People and their pets

A scene from the animated version of 101 Dalmations which makes me laugh without fail is the one at the beginning where people are likened to their pet dogs. A fussy lady with pretentious hair struts by with an equally ludicrous poodle and an afgan hound strides past with a glamourous looking lady with long shaggy hair.

On a recent visit to see Anita's new horse Rudi, I couldn't help but be reminded of this scene and chuckle inwardly. Rudi is a rather lovely 12 year old horse, and to me he seemed slightly aloof, a little bit stand off-ish and to be honest, a little bit difficult. Anita told us he could be stubborn, didn't always behave in the way she wanted him to and at times could be a pain. At one point he dropped a half consumed pear he was quite clearly enjoying and it rolled under his next door neighbour Barney's nose who scoffed the lot, delighted with this stroke of luck. Rudi scuffed his front hoof like a raging bull looking at me indignantly trying to place blame. Less than a day later I changed some plans for dinner and Anita did the human version of hoof scuffing with me.

At one point on Sunday when she was moisturing his hoofs and lovingly rubbing suncream into his nose claiming it was prone to burning, I thought, this is one seriously high maintenance horse, and then closely afterwards.....how apt that it belongs to my friend Anita. To give Rudi his dues, he let me ride him, a total novice, and he was very calm and well behaved. Truth be told he was more interested in the picnic Dan was eating close by.

Anita isn't the only recent example of pet-a-like. Jonathan, who has been cat sitting his parents cat has been posting about how damned elusive the cat is. Funnily enough, I couldn't get hold of him for love nor money over the weekend, but maybe that's because he's busy being relationshippy. That's pretty tenuous to be fair.

So then, if my plan goes smoothly, Steve and I will, within a couple of years, have a gorgeous golden retriever puppy. Presumably this means I'll become a little bit dappier, have a tendancy to wet myself when I get excited, become a little bit more loyal and sleep and eat a whole lot more.....roll on pet time!

ps- Anita- if you read this, it takes one to know one (someone extremly high maintenance that is!)

Post op

Well, I guess the fact I'm typing this is proof that I'm ok, live and kicking and apart from being pretty sore and extremely pissed off I can't give my boyfriend the welcome home he deserves, I'm fine.

Here's what I learnt today:

1) The smell of burning flesh is the most disgusting, wretch inducing smell I've ever experienced. I'm not sure if the fact it was my own flesh made it even worse, or a little better. All I know is Steve's crunched up nose said it all.

2) All you need for a calm and drama free 'procedure' is for your Doctor to be kind, gentle and inject a little humour as well as a little local anaesthetic. My doctor told me that I was about to lose all my dignity (something I'm pretty natural at without being in hospital). He then unveiled my stirruped legs and promptly said, 'oh, haven't you got pretty pink nails' to which Steve replied that I'd done them especially. I hadn't. Honestly.

3) Be prepared! It's a bloody good motto, so next time you see a do-gooder scout or cub give them a high five. If you know to expect a burning sensation, a large cold speculum, or a painful needle then you don't feel half as violated when it happens. Doesn't stop it hurting though.

4) Don't be startled when someone sticks a large patch on your arm, you ask what it's for and you get told it's to earth you so you don't get electrocuted. Just feel pleased that someone has thought of this on your behalf.

5) Take someone with a strong stomach who loves you unconditionally. This way no matter what happens they won't really bat an eye lid. This time I was a 'brave soldier' which made me feel proud and 12 years old all at the same time. As a result I also got lovely perfume, some hot pink Havianas and some uber cool boardies for my next diving trip.....knarly dude!

And finally,

6) Be thankful for all the people you love who took the time to send you texts and give you hugs and say all the right things, even if when you tell them it went fine they reply with:

'Damn. I was hoping for a bit more drama'.

Pre op.

Okay, so we all know (because I've been so bloody self indulgent about it) that I'm going into hospital this morning for my operation. I say operation, when minor procedure might be more apt, but it sounds far too American for my liking. So operation it is.

Think drama, think men in masks rushing around shouting 'clear', think techy looking machines making ominous bleeps and whirring noises. And then forget all that, because the only think you really need to know about my operation when it comes to quite how degrading it is, is.....stirrups.
Men will be picturing a porn film with some kind of riding theme set in a hospital together with tightly fitting jodpers and black boots and nurses with pert breasts, tight dresses and sparkly white teeth.

Girls will be shaking their heads in recognition of the humilation and vulnerability that goes hand in hand with this monstrous creation which much surely have been devised by some sadistic man by the name of Clause Von Torturestein.

In essence this really isn't a very pleasant experience. Of course us women know our damage limitation off by heart so to avoid making a bad situation really bloody awful, we wear a dress or skirt (which- for the boys- means you can at least cover your cellulite and stretch marks whilst your lady garden is on display and on a wide screen TV close up to boot). Marvellous.

So onto how I'm feeling about this morning. The only way I can describe it is that I feel as nervous as I did the morning I sat my maths GCSE. My hands are shaking, my heart is beating so fast it feels like it might dislodge and pop out of my mouth and I can't type for toffee, or spell (but you knew that anyway). So all in the all, the mental preparation for calm and measured reasoning in order to banish anxiety.....no hope.

Liklihood of massive drama queen attack- 'fair to good' (who am I trying to kid, if I were racing in a the grand national I'd be odds on favourite), so best make that 'certain to absolutely inevitable'.

The good thing is that Steve has landed and is on a train on his way to face up to his boyfriendly duties, the bad thing is that I'm so nervous I'm not going to be able to show him how pleased I am to see him without the use of tears.

I know it'll be fine. A million people face much worse things all the time. The thing is, when it's you facing something, no matter how small, and no matter how often you put it into perspective, it's still yours to face.

God I wish I had a stunt body double.

Monster munch

Yesterday I let my inner green eyed monster out for a damn good walk around the office. In fact he helped himself to some toast, tea and played on the Wii.

This all took place during a stilted 10 minute conversation with my half cut boyfriend who let it slip that he’d spent the evening with a female friend. One who I don’t know very well (with the one thing I do know being that she has an almighty soft spot for him).

Whilst my monster cavorted around, I sat with an almighty sulk on feeling very hard done by. Why wasn’t I the one having fun with Steve and then, he came out with this cracker (which has once again had me convinced that men and women are simply not compatible).

Not being a thicky, Steve put two and two together and realised my sulk was because of this girl. He then proceeded to offer to put her on the phone so I could have a little chat with her to put my mind at ease. Yes, he really did ask me that. I scoffed and said I hardly thought that would help matters, promptly hung up and stewed whilst my monster jumped around doing cartwheels and refusing to go away.

Now, the logic from his end was, I presume, something along the lines of:

‘if I let Ali talk to Kat she’ll be able to reassure her and make her realise that there’s nothing to be worried about’.

What Kat would be thinking would be this:

‘I’ll speak to this silly, insecure girl in an entirely condescending manner then I’ll say something pitying to Steve about how on earth he puts up with her and I’ll come out smelling of roses having the upper hand’.

Unsurprisingly this stewing lead to lots of silly emailing to my girlfriends who fuelled my monster until Sam came along and wrung its neck by telling me to stop being so damn silly and start realising that I’m very lucky to have someone who always bends over backwards for me, and generally to shut up and give him a break.

Fair enough.

God I hate being in the wrong. Think that’s the last I’ll see of the monster for a while though, especially with angry Sam around to keep me in check.

Australia.....get back in line with the right time.

Having a long distance relationship is something I would ever knowingly enter into. Having a man who flits around the world on business, into time zones which are hardly conducive to any kind of communication (least of all clear, supportive and positive) is therefore a little testing for my patience.

Here’s the thing with Australia- it’s far too clever for it’s own good being (rather selfishly in my opinion) a whole day ahead of us. ‘Look at me with my fabulous beaches, coral reefs and thousands of miles of burnt middle bits containing nothing but nasty creepy crawlies- aren’t I clever, I’m a while day ahead of you and there’s nothing you can do about it’.

This means my communication with Steve has consisted of a jilted, awkward conversation with me at my desk around 2-3pm, and Steve hammered after a night on the tiles. Or, alternatively, a conversation at around midnight when he’s sleepy, grumpy and just woken up and I’m sleepy, grumpy, probably half cut and about to hit the sack.

It makes me think maybe it’s just better if we don’t attempt to communicate at all whilst he’s away, which would be a great idea if I didn’t miss him quite so much. Then maybe I thought texts only, but they are so immeasurably hopeless at actually saying anything. I’m getting a little bit fed up with the whole thing truth be told.

