I don't consider myself to be a writer, mostly because no one reads this blog, but also because I don't do it often enough for me to take myself seriously. I do enjoy writing and like to think I have my own style, which isn't completely terrible. But if someone offered me the chance to write for a living, I'm not sure I'd take it. I mean, I'm pretty undisciplined so working to such tight deadlines that require such a high standard would show me up to be the fraud I know I am.
One thing I do do to keep my toe in the water, so to speak, is comment on a website I read every so often. However I KNOW I'm not a writer and that there is a very good reason as to why I do not write for a living. I do realise though, that someone has failed to make some other posters aware of this. A lot of them respond to articles, with mini-articles of their own as if to show the moderators what they're missing out on. Steups.
And that really irritates me.
Monday, 31 August 2009
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Losing my religion
I've just this minute come back from mass. It's five to ten on a Sunday and I still have that feeling of goodness. But Lord knows how long it's going to last. And I do mean that. Only the Lord knows.
I've been Catholic all my life. My mother is a very active Catholic, my father a very lapsed Catholic. It's nice that in their adult years they are opposite to their childhood years. My mother wasn't very active in her youth, while my father was an acolyte and used to have afternoon tea with his parish priest. So anyway, we were raised like good Catholic children- we went to single sex Catholic schools, went to mass every Sunday, made our First Communion were Confirmed and did our bit in the parish. That hasn't quite carried over into our adult lives. My elder sister doesn't go to church any more (though she's incredibly pious and holier than thou sometimes), my brother hasn't seen the inside of a church since his confirmation (oh, and I forget, the baptism of his illegitmate son. But that's for another day). I think my younger sister goes but I wouldn't swear that on a stack of bibles.
After a long absence, I started going back to church when I still lived in Preston (originally called Priest Town. Coincidence?) and became heavily involved in the parish. I joined the church choir and felt like I'd found my niche. I was never happier than when I was singing and especially when I got to sing songs from my Trini hymn book. I volunteered to help serve tea after mass, was involved in organising our parish summer barbecue. I also became very good friends with my priest. I felt like I belonged and it was brilliant.
Thing is, my life wasn't great but when I was in that church or in the presbytry, everything felt like it was going to be ok. Some of my happiest memories of recent years are of sitting in my priest's library, chatting or listenting to music or of singing the Hail Mary during communion or hanging around having tea with everyone in St Thomas' room after mass on a Sunday. Those were times when I felt like no harm could or would ever come to me.
I kind of fell off the wagon when I moved down to Crewe. I felt like I was being unfaithful to my old parish by going to church here. But last year, I found my way back and now I go whenever I can. I've been away for a few Sundays, but once I'm in Crewe, I'll go. I feel great during mass, responding in the right way, saying the doxology taking bread and wine. I feel calm, happy, like I could be the best possible person I could be. I pray for forgiveness, pray for my family and friends, pray for strength, pray for the world.
Then I leave and come home and it literally all goes to hell, with me cursing my neighbours for having a Husky dog in the world's tiniest flat or imagining myself fucking (and I do really mean to use that word) someone who isn't my husband. If I was really a good Catholic, wouldn't I be all magnanimous and shit and let them enjoy their pet and be able to banish all thoughts of adultery (even if it is with a celebrity) from my mind?
I believe in God. I know I do. I believe in the foundations of Catholicism, and I think I'm basically a kind and caring person. If I do all this, then why am I still so selfish and petty and bitchy? Sigh! So now I'm worried as to WHY I'm going to mass. I mean, I'm trying to live my life like a good Catholic, but I'm failing miserably. I've been a not very nice or good person recently and I feel like a hypocrite when I go to mass. But then I ask myself, if I didn't go to mass at all, wouldn't that be a whole lot worse?
I've been Catholic all my life. My mother is a very active Catholic, my father a very lapsed Catholic. It's nice that in their adult years they are opposite to their childhood years. My mother wasn't very active in her youth, while my father was an acolyte and used to have afternoon tea with his parish priest. So anyway, we were raised like good Catholic children- we went to single sex Catholic schools, went to mass every Sunday, made our First Communion were Confirmed and did our bit in the parish. That hasn't quite carried over into our adult lives. My elder sister doesn't go to church any more (though she's incredibly pious and holier than thou sometimes), my brother hasn't seen the inside of a church since his confirmation (oh, and I forget, the baptism of his illegitmate son. But that's for another day). I think my younger sister goes but I wouldn't swear that on a stack of bibles.
