If you have a sick day and you're still in school uniform, it is both a nightmare and a treat.  I recall thinking at the age of 11 

"Yay, my tonsils are so big that I might choke on them! I can't wait for the doctors to cut them out of my throat with a sharp knife so I can have a week off school!  AND I've heard that I get to eat ice cream for breakfast for a few days after! Score!!"

The only part of that attitude that remains with me to this day is the feeling that if food is the outcome, then whatever it is I have to do to obtain it is SO worth it.

So. Because I have nothing to do bar make noises like a poorly skilled beat boxer, I've compiled a short list if why being school-age sick is a much, much sweeter deal than being grown-up sick:

- Mum: This goes straight to the top of the list!  Deep down, all everyone wants out of life is to
be confined to the sofa under a mountain of quilts, in front of a selection of their favourite films while the person who already spends most of her time raising you pumps you full of attention, affection, Lucozade and chicken soup.

To this day, I can't even smell Lucozade without feeling instantly green in the gills, but allowing myself to be completely and wholly pathetic because mum's got this shit covered is something I remember fondly.

- Freedom!!: No responsibility, no early mornings, no to-ing and fro-ing between classes and no being forced to answer questions in German whilst Mrs Wesner throws Pedro the stuffed monkey at your head.  That's not code for anything. She actually threw a monkey at us and made us give her directions to the station and list all the family members we had.

Sure, you might get a bit more homework, but you know that once you've sweated whatever plague you've caught out in front of several viewings of Casper The Friendly Ghost, your friends will be waiting to accept you back into the fold.  Maybe even take a couple of monkeys to the face for you until you're feeling 100%.

But my reaction as an adult (in body at least) in full time employment? 

"Guiiiiiiilt!!! Already let everyone down! Someone's doing my work as well as theirs! I'm a terrible person! I can't afford to be off work anyway! Daytime TV sucks! Horrible, selfish Becky for being ill! Work's going to be busy today and it's going to be all my fault! Guilt, guilt, GUIIIIIIIIILT-AH!"

- Appearace: Ilness isn't supposed to be attractive, I know.  This is why, when we're perfectly fine and dandy, when someone has the gall to ask us if we're okay because we don't look very well, the only response that springs to mind is a swift punch to the throat.

When you're little, it's sort-of cute to be all helpless and pale. Sniffly and snotty.  It elicits sympathy in the clan elders.  Nowadays, if anyone were to see me perspiring on the sofa, mouth agog, fringe both pasted to my face and pointing to the heavens as I gag, I wouldn't be surprised at a quick retreat as they make the sign of the cross over and over to protect themselves from whatever demon has me in its clutches.

Well.  I'm off to feel sorry for myself and hope that Beelzebub gets bored of reruns of terrible American sitcoms and flees my body.  Wish me luck!

I AM LUCIFEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!!!!! *projectile vomits*

Friday, 22 November 2013

...Come Again?

If this blog was one of them fandangled Youtube vlog things, I WOULD BE SHOUTING THIS POST AT YOU RIGHT NOW!!

But relax, chums.  Your auditory senses are safe.

...FOR NOW!!!

Reason for all the SHOUTING is that after last week's sexiness (translate: "lady flu"), all of my basic functions (i.e breathing, swallowing -not like that!-, making own cups of tea) have returned.... bar my hearing.  And so I've been talking overcompensatingly loudly while I forget that it's me who's having trouble hearing me and not the rest of the whole wide world (translate: office/ living room).

My hearing's not as bat-like in excellence as it should be for a laydee of my age (25) on a normal day, let alone when it's filled with all manner of fitty-making cold symptom debris ...because earlier this year I was told I'd need a hearing aid.

*waits for gasps*

*realises probably can't hear gasps even if they're happening*

Exhibit A(id) - Becky's robot ear

I discovered my (admittedly mild) handicap after booking myself in for a hearing test when I'd started to get pissed off at the fact that I was making up my own story lines to movies based on the odd few words I caught during them.  

To this day, all I recall from Brokeback mountain was some muttered discussion about "beans" followed by sudden, vigorous bumming.  Those crazy, non-enunciating Americans...

I'm only a casual hearing aid wearer - in that I don't really need it to hear most things and can usually get by without it.  I don't wear it at a carefree, jaunty angle or anything.... But I do hear (ha! Hear...) you can jazz them up with glittery accessories and the like.  I haven't a stab at being cool anyway, so if I'm deaf, I might as well be disco deaf. Might look into that...

Anyhoo, this week it's been marginally more difficult just Beckying through my day with one of my senses pretty badly if temporarily dulled.  And because I'm all about raising awareness and shit, I would like to give you a few examples of what being a-bit-sort-of-deaf-but-not-that-much-really is like for those who aren't mildly afflicted like little old me.

You learn that you're not designed to talk to grown-ups
According to my doctor, the pitches I am missing are from the mid range.  Meaning that I struggle to hear mid range sounds, but I'm average-to-ace at hearing high and low ones.  To quote Mr Doctor Man, I can

" hear children and Santa Claus." Funny bastard.

So basically, situations where I'd be at my best conversationally would also be the ones where I'd come off as just a bit fucking creepy... e.g at an under 14's disco (I could wear my jazzy aid!!) or on Santa's knee.  Awesome.

Certain aspects of office work can be tricky when you're full of cold, have left your aid at home and your manager is talking to you from behind his PC monitor six desks or so away.  While it can be quite hypnotic watching his eyebrows dance as he "meehmehmeeh"s like Beaker off of the muppets, it's not so great if you don't even have a shot at lip reading whether his "mehmehmeeh"s are of the "do this or you're sacked" variety or whether he's just informing you about a curry he had last night.

You sometimes find yourself accidentally being "funny"
I've had this conversation at least 3 times this week:

Me: Sorry, just getting over a cold.  You might have to speak up a bit at me today.