So there I was feeling really sorry for myself about my 2 weeks without my man, and I saw in my facebook feed that Laura had dedicated a love song about ‘dying to be near someone’ to her boyfriend Sam, who’s away for 6-8 months, maybe longer. And I know she’s gritting her teeth and getting on with things as best as she can.

I had a little tear in my eye when I realised that lots of people aren’t as lucky as I normally am and are forced to spend time without their loved ones. And they deal with it in a much more grown up and dignified way than I’ve managed for the last 6 days. I’m not sure if this is testament to the amount I love Steve, or how generally shit I am at being on my own.

To all those long distance relationships out there that have stood the test of time....fair play. I’m too much of an instant gratification girl.

Camping!

Oh god, I’ve just read my entry from Friday and it was incredibly morbid. So sorry to anyone else who I reduced to tears or prompted a mild depression to begin just before the weekend. How incredibly selfish of me.

So after offloading all my morose thoughts, I set off to Whitstable with my oldest friends in the world for a spot of camping. I had of course packed totally inappropriate things and I was told during the weekend that any heels were not allowed and that hair removal of any shape or form was banned.

We arrived in Whitstable and set up our camp, which I assumed would consist of two tents, but no. My super friend Emma has done us proud with a massive wind break for privacy, a table and four chairs, a stove, saucepans, frying pans, condiments, bottle opener, can opener, washing up liquid, bowl, basically all the stuff your mum and dad would have thought about and you would take for granted.

During Friday night I took the up the challenging position of ‘the cold moaner of the group’, and ended up looking like Mrs Miggins with a pashmina wrapped around my head, nose and mouth and a towel draped over my knees. Emma took pity and offered to make me a cup of tea, “Earl Grey, or PG tips’ -something I never expected to hear during camping. And then ‘milk chocolate digestives?’ Now we’re talking!

Saturday bought with it some slightly decent weather and Emma suggested we all go crab fishing. After buying some £1 fishing lines, we sat with our ‘crab bucket’ at the end of a tiny promontory (a word I thought Emma had made up, but it seems not) and lowered down our stinky fishy bait. Thinking we were in for the long haul we got comfy and started nattering. Within seconds I could feel a little crabby tug on my line and whipped it up only to find 3 crabs doing battle for the mouldy fish. Into the bucket they went, after lots of screaming and me having to manhandle the crabs much to the girls’ disgust. In the space of ten minutes, we’d caught about 15 crabs and had to empty our bucket and let them free. To be honest, rather than encouraging our fishing we were all slightly disappointed at just how easy it had been.
Saturday night we continued the fishery theme and threw ourselves into the local spirit getting stuck into the local fruits de la mer. Delicious rock oysters with lemon, chilli and a little tabasco, local lobster, cockles, sardines, moules and cod. Between us we devoured a couple of hundred quid’s worth of the stuff and it was awesome. Oysters in particular. One chew and down the hatch.

One minor hissy fit due to the rain, one downpour as we were taking the camp down yesterday morning and one minor incident of comedy road rage on the return journey. Apart from that a lovely, laughy weekend. Just what I needed. Now I just want my boyfriend home- Laura, I salute you my angel. You’re so much braver than me.

Taking a LEEP of faith

Things have been a little slack around these parts of late, but maybe it’s just the case that I’ve been saving all my energy for my best ever yet blog posting (and of course waiting for the grand unveiling of my sparkly new design).

I guess I’ll have to let you be the judge of that.

So then, quick re-cap. Steve flies to Australia for just over 2 weeks this afternoon. Last night I headed over to his for a fancy night out at our favourite restaurant, Chez Bruce, but the day’s events had taken their toll.

Yesterday morning I was busily typing away at my desk when my mobile phone started singing to me. It was not, for a change, one of the many repeated mistake calls from Dan, but an intriguing ‘unknown’ number. A posh voice asked me to confirm my name and then he introduced himself as my consultant, Dr Disney (this name has not been changed for comedic effect, it really is his name). We spoke about my results and he told me that he wanted me to come in for some treatment and that this treatment would be LEEP- currently the most common for cervical changes of the sort I have, CIN 3, or cervical cancer stage 0 if you will (so barely even begun).