After a long absence, I started going back to church when I still lived in Preston (originally called Priest Town. Coincidence?) and became heavily involved in the parish. I joined the church choir and felt like I'd found my niche. I was never happier than when I was singing and especially when I got to sing songs from my Trini hymn book. I volunteered to help serve tea after mass, was involved in organising our parish summer barbecue. I also became very good friends with my priest. I felt like I belonged and it was brilliant.
Thing is, my life wasn't great but when I was in that church or in the presbytry, everything felt like it was going to be ok. Some of my happiest memories of recent years are of sitting in my priest's library, chatting or listenting to music or of singing the Hail Mary during communion or hanging around having tea with everyone in St Thomas' room after mass on a Sunday. Those were times when I felt like no harm could or would ever come to me.
I kind of fell off the wagon when I moved down to Crewe. I felt like I was being unfaithful to my old parish by going to church here. But last year, I found my way back and now I go whenever I can. I've been away for a few Sundays, but once I'm in Crewe, I'll go. I feel great during mass, responding in the right way, saying the doxology taking bread and wine. I feel calm, happy, like I could be the best possible person I could be. I pray for forgiveness, pray for my family and friends, pray for strength, pray for the world.
Then I leave and come home and it literally all goes to hell, with me cursing my neighbours for having a Husky dog in the world's tiniest flat or imagining myself fucking (and I do really mean to use that word) someone who isn't my husband. If I was really a good Catholic, wouldn't I be all magnanimous and shit and let them enjoy their pet and be able to banish all thoughts of adultery (even if it is with a celebrity) from my mind?
I believe in God. I know I do. I believe in the foundations of Catholicism, and I think I'm basically a kind and caring person. If I do all this, then why am I still so selfish and petty and bitchy? Sigh! So now I'm worried as to WHY I'm going to mass. I mean, I'm trying to live my life like a good Catholic, but I'm failing miserably. I've been a not very nice or good person recently and I feel like a hypocrite when I go to mass. But then I ask myself, if I didn't go to mass at all, wouldn't that be a whole lot worse?
Saturday, 9 May 2009
I pity the fool!
Sigh!
I was in Starbucks with my husband a couple weeks ago. I'd come home from uni early and decided I wanted to go to Hanley to return a couple things I was having serious buyer's remorse over. So of course, returning things is strenuous work so we went to Starbucks so I could replenish my depleted reserves with a Hazelnut hot chocolate...obviously.
So we're sitting, having drinks and chatting. When I notice we seemed to be surrounded by babies. It looked like everyone who was boning down in early 2008 had dropped their sprogs and a new army of spring babies was taking hold. This of course does not help the insane broodiness I have been feeling of late. I use the term insane because I am actually resentful of some of these women who feel no shame in showing off their fecundity to the world. I am bitter and twisted and jealous as hell.
But amidst all the new life, I spotted someone who deserved my pity. He was the son of two of the most unattractive people I have ever seen in my entire life. I felt sorry for the poor little thing, saddled with them two as parents forever more. Sigh! Saddlebags, blackened teeth, thinning hair and both of them wearing glasses. Things did not look promising. Then there was the sartorial horror. Unintentional high-waisted jeans, white socks, dirty old trainers. Oh my!
I mean, I know I'm no specimen of perfection, what with my own dental horrors going on and my penchant for black jumpers. And yes I do too wear white socks. But I'm foreign. And I have cool hair. So when I do it, I'm being exotic and daring. When some chav from Stoke-on-Trent busts that out, there is obviously cause for concern.
Bah!
But I shouldn't bitch like this though. It's going to come back and bite me in the arse. I just know it!
I was in Starbucks with my husband a couple weeks ago. I'd come home from uni early and decided I wanted to go to Hanley to return a couple things I was having serious buyer's remorse over. So of course, returning things is strenuous work so we went to Starbucks so I could replenish my depleted reserves with a Hazelnut hot chocolate...obviously.
So we're sitting, having drinks and chatting. When I notice we seemed to be surrounded by babies. It looked like everyone who was boning down in early 2008 had dropped their sprogs and a new army of spring babies was taking hold. This of course does not help the insane broodiness I have been feeling of late. I use the term insane because I am actually resentful of some of these women who feel no shame in showing off their fecundity to the world. I am bitter and twisted and jealous as hell.
But amidst all the new life, I spotted someone who deserved my pity. He was the son of two of the most unattractive people I have ever seen in my entire life. I felt sorry for the poor little thing, saddled with them two as parents forever more. Sigh! Saddlebags, blackened teeth, thinning hair and both of them wearing glasses. Things did not look promising. Then there was the sartorial horror. Unintentional high-waisted jeans, white socks, dirty old trainers. Oh my!
I mean, I know I'm no specimen of perfection, what with my own dental horrors going on and my penchant for black jumpers. And yes I do too wear white socks. But I'm foreign. And I have cool hair. So when I do it, I'm being exotic and daring. When some chav from Stoke-on-Trent busts that out, there is obviously cause for concern.
Bah!
But I shouldn't bitch like this though. It's going to come back and bite me in the arse. I just know it!
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Is it a lost emotion??
Last night saw the return of 'Embarassing Bodies', from the makers of 'Embarassing Illnesses', on Channel 4. 'Twould seem that a lot of my musings are about tv shows these days, but hey, write about what you know, right? Channel 4 is one of my favourite channels and they are prone to showing such insightful programmes as this.
Of course, as the title promises, it features people with embarassing medical conditions. I haven't yet watched it (but it's taking up space on my recorder's hard drive!), but after having read a review of it, I need to get the popcorn ready. What baffles me, is the extent people are willing to go to, just to be on telly... even if it means flaunting your oversized labia or your grossly mis-matched boobies. Is embarassment a dying emotion? Do people have no more shame?
Why the bafflement? Well, unlike a lot of the world, medical care in the UK is free. Yes, completely free. Whether it's for the common cold or that hip replacement, it's all funded by the taxpayer. You book an appointment with your GP, see them and leave. No money changes hands. So being offered free treatment for your disgusting scalp fungus if you appear on this show shouldn't be enticement. Would it not be better for you to go down to your GP, and sit in private and whip out your oozing penis so he can sort it out? Why would you drive down to a set-up clinic and do it in front of two cameras and an entire production team?
I know I'm a prude. My family have teased me enough about it. I would hang towels to cover our already opaque shower screen...just for extra protection. I put on my bra OVER my towel, when getting changed, just to be on the safe side. I don't even look in the mirror unless I'm dressed. So maybe I just don't understand this 'free spirit' mentality. But I'm just imagining displaying your heavily infected toenail (which is the colour of and has the smell and texture of a very mature cheddar) on tv, then popping into work the day after it was broadcast. Could you imagine the office banter then? Lovely!
During the first season of this show, back when it was called 'Embarassing Illnesses', one particular case stood out. A lady came in, with a rather embarassing problem. I'm sure the producers shit themselves when she wandered in (you'll see why this is funny in a bit). Her problem was that she suffered from rectal incontinence. So yes, she poos on herself without realising it. She'd only notice when she 'felt' it and smelt it. Nice. Oh no, you say. How did this happen? Well, when she gave birth to her son, the midwife cut her a little bit too enthusiastically and it was never repaire. Oh no, you say. How horrible! How embarassing! But...when did this both magical and tragic (not to mention life-altering in good and bad ways) day occur? Twenty-one years ago! Yes. She sat at home, shitting herself for twenty-one years. The poor lamb/ daft cow (depending on your point of view). But why did she never get it seen to? Turns out she was too embarassed to tell anyone about it.
Right.
Let's get this straight. For twenty-one years, you stayed indoors, wearing adult diapers and what not, because you were too embarassed to pop down to your GP's and sit in a nice private room and speak to someone you might actually know, about this...for free. So of course, the only way to get it sorted is to answer an ad on the internet, go to a screening to make sure you're actually embarassing enough to see the telly doctors, then return for the actual filming. Which is then broadcast on a terrestrial channel and attracts fairly healthy ratings of six million. I'm sure her son really appreciated that. I'm sure her husband loved it. I'm sure her mother was so proud.
I had a coil put in last March. It was not a pleasant experience. I had to lay there with my legs in stirrups and my skirt gathered around my waist (I always wear skirts when having things done 'down there', because I hate the thought of standing around with no bottoms on. I mean, no knickers is bad enough, but no trousers too? NOOOOOO!), while the lovely Obs and Gynae doctor rooted around in my cervix. It was embarassing enough finding out about my small and tilted cervix, with one other person in there (the nurse who was really nice and held my hand). I cannot begin to imagine how much worse it would have been if it was revealed in front of an audience of four million.
The only way I would have done that, is if they were also offering reconstructive surgery, so I could begin my new life under an assumed identity!
Of course, as the title promises, it features people with embarassing medical conditions. I haven't yet watched it (but it's taking up space on my recorder's hard drive!), but after having read a review of it, I need to get the popcorn ready. What baffles me, is the extent people are willing to go to, just to be on telly... even if it means flaunting your oversized labia or your grossly mis-matched boobies. Is embarassment a dying emotion? Do people have no more shame?
Why the bafflement? Well, unlike a lot of the world, medical care in the UK is free. Yes, completely free. Whether it's for the common cold or that hip replacement, it's all funded by the taxpayer. You book an appointment with your GP, see them and leave. No money changes hands. So being offered free treatment for your disgusting scalp fungus if you appear on this show shouldn't be enticement. Would it not be better for you to go down to your GP, and sit in private and whip out your oozing penis so he can sort it out? Why would you drive down to a set-up clinic and do it in front of two cameras and an entire production team?
I know I'm a prude. My family have teased me enough about it. I would hang towels to cover our already opaque shower screen...just for extra protection. I put on my bra OVER my towel, when getting changed, just to be on the safe side. I don't even look in the mirror unless I'm dressed. So maybe I just don't understand this 'free spirit' mentality. But I'm just imagining displaying your heavily infected toenail (which is the colour of and has the smell and texture of a very mature cheddar) on tv, then popping into work the day after it was broadcast. Could you imagine the office banter then? Lovely!
During the first season of this show, back when it was called 'Embarassing Illnesses', one particular case stood out. A lady came in, with a rather embarassing problem. I'm sure the producers shit themselves when she wandered in (you'll see why this is funny in a bit). Her problem was that she suffered from rectal incontinence. So yes, she poos on herself without realising it. She'd only notice when she 'felt' it and smelt it. Nice. Oh no, you say. How did this happen? Well, when she gave birth to her son, the midwife cut her a little bit too enthusiastically and it was never repaire. Oh no, you say. How horrible! How embarassing! But...when did this both magical and tragic (not to mention life-altering in good and bad ways) day occur? Twenty-one years ago! Yes. She sat at home, shitting herself for twenty-one years. The poor lamb/ daft cow (depending on your point of view). But why did she never get it seen to? Turns out she was too embarassed to tell anyone about it.
Right.
Let's get this straight. For twenty-one years, you stayed indoors, wearing adult diapers and what not, because you were too embarassed to pop down to your GP's and sit in a nice private room and speak to someone you might actually know, about this...for free. So of course, the only way to get it sorted is to answer an ad on the internet, go to a screening to make sure you're actually embarassing enough to see the telly doctors, then return for the actual filming. Which is then broadcast on a terrestrial channel and attracts fairly healthy ratings of six million. I'm sure her son really appreciated that. I'm sure her husband loved it. I'm sure her mother was so proud.
I had a coil put in last March. It was not a pleasant experience. I had to lay there with my legs in stirrups and my skirt gathered around my waist (I always wear skirts when having things done 'down there', because I hate the thought of standing around with no bottoms on. I mean, no knickers is bad enough, but no trousers too? NOOOOOO!), while the lovely Obs and Gynae doctor rooted around in my cervix. It was embarassing enough finding out about my small and tilted cervix, with one other person in there (the nurse who was really nice and held my hand). I cannot begin to imagine how much worse it would have been if it was revealed in front of an audience of four million.
The only way I would have done that, is if they were also offering reconstructive surgery, so I could begin my new life under an assumed identity!
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Show them the way
I'm watching a show called 'The Hospital'. It's a series on Channel 4 about the NHS and it features a different department every week. This week, it's looking at the maternity department and the alarmingly high rate of teenage pregnancy.
I am too angry to think straight. But let's just say that I have never been more convinced of the benefits of a good beating. Sigh!
I am too angry to think straight. But let's just say that I have never been more convinced of the benefits of a good beating. Sigh!
Odds and ends
I've found myself oddly obsessed with Riverdance and cinnamon of late. There's this channel that shows a lot of Riverdance documentaries and performances for some reason and I've watched most of them. The finale of their performances, where the entire line comes out and they do their thing and they're all going for it, has made me burst into tears...on two seperate occasions. Sigh! Why, you ask? Who the hell knows? I bloody don't!
And I have been watching these shows while chowing down on cinnamon men I buy from this supermarket called Waitrose. They're 12 for £1 and they're effing deelishis! I have eaten close to forty in the past couple weeks...not to mention the cinnamon bun/ swirl I hoovered up yesterday. Then there's the hot cross bun fiasco. Of course I only eat the apple and cinnamon ones. I had been on the hunt for the perfect hot cross bun (similar to my hunt for the perfect apple- but that's another story). So of course this meant me trawling various bakeries and supermarkets 'testing' them out. Of course, that is what I called it, as if it were some fancy science experiment, and not just me stuffing my face with crap. And after two weeks, I've found a winner- Marks and Spencer's were FAR superior to any others I'd tried. So of course on Good Frdiay, I went and bought four packs. They come in packs of four. So yes, I bought 16 buns in one go. I have had to put them in the freezer, so as not to yam them down all in one sitting. Yes, things are that bad.
But the day before yesterday, I opened a pack and put two buns in the oven, slathered them with butter and tore those bad boys up!
I need help.
And I have been watching these shows while chowing down on cinnamon men I buy from this supermarket called Waitrose. They're 12 for £1 and they're effing deelishis! I have eaten close to forty in the past couple weeks...not to mention the cinnamon bun/ swirl I hoovered up yesterday. Then there's the hot cross bun fiasco. Of course I only eat the apple and cinnamon ones. I had been on the hunt for the perfect hot cross bun (similar to my hunt for the perfect apple- but that's another story). So of course this meant me trawling various bakeries and supermarkets 'testing' them out. Of course, that is what I called it, as if it were some fancy science experiment, and not just me stuffing my face with crap. And after two weeks, I've found a winner- Marks and Spencer's were FAR superior to any others I'd tried. So of course on Good Frdiay, I went and bought four packs. They come in packs of four. So yes, I bought 16 buns in one go. I have had to put them in the freezer, so as not to yam them down all in one sitting. Yes, things are that bad.
But the day before yesterday, I opened a pack and put two buns in the oven, slathered them with butter and tore those bad boys up!
I need help.
Head and Shoulders above the rest
Last night I watched an interesting documentary called 'World's Tallest Children'. I do seem to have some sort of prediliction for 'freakshow' docs like this. Last week I recorded and watched 'The World's Fattest Man gets Married'. The title was of course, self-explanatory. It wasn't as good as 'The Tree-Man' or 'The Twins who share a Body' though.
Anyway, 'World's Tallest Children' was pretty good. Of course, it featured the tallest young 'uns on the planet- a Jamaican 15 year old who was 6ft 9, a Thai girl who was 6ft 10, an American boy who was pushing 8ft and the tallest family in Britian, where every member is over 5ft 10 (dad 6ft 9, 15 year old son 6ft 8, 13 year old 6ft 7, etc) and their specially designed and built house. Pretty amazing stuff. It was also surprisingly uplifting. All the kids seemed fairly well-balanced and happy...even the 8 year old girl who was 4ft 7 and whose dad was panicky that she would grow up to be as tall as he was (6ft 5). She wasn't at all bothered and said she'd like to be as tall as her dad. He hoped she'd be average.
The Jamaican girl said it best. She said that she loves her height and would hate to be shorter. She loves the attention she gets and she thinks being average is just boring. As someone who's quite tall myself (and hated it for a very long time), this sort of attitude was so refreshing and I thought she was fabulous...even though her name was Marvadene! ;)
Anyway, 'World's Tallest Children' was pretty good. Of course, it featured the tallest young 'uns on the planet- a Jamaican 15 year old who was 6ft 9, a Thai girl who was 6ft 10, an American boy who was pushing 8ft and the tallest family in Britian, where every member is over 5ft 10 (dad 6ft 9, 15 year old son 6ft 8, 13 year old 6ft 7, etc) and their specially designed and built house. Pretty amazing stuff. It was also surprisingly uplifting. All the kids seemed fairly well-balanced and happy...even the 8 year old girl who was 4ft 7 and whose dad was panicky that she would grow up to be as tall as he was (6ft 5). She wasn't at all bothered and said she'd like to be as tall as her dad. He hoped she'd be average.
The Jamaican girl said it best. She said that she loves her height and would hate to be shorter. She loves the attention she gets and she thinks being average is just boring. As someone who's quite tall myself (and hated it for a very long time), this sort of attitude was so refreshing and I thought she was fabulous...even though her name was Marvadene! ;)
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