Can you tell I am back at work - blogging ceases abruptly?
So... you know those questions - 'what would you do if you were invisible for the day?' and people say funny stuff like 'hide in Brad Pitt's trousers' or 'rob a bank' blah blah - well mine is quite simple: I would spy on married couples and see what really goes on behind closed doors...
Does that make me freaky or creepy? I make no apologies. Husband and I had some corking rows over the weekend - one culminated in him punching a crack in a door. I am not faultless at all - at the moment my hormones are so shot I am behaving like a teenage girl with PMT - and yet we had friends coming for lunch on Sunday - so we had to plaster on our 'we are happy and normal and would you like more dip?' faces and pretend we liked each other. By the end of the meal, we actually did. Those 'fake it til you make it' rules really work. I was a bit emotional about it all yesterday - full of woe and anger - but I managed to dilute it into a civil email and Husband replied and now we have joint 'task lists' and promises of more help round the house (acts of service - HIM) and less nagging/acting deranged (ME).
He arrived home just as I hit the hay and planted some impressive kisses on me. That isn't a euphemism for hot sex - I am after all a beached whale at the moment, with a chest bigger than Manhattan - the man would have to don a helmet and some climbing hooks in order to scale them/me, I genuinely mean he gave me some lovely affection. Underrated it is.
Anyhow, it got me thinking about other couples - and how they juggle full time jobs and kids and childcare and household bills and money and chores and stress and in-laws and still enjoy each other's company? Still belly laugh at the end of the day? I don't mean celebs - their lives aren't really goverened by the same rules that we have to abide to - and therefore who knows what is stage managed/a lavendar marriage/even exists? Boring. I'm talkin' regular folk - like you and me.
Husband and my's problem isn't that we have nothing to say to each other and the marriage is stale - it is that we so rarely get time together. We've had 2 dates recently - both were fab. One was a ridiculous 45 min drive to and from, the nearest cinema showing an Argentinian film that I wanted to see (The Secret In Their Eyes - good by the way) - I booked us a comfy sofa with cushions - (god I LOVE the Everyman Hampstead cinema, why didn't I go more when I lived 15 mins walk from it for 7 years???)and Husband was thrilled to discover it offered waiter service and he was able to drink wine throughout. I supped tea and ate chocolate covered honeycomb. Bliss. The other date was a brilliant meal at a cosy little country gastropub where I drank a hearty glass of red and then suffered heartburn until 3am. But it was worth it.
I digress. I just wonder how folk still want to tear each others clothes off after their kid(s) have just crapped their pants, or their mother-in-law is having a bath in the next room? Or how they decide who's turn it is to take out the bin/do the food shop/clean the bathroom... or who pays what? There is so much that people never say. They show the world that everything is just rosy in their garden and then out of the blue announce they are splitting up. 'I never saw that coming' you'll say, in shock. But they never let you know. It is terribly British to act like everything is fine, even when it isn't. And maybe things are fine most of the time - but what happens when they're not? Ohhh it's interesting isn't it? The taboos of marriage, the secrets we must never tell. The relationship we show the world and the one we have in private. Thing that fascinates me most, is as Husband pointed out yesterday - that it isn't easy, but it is how you get through the hard times that defines how strong your marriage is - that commitment to make it work, to try your best, otherwise what was the point?
It is all so easy when you first date, can't keep your hands off each other, live on air and the butterflies in your stomach. Getting engaged, planning a wedding, setting up a life together. Nothing can prepare you for kids and how much your lives change post birth.... So staying together - is it simply luck? That the person you fancied across that crowded bar, who gave you 5 orgasms in an evening, who took you to Paris, who charmed your Mother, who bought you flowers and got on one knee and all the rest, is still as amazing 10 plus years on. Can still light up a room when they walk into it. Still make you feel a bit mushy. Still make you smile. How do you ever know in that sweaty packed bar, that he's a good bet and you'll make it through all those rites of passage, all that life throws at you. You don't, you take a chance and suddenly, here you are - 2.4 kids and a 3 bed semi. I'm just curious how you got there and why you stay.
I know why I do. And it isn't because I got an enormous bunch of lillies last week and some impressive kisses. But the reasons why I do - well, find that invisibility cloak and you can find out.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Friday, 20 August 2010
Breaking the ties
So I'm back on the subject of friendships - because I find myself in a dilemma, well, in a place I'm not used to being. I am being a bad friend.
Let me explain: imagine you had a friend, a good friend who you've known for years - and they are on a destructive path. You can see it, their other friends can see it, but they can't. They are blind to it. They are consumed by their passion and their whole lives have started to focus around this one thing. This one thing that you know aint good for them. You've told them - of course you have, as you are a good friend, and you're honest, so you've told them that it all will end in tears and no matter how much you advise them - they don't want to know. To the point where you have agreed not to talk about it. Which makes talking to this friend, well damn hard. Because this friend lies to themselves as well as you. They pretend that the paths they are taking are for other reasons, not the fact that they are in love with a boy who doesn't love them back. So every time this friend calls, you have to paint on happy face and try and chat around inane subjects until your friend inevitably brings it round to her love life and - you don't want to hear it. Because you almost feel embarrassed for her - for the fool she is making of herself, and the hurt that will follow. You'd stake your life on it. Because no man ever takes a year to make up his mind about whether or not he likes a girl. He is either into you, or he aint. And if he aint - everything else is him stringing you along until something better comes along - as he has done before, and will do again. So anyway, you think it is almost better not to talk to this friend until she comes out of this destructive phase, but does that make you a bad friend?
I'm a honest person. Husband says he can tell within 30 seconds of introducing me to someone whether or not I like them. My every thought is written over my face - I am a crap liar. As you can tell from my blog - I lay it all on the line - what you see is what you get. So I find it virtually impossible to talk to this friend - because I feel our every conversation is a lie. And I watch as she obsesses over how thin she can get, how blonde, how botoxed, etc - all in a bid to win this man and I wonder where the strong feisty women who danced to her own tune has gone? And then I wonder - have we outgrown each other, is the friendship cemented in our 20s simply not there in our 30s? And if so what to do?