LEEP involves passing an electrically charged loop over the lesion and effectively cutting it clean from inside you. It takes place under a local anaesthetic. This piece of skin is then used diagnostically to check to see if the cells have got any worse or whether they are happy they got all the nastiness. LEEP is 85-90% effective and can be repeated once if it’s not. After that you’ll be pretty much void of any cervix, so if you fell pregnant you’d need to have a C section. And if that doesn’t work then its hysterectomy time, partial or total, depending on your situation. But on the bright side, that’s a 90% chance I’m going to be absolutely fine.

Being Ali and being hyper neurotic, I of course had to research every dubious and ill-formed article and US chatroom and I sat and read whilst my heart sank and I felt gradually more nauseous. Talk of miscarriages, infertility, horror stories about the agony of the treatment etc etc. At this point I started to think that perhaps I ought to have insisted on having a general anaesthetic.

I left work feeling wobbly and probably even a little bit wibbly and headed to Steve’s pondering on my way whether this treatment would provoke a similar response as the last, i.e fainting and seizure. I literally turned the corner of the street saw out of the corner of my eye a red flash and realised that there was a girl lying on the floor, frothing at the mouth and have an epileptic seizure. Irony of ironies. If there is a god, I don’t know if this was a warning, or a ‘stop being so f*king self indulgent you pathetic cow!’.

Being first at the scene I went into my now fairly finely honed ER routine (don’t want to make myself sound like a freak but this is the 3rd time this year I’ve been the first at the scene of an accident and had to call 999, I swear they are a friends and family number). I phoned the ambulance, I checked her pulse, I held her head as still as I could but didn’t restrict her fitting, I checked her heart beat and I did other very important things like stroking her hair and her hands softly in case somehow she could feel reassured by my presence. I knew from the research that I had done after my recent fit that people aren’t at risk from tongue swallowing, so I didn’t force her into the recovery position. I even checked her wallet for her name and kept saying her name over and over, ‘Philippa’ ‘Philippa’ as she lapsed in and out of consciousness, glassy eyed and fixed pupils.

Ambulance arrived in no more than 5 minutes time, by which point Philippa had quite a little crowd and had come too enough to tell me she suffered from epilepsy and had frequent seizures. In a verging no out of body experience, I told the ambulance driver, ‘This is Philippa, she suffers from epilepsy. She has had a seizure lasting 2-3 minutes with full body shaking and foaming at the mouth. She had fixed unresponsive pupils for at least 2 minutes after the seizure ended’. It was at that point I realised that I watch far too much bad hospital drama.

I saw her into the ambulance, wished her luck and went on my way, feeling more than slightly freaked out.

3 hours at home, pondering over the day and waiting for Steve to get back from work so we could go out for dinner. Waiting, waiting, worrying, pacing, waiting. Worrying, waiting. Steve gets home and I’ve managed to work myself up into such a pickle that he gives me a big hug and tells me everything will be fine and I can feel myself go all stiff inside. I’m angry, but I’m not sure why. I suppose I’m angry that this is all still dragging on and I can’t see an end in sight. I’m angry that he’s leaving for Australia tomorrow and I’m going to be left pondering this horrible treatment on my own. I’m angry that our lovely evening has been spoilt because I’m feeling too upset and wobbly to enjoy a fancy dinner, and I’m refusing point blank to just say those simple words. I’m terrified.

After several attempts at cuddles, reassuring words and eye contact Steve picks up the phone, calls the restaurant and cancels the booking whilst squeezing my hand firmly. My resolve crumbles and I start to have a damn good cry and it all floods out. I feel like if someone put a little camera inside me what they would see if something black, rotten and mouldy and worst of all, dead. I am scared that if things don’t go to plan, we might never get to have children together. I ask him how he’d feel if I couldn’t have his children. He tells me that we’d just get lots of dogs instead and I cry harder. He tells me I’m being silly (of course!) and not to assume the worst. This treatment will work and in 6 months I’ll be fine. I fall asleep in a snotty mess and when I wake up, Steve’s just coming home from Tescos with a big bunch of lovely flowers and all the ingredients for spaghetti bolognaise. He pours me a glass of white wine, gets me one of his cosy hoodies and sits me down whilst he cooks, yawning quietly all the while.

We eat and sit in silence and then we hold hands tightly.

And all the fanciest things in the world could never match the calm feeling I get sitting with my Steve in quiet contemplation.

It’ll be ok.

Ohhhh, look at my fancy new get-up!

Ohhh, look at my sparkly new home- cast your eyes to the fabulous wallpaper with dogs and aeroplanes, and shoes and handbags and lipstick. And look above this to see the lovely skylines of Brighton and London and the fancy new logo.