Co worker: Oh,, mehmehmeeehmeh...spreadsheet?

Me: What?

CW: *thinking I'm hilariously playing up to the deaf thing and not wanting to not laugh at a deaf bird trying pathetically to be funny* ahahahahHAHA!

Me: *not wanting to feel I'm missing out on the joke I've obviously just not heard* hahahaha!

CW: Heee.... So mehmehmeeehmeh spreadsheet then?

Me: ...Yes!

CW: *confused face*


Sometimes you just have to guess
When I'm feeling too lazy to fully concentrate on involving myself in a conversation I can only hear snippets of, I tend to just stand there, hands in pockets, smiling vacantly and nodding at all the pauses.  I then wait until I hear a word I quite like and then wholeheartedly agree and hope for the best. Sometimes the outcome is good and I get something out of it. Sometimes I come off as inappropriate or rude and have no idea what I've agreed to. Full on fascist sentiments for all I know.....It's Yes Roulette!

I agreed to something A said that included the word "waffle" yesterday.  Still not sure whether I've got a waffle coming or whether I'm expected to produce one sometime soon.  Exciting times, people.  Oh, I do so love to live precariously! 

.... I'll keep you posted about who gets the waffles.  Fingers crossed it's me!!

Oh, while I'm on the subject...never EVER Google the term "blue waffle". I did once after being told not to, and I can never EVER un see it!


Sunday, 17 November 2013

Snot and Sexualness... But Mostly Snot.

Everyone stop what you're doing and get to my bedside, for I have a cold!!

I'm at the tail end of a week off work, during which my body has enthusiastically adopted the office cold as a take-home memento.

This almighty snot storm came about immediately after I decided to try out going for a "running streak" after reading about them in a magazine.


... I left that gap there to allow you the time to jump to the conclusion that I've taken up naked running. Which, I guess, would be a good explanation as to how I've contracted a cold, what with it being November and freezing.

But nah.  Boringly, a running streak is just where you try to run every single day for as long as you can manage it.  I lasted a weak six days before my legs and brain threw in the towel and gave me something else to focus on.

"Look, Becky! Mucus!!" 

I would have preferred something that doesn't lead to me snorting and harrumphing into
 A's ear as I try to warm up in bed.  Not unlike an amorous pig.

Anyhoo, I've been on my arse for the last couple of days, slurping tea and troughing back fatty, comforting food.  

Fun fact - whilst running makes me feel all magical and immortal, turns out inactivity does the total opposite.  Here are some of the cheerier thoughts that have ridden the tidal wave of snot through my brain this week:

1. "I can feel my already just passably average body melting into a state of boneless lardification the longer I sit still."

....okay,okay. My self pity's not that articulate.  It was more like

" Wahhh, I'm turning into a fleshy bag of soft cheese!"

2. "Every second I sit here snivelling and internetting is a second where my friends continue to best me."


"Waah, I'm poor and all my friends are more successful than meeee!"

3. "I look like a melty ghost with straw for hair and I can't hear Breaking Bad because I keep sneezing over it!"
<no translation necessary>

Oh. Oh! And to top off my general feelings of hideousness and total unproductiveness (... Unproductivity..?), I managed to embarrass myself in front of A - a rare thing, as in out almost-two years of living in sin together (hee), I believe he's seen me in all my stumbling, fumbling and bumbling glory.

So.  Curled up under a throw on the sofa, I'm wearing my best woe-is-me-please-bring-hot-beverages face and it's starting to dawn on my that amidst the gentle purr of gunfire from Call Of Duty, a hot beverage is probably not forthcoming.  

Because I'm an idependant wumman a-la Beyonce and co, I bravely decide to venture the treacherous few steps to the kitchen (I'd like you to imagine me doing so to the tune of Destiny's Child's Survivor, if you don't mind). I stand all the way up, super proud of my decision. Momma don't need no man to get her some peppermint tea! <insert poorly executed finger snap here>

I feel something tickling the back of my thigh.  Assuming it's my skirt being bothersome, I swat at it with my hands. The tickling quickly races down the entirety of the back of my legs, and in a rare moment of distraction from the Playstation, I see that A's mouth is aghast with horror.

...because I have a good metre or so of crumpled up loo roll hanging from my pants all the way down to the floor.  It looks like in my haste to get off the toilet and back to the sofa, I've neglected to dispose of said bog roll and have instead accidentally stored it in my knickers like a dirty squirrel.

...Or, that in the absence of coloured hankies, I was improvising and trying out a magic trick. My audience was not amused.

Anyway.  Turns out I'd just been sat on some tissue I'd initially brought downstairs for nose blowing purposes and forgotten it was there. 

Well, I think that's as good as any mental image to finish off a blog post on. Hope you've all had a better weekend than I have!

Lots of love,

D.S (Dirty Squirrel).

Saturday, 26 October 2013

Shorts Were A Bad Choice

Agh, I LOVE Race For Life!!

At these events, we (i.e myself and a bazillion gazillion other lady folk) make a point of politely but firmly informing cancer that we're coming to get it. I can't imagine anything more terrifying than a few thousand women in tutus, jacked up on endorphins and mass hysteria running, walking, lunging, skipping, dancing and giggling towards you.  

If I saw it coming over the horizon, I'd get a shuffle on too.

Besides the gob-slackening amount of funds raised for Cancer Research UK each year by these races, there are lots of reasons why Race For Life gives me the warm and fuzzies. To name a few:

1. WIMMIN!! - women, in case you hadn't noticed, are bloody good fun! And when we get together en masse, especially at events like these, the atmosphere is completely giddy. The excitement is catching.  Dunno, maybe we're all buzzing our tits off on all the estrogen in the air or something.

2.  Race? What race?  - I don't know if others find this, but Race For Life is , I feel, one of the most pressure less, uncompetitive organised races I've ever attended. I'm always planted firmly in the "jogging" section at the start line (as opposed to walking or running), so I'm assuming things probably do get a little more heated up front. 

But at these races, I can forget to compare myself to others in terms of speed and endurance and all that other serious, over-thought crap and I'm reminded just how silly, and therefore how much fun throwing on some shorts and bouncing around outdoors is.  

3. Free crap! - medals! Shiny, shiny medals!!

Tonight, I went to Swansea's Twilight Race For Life...which is pretty much the same as the daytime

I know. Blew my mind too.

Just as many head boppers and neon pink leg warmers, but more glow sticks and and an increased risk of running into lamp posts.  I learned about the latter when I had to play guide dog/drill sargeant to my blind-without-her-glasses teen sister ("lamp post!... Puddle!... Lamp post!") this evening.

But, yeah, was good! Definitely an experience.  

Tonight, we had some freak (except not that freaky because it is Wales) torrential rain and early bitter winds to see us on our way.  Those of us who hadn't already frozen to death on the way in stood waiting in a field like a cluster of pink penguins to be taken through our "warm" up routine by a worrisomely enthusiastic lady who looked like she might have been off her meds.

I threw some Britishly noncommittal finger points out there and did some shuffles on the spot while my almost blind sibling crashed into me over and over. Not the most elegant spectacle.

Before I had any more time to beat myself up about having decided that flappy shorts were a marvellous decision, we were off around the marina.  

And it was even more fun than I've ever had during the daytime races! Squinting through sideways rain and splashing through puddles made the whole experience even dafter and more euphoric than ever. We warmed up, chatted and laughed all the way around and there was a sense that what we three thousand or so were doing on a rainy Saturday night was totally ridiculous and more than a bit funny.  It flew by.

If you've been thinking about taking up running and want somewhere to start from, or if you run a lot already but have never given Race For Life a go, then...just... Go to one! There are events all over the UK, so you really don't have a decent excuse to be missing out on all the fun! This isn't duck face.  We grimaced against the cold and the wind changed. I still look like this now.

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Rubbish Runs & Temper Tantrums

I've read enough in magazines and bits of literature I've picked up about 'bad runs' (not of the gastrointestinal variety - not my kind of bedtime reading!) to know that they aren't the end of the world when they strike, and that I can and will KBO - keep buggering on - despite them.  

They are meant to be elusive and stealthy things bourne of over training, general unwellness, fatigue, stress etc etc... but I seem to have one on an almost fortnightly basis.  It's probably a clue that I've still got a long way to go to be able to call myself physically fit.

Well, thanks a crapload, body, as if I couldn't have worked that one out on my own!  

My not-so-great runs that have me wanting to drop to the floor and start rolling around in an almighty temper tantrum usually come in two varieties:

a. My legs start to feel kind of stiff and crampy to the point that "running through it" just makes me start lolloping along in pain, legs rigid like I've got no knees. 


b. My legs and lungs are doing fine, but my head has decided that it has better places to be.  And not in the nice, dreamy, letting your body get on with it while you float off somewhere else kind of way.  It's just decided that, despite all its desire to get me up and out into the world, it's now come to the conclusion that it's made a terrible mistake and must undo it by making every step feel like my whole being is just going no-no-no-no-no-no-nope-nuh uh-no

As a result, I feel I can't do anything to prevent myself from stopping dead and walking back to the car with a face like a slapped arse despite the fact that my dejected legs are wondering what they've done wrong to my brain for it to not let them do what they want.

... I experienced the latter type of bad run today.  And it was maddening.  I was painfully aware that after 3 measly miles, I had essentially given up on the 'long run' I'd intended.  I had been looking forward to a nice, long, slow shuffle around Swansea in the cooling drizzle.  But no. Brain wanted to go back home and sulk for no good reason instead. 

And what made me feel even sillier was the fact that I was wearing my Cardiff Half Marathon finishers T-shirt.  Ironic, much?  The evil gremlin voices in my head were telling me 

"Oooh, I bet everyone thinks you've just borrowed your boyfriend's T-shirt, loser!"

Ridiculous.  But that's how I felt.  I know for a fact that I can get around 13 miles - I can do it and have done it!  So why am I finding distance running suddenly so difficult since I've surpassed my expectations and achieved that?  

I have my suspicions:

Bad runs seem to happen to me when I'm focusing on slowing myself down.  I did this today because I thought I'd be going far and didn't want to over exert myself.  Perhaps forcing myself to run at least a 12 minute mile has gone from being my average speed to something my body now finds a bit unnatural now that I'm a little faster?  Is that a thing?

We'll see.  But in the meantime, if anybody spots my mojo (I imagine it to be a two legged, yellow puffball thing with sunglasses on... analyse that one), please tell the little sod where I am!

How often do you experience a disaster run, and how do you get over the emotional niggles that go with them?  I'd love to hear about it - if anything, so I don't feel quite so cack about myself!

kaythanksbye! x

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

Yoo Hoooo!

Thought you'd got rid of me that easily, eh? Well, tough titties, I'm still here! I've just been busy doing...lazy.

As you can see, I've changed my URL and blog title to "Rebecca Writes & Runs" to forewarn people of a topic they can expect me to blather incessantly on about in many posts to come now that I've discovered the joys of getting off my squashy bottom. 

See, I've exhausted my supply of people who will listen to me about my recreational lolloping around the block without their eyes leaking their suppressed urges to hit me over the head with frying pans and other blunt objects... so I turn my attentions to you, my friend! Please feel free to imagine that I am standing a mere eyelash's length away from your face as I speak to you. 

Mmm.  So uncomfortably close. you want a neck rub? ;)

No? Okay, then.  I'll just tell you what's changed in my two whole moons of absence from Blogspot:

 1.  I've fallen (almost literally-I'm not the most coordinated wannabe athlete) head over heels (translate: arse over tit) in love with running.  Running really slowly, but still running.  I'm still overtaken by mobility scooters and people over the age of 90, but my head's in a different place.  I've gone full on geeky about it.   

2.  I've completed a half marathon.  I had to walk for some of it, but I lived to tell the tale to anyone willing and unwilling to listen. LOOK AT MY MEDAL!!  Look at iiiit....


3.  I've celebrated the fact that Krispy Kreme donuts are now finally available in Swansea by eating ALL OF THE DONUTS IN SWANSEA. 

4.  I also found out that every diabetic's favourite cereal Lucky Charms are also purchasable from a local supermarket after I thought they'd been outlawed in Britain for being too delicious. you can see, all of these massive life events are either running or snack based.  Not a lot has changed, really.

...Oh, and I got my first ever race t-shirt too!  Wanna see my race t-shirt??

....ohhhh yeeeeah....

...I promise that my next post will be a little more structured and feature less of my boobless torso.

Loveyoubye! xx

Tuesday, 13 August 2013

Things I Am Faster Than

Hey!  This post is mainly for my own benefit, just to put that out there.  But if any of it makes you feel better, then that's just dandy...

I may have mentioned that I'm running a half marathon - my first - in October (cue gasps of surprise), and it's been a cool but slightly weird few months because I've been able to legitimately say that those limpy, t-rex armed gallops I do three to five times a week is actual training for something.

Of course, some days I hate it and some days it makes me feel like an actual superhero with powers and a cape and shit (especially if I have my jacket tied around my waist - fanny caaape!).  But there is still a worm of doubt that occasionally slips its way into my head and tells me that despite the fact that I can now run nearly twelve miles without dropping dead, I'm still too slow and always will be too slow to call myself a "real runner".  That everything and everyone is faster than me.

But that's not true now, is it?  And this is why I am making myself compile a list of ten things I am faster than.  To comfort me and to squish the bad-vibes worm that's keeping itself warm in my grey matter.  Enjoy and take heed that you are probably faster than most, if not all of these things too while you are running/walking/dragging yourself along the concrete by your fingernails:

1.  James May off of Top Gear.

2.  Anyone sat down chewing on their cud in front of the TV while you're doing whatever it is you do.

3.  Evolution.

4. Future you - the one with the bus pass and a purse full of Murray Mints.

Mmmm... Murray Mints.

5.  Alternative reality future you where you stopped participating in physical activity and decided to get obese and wheezy off of  a regime of sitting around under piles of burgers and pizza.  She probably has crippling arthritis, bad skin and a weird smell that even her rucksack full of Murray Mints can't mask while she's taking up two seats and part of the aisle on the bus.

Mmmm...Murray Mints.

6. Kids that haven't learned to walk yet.  Those losers.

7.  Zombies.  But only the old, shuffly kind - before all the remakes with all the sprinting.  Hollywood's out to make me feel bad nowadays. Obviously.

8.  The thought processes of those people who creep around supermarkets, slack-jawed and obliviously sliding directly in front of people's faces as they browse, leaving their victims with nostrils full of stranger hair and the kind of pent up aggression that has them grieving for hours over the fact that they didn't just straight up nut them in the fucking skull.

9.  Snails.

10.  A wall.

 There.  Don't we all feel better now?

Nah, me neither.   Still.  I'll be "running" the Cardiff Half Marathon, and if you're going along and also feel intimidated by the professionalism and athleticism of the other attendees, please feel free to seek me out.  I will probably have mints and you are guaranteed to beat at least one person on the day!


p.s This is a good article from Women's Running on the topic of finishing last and why it matters naff all.  Much better than all the stuff I just made you read to get to this bit.  Sorry. Here you go:

Monday, 29 July 2013

The Seven Signs Of Stress

This week has been nothing short of hellish.  And it's only Monday.

Part of my role in my sometimes-mentioned office job is sales-based, and I've been doing lots more of that side of things while a few of the other sales-trained bods are off on holidays being all fabulous and tanned (bastards! I hate you and your stupid bikinis!  I hope you get weird tan lines!).  

I'm convinced that all of our customers have waited until we have the fewest number of staff in as possible to pounce, hungrily demanding our wares and services.  This suddenly enthused mob of customers  wanting to throw money down our phone lines is great for business, but not so great for the individuals such as myself who find themselves having to up their multi tasking level a few hundred notches higher than they're used to.  I feel I have all the arms of an Indian Goddess but not enough functioning brain cells to keep them all in check. 

I'm sure I'll get used to it, and being busy doesn't half make the day fly and get the heart rate up,  but this level of busy has been going on for about a fortnight now, and I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of acceptance and adaptation...or full-blown mass-murderer mode.  I am this close to pummeling my telephone into smithereens with my bare fists and snapping the receiver's cord with my teeth.

As you can see, it takes a while for my stress levels to normalize.  But it's been sort of fun in a ha-ha-ha-I'm-going-to-run-naked-into-the-street-with-my-pants-on-my-head-and-set-myself-on-fire kind of way to take note of the indicators I experience when I'm either starting to get stressed or when 'm already full-on, wide-eyed, tooth-baring, hair-pulling burnt out.

1.  Denial - If I know it's going to be a busy day, I will always start optimistically.  Start as I hope to go on.  I'll take things one thing at a time.  I can't do two things at once, so I'll get each thing out of the way to the best of my abilities and holy fucking shit is that the time already?? Shit shit shit!! Why is there paper in my hair?? Whose phone number is this on my hand, and why is my biro in my mouth, nib-side up?!  Did I remember to get dressed this morning?!

2.  Bladder Freakouts - I don't know if this is a fight or flight thing, but the more pressure I'm under, the more often I have to pee.  The it-hurts-when-I-breath type of needing to pee.  Which only make the stress worse, because on top of my list of impossibly numerous tasks, I have to make time to do frequent mad dashes to the loo.  I like to think it's my body's way of telling me to sit the fuck down and chill out for a second.  There's only so much you can do with your pants around your ankles.

3.  Aggressive Kindness -  This is where all my attempts to be a rational, helpful salesperson takes a nosedive, and, being a Brit brought up on the importance of politeness, instead of being rude, I just get scarily and loudly helpful when I pick up the receiver. "HelloRebeccaspeakingHOWCANIHELPYOU?!!! WHAT? YOU WANT TO BUY SOMETHING?! YES, I CAN HELP, HAHAHAHA WE'RE BEST FRIENDS NOW!! DON'T HANG UP ON ME, I NEED YOU!!!! ...hello?  Mrs Johnson, are you still there?"

4.  Aggressive Clumsiness -  As my mind is flashing all kinds of funky disco colours in my skull trying to make note of the fact that I need to be doing this that and the other as fast as yesterday, physical co-ordination is the first thing to go.  It's not unusual for me to leave work with a myriad of mysterious cuts, beverage stains and the odd bruise from picking up the phone with such force that I hit myself in the face with it.

5.  Feral Breaktimes - I get a half hour break for food.  I love strapping in to food bag at the best of times, but on a manic day, you realize just how short time is and eat with a terrifying frenzy, throwing food somewhere near your mouth in the hope that some of it will go in, reducing interaction with colleagues to the occasional glare to make sure they're not planning on stealing the processed meat that's sliding down your chomping chin.

6.  Blind Agreement -  
"Becky, did you do the-"
"YES! I am doing it!!"
"Have you-"
"YES, I have!"
"Do you-"
"YES!! Four of them now, with milk!"
"Actually, I was going to ask you if-"

7.  Post Work Cleaning -  Stress makes me angry.  Mess makes me angry.  I am a messy person with a low stress threshold.  Seems only normal that when A comes home after I've had a difficult one, he finds me in one of his t-shirts on the bathroom floor, scrubbing manically with no trousers on and talking in tongues to myself.  Standard.

Friday, 19 July 2013

Two For Joy

Hey, hey guys, look! I got a tattoo! On my ass! 

By ass I mean arm.

It's my third one, and the selection process for it was just as rigorous and soul searching as it was with its predecessors.

... I saw a pretty picture, gave a lady with a needle some money and said "this on my body forever now, please!"

I've had it for three days and am gritting my teeth against the urge to pick the scabs (ooh, I love a good scab!!), and I must say, I think it looks rather marvellous.

Sounds sappy, but having something I consider pretty on my person at all times is making me feel slightly more attractive too.  Like I've avoided a few more blows off the ugly stick than I'd initially thought.  

Combined with a few people pointing out that since I've upped the mileage of my runs (ran 12 miles on Tuesday. 12!!!), I'm a bit less offensive on the eye of late (not a direct quote, obviously. My friends aren't as mean to me as I am...), I feel pretty good about myself this week.



Thanks to the running, I feel mentally stronger too. Capable at work, better around people. I've even eased up on my internal criticism about my little writing projects. A bit.

Running is magical!

Or maybe my tattoo is.  Two for joy and all that.

Or maybe ink poisoning affects the brain first... 

If you're interested, the people who professionally, cheerily and hygeinically scarred me for life are Swansea Tattoo Co, can be found on Facebook and are chuffing brilliant!  I was tattooed by Ami Williams =)

Wednesday, 10 July 2013

Helloooo, Sunshine!!

Considering the fact that I just walked into work 2 and a half hours early by accident, I feel pretty bloody marvellous! I immediately walked out in search of coffee as soon as my error was realised, and now here I am blogging from my phone in the window of a Sainsbury's cafe.  

I've bought a book (Zadie Smith's N-W), and I have another hour or so of time to myself that I wouldn't otherwise have had  if I'd done the usual late-shift thing of sleeping in or jogging.  Fuckin' a! I love love LOVE accidental time gainage!

I doubt I'd be feeling this good if it were pissing down with rain, leaving me glaring hatefully at the public out the window.  The sun is pleasantly grilling me, turning me into a happy, mindless summer sloth in a dress. Sunshine makes everything better.  I feel a list coming on!

1. Doing nothing is WAY more fun:  sitting here, gazing out at Swansea Marina's boats (though my favourite local boat, the brilliantly named "Itchy Pussy" is unfortunately absent) is a choice I've happily made.  Whereas if it was chucking it down, I'd be sullenly parked on my arse, hating the rain for keeping me indoors.

2. The running is better - because 1. You're not getting wet, 2. Your face isn't numb and 3. You don't feel breathless because your mouth isn't full if cold, nasty, whippy air.  Some people hate running when the sun's got his hat on, but I love it. No need to warm up because you're already sweating from every orifice, there's less pressure to go faster, and you truly appreciate what sweat is for. Not cool enough? Then sweat some more! Laaahvlee.

3. Everyone is happy - more or less. Glorious weather in Wales is something of a rarity, so its inhabitants crazily try to squeeze as many smiles and "how do's" out as possible before the sky turns back into a soggy, black blanket.  A lady just made my whole day by going out of her way to congratulate me on my nice dress. Thanks, lady, you wonderful human!! You look lovely too!

4. For a short space of time, EVERYTHING must be outside: roofs of cars must be down, massive shades must be on out faces, and we must copy the European way of sitting outside eating fabulous food at fabulous little cafes where they have dragged all of their tables out to the front of the building. One of the best things about being British is the reckless abandon with which we throw ourselves into being as intensely "summery" as possible, and that means spending so much time outdoors that you start to go feral.

5. Nekkid skin everywhere! I frequently yo-yo between intense self consciousness and not giving a single fuck about my appearance , and so I appreciate the awesomeness of when it's so hot that you don't care what you're wearing, so long as you don't melt into a human soup in your trousers. Cue a variety of burnt and sickly-pasty (I belong to the latter camp) flesh being flaunted in all shapes and sizes. It's nice to see, for a few days a year where the rake thin to the robust and rotund can let it all hang out so that we can all joyfully ogle each other's goodies without feeling too much like sex pests. More of this more of the time please, Brits!

Have a happy, sunny, chilled out, semi-naked day, everybody! I know I will! *rips off dress and runs into the car park*

Friday, 5 July 2013

This Month, I Are Mostly Being...Sober.

Hey hi hello....good day!

I have an hour to myself before work this morning - working slightly later, got up slightly earlier than usual.  Plenty of stuff I can get out of the way before my day even begins.  This hour-long vista of opportunity for productivity can only mean one thing:

Procrastinating on the internet!

I just wish I hadn't checked my bank account first.  Grim.  Looks like it's going to be a fairly quiet (translate: sober) month for this one, if I want to be able to get suitably pie eyed in front of this motley crew next month:

Oddly enough, though, I'm quite looking forward to a month of relative sobriety and peace.  I do love a night out, but they seem to be losing their sheen for me.  I don't know whether it's an age thing, or something to do with the fact that I only have to smell sambuca to transform into the emotional equivalent of a crayon left on a hot hob.

Most weekends, I go through this phase where every bone in my body is jumping around under my skin to get me out "dancing" (more translations: running around with fixed grin, arms rigid in the air) and I'm compelled to send out a barrage of oh-so-subtle "I'm soooo BORED tonight!" texts, in the hope that the people in my contacts list are equally soooo BORED and want to do something like, oh, I don't know.  Maybe just nip to the pub and, y'know, see what happens?

It's pretty much a guarantee that by the end of the night, I will have regretted listening to my jumpy bones, feeling disappointed because my expectations of the wild night of fun times weren't met.  I don't know what I expect....unicorns and American girly TV-esque lollitude where I am very drunk but still oh-so fabulous?  Dream on, sister! *finger snap*

Because I'm feeling old and embittered, here are 5 things about nights out on the tiles that never fail to disappoint:

  1. That bit at the end of the night where no one is actually communicating with each other (myself included).  The whole club are just glassy-eyed pissed and looking through each other.  The best kind of conversation you can hope for at 3am is someone talking at you about their insatiable need for a kebab/that "fittie" they can't stop staring at yet wouldn't have looked twice at in the cold light of day.  
  2. The sleepiness: I never ever used to experience this, but a wall has sprung up between me and a good time, and I tend to smash my face into it somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m.  Closing time was always too early for me, and I would be chomping at the bit to carry the party on elsewhere, anywhere, as long as I didn't have to go to bed while I was a student.  Nowadays, the witching hour passes, and, laden with knackered-ness and cider, I find myself too proud to admit that I"m feeling a bit snoozy and want to go home.  Instead, I have "dancing breaks" at the bar and end up getting so messy that when it is time to go, I have to actually instruct my legs to work as a team to get out of the door and into a taxi.
  3. The pulling: I don't want to sound like a prude or a party pooper.  I have spent my fair share of nights as a teen latched onto some random's face in aid of a good time/a novel way to keep myself upright. We all have.  But when you're looking at it from the outside of said pull, there is nothing wild or exciting about it.  It's just a sweaty, wriggly mass of "well, I certainly hope I don't remember you in the morning, sweet cheeks!"
  4. The dancing:  I love a goofy dance-off as much as the next white girl dancing shamelessly to hip hop, but there comes a point in the night where everyone has stopped with the silliness and they have begin to really mean it!  Hips are sashayed, people are doing that weird feel-yourself-up dance that you only ever see in nightclubs... Even while I'm pissed, I'm still inherently British.  This part of the night is where the "dance breaks" start to happen, and when I am "dancing", my exuberance will have melted down to a wobbly foot-shuffle as I pray for bed.
  5. The emotions: Oh, God, the emotions!  If I have any insecurities, doubts, feelings previously bravely held in by a stiff upper lip, they will come spilling out of my mouth, because when I'm in da club, it's obviously a perfect time to tearfully inform everyone how fat and unloved I am.  Because that's appropriate, and everyone loves to talk a jibbering wreck down at the ass crack of dawn.  Such fun!  Most people have their own version of these mini meltdowns when they're on the sauce, but more often than not, they have to good sense to pipe down about it the next day and claim to remember nothing the following morning in hopes that any witnesses will follow suit. I, unfortunately, am a dweller.  The shame can follow me around for days.

Well, that was a happy-go-lucky post!  In other news, I am running my first parkrun with the lil sis next Saturday in preparation for the Race for Life event the following week, so pretty excited for that!  If you've not heard of a parkrun before, they are weekly 5k races dotted all over the country for people of all abilities, and they're 100% free!  Take a look:

Happy Friday, all! 

Saturday, 29 June 2013

Cheers To The Freakin' Weekend...

Today's lead me to believe that I should do the diva thing and beg my boss for 3 day weekends.  It took me well over half a day today to get over the stress of having a whole 24hrs to myself. 

This morning, I "accidentally" bought some new-old-faithfuls (high-ish heels).  For nights out, I usually select one pair of black heels to wear until their lop-sided, beer stained deaths.  My last pair were mortally wounded when a man took it upon himself to fall on and temporarily cripple me by landing smack bang on my knee cap.

Thanks, guy!

Then, I embarked on a 10 mile run.

I made it to 2 miles.  Just about.  My legs felt like they were seizing up - I'm not sure why - and the muggy heat just made me inexplicably angry.  I looked like a pasty hulk, tantrumming my way back up the beach to the car.  I fretted over what to do with my afternoon since it was suddenly going to be devoid of any physical activity.  Socialise?  Write?  Do work?  Drink (under the umbarella of "socialising" - I wasn't  quite stressed enough to be necking wine on my kitchen floor at that point).  That's what Brits do whenever the sun makes a fleeting appearance, isn't it?  Get plastered in a lovely, lovely beer garden. garden.

Overwhelmed with all the possible activities that lay before me, and my brain seeping anxiously out of my ears, I got home and made a sandwich.  Then I promptly took an aggressive nap in front of Peep Show.

And aggressive nap, in case you ask, is like a normal nap, except it's very sudden and you have no choice about whether or not you are going to do it.

...And here I am!  I'm feeling effing marvellous now!  Blogging and rocking some serious bed hed hair and heels (what?  Like I'm going to wait for an occasion to wear the new things? Pshuh!) .  It's taken all sodding day, but it's now occurred to me that one of the very best, tried and tested by people less...affected...than me - ways to spend a Saturday is this:

Doing Sweet Fuck All!

Happy Saturday, Internet!!

Monday, 22 April 2013

Running - You're Doing It Wrong!

You guys!  The weirdest thing happened to me today.  Like, this evening today.  That recently.  It shocked me to my very core.  I'm not even sure if I'm ready to share it with you because it's just so monumental in its...massiveness.

Okay, I am.  But that's only because I'm a pathalogical blogger who needs to share every waking thought with the Hive Mind....The media use that term to scare us internet dwellers, but I quite like it.  Makes me feel like a bee.  Bzzz.  Anyway, bees aside, here it is.  Deep breaths.

I did a run, and I liked it.

I know!  I know!  And if you didn't read that to the tune of a popular Katy Perry ditty, then you are either older than me, cooler than me or both.  Congratulations, you.  For three years or so, I've been doing this love/hate (translate: obsess about/weep about/binge eat and start the whole sorry process again) thing with running.  I have more or less "run" at least a couple of days a week since I started, but bar from the occasional inexplicably enjoyable jog, I have HATED every single teeny tiny second of the actual exercise.  It's a hot, boring, sweaty and stressful thing to do.  Especially when you know you could be at home stuffing cake into your fat face. 

Don't get me wrong.  The things that kept me going out on my little (for distance aint my thang, and neither is speed) jaunts all these years were:

- Guilt.  After building up enough "runs" to be able to tell people I'm not a couch potato all of the time, I felt as though it's not something I could ever ever give up now because I wouldn't even have that miniscule bragging right any more.

- The runners' high.  It's real.  And it's gooooood. 

- Being able to totally justify smothering everything that goes into my mouth with cheese and/or icing.  Because a two mile stop-start thing makes it okay, right?  ....Right?

So you see, the main reasons that I begrudgingly slap on my trainers on occasion are a combination of bitter guilt and wanting what comes after said trainer slappage.  Nothing to do with the run itself, which could only ever be horrible, horrible, horrible.

Until yesterday.  When I learned to my... I don't think my to my slight pause in between battenburg bites, that for three years, I've been running all wrong. 

I bought a book - Running Like a Girl by Alexandra Heminsley (so good!!!) to devour on my Kindle app on my post-accidental-night-out kind of a Sunday.  I read it in a few short hours.  It was ruddy marvellous.  A lady writer's true recollections of learning to run and eventually developing quite a knack for completing marathons.  Right up my street.  It wasn't until the end of the book - in the bit that gives rather bloody good tips for both beginners and experienced runners - that I had it pointed out to me in black and white where I'd gone a bit boobs-up on the running front:

1. I was tiptoeing my routes - sounds weird, but it just means that instead of hitting the road with the middle-ish bit of my foot so I'm getting the most out of a simple stride, I've been alternating between doing these overstretched tinkerbell-types steps (Tink toes!!) and doing these big, clumpy, clumsy heel-to-the floor things, where I overcompensated and ultimately ended up hurting my muscles more than necessary (especially that weird one that keeps bothering my between my leg and my bum).

2. I was running towards something - Heminsley's best bit of visualization advice was to imagine a kindly person gently guiding you forward, pushing you along the route and holding you up, instead of imagining yourself running towards or after something.  This made the world of difference to me today.  It banished the "awh, fuck, am I still that far away?!!" feeling I often get.  Magic trick! I imagined that the kindly person was my grandad, who took me out on my first runs while I was still living at my mum's.... He's the ex military, no-bullshit, work hard and eat even harder kind of grandad.  So my imagination gave me a figure that was sort-of kindly but mostly just wouldn't take any of my lazy-ass crap any more.

3.  I was too bouncy - I thought that good running = enthusiasm, and so I tried to gee myself up by taking bouncy, bouncy tigger-steps wherever I went.  Small wonder I had to stop so often - I was using twice as much energy in pogoing up and down at the same time as running, instead of skimming the floor and landing comfortably on the middle of my foot.  It made every few feet feel like a mile.

Result?  I ran my usual 2.5 miles, which isn't far.  But I did it without stopping even once to "check my phone" or "do my shoelaces" or "look at the interesting thing that no one else can see but is suddenly very important and mystifying to me", which is a massive achievement for me.  I always, always have to walk a little while to find my breath again.  The whole thing felt like less effort, and I was faster! Faster with less effort! Considerably too!  Just... My mind is blown! So pleased.

I hope these tips get read by some other people who also think/thought they would be crap for ever and ever at running.  Three stupidly simple things I had no idea I was doing, and now I realise I'm better at something than I thought I was.  I'm hardly a hardcore athlete, but I'm far from terrible.  Now that I'm doing it properly, I can just concentrate on enjoying myself after and during.  Happy bloody days!  Thanks, Alexandra.  You are my new mentor-who's-never-met-me!

Saturday, 20 April 2013


Currently reading Oliver Sacks' The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat. For those who haven't read it, it's a collection of descriptions of Sacks' neurology patients. I've just stumbled upon a pretty uncanny description of myself. Spooky!!

From now on, I am referring to myself as a "motor moron". Makes me sound like a crap transformer.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

Sleeping Becky, Hidden Panties

 I struggled to nod off last night.  I felt like Sherlock Holmes, unable to sleep as I was ruminating on a mystery I simply couldn't solve (..I've been watching a lot of Elementary of late...).

I was stressed out and completely baffled at the fact that when I got into bed and slid my arm in between my pillows, my fist closed around a single pair of my own pants.  Now, I don't generally store my underpants under my pillow, or in any other kind of furniture other than a chest of drawers (drawers for my drawers), and I can't think of any logical reason as to why they would be nestling where I lay my head at night.  No sane person wants to wake up with their face buried in their own kecks.  

My mind ran over as many possibilities as it could conjure up, which weren't many, as it and I had been up early for a full day's work and now we both now badly needed to rest after a good couple of hours trying to keep up with the story line in Prison Break (Scylla is good now?? Actually, don't tell me, I want to find out for myself, even if I am years behind that rest of the world who have already seen it).  Because I was hell bent on getting to the bottom of the mystery of the sleepy knickers (ha, to the bottom!  I didn't even do that on purpose... lulz), my brain did what it usually does when it's required to do something it doesn't feel like doing - it went into snarky bitch mode.  Here are the suggestions it so helpfully threw up for me:

- The underpants gnomes from South Park are real.
- A has now taken to sniffing ladies' undergarments during his lie-ins.
- This particular pair of pants was being bullied by the rest of the underwear in my chest of drawers and decided to run away somewhere safe.
- I put them there one day, just incase we get robbed by someone who values underthings over technology and cash.
- I accidentally left them there, thinking I was putting them away somewhere else.

I'll be honest, the latter is the most likely explanation.  Just this week, I tried to put a customer's documents in the dish washer at work, and I have an inexplicable habit of automatically trying to put cartons of milk in the washing machine and laundry in the bin.  

I wish I could say that I do these things because my mind is on a higher plane, dealing with bigger issues, but the honest truth is that I'm usually just thinking about food and funny pictures of cats I've seen.  That, and I'm prematurely losing my memory.  The only thing that will make me feel better about my receding cognitive ability right now would be some amusing cat-based pictures and a snack.  


(Image borrowed from...several sources on Tumblr...Tumblr loves a cat sandwich!)

Thursday, 11 April 2013


Everybody stop what you're doing and appreciate this picture of a rat with a teeny tiny teddy bear! The cortex of my brain where the squee-motions come from ("squee" is too a real emotion!) just exploded.

(Pic borrowed from @Earth_Pics on Twitter)

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Good Mor-AAAAAGH!!!

Hullo, interweb! I'm feeling a bit twitchy and face-punchy tonight, so I'm going to offload by telling you all about my morning. By the end of this post, you will know how this day and I got off on the wrong foot, and hopefully I will have had a nice chuckle to myself about its events in retrospect. Hopefully. Failing that, I will repeatedly run into a wall until I feel suitably calm/disorientated. I will post footage of it and become an overnight YouTube megastar. Win-win.

*clenches fists and exhales*

I awoke to the sensation of gentle sunlight pawing at my face through the blinds and lovingly prying my stuck-together eyelids open with its warm, affectionate fingers. A snored obliviously next to me as I attempted to will my lifeless arm back to the land of the living, as it had been smothered in the night by my unconscious head. Kind of like how Uma Thurman coaxes her toes back to life in Kill Bill.

"Wiggle you big...thumb."

I felt drowsy, calm and peaceful. And then confused. It was a Wednesday morning, wasn't it? Why was I feeling calm, drowsy and peaceful? Surely something was amiss?

And then I realised. I wasn't being beaten around the head by the usual sound of my alarm going off. I blearily peeped at my iPhone. It looked goofily back up at me, informing me that it was 10.30am exactly (the exact time I should have been walking through the doors at the office). I imagined it innocently cocking its head at me like a mentally subnormal spaniel.




"So? Just get ready and say you're sorry. And stop calling me A. I have a name."


"Calm down...Don't you mean piranhas?"

For the record. I hate being late. If anything, I am always socially unacceptably early to everything. I leave the house in a blind state of unfettered panic even if I am comfortably on time, just incase something catastrophic happens on the way to the thing I have to be at that might result in my lateness...

...Like my running over a person while rifling through my CD collection with one eye on the road (not that I ever do that. Honest.), or having to slow down because I think I've seen the three wheeler from Only Fools and Horses pass me by (I swear, I saw it by Tesco! If I see it again, I WILL take a picture).

Anyway, with one eye still crusted shut, I fumbled with my phone until the text message to my manager read something akin to

"FUCK, slept through my alarm, be there straightaway! I'm so so sorry!!!!"....Yeah, my company's can say "fuck" at the managers by text if the gravity of the situation calls for it...But I didn't have time to sit there and appreciate this happy fact.

Still wearing the knickers I slept in (don't judge me, I was having a breakdown. Am in fresh, new pants now, I promise!), I rooted around my floor-drobe for anything to cover my shame (aka "body") with. I then dug my hat from between the sofa cushions so that I could hide my un straightened hair - unaware that the part of my hair it most needed to cover stuck out in a... I'll call it a mullet with a kicky Farrah Fawcett at the nape of my neck. I bypassed make-up (by make-up, I mean my usual daily routine of "draw eyes back on in eyeliner"), I'm pretty sure I sprayed only one armpit with deodorant before I bolted out of the door to A's handy parting words:

"Don't crash!"

Always advisable when driving, that.

In the end, I arrived at work bang on half an hour late. Pretty mean feat considering I live approximately twenty five minutes away from the building I work in. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a roomful of people laughing at my pant-pissing facial expression and new tramp-chic, un showered look. I sheepishly sank into my chair and looked at the text I'd just received from the manager who hadn't even arrived yet.

lol. No worries.