Thing is I've felt the cold winds of being ousted from a friendship myself - this year in fact: a friend went through an incredibly bad time - and I tried to be there, to support as best as could, even when there was nothing I could say. I understood she needed time out - she didn't want to talk on the phone or meet up etc But then it turned out she was talking to people about how she was feeling - just not me. She was meeting folk for lunch or visiting their houses, just not wanting to spend any time with me. So I took the hint - and have withdrawn myself from attempting to see this person - even though I'm still not really sure what I've done. Maybe nothing - maybe they simply outgrew me.
Sometimes it comes as a shock: I met a girl at Uni - she was sobbing over the halls of residence pay phone (in the days before mobile phones when we used to stand with pockets weighed down with 10ps or BT cards with 10 units on them) and I took pity on her, chatting through her issues. That's what I then became - her shoulder to cry on. And boy did she weep - nothing was ever right in her life no matter what she did. Flatmates used to see me after an hours chat with this girl and know immediately who I'd been talking to - they could tell in my heavy step and sullen face. This girl brought everyone down - but still I persevered - always there for her, after all, she had no one else. Plus she was kind and full of wisdom and on the rare occasions that she smiled, could be fun. Then one day (about 5 or so years into our friendship when she was living in Scotland and I had managed to get work in TV in London) she rang and told me she was off to LA for a holiday. We chatted as normal and I wished her well. I never heard from her again. I called her parents, desperately worried that something had happened to her and they assured me she was fine but were somehow avoided giving me her address or phone number. I found out later she had gone to LA following a boy who had no interest in her and she lived in her car for a bit... After that who knows? For a while I was so angry - she had just deserted our friendship - just walked out on it without telling me why, or even giving me the chance to ask what was wrong... She often compared herself to aloof celebs who trusted no one - or suddenly cut themselves off from friendships to 'protect' themselves. I realised that is exactly what she had done - cut me off, because maybe I got too close. As the months wore on I stopped caring - friends come and go from your life and to not have to spend hours propping her up while she wept felt a huge relief. A weight was lifted and I began to realise that she never wanted advice or help - she just wanted to be miserable. Thing is, I didn't. Her ditching our friendship - well things happen for a reason and all that...
Lots of amazing women read my blog and I wonder if any of you guys have ever ended a friendship, been a bad friend, outgrown a mate, let a once rock solid friendship go? In these times - were we don't live near our folks and rely more and more on friendships to be like family, when we invest so much time and energy into these bonds, perhaps they are the most complicated relationships in our lives: rife with politics, jealousies, petty feuds and competitiveness. But when they are good - is there anything better than time with your girls? Belly laughter, finishing each others' sentences and shared jokes.
The question is, when ever is the time to let the ties go?
Let me explain: imagine you had a friend, a good friend who you've known for years - and they are on a destructive path. You can see it, their other friends can see it, but they can't. They are blind to it. They are consumed by their passion and their whole lives have started to focus around this one thing. This one thing that you know aint good for them. You've told them - of course you have, as you are a good friend, and you're honest, so you've told them that it all will end in tears and no matter how much you advise them - they don't want to know. To the point where you have agreed not to talk about it. Which makes talking to this friend, well damn hard. Because this friend lies to themselves as well as you. They pretend that the paths they are taking are for other reasons, not the fact that they are in love with a boy who doesn't love them back. So every time this friend calls, you have to paint on happy face and try and chat around inane subjects until your friend inevitably brings it round to her love life and - you don't want to hear it. Because you almost feel embarrassed for her - for the fool she is making of herself, and the hurt that will follow. You'd stake your life on it. Because no man ever takes a year to make up his mind about whether or not he likes a girl. He is either into you, or he aint. And if he aint - everything else is him stringing you along until something better comes along - as he has done before, and will do again. So anyway, you think it is almost better not to talk to this friend until she comes out of this destructive phase, but does that make you a bad friend?
I'm a honest person. Husband says he can tell within 30 seconds of introducing me to someone whether or not I like them. My every thought is written over my face - I am a crap liar. As you can tell from my blog - I lay it all on the line - what you see is what you get. So I find it virtually impossible to talk to this friend - because I feel our every conversation is a lie. And I watch as she obsesses over how thin she can get, how blonde, how botoxed, etc - all in a bid to win this man and I wonder where the strong feisty women who danced to her own tune has gone? And then I wonder - have we outgrown each other, is the friendship cemented in our 20s simply not there in our 30s? And if so what to do?
Thing is I've felt the cold winds of being ousted from a friendship myself - this year in fact: a friend went through an incredibly bad time - and I tried to be there, to support as best as could, even when there was nothing I could say. I understood she needed time out - she didn't want to talk on the phone or meet up etc But then it turned out she was talking to people about how she was feeling - just not me. She was meeting folk for lunch or visiting their houses, just not wanting to spend any time with me. So I took the hint - and have withdrawn myself from attempting to see this person - even though I'm still not really sure what I've done. Maybe nothing - maybe they simply outgrew me.
Sometimes it comes as a shock: I met a girl at Uni - she was sobbing over the halls of residence pay phone (in the days before mobile phones when we used to stand with pockets weighed down with 10ps or BT cards with 10 units on them) and I took pity on her, chatting through her issues. That's what I then became - her shoulder to cry on. And boy did she weep - nothing was ever right in her life no matter what she did. Flatmates used to see me after an hours chat with this girl and know immediately who I'd been talking to - they could tell in my heavy step and sullen face. This girl brought everyone down - but still I persevered - always there for her, after all, she had no one else. Plus she was kind and full of wisdom and on the rare occasions that she smiled, could be fun. Then one day (about 5 or so years into our friendship when she was living in Scotland and I had managed to get work in TV in London) she rang and told me she was off to LA for a holiday. We chatted as normal and I wished her well. I never heard from her again. I called her parents, desperately worried that something had happened to her and they assured me she was fine but were somehow avoided giving me her address or phone number. I found out later she had gone to LA following a boy who had no interest in her and she lived in her car for a bit... After that who knows? For a while I was so angry - she had just deserted our friendship - just walked out on it without telling me why, or even giving me the chance to ask what was wrong... She often compared herself to aloof celebs who trusted no one - or suddenly cut themselves off from friendships to 'protect' themselves. I realised that is exactly what she had done - cut me off, because maybe I got too close. As the months wore on I stopped caring - friends come and go from your life and to not have to spend hours propping her up while she wept felt a huge relief. A weight was lifted and I began to realise that she never wanted advice or help - she just wanted to be miserable. Thing is, I didn't. Her ditching our friendship - well things happen for a reason and all that...
Lots of amazing women read my blog and I wonder if any of you guys have ever ended a friendship, been a bad friend, outgrown a mate, let a once rock solid friendship go? In these times - were we don't live near our folks and rely more and more on friendships to be like family, when we invest so much time and energy into these bonds, perhaps they are the most complicated relationships in our lives: rife with politics, jealousies, petty feuds and competitiveness. But when they are good - is there anything better than time with your girls? Belly laughter, finishing each others' sentences and shared jokes.
The question is, when ever is the time to let the ties go?
Saturday, 14 August 2010
Back from the wilderness
I am back from the wilderness - literally rather than emotionally speaking. Sproglet and I were on our holidays of sorts - we came to York to visit my Aunt and Uncle and from there we went to the middle of nowhere - to my cousin's holiday home: a cute cottagey place, all Yorkshire stone walls and wooden beams, odd shaped rooms and creaky floorboards. Set in the middle of a remote village which has a pub and... that is it. No phone signal, no Internet, no satellite tv and not even a working landline. I kept imagining the villagers in the pub would remind us to 'stick to the paths and beware of the moors' or the like.
I'd come prepared - two books, laptop to write and DVDs for Sproglet. The plan was my Aunt would stay over and then return to civilisation, leaving Sproglet, my cousin and her baby and I to... well, do what exactly? Baby's have routines which meant our activities would be curtailed; the weather was grey and cloudy at best and apart from getting hammered at the pub (hardly, with Sproglet and the small matter that I am preggers) there wasn't much else to do. I unpacked in my gorgeous big room and privately worried about the unfolding hours, let alone days. In truth the place would be perfect as a writer's retreat - but not to entertain an energetic 4 year old who wanted to do more than touch the local pony and kick a ball around.
Then a miracle happened: Sproglet asked for a tablet. I normally give him a small pink pill before any long car journeys as in the past we have had a grim vomit moment where an irate taxi driver made us feel like we brought the plague to his rusty 4 year old cortina, rather than a bit of spew on an ancient kid's car seat. Anyway, he asked for a tablet and I pointed out we weren't getting in the car (sadly) and then he projectile vomited everywhere - on me, the carpet, the sofa, cushions etc. A great aim. I was soaking - even my pants. Once he was attended to and I was stripped, he lay on the sofa with a bucket next to him. We convinced ourselves it was a blip, and even tried to suggest some bland pasta but the mere sight caused The Exorcist part 2. Not such a blip then. A bugfest. All was quiet as we tried to munch through lasagne - but then we heard a small voice from the sofa, 'there is some poo in my pants.' Not some. Lots. The squits had hit.
Sproglet was showered and cleaned and cuddled and bedded and storied and then he spewed some more. Clean sheets unloaded, his face washed, etc etc. We were shattered. So was he. He fell into a blissful slumber and I tried to contain my glee - not at his suffering, but at the fact that life in the wilderness with a projectile child was looking less appealing to my nervous cousin, who was worried her baby would get it. I was kind of hoping that at 5 months preggers I wasn't going to go through the 2 hour master detox myself, but no one mentioned this.
Although Sproglet slept peacefully that night and awoke to eat a breakfast normally reserved for wrestling athletes in it's size - my cuz was still concerned and suggested we all head back to my Aunt's. Hurrah! After a meal at the pub - portions the size of a pig's head - honestly oop north they like their grub - we headed back to York. I felt like kissing the wet ground.
York was fun - we took Sproglet to a beach about an hour away and in true British summer weather we paddled in a freezing sea, ate chips in the rain (damn good they were - all crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle) and ate our picnic in the car while the winds blew up a storm outside. I took him to the movies, to town, to the park and I got an afternoon to write when my Aunt and Uncle kindly took him to an adventure playground - he had his first encounter with a nettle and is still mildly horrified at the thought of a run in again with such a vicious plant.
Then we came home. The very next day I went back to work. The old butterflies were buzzing around my stomach - can I still do it? Will my pregnancy brain get in the way of how to tell a story? Will it be just too weird?
No - it was too wonderful. I honestly was so happy to see all the folk that I had missed so much - to gossip, to gather to eat cake at 4pm to celebrate someone's b'day, to stand around the monitors discussing whether or not the new actor on the show is shaggable, to complain about all the usual politics of the place - it felt like I'd never left - in a good way. I have a spring in my heffer step and a smile on my face. It feels great to be in a team again. To have my day enriched by a belly laugh and to challenge my mind at how to make a damn script work. Perhaps because I know it isn't forever that I can relish it all the more. Appreciate it for the time I have - and deep down to know that the usual responsibilities of the job are halved, simply because I am only covering one block of scripts, instead of the usual 3.
It's only for another 6 weeks - which is ok. It feels like a last hoorah. Will I feel sad when I leave again? Probably. It isn't the job - it's the people. As commenters said - my truck load of chicken arrived. And it is prime breast, in a tasty buttery skin with a memorable tarragon/lemon flavour - the best that one could hope for.
I'd come prepared - two books, laptop to write and DVDs for Sproglet. The plan was my Aunt would stay over and then return to civilisation, leaving Sproglet, my cousin and her baby and I to... well, do what exactly? Baby's have routines which meant our activities would be curtailed; the weather was grey and cloudy at best and apart from getting hammered at the pub (hardly, with Sproglet and the small matter that I am preggers) there wasn't much else to do. I unpacked in my gorgeous big room and privately worried about the unfolding hours, let alone days. In truth the place would be perfect as a writer's retreat - but not to entertain an energetic 4 year old who wanted to do more than touch the local pony and kick a ball around.
Then a miracle happened: Sproglet asked for a tablet. I normally give him a small pink pill before any long car journeys as in the past we have had a grim vomit moment where an irate taxi driver made us feel like we brought the plague to his rusty 4 year old cortina, rather than a bit of spew on an ancient kid's car seat. Anyway, he asked for a tablet and I pointed out we weren't getting in the car (sadly) and then he projectile vomited everywhere - on me, the carpet, the sofa, cushions etc. A great aim. I was soaking - even my pants. Once he was attended to and I was stripped, he lay on the sofa with a bucket next to him. We convinced ourselves it was a blip, and even tried to suggest some bland pasta but the mere sight caused The Exorcist part 2. Not such a blip then. A bugfest. All was quiet as we tried to munch through lasagne - but then we heard a small voice from the sofa, 'there is some poo in my pants.' Not some. Lots. The squits had hit.
Sproglet was showered and cleaned and cuddled and bedded and storied and then he spewed some more. Clean sheets unloaded, his face washed, etc etc. We were shattered. So was he. He fell into a blissful slumber and I tried to contain my glee - not at his suffering, but at the fact that life in the wilderness with a projectile child was looking less appealing to my nervous cousin, who was worried her baby would get it. I was kind of hoping that at 5 months preggers I wasn't going to go through the 2 hour master detox myself, but no one mentioned this.
Although Sproglet slept peacefully that night and awoke to eat a breakfast normally reserved for wrestling athletes in it's size - my cuz was still concerned and suggested we all head back to my Aunt's. Hurrah! After a meal at the pub - portions the size of a pig's head - honestly oop north they like their grub - we headed back to York. I felt like kissing the wet ground.
York was fun - we took Sproglet to a beach about an hour away and in true British summer weather we paddled in a freezing sea, ate chips in the rain (damn good they were - all crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle) and ate our picnic in the car while the winds blew up a storm outside. I took him to the movies, to town, to the park and I got an afternoon to write when my Aunt and Uncle kindly took him to an adventure playground - he had his first encounter with a nettle and is still mildly horrified at the thought of a run in again with such a vicious plant.
Then we came home. The very next day I went back to work. The old butterflies were buzzing around my stomach - can I still do it? Will my pregnancy brain get in the way of how to tell a story? Will it be just too weird?
No - it was too wonderful. I honestly was so happy to see all the folk that I had missed so much - to gossip, to gather to eat cake at 4pm to celebrate someone's b'day, to stand around the monitors discussing whether or not the new actor on the show is shaggable, to complain about all the usual politics of the place - it felt like I'd never left - in a good way. I have a spring in my heffer step and a smile on my face. It feels great to be in a team again. To have my day enriched by a belly laugh and to challenge my mind at how to make a damn script work. Perhaps because I know it isn't forever that I can relish it all the more. Appreciate it for the time I have - and deep down to know that the usual responsibilities of the job are halved, simply because I am only covering one block of scripts, instead of the usual 3.
It's only for another 6 weeks - which is ok. It feels like a last hoorah. Will I feel sad when I leave again? Probably. It isn't the job - it's the people. As commenters said - my truck load of chicken arrived. And it is prime breast, in a tasty buttery skin with a memorable tarragon/lemon flavour - the best that one could hope for.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
A bit of a Prince Tangent.
So just as I was about to get out of the car yesterday morning, the radio blasted out 'When Doves Cry.' That was it, I couldn't move. I sat holding my shopping bags, engine off, window down, just grooving along to the wonder that is Prince.
I may not have told you this before - but I heart the minute purple one big time. Have done ever since I was 11 years old and 'Let's go Crazy' hit the top ten. I was hooked. I hired the VHS of Purple Rain (all padded sponge filled cover in true 80s style), then bought it and fell in love. The movie is terrible, I know, but I love it. I watched it the morning my son was born - telling myself not to be nervous, that there was, there is, and there always will be Prince in my life - so all was well. I know it word for word. I even bought 'Under a Cherry Moon' a few years later - and it really is a woeful film. After wearing out my LP version of Purple Rain, I discovered his back catalogue - Purple Rain being his 6th album. The early two funk-fests aren't bad - but Controversy and Dirty Mind are amazing. Then there is the masterpiece that is 1999.
On a trip to London in 1985 I went to HMV on Oxford St - seemed thrilling - and bought 'Around the World in a Day.' Raspberry Beret is possibly one of my top 3 Prince tracks of all time - but Paisley Park isn't far behind. He was such an escape in my teenage years... I'd stick my Prince album on my tiny little record player - switch it to 33 speed and drift off into my own fantasy land where Prince would whisk me off to Minneapolis and make me his purple bride.
What was it about him that I loved? Apart from the fact he produced, composed, arranged, performed and played every instrument on his records, he was quirky, sexy and boy he could move. He thrusted and jiggled across a stage in a way that only Mick Jagger could in years gone by. And his peepers? WOW.
1987 brought his finest album - EVER - in my humble opinion. If you have never listened to Sign o The Times - go buy it. Seriously. If you hate it - mail me and I'll give you the cash back. Oh. My. God. A double album - 4 sides of heaven. I'm no rock journo sadly (what a cool job eh?) but feck me, Starfish and Coffee, The Cross, I could never take the place of your man, U got the Look, Hot thing and the amazing 'If I was your Girlfriend' just blew me away.
I remember sitting with my sort-of step sister in our driveway, blaring the music out the windows on a hot summers day, singing along to 'Sign O The Times' and wondering what 'getting high on reefer' meant. My whole teenage years are peppered with Prince memories: when a girl at school tried to convince me the masked woman in the 'Kiss' video was in fact a man and Prince was gay; when my first love sat with me at 17 in a study room at school and it began to snow, just before Easter and he said 'Sometimes it Snows in April' (from the Parade album - 1986). When the record store in town painted a massive picture of the cover of the 'Love Sexy' album in 1988 - and I wished I could win it with all my heart. Listening over and over to Graffiti Bridge in Berlin when I was 17 and visiting my boyfriend - feeling like such a grown up, living with him at his Dad's flat, just after the wall came down...
In '87 when friend of mine fell in a scalding bath and was in hospital for weeks and I made her a Prince mix tape (only she and my mate Dax understood the amazingness of Prince Rogers Nelson - and regularly we mulled over his latest offering). The time when I was due to see the Sign of the Times gig in London - my Uncle was going to take me, I was only 14, - and I was up a mountain, soaking wet doing a Duke of Edinburgh award and someone with a tinny radio called out 'Hey, Prince has cancelled his London gigs' and I cried the whole 6 miles down the fucking mountain.
He did the same to me in 1990. Dax and I sneakily got hammered on a flight together to London - him to see his Dad - me to see my step-Sis, the very day we should have been in Cork getting down to The Black Album tour. I did finally get to see him - The Diamonds and Pearls tour 1992, and in 93 the Symbol tour - when I got back to my best mate's student flat in Leeds and got stoned and then convinced myself Prince was the anti-christ! All that backwards writing, the 'Thieves of the Temple' lyrics - book of Revelations, how Satan will walk amongst us and be known blah blah. Great weed, clearly. Finding the (then) elusive Black Album in Camden Market whilst at Uni in '91. Listening to the Batman soundtrack when my CGSEs had finished...
And then somewhere after about '94 I lost my way with his Purpleness a bit. The albums kept a coming - but they just didn't hit the spot. Emancipation, the Gold Album - all duds. He returned to form with Musicology and now 2010. I saw him when he played his 21 date tour of the 02 in 2007. I'm not the mega fan hairdresser I know who paid to see every one of those nights... I can't recall 'the wilderness years' between 95 - 2005 when he released stuff from his NPG club or through The Crystal Ball website.
But I love him. Because he is a genius. Because he is kind of other-worldly and obviously bonkers. Because he gives interviews where he speaks through someone else. Because he looks amazing. But most of all because his music really touches me - in a way no other artist ever has or will. I air guitared beautifully to the last chords of Let's go Crazy on my wedding day - and at every important moment of my life, he's been there. And yesterday, sitting in the car, it reminded me how I love hearing an old song of his, totally out of the blue - a little magical gift in my day. This may just be the dorkiest post I have ever written. Oh well.
Long may his Purple Highness reign....
I may not have told you this before - but I heart the minute purple one big time. Have done ever since I was 11 years old and 'Let's go Crazy' hit the top ten. I was hooked. I hired the VHS of Purple Rain (all padded sponge filled cover in true 80s style), then bought it and fell in love. The movie is terrible, I know, but I love it. I watched it the morning my son was born - telling myself not to be nervous, that there was, there is, and there always will be Prince in my life - so all was well. I know it word for word. I even bought 'Under a Cherry Moon' a few years later - and it really is a woeful film. After wearing out my LP version of Purple Rain, I discovered his back catalogue - Purple Rain being his 6th album. The early two funk-fests aren't bad - but Controversy and Dirty Mind are amazing. Then there is the masterpiece that is 1999.
On a trip to London in 1985 I went to HMV on Oxford St - seemed thrilling - and bought 'Around the World in a Day.' Raspberry Beret is possibly one of my top 3 Prince tracks of all time - but Paisley Park isn't far behind. He was such an escape in my teenage years... I'd stick my Prince album on my tiny little record player - switch it to 33 speed and drift off into my own fantasy land where Prince would whisk me off to Minneapolis and make me his purple bride.
What was it about him that I loved? Apart from the fact he produced, composed, arranged, performed and played every instrument on his records, he was quirky, sexy and boy he could move. He thrusted and jiggled across a stage in a way that only Mick Jagger could in years gone by. And his peepers? WOW.
1987 brought his finest album - EVER - in my humble opinion. If you have never listened to Sign o The Times - go buy it. Seriously. If you hate it - mail me and I'll give you the cash back. Oh. My. God. A double album - 4 sides of heaven. I'm no rock journo sadly (what a cool job eh?) but feck me, Starfish and Coffee, The Cross, I could never take the place of your man, U got the Look, Hot thing and the amazing 'If I was your Girlfriend' just blew me away.
I remember sitting with my sort-of step sister in our driveway, blaring the music out the windows on a hot summers day, singing along to 'Sign O The Times' and wondering what 'getting high on reefer' meant. My whole teenage years are peppered with Prince memories: when a girl at school tried to convince me the masked woman in the 'Kiss' video was in fact a man and Prince was gay; when my first love sat with me at 17 in a study room at school and it began to snow, just before Easter and he said 'Sometimes it Snows in April' (from the Parade album - 1986). When the record store in town painted a massive picture of the cover of the 'Love Sexy' album in 1988 - and I wished I could win it with all my heart. Listening over and over to Graffiti Bridge in Berlin when I was 17 and visiting my boyfriend - feeling like such a grown up, living with him at his Dad's flat, just after the wall came down...
In '87 when friend of mine fell in a scalding bath and was in hospital for weeks and I made her a Prince mix tape (only she and my mate Dax understood the amazingness of Prince Rogers Nelson - and regularly we mulled over his latest offering). The time when I was due to see the Sign of the Times gig in London - my Uncle was going to take me, I was only 14, - and I was up a mountain, soaking wet doing a Duke of Edinburgh award and someone with a tinny radio called out 'Hey, Prince has cancelled his London gigs' and I cried the whole 6 miles down the fucking mountain.
He did the same to me in 1990. Dax and I sneakily got hammered on a flight together to London - him to see his Dad - me to see my step-Sis, the very day we should have been in Cork getting down to The Black Album tour. I did finally get to see him - The Diamonds and Pearls tour 1992, and in 93 the Symbol tour - when I got back to my best mate's student flat in Leeds and got stoned and then convinced myself Prince was the anti-christ! All that backwards writing, the 'Thieves of the Temple' lyrics - book of Revelations, how Satan will walk amongst us and be known blah blah. Great weed, clearly. Finding the (then) elusive Black Album in Camden Market whilst at Uni in '91. Listening to the Batman soundtrack when my CGSEs had finished...
And then somewhere after about '94 I lost my way with his Purpleness a bit. The albums kept a coming - but they just didn't hit the spot. Emancipation, the Gold Album - all duds. He returned to form with Musicology and now 2010. I saw him when he played his 21 date tour of the 02 in 2007. I'm not the mega fan hairdresser I know who paid to see every one of those nights... I can't recall 'the wilderness years' between 95 - 2005 when he released stuff from his NPG club or through The Crystal Ball website.
But I love him. Because he is a genius. Because he is kind of other-worldly and obviously bonkers. Because he gives interviews where he speaks through someone else. Because he looks amazing. But most of all because his music really touches me - in a way no other artist ever has or will. I air guitared beautifully to the last chords of Let's go Crazy on my wedding day - and at every important moment of my life, he's been there. And yesterday, sitting in the car, it reminded me how I love hearing an old song of his, totally out of the blue - a little magical gift in my day. This may just be the dorkiest post I have ever written. Oh well.
Long may his Purple Highness reign....
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Saturday, 24 July 2010
The kindness of others
Last night I had some good friends for dinner. I was giddy to see them, excited to cook and hang out and gossip and hear about their lives and all that jazz. The buzz that comes with seeing people you care about and wish you saw more of. I'd prepared the thai sweet potato soup; the Italian chicken cacciatore dish (yes I was mixing my menus up from all over the whole damn world, but hey, they are tried and tested recipes so you can't go wrong) was waiting to be baked and I'd got in lots of lovely soft drinks. The others were bringing dessert, nibbles and wine, bless them. A few arrived but one more had to come - so I offered to collect her at the station. (A ten min walk away, but 3 min drive). One mate came along for company. Husband was working, Sproglet was being entertained by another friend who is on his mental wavelength - they were playing kick in the garden, the tomato sauce was reducing under the watchful eye of another mate. All good.
I collected my friend and then popped to the garage to get ice. I was hankering for a watered down Pimms - it is the drink of summer - and to me, it doesn't feel like liquor. But we had run out of ice - and if there is one thing Pimms needs - along with cucumber, mint and apple if you are picky - is ICE.
So I stopped at the petrol station to get it. There was a big freezer thingy saying 'ICE.' I only had £2.50 left. Utterly broke - so I was holding this massive bag of dripping ice in a long queue, thinking, please god let it be less than the cash have in my hand. £2.99 flashes the till. So I leg it back to car, my friend gives me her wallet and I pay the remaining 50p. I dash back, throw the ice bag on Sproglet's car seat and off we go. We were talking, and laughing and when I drove in there was nothing behind me - so I pulled out. Crunch.
Not again.
Please god, let me not crash - AGAIN. Seeing as I have had two accidents since I started writing this blog - oh and a scratch episode.
I looked back, the car looked ok. But then I saw a serious looking guy walking towards his BMW. He came over and I got out. I had scratched his bumper - a good gash. Plus he pointed out, I had cracked it. My car has a scratch - but I could live with it. My friends got out and we all chatted - the man's girlfriend came across out of the garage and surveyed the damage. I gave him my name, my number, my address and said that I hoped we could resolve it without having to go through insurance etc. He said he'd be in touch - and I burst into angry hormonal tears. My frigging pregnancy head. The day before I'd bought a ticket for a car park and forgotten to leave it in the car window and so earned myself a ticket. Great. Day before that I left the house with no keys and had to get Husband out of the shower to give them to me. I just can't seem to get it together.
But being broke and annoyed and hormonal, I was teary and apologetic and frustrated. Man was nice and said he'd get the 'boys at work' to look at it. Him and his partner/wife/girlfriend told me not to worry. But I did. I came back in tears and then got Sproglet to bed, worried to tell Husband, worried what it would cost.
My friends all calmed me, the two who were with me, saying that he seemed a nice man, not out to screw me for cash etc. So I served up the soup (went down well) and then the main (everyone a bit stuffed on crisps and startet by now) and we were all chatting round a candlelit table when my phone went.
It was BMW man. Turns out his name is Phil. Phil Ward. He told me that next week he is doing a skydive jump, to raise money for charity and asked me if I had heard of 'Just Giving.' I said I had - it is an online charity service wheer you donate to people who are doing sponsored stuff. He replied was doing it for cystic fibrosis. He asked me if I would kindly donate to his charity and then we would forget all about the scratch - he owned a paint store and he'd get his work to sort it. I was bowled over. I never expected such generosity. I was so relieved, and bless him, he only asked me to donate what I could afford. We chatted about how he hates heights and how mad he was to jump and I took down his name and promised to donate. And I did, this morning. I discovered that like me, Phil has a son. His son was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis when he was 6 weeks old. He is now 14 and was only expected to live to 15. But with the charity's support he should live to 40 - hopefully longer.
Phil Ward is brave and kind. I only met him for 5 minutes and probably looked a bit barmy for 3 of those minutes. But he took pity on my pregnancy brain and did a lovely thing. If you fancy paying it forward - if you read my blog regularly and enjoy it - go on, give to nice Phil: http://www.justgiving.com/philward69
And who knows, maybe someone, somewhere, unexpectedly will do something pretty lovely for you.
I collected my friend and then popped to the garage to get ice. I was hankering for a watered down Pimms - it is the drink of summer - and to me, it doesn't feel like liquor. But we had run out of ice - and if there is one thing Pimms needs - along with cucumber, mint and apple if you are picky - is ICE.
So I stopped at the petrol station to get it. There was a big freezer thingy saying 'ICE.' I only had £2.50 left. Utterly broke - so I was holding this massive bag of dripping ice in a long queue, thinking, please god let it be less than the cash have in my hand. £2.99 flashes the till. So I leg it back to car, my friend gives me her wallet and I pay the remaining 50p. I dash back, throw the ice bag on Sproglet's car seat and off we go. We were talking, and laughing and when I drove in there was nothing behind me - so I pulled out. Crunch.
Not again.
Please god, let me not crash - AGAIN. Seeing as I have had two accidents since I started writing this blog - oh and a scratch episode.
I looked back, the car looked ok. But then I saw a serious looking guy walking towards his BMW. He came over and I got out. I had scratched his bumper - a good gash. Plus he pointed out, I had cracked it. My car has a scratch - but I could live with it. My friends got out and we all chatted - the man's girlfriend came across out of the garage and surveyed the damage. I gave him my name, my number, my address and said that I hoped we could resolve it without having to go through insurance etc. He said he'd be in touch - and I burst into angry hormonal tears. My frigging pregnancy head. The day before I'd bought a ticket for a car park and forgotten to leave it in the car window and so earned myself a ticket. Great. Day before that I left the house with no keys and had to get Husband out of the shower to give them to me. I just can't seem to get it together.
But being broke and annoyed and hormonal, I was teary and apologetic and frustrated. Man was nice and said he'd get the 'boys at work' to look at it. Him and his partner/wife/girlfriend told me not to worry. But I did. I came back in tears and then got Sproglet to bed, worried to tell Husband, worried what it would cost.
My friends all calmed me, the two who were with me, saying that he seemed a nice man, not out to screw me for cash etc. So I served up the soup (went down well) and then the main (everyone a bit stuffed on crisps and startet by now) and we were all chatting round a candlelit table when my phone went.
It was BMW man. Turns out his name is Phil. Phil Ward. He told me that next week he is doing a skydive jump, to raise money for charity and asked me if I had heard of 'Just Giving.' I said I had - it is an online charity service wheer you donate to people who are doing sponsored stuff. He replied was doing it for cystic fibrosis. He asked me if I would kindly donate to his charity and then we would forget all about the scratch - he owned a paint store and he'd get his work to sort it. I was bowled over. I never expected such generosity. I was so relieved, and bless him, he only asked me to donate what I could afford. We chatted about how he hates heights and how mad he was to jump and I took down his name and promised to donate. And I did, this morning. I discovered that like me, Phil has a son. His son was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis when he was 6 weeks old. He is now 14 and was only expected to live to 15. But with the charity's support he should live to 40 - hopefully longer.
Phil Ward is brave and kind. I only met him for 5 minutes and probably looked a bit barmy for 3 of those minutes. But he took pity on my pregnancy brain and did a lovely thing. If you fancy paying it forward - if you read my blog regularly and enjoy it - go on, give to nice Phil: http://www.justgiving.com/philward69
And who knows, maybe someone, somewhere, unexpectedly will do something pretty lovely for you.
Friday, 23 July 2010
Hurrah!
Well, where to start?
Firstly, I should say that often I blog right in a moment - in the snotty, tissue laden, tear tripping, second. About an hour later after a cup of tea and a sweet treat, I'm usually feeling a bit better.I blog to get it out - I purge and then am released. And I always know that I could be so much worse off. I am so blessed in so many ways - it is just sometimes, in a dark moment we can't see the wood from the big old trees. I thank all my commenters on my last post - as they cheered me up. It was comforting to hear of folk who have been there and found their way back. Speaking of which...
The very day after my hormonal blub fest I got an email from a good buddy at my old job - offering me 6 weeks work! I was dying to blog about it but wanted to check that financially they would pay me enough to cover child care etc and that it would be worth my while. Turns out they will and now I am about to go back to working with my old muckers for 6.5 weeks! I'm brimming with excitement and a tad nervous too... there is a whole new system and they work on stories 3 months ahead - but hey, I've my buddies there to help me through it and it will mentally do me good to get out, work, earn some much needed cash and do a job I really enjoyed. So that gets me out of a huge hole! Plus, it has re-energised me book wise - I have been working in the evenings, beavering way - determined to get half of it finished by the time I start back at my old job. I have planned out the final 10 chapters so aim to have it all done by the time Sprog no2 appears. So good things happen. You just have to have faith. I am so relieved. I honestly feel like having my own wee dancing party. I know it doesn't solve what will happen post bairn, but that is then, this is now. I can't worry endlessly about the future. Today is good. I can survive until we have the baby - and who knows, if the book goes ok, then maybe I'll get a book deal and all will work out. Something will turn up. It always does. Usually when I am least expecting it.
I went to the hospital this week - I was checking out where I will recuperate after my section. Last time I was in an NHS ward and I didn't sleep for 3 nights - I was a basket case by the time I got home with a new baby.Proper blubbering mad as a bag of snakes, mess. The midwives were grossly overworked and all night people talked, babies yelled, drawers slammed and weird bodily sounds floated around the room. Hideous. Also the showers were filled with dirt and hair, the toilets were blocked and a midwife failed to point out I was allergic to the adhesive of the plaster covering my scar - and I had a huge scaly raised rash that ran across my nether regions and down my leg. Grim. I needed antihistamines and cream to get rid of it - and it took two weeks! As if my lady garden didn't look unappealing enough post section, without the reptile scabbiness on top.
I always swore if I had another sprog - I would go private, no matter if I had to sell a kidney. I have no money left bar the funds for one night in a private room, but I was so determined not to spend it. Sections are full on - I wanted to know that the recovery would be more pleasant. Husband is saving for the other night and I asked a family member to loan me the rest of the deposit needed as it goes back to them as soon as I leave hospital. This is what started my meltdown on Monday - I rang the hospital and they broke it to me that you have to pay for 4 nights, not just the ones you stay. Like a deposit. Then you get back what you don't use... Great. As one night costs the same as a fancy schmancy hotel. Which is because, well it is like a fancy schmancy hotel. All products and soft bedding and flat plasma screen tv and bowls of fruit and fancy decor. I sound as deep as a puddle, I know. Forgive me, it was my one promise to myself. I loved this place so much I'd like to vacation there next Spring. The woman who showed me round guessed that I wasn't from the rich club who just use pocket money for such events, she even offered not to charge me the new prices, which start in Aug. She was so lovely I wanted her to be my new bessie mate and she could holiday with us at 'The Knutsford Suite' Watford Hospital too.
I also had my 20 week scan! This, is the best news of all. The baby is well and healthy and jumping around. The sex? Well maybe we found out, maybe they stuck to hospital policy and didn't tell us. All we cared about is that the wee one was fine. And it is. I was really nervous for some reason, but the sonographer was lovely. She had only 20 mins to take measurements and check the heart and the brain and kidneys and limbs and all. I kept my eye out for signs of a penis, but I have to say most of the time there were bubbles and squishy looking bits that I had no idea what was what. The lady thanked us for making her day - as she said that sometimes she has to give bad news. She said that a woman in before us had had bad news, an abnormal baby. Funnily enough, I had clocked her and her family leaving, and they looked very flat, very quiet. Often folk don't know, until the 20 week scan - which is awful, because after the 12 week one goes ok, you would presume you are out of the woods. To say I am lucky is an understatement. Now, I'm off to do a small dance. Steer clear, I had my chest measured this week and the poor woman in John Lewis eyed my enormous bosom and said 'we don't have much in your size I'm afraid!' She was holding a FF bra!! I am in a 'large' and for some unknown reason, it has padding. Like I need the freakin' padding! If you get too close, my nipples could take your eyes out, I tell you. Lord only knows what monstrosity I will need to hoist up my mammeries by 39 weeks. I'll keep you posted.
:)
Firstly, I should say that often I blog right in a moment - in the snotty, tissue laden, tear tripping, second. About an hour later after a cup of tea and a sweet treat, I'm usually feeling a bit better.I blog to get it out - I purge and then am released. And I always know that I could be so much worse off. I am so blessed in so many ways - it is just sometimes, in a dark moment we can't see the wood from the big old trees. I thank all my commenters on my last post - as they cheered me up. It was comforting to hear of folk who have been there and found their way back. Speaking of which...
The very day after my hormonal blub fest I got an email from a good buddy at my old job - offering me 6 weeks work! I was dying to blog about it but wanted to check that financially they would pay me enough to cover child care etc and that it would be worth my while. Turns out they will and now I am about to go back to working with my old muckers for 6.5 weeks! I'm brimming with excitement and a tad nervous too... there is a whole new system and they work on stories 3 months ahead - but hey, I've my buddies there to help me through it and it will mentally do me good to get out, work, earn some much needed cash and do a job I really enjoyed. So that gets me out of a huge hole! Plus, it has re-energised me book wise - I have been working in the evenings, beavering way - determined to get half of it finished by the time I start back at my old job. I have planned out the final 10 chapters so aim to have it all done by the time Sprog no2 appears. So good things happen. You just have to have faith. I am so relieved. I honestly feel like having my own wee dancing party. I know it doesn't solve what will happen post bairn, but that is then, this is now. I can't worry endlessly about the future. Today is good. I can survive until we have the baby - and who knows, if the book goes ok, then maybe I'll get a book deal and all will work out. Something will turn up. It always does. Usually when I am least expecting it.
I went to the hospital this week - I was checking out where I will recuperate after my section. Last time I was in an NHS ward and I didn't sleep for 3 nights - I was a basket case by the time I got home with a new baby.Proper blubbering mad as a bag of snakes, mess. The midwives were grossly overworked and all night people talked, babies yelled, drawers slammed and weird bodily sounds floated around the room. Hideous. Also the showers were filled with dirt and hair, the toilets were blocked and a midwife failed to point out I was allergic to the adhesive of the plaster covering my scar - and I had a huge scaly raised rash that ran across my nether regions and down my leg. Grim. I needed antihistamines and cream to get rid of it - and it took two weeks! As if my lady garden didn't look unappealing enough post section, without the reptile scabbiness on top.
I always swore if I had another sprog - I would go private, no matter if I had to sell a kidney. I have no money left bar the funds for one night in a private room, but I was so determined not to spend it. Sections are full on - I wanted to know that the recovery would be more pleasant. Husband is saving for the other night and I asked a family member to loan me the rest of the deposit needed as it goes back to them as soon as I leave hospital. This is what started my meltdown on Monday - I rang the hospital and they broke it to me that you have to pay for 4 nights, not just the ones you stay. Like a deposit. Then you get back what you don't use... Great. As one night costs the same as a fancy schmancy hotel. Which is because, well it is like a fancy schmancy hotel. All products and soft bedding and flat plasma screen tv and bowls of fruit and fancy decor. I sound as deep as a puddle, I know. Forgive me, it was my one promise to myself. I loved this place so much I'd like to vacation there next Spring. The woman who showed me round guessed that I wasn't from the rich club who just use pocket money for such events, she even offered not to charge me the new prices, which start in Aug. She was so lovely I wanted her to be my new bessie mate and she could holiday with us at 'The Knutsford Suite' Watford Hospital too.
I also had my 20 week scan! This, is the best news of all. The baby is well and healthy and jumping around. The sex? Well maybe we found out, maybe they stuck to hospital policy and didn't tell us. All we cared about is that the wee one was fine. And it is. I was really nervous for some reason, but the sonographer was lovely. She had only 20 mins to take measurements and check the heart and the brain and kidneys and limbs and all. I kept my eye out for signs of a penis, but I have to say most of the time there were bubbles and squishy looking bits that I had no idea what was what. The lady thanked us for making her day - as she said that sometimes she has to give bad news. She said that a woman in before us had had bad news, an abnormal baby. Funnily enough, I had clocked her and her family leaving, and they looked very flat, very quiet. Often folk don't know, until the 20 week scan - which is awful, because after the 12 week one goes ok, you would presume you are out of the woods. To say I am lucky is an understatement. Now, I'm off to do a small dance. Steer clear, I had my chest measured this week and the poor woman in John Lewis eyed my enormous bosom and said 'we don't have much in your size I'm afraid!' She was holding a FF bra!! I am in a 'large' and for some unknown reason, it has padding. Like I need the freakin' padding! If you get too close, my nipples could take your eyes out, I tell you. Lord only knows what monstrosity I will need to hoist up my mammeries by 39 weeks. I'll keep you posted.
:)
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