So who would yours be?

As a kid I was pretty uncool. Now I might be looked at as a little individual at that age, a little bit alternative and very studious, but then I was the geek in the glasses. Nose buried in a book, I could pretty much tell you anything about the Little Women or characters from To Kill a Mockingbird at a very young age, and my Grandfather used to make me learn poems by heart. To this day I can still recite a weird little poem about a bird that lays its eggs in a paper bag to keep the rain out. Its my party trick . And I was opinionated. I still am, in fact.

So when I think about the person from history that I would go back and be, there is no question.

Ann Boleyn (bear with me on this one).

Ann Boleyn was a bad ass.

Sure, she eventually got her head cut off for alleged incest and adultery that it is now refuted that she was innocent of, but she is documