Back from hols....with a bump

Being back from holiday is awful, it’s doubly awful when you have to change your gloating facebook profile from ‘ha de ha, in your faces, I’m going on holiday to, ‘I’m back and I’m peeling and miserable’.

We had a really lovely time and I have come back happy, but sporting a rather embarrassing holiday injury- a large bruise which spans the entire right cheek of my bottom. This was acquired at Benidorm water park, a collection of terrifying water slides, most of which I would have thought were stupidly tame in my youth, but now they scare the living daylights out of me.

One of them, ‘la cresta’ (yes, I should have known) was a near vertical lunge in a two seater double ‘ring’. The incline was so steep you almost felt like you were going to flip over forwards, then you went hurtling down the slide out on to an upwards sloping ski slope type affair and then backwards at high speed over various bumps until being spewed into the water pool at the bottom (minus bikini top every time).

I went on this godforsaken thing 3 times, each time the heart palpitations got worse and the final time I could barely breath I was so scared. Spurred on by Steve to ‘have fun’, off we went. Unfortunatly for me, I was badly prepared for the ride and my bottom was not elevated on the double ring, but resting on the slide. It proceeded to be hammered, torn, bashed and ripped (some people might find that erotic but I can assure you, it wasn’t) until the bottom where I limped away clutching my right cheek close to tears. It wasn’t until we got home when Steve pointed out I look like I’ve been spanked from here to timbucktoo…ouch.

What else to tell…well, the alcoholic sister and crack head didn’t make it over to Spain whilst we were there, which was a great shame. Of course it meant we were able to drink to our heart’s content….hooray.

Steve and I took the jeep out for a couple of days to explore the local area, and despite the use of a tom tom, we managed to get horribly lost and of course have a barny (this I feel is excusable as all couples have barneys when in cars, even Sam and Gavin). The argument came to a head with me getting out of the car which Steve had screeched to the side of the road and storming off down some dust track in 38 degrees heat.

Thankfully I found a nice friendly tree to have a damn good sulk under and ignored Steve’s shouts that he was going to drive off and leave me. Which of course, he did! It wasn’t til he’d driven off that I realised I had no phone, no money, no idea where I was, and appeared to be sitting on a rather large red ants nest. Brilliant. Luckily for me, 15 minutes later a lovely air conditioned Mercedes containing Steve’s mum’s boyfriend pulled up by the side of the road and the window went down to reveal ‘Jingle Jangle’ John, who simply said ‘get in the car Ali’ so I did (with my best petulant teenagers scowl on my face) and we drove home in silence. When we got there Steve called me an idiot, John told me off for wandering off in that kind of heat without any water and I had to go and ‘have a lie down’. I secretly quite enjoyed behaving like such a big old kid, but I mustn’t make a habit of it.

Back down to earth with a big old bump, reality check of my hugely increased weight- 1 stone over the last year- and I’m now a fully paid up member of my gym and a weekly regular at the aqua conditioning class where I do gentle bouncing around and leg wobbles in a pool full of pregnant people- (got to build up slowly- last time I went bonkers with 60 lengths I did my neck in!).

Whilst away I got the results of my tests, or so I thought. The lovely Lindsey texted me to say that I had a normal result, which was strange as on the day of my examination they said that I was certain to need treatment. I phoned the clinic today and it turned out that the result they sent through was a load a old tosh and not related to my biopsy at all (they took a smear without me knowing basically, the results of which were fine). This doesn’t necessarily mean the other results will be fine though, so the consultant is writing to me about that today…fingers crossed that’s all clear as well.

Enough about lady gardens…and enough rambling. Over and out! (Dan, Dave- how’s the big re-design going?)

viva espagne

The time has come for another mini holiday. I have to say, there’s rarely been a time when I’ve been so f**king excited about going away and it’s no reflection of anything bad in life….simply the lack of sunshine in the UK.

The gods are smiling upon us for a change as neither Lara or crack head Grant are going to be in Spain when we’re there, which means both Steve and I can drink til our little hearts content and not listen to Lara’s incessant whinging and whining and self absorbedness. That’s not to say we won’t be spared a blow by blow account from ‘Jingle Jangle’ (Steve’s mum’s boyfriend so named as is ultimate chav and wears a lot of gold which makes this noise- kind of) about just how awful it’s been trying to look after her (yes, we know funnily enough we did it for 2 years when you went into hiding in Southern Spain!).

Anyway, on the upside is the fact that there’s a nice big cold pool, air conditioning, a mum who’s always so delighted to see her one fully functioning prodigal child that she has to wait on him (us) hand and foot, and a lovely sandy sun kissed beach. I’m going to get a tan if it’s the last thing I do, and I’m not going to let my Maldivian loss of skin pigment fiasco stop me.

We fly out tonight and rather than the usual ‘Ali waits getting increasingly agitated about where Steve is and why he’s running late, again!’ I’m going to make my own way to the airport, check in, go through to departures, do some gratuitous duty free shopping, get myself a McDonalds (it’s a ritual at Gatwick) and a good novel and a lovely cold white wine spritzer and put my feet up and he arrives when he arrives. Bliss. And if we don’t get to sit together on the flight as I get preferential boarding….ah well. I’ll wave at him sitting next to the screaming babies and hugely obese women from my extra leg room (and only 30 inch legs) seat.

I love going on holiday.

Moth-o-rama

Sometimes it’s hard to take life seriously, and this weekend has been one of those times when I’ve really struggled.

Cast your minds back about 3 months or so when I had a period of obsessing over clothes moths (speaking of which- Lindsey and Natalie- I think we have them aswell). I blogged about it, I researched it, I nagged and nagged and nagged Steve about it, and what happened? I was dismissed. Over the proceeding months, the moths appeared to become more prolific and I did try to mention them as much as possible, but not too much for fear of being brandished a massive nag- which of course, I am.

So it wasn’t entirely without a hint of smugness when we discovered a veritable nest, a feeding frenzy if you will, of clothes moths on Steve’s wool trousers, circa 1997 (vintage!) from Joseph. And it wasn’t a real shock to me to find that all of Steve’s cashmere, wool and other hugely expensive natural fibre winter woollies and fine cardigans had also been feasted upon and were festooned with pupae cocoons and big gaping holes. I’m not saying I’m happy this has happened, I’m really not, but I did warn him many months ago that if he didn’t do something- this would happen, and he just didn’t listen which makes sympathy a little harder to come by.

The icing on the cake surely has to be the 2 days solid we spent this weekend trying to get rid of the little f*ckers. We washed, we sprayed insecticide (well I did, in my knickers only until I saw the label saying something about ‘hazardous substances’ and ‘full protective clothing’ at which point I realised having it dripping down my arms wasn’t ideal), we smoked the blighters with smoke devices full of killer poisons, we laid x 4 traps and we laid strips everywhere. Not to mention the good old moth balls- totally f*cking useless I hasten to add.

We lay in bed last night, pretending to relax and watch TV, but at the slightest hint of a flutter of wings, the lights were on, and we were SAS assassins leaping around the room swiping with towels and leaving no stone unturned.

I’ll keep you posted- all I can say is that we really did try to get rid of them, and if they come back- well, Steve’s going to have to move.

Aside from that we had a lovely weekend in the evenings- I had my hair done and treated myself to a couple of new dresses one of which I premiered on Saturday night for an evening with my mate Dave and a couple of Steve’s best friends. Within an hour of putting it on, it was covered in red wine- knocked over by Steve’s friend directly into my lap. I was as good humoured as I could be, but declined a trip to a bar after dinner as I resembled an axe murdered.

Steve and I are heading off to Spain on Wednesday for 5 days….a dose of sunshine and hopefully some relaxation. This of course is pending the big sister not managing to get a flight out there- she was due on one last night, but pulled her unique trick of getting hammered after checking in and being refused to board. Lets hope she doesn’t decide to travel out there with us…please god no!

The F Factor

Today’s topic for discussion is that of ‘filth’. I know you’re probably thinking, oh god, Ali, please NO. Not more chuntering on about cleaning and Kim and Aggie and top tips for getting pesky ‘Masters of the Universe’ stickers off your cupboards which at one point belonged to your big brother.

This is filth of a very different nature. A much grittier version.

My very lovely housemates and I took to this discussion last night after it occurred to us that one key thing all men strive to discover when their mates have slept with someone is not, ‘do you like her’ or ‘are you going to see her again’ or even, ‘was it good’ but instead….‘how filthy was she?’

The high-brow ones amongst you won’t necessarily admit that this is the case, but let’s be honest, that’s what you want to know. Why? So you can gage just how jealous you ought to be about the night of passion your mate has had and exactly what you might be missing out on in your seemingly mundane sex life.

So this prompted Lindsey to ponder the question of whether she would be classed as ‘filthy’ and on a sliding filthometer, what one might have to do to be considered in this category (not that it’s a desirable category of course). We then pondered over whether a bloke might want his girlfriend to be filthy, or whether this might be only desirable on a short term basis, and become redundant when you want to start viewing the lady in your life as the potential mother of your children- then you don’t want her popping up in crotchless knickers brandishing a heinous sex toy.

So lets ‘get down’ to the nitty gritty. I want a man pole (hehe). What, men, might you class as behaviour of the ‘filth’ variety. Personally, I reassured Lindsey that all ‘filth’ is as a classification is simply a girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it, someone who isn’t demure and coy, someone who makes some noise, who’s happy to experiment, but who also knows when to say…’well now you’re just pushing your luck, put that Swede AWAY’

Something we all excel at in all areas of life.

Men? This posting needs some thought please. If we’re to provide a ‘scale’ we need some input.

Like I give a damn

A rarely acknowledged but absolute benefit of growing old is the ability to just not give a shit about what you look like….sometimes. Of course there are times when this theory doesn’t hold much sway such as during a chance meeting of your boyfriend’s ex, or when you know you’re going somewhere full of gorgeous, toned young 20 some-things or worse….both. Shudder.

Last night was one such occasion where I caught myself and my friends in true, ‘two fingers to the world mode’. The occasion was a sleepover at my friend Liz’s house. I walked bare feet with my trousers rolled up like a bad tourist from Skeggy from the tube as I had hot feet. I got some looks, there’s no denying it. I smiled back. Emma topped me by arriving in her pyjamas, freshly showered, soaking wet curls, makeup removed and basically ready for bed. At 7am.

We then proceeded to drive to the Thai restaurant to collect dinner where Emma marched in her PJ’s without so much as a backward glance and I inwardly chuckled at the site of her parading around in her bedclothes with no compunction. We then sat on the sofa, ate like gluttons, scoured facebook for funny pictures of old school friends. Made rude comments about said ex school mates and their sterile new builds in Reading with their generic tiles, cheap wooden flooring and MFI fitted kitchens and generally were horrible, wine quaffing, loud lairy girls. I love my bestest friends in the world. And I love getting older, and starting to not care- (although I will admit to the recent gym membership to battle the bulge- but only after I discovered I am in fact 10 stone- I would like to add that this is for ME and not for anyone else- kind of)

The weekend. A trip to see Dad in Huddersfield. 13 hours in total side by side in the hire car. A real chance to address the burning issues of our relationship, to get to trips with the inner workings of our minds, to tackle some sticking points to, well, to play 'Yellow Car Punch'.

When I'm stuck in a car, my brain becomes devoid of any real activity apart from inane thoughts about other drivers, and the occasional spurt of dodgy song lyrics. I'm not someone who likes to natter away in a car. I'm happy to sit and watch the world go by, peer into cars we overtake and make rude comments about the drivers and ponder over what car I'd like, if I could afford to buy one.

The only other integral part of a long journey is of course the great, 'Yellow car punch' game. For those who are unfamiliar, the basic concept is that each yellow car on the road equates to one punch. Whoever spots said yellow car first is allowed to administer a punch to the other person, as hard and wherever they fancy- thighs are the best (especially during a long journey).

This is a game my brother and I used to play in the 80's when yellow cars were quite fancy and so few and far between. Nowadays, there are millions of them.

The game always starts fairly. We're both short sighted so we peer onto the horizon to try and spot an impending 'yellow'. I have the upper hand as I'm not driving so can afford to be a little more vigilant. Unfortunately, as with most games, cheating can play a part and rear its ugly little head. This weekend, cheating came in the form of some tenuous 'calls'. During some road works, I received a knuckle bashing after a JCB was spotted sitting on the side of the road, this then descended into yellow road signs and the final straw, number plates. Even I couldn't keep up with the punching. The net result of this game is: DANGER. At one point I knew it was time to call it a day when Steve was swerving around the fast lane, doing 90, trying to land one on my arm with me screaming and laughing and trying to retaliate.

Being grown up is massively overrated.

Call me!

In life we’re rewarded for our loyalty. If it’s to our friends, we’re rewarded with love and support and fun. If it’s to a supermarket we’re rewarded with 10p off vouchers or ‘loyalty cards’ whereby we accumulate points which can be redeemed against ‘great stuff we really want’ (AKA- stuff the supermarkets have over-ordered and can’t get rid of). If we’re loyal to a particular service, such as a doctor or a hairdresser, we’re rewarded with a comforting sense of familiarity- ‘I trust this person because they know how difficult my hair can be’ (GP- it fell out when I was on antidepressants) or ‘I’ve been here since I was 10 and he knows my patient history inside out’ (hairdressers often get given the low down on all things unrelated to hair. Hi-lights take a LONG time).

This however was not the case with my mobile phone provider. Over the years I have been loyal and faithful to Vodafone. My first mobile phone was an Ericsson in 1998 and since then, every year I’ve had an upgrade, re-visited my tariffs and stuck by Vodafone’s side.

Recently however, I’ve sensed that perhaps I’m being strung along, like a desperate girlfriend whose man has started to stray. My bills have been on the up (my calculations are that over the years, I’ve earnt Vodafone around £11K) and my head has been turned by sparkly adverts from other providers promising the moon and the stars AND unlimited text messaging, all for less than half of what I’m paying now.

The icing on the cake is that my yearly upgrades have now been reduced to every 18 months, and my phone was close to knackers yard territory. Feeling unloved and taken for granted I wrote a rather emotional letter claiming that as a loyal customer I was disappointed I was being fleeced and would be taking my lovely business elsewhere. Stick that in your network.

A day later I was called by Ahmed of the client retention team. I was a little sulky and he soothed my moodiness with talk of sending me my PAC code and cancelling my contract straight away. He then gently enquired into my reasons for vodabandonment. Rather haughtily, I said that I didn’t feel very appreciated and was being taken for granted. Ahmed smoothed my ruffled feathers with talk of fancy upgrades, next day delivery, ‘top of the range’ Samsungs and various other perks. I weakened. I crumbled. I was actually grateful and excited at the prospect of nothing more than fair treatment. I now feel like someone who has taken back a cheating partner after being given a cheap bracelet from Elizabeth Duke. But for about a week, I have the best phone of all my friends and what’s more important?

A little bit of this and that...

It’s been a while since I’ve bored you all with details of the house in Primrose Hill (not quite, but it sounds lovely doesn’t it), ok ok, Chalk Farm/Belsize Park.

Our kindly landlord Marc has employed a decorator to paint the entire place in ‘magnolia’- not great, but a damn site better than dark blue gloss. Yes, you heard right. We also have our very own handy man who pops over and takes care of bits and pieces like, oh you know- the leaky roof and dodgy electrics and other minor things like putting a lock on the toilet door. Essential of course.

The net result of this doozering is that every time we step foot inside the house, something has changed. Last night, we were almost rapturous at the lovely new bright stairs and hallway and I can’t tell you how relieved we were to have a toilet door which didn’t jam shut every time you went to the loo. Simple pleasures. This means we’re getting ever closer to the point when we can invite friends over and proudly open the front door, rather than doing so with an apologetic mumble about ‘maintenance needing to be done’. The hi-lite last night, apart from Lindsey’s red thai curry, was me, Lindsey and a rather drunk Natalie doing some undercover dumping of a variety of unwanted bits in the neighbours skip….I think this is officially know as ‘fly tipping’ but hey, it was only a few small things and the tip was full up and ready for collection anyway. We tip toed out in a little line, giggling nervously and doing lots of ‘sshshhhh’ing and looking guilty as sin. Somehow me and Nat were the first back and Lindsey was faffing around with the TV stand and then did the best mum run I have ever seen. Lots of arm flapping, not much forward propulsion. We got away with it though, and the fact that every square inch of London is covered by CCTV- not an issue, we were dressed in dark colours. It was like an episode of Spooks.

So back to me and my hormones. I think the trauma of last week has made my skin regress by ten years and I am as spotty as a pubescent teenager. Combined with massive puffy bags from broken sleep (bloody sun coming up at 4am, I ask you!) things aren’t so rosy on the appearance front. I’ll take it on the chin though, and have quite literally, several times over. No news re: results of biopsies yet but the really exciting news is that as a gesture of love, Dave and Dan have offered to revamp my blog and make it a little cooler. So watch this space. (lead in times for Dave’s normal projects tend to be around the 6 month mark, so no breath holding please).

Ali in ER shocker.

Things have been a little slack around these parts, and I for one, am the first to admit it. Take it on the chin as it were, well, it's only me who's to blame. I do, however have a fairly good excuse which at least covers me for the weekend, if not a little longer.

What? My hospital drama! Which you all know about anyway as of course, I took the opportunity to over dramatise and milk it for all it was worth (not that I wasn't VERY close to death as I can assure you, I was- about 5 more minutes of not breathing I'd have been a gonner.

Anyway, so it goes a little something like this...(why do I now feel like singing Run DMC).

9.40am

Friday morning Steve and I head to the Sussex County in good spirits. I'm not really nervous and am feeling very together about the impending procedure.

9.50am

Am sitting with a doctor who is drawing little pictures of the procedure and talking about cancer and the number of people who would develop it if left untreated. 1 in 5 over 10 years apparently (with the 'mild' changes they think I have- so next to nothing. I start to feel a little bit anxious and my tummy starts jingling and dancing with butterflies.

10.00am.

Flat on my back, legs a kimbo in stirrups. This position is rarely so distressing (minus the stirrups of course) Steve is strongly advised to sit by my head. Apparently, it's prettier. I guess that's debatable.

10.05am

Steve gets the giggles at the close up on the TV screen. I ask the nurse to turn it off NOW. NO I don't want to see thanks very much.

10.10am.

Excruciating pain, mutters of 'hi-grade' and 'mosaic' and other words which make me realise that perhaps this is a little more serious than they had anticipated. But still not that bad. Start to feel seriously queasy, start to cry and start to squeeze Steve's hand hard and look at him with pathetic big tearful eyes. This isn't in the park and why had I not realised- I HAD been told afterall.

10.15am

End of treatment. Topped off nicely by me screaming in a warbling manner. Nurse tells me perhaps I ought to not consider having children as I'm clearly not cut out for all this. The pain is getting worse and it's all finished..

10.20

La la land. I am having a lovely dream about my friends, they are all out at a party and they are shouting me to come over and have a drink. All of a sudden I'm sucked back to reality where I'm hooked up to oxygen and my legs are in the air and a team of 5 Doctors are peering at me, asking questions like 'do you suffer from epilepsy?' 'have you ever had a fit before?' I had passed out...5 minutes.

Tearful and shaken I look at Steve who looks pretty much the same....tearful and shaken. I realise that I've created the biggest scene ever and am humiliated.

10.50

I am wheeled out through reception and many aghast faces see me looking green and horrendous and very shifty. Bet they are all REALLY looking forward to their appointments now. I pray my room was soundproofed. I am taken to the recovery room and given a lecture about how I hadn't mentally prepared and force fed ginger nuts (for a change) and sweet tea. Told I will need more treatment but because I'm a total nancy I'll be given general anaesthetic next time so as not to create such a fuss.

11.45

Allowed to leave and do so gingerly.

13.00

Arse hits sofa and doesn't leave until I go to work on Monday am...

So there we have it. High drama and proof that I'd never be cut out to be a doctor, or a surrogate mother, or a parent of any kind.