I have the gorgeous Mr Dave Miller to thank for this, (and the lovely Dan Corns for letting the cat out of the bag and resulting in me periodically pestering Dave for the past 2 months during his busiest time at work ever- his infrequently updated blog can testify to this). Dave, I can’t thank you enough, I love it and it’s renewed my lust for blogging. What have you done?

I have very little to say today which is mostly down to my addled brain as a result of a stupidly heavy weekend…serves me right. To give you an idea- I scored 100% on the first half of the wine tasting- the whites. I then scored 0% on the second half of the evening (the reds), I was then sick. About twenty times. Result!!!

Planet of the 'japes

Tonight’s visit to the amusingly named ‘Planet of the Grapes’ promises to be an evening of fun, frivolity and much quaffing of wine (although I’ll be spitting the red I imagine). It’s a novel idea for a 30th birthday party event and one which I suspect will raise the bar from the usual gratuitous drinking to an evening where we might actually learn something.

The only downside I can see so far is that the evening ends in a wine tasting competition with the boys versus the girls. This means I am going to have the spend the best part of 3 hours with girls who are not technically ‘my’ friends….they are, but they are more Steve’s friends.

Also it has to be said that they are prone to temper tantrums, bickering and more than the occasional bout of bitchiness whereas I pride my girlfriends on being down to earth, grounded, stoical and not in the least bit ‘silly’. Birds of a feather an’ all.

Wine tasting fast approaching I turned my thoughts to the only other time in my life where I spent my evenings slurping wine from unmarked carafes in an attempt to label the contents 100% accurately. University.

Yes, mine was one of the only courses in the Country to include a ‘Gastronomy’ module. This meant dining on fine cheeses, and having an extensive course on New World wines from none other than The Brown Brothers.

The finale of this module was the blind tasting session, where we had to identify 10 different white wines by region, age, grape, price and probably lots more. My team did remarkably well, passed and were awarded with a lovely gold edged certificate which I keep in my ‘National Records of Achievement’ folder (the only place where something utterly pointless might live comfortably). After being awarded the certificate and being more than just a little squiffy I decided it would be a good idea to half inch some booze to take back to my housemates who were rather stupidly studying things like English, Music and History….no booze there!

I made a quick exit with what turned out to be a vintage bottle of port shoved up my top and then promptly took a tumble down the hill, smashing the bottle as I fell, and ending up looking, and stinking like a two-bit alcy.

I’m hoping to not make the same mistake again, but you never know.

Dad on the town.

When your (recently separated from your mum) dad tells you he misses intimacy with females of his age it’s time to do something drastic.

Run under a bus, vomit into the nearest bin, take a shower and scrub yourself with bleach or….grow up and face some hard facts.

Last night, in a fairly rare exchange of telephone communication I have to admit that it took a lot of guts for my dad to tell me that he’s considering getting back ‘in the game’, and he’d like to have a relationship with another woman.

Wooah there, I thought selfishly whilst I tentatively bandied the idea that maybe, just maybe it was a little bit too soon?

“Not really” dad told me bluntly. “It has been a fair while since me and Lynn exchanged anything more than an affectionate cuddle.”

Now I’m not a selfish person, and given the circumstances surrounding my parent’s separation (i.e the fact that it was driven entirely by my mum) I think my dad is well within his rights to find himself a lovely new lady friend to spend time with. I guess the burning issue here is, when is the ‘right’ time. For dad it’s now, and in many respects that should be the end of it.

I can’t help feeling for my mum though. In many ways I still believe that her decisions to force her husband away have been driven to an extent by mental illness. I can’t help thinking that when the time comes for Dad to find a lady at the local bridge club it’s going to hit mum like a steamroller in the stomach and she’s going to realise that the man she was married to for 37 years is beyond her reach. I hope this doesn’t happen of course, but I can’t help feeling like it’s one of those things you can never prepare yourself for.

We’ve all had it, a boyfriend who you were totally over who you suddenly discover through a friend has got married, or engaged, or worse, he’s got a younger or prettier girlfriend than you. You try and pretend you don’t care. Really hard as all of a sudden something which at times, you might have quite fancied having back is gone forever. Gulp.

One of my friends has recently broken up with a girlfriend of 34 only to bag a 22 year old blonde, giggly, hair flicking girlfriend. I just know if she knew she’d be sick as a dog.

Why is it that we always want what we can’t have? The eternal question.

Abacus

In life, things with a bad reputation are sometimes alluring. That bloke who you know is going to give you the run around and do the dirty on you, that slightly slutty looking girl who you just know forgot to put her knickers on, that piece of oozy brie creeping gradually off the plate after dinner when you’re already horribly full and…Abacus.

Never has somewhere so eternally and steadfastly awful been quite so appealing.

I’m not sure if it’s the seedy dingyness of the dance floor, the sickly sweet cocktails, the many eager investment bankers standing in small groups playing it cool when they might as well lay their cards on the table and let their tongues hang out at the procession of scantily clad, early twenty something’s strutting past like they were debuting the Parisian catwalks.

I guess it’s something of a spectator sport, and one where you know you’re always going to come out feeling so much better about yourself.

Last night I was in the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen waiting to see Zoot Woman and two men, clearly lost, wearing double breasted suits and shiny Jeffrey Wests came sauntering over to me at the bar. The uglier one asked me if I knew where Abacus was. I replied (far too quickly) ‘Cornhill, exit 5 or 7, Bank tube’ and then felt very embarrassed and slightly violated by this exposure. They looked at one another and asked if it was the kind of place they might like, and I said ‘Yes, very much so, it’s full of suits and totty and investment bankers’ to which they glanced smugly at each other and the less ugly one said ‘well, being investment bankers we’d fit right it’. And then it hit me, this is why I love going there…all the clichés and ‘labels’ are so 100% accurate all of the time.

The last time I went I was unfortunate enough to be chatted up by some dreadfully dull posh man who worked for an American tobacco company. He soon realised that I was far from the usual girl he might chat to in this venue. I think it was when I scoffed at a couple of his lines which insinuated how very well off he was, and then he said something about a hele-pad I laughed out loud. Enough is enough!

Tonight we’ll be gathering plenty of funny stories and shocking encounters…I for one, can’t wait.

Learning to be helpless

Learned helplessness is something which I’ve always been very scathing about. Most frequently, this is terminology I associate with over pampered men, who don’t need to learn anything domestic so lose the ability to do so. It’s hardly something I’d associate with myself. And then, maybe…lets investigate.

Last night I decided it was high time I flexed my muscles and proved my (limited) prowess in the kitchen. I chose a dish, I invited some special friends and I cooked. It was easy peesy (that’s what I’m supposed to say) and yet it wasn’t at all. I missed out on half the exciting gossip and important topics as I couldn’t ear wig over that peskily noisy frying mince. I peered around the wall at any mention of key phrases (involving the use of the word ‘knob’) like some kind of kitchen based meer cat. When we’d eaten starters I had to jump up and wash up cutlery, after dinner I had to collect the plates. There were no waiters, there was no hired help. Just me. Quite frankly by the end of the evening (well 9pm) I was so knackered I could happily have fallen asleep on the sofa. The point? In just 2 short months, my housemate and general godsend has whipped up so many dinners with such ease and grace from meagre looking ingredients (abit like the A team) that I’ve forgotten that cooking and entertaining is actually hard work. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazingly rewarding when the people you love eat your food and don’t gag, but it’s Effort with a capital E. I have learned helplessness of the kitchen. I am redundant.

It struck me whilst pondering my rapid descent into needy individual, that this is not the first time this has happened. When I lived in Compton Avenue I avoided it as I was probably the most bossy and headstrong, but placed in a situation where I’m out-organised, out-bossed and generally out classed, I’m meeker than a fecking dormouse. During my 5 year relationship with the lovely Andy, I had a proper case of ‘little miss dependant’ to the point whereby when we broke up, I had no idea how to pay a credit card bill- yes, MY credit card bill. I also had no idea of my outgoings, of the cost of anything (and still don’t know the cost of anything foody to this day). Thank god Andy was a nice caring guy who just wanted to look after me and not an evil confidence trickster or I’d have been nailed, hard, to the wall.

I’ve decided it’s not an admirable personality trait. Just because someone can look after you with ease it doesn’t mean you should let them. Care taking (not the janitorial kind) should be split, and in every friendship there should be evidence of giving and taking….you shouldn’t be able to exist without each other, but not for negative reasons, for positive ones.

The long and the short of it is, I’m prepared to do battle against learned helplessness, but might just allow it to develop a little in the kitchen whilst Natalie’s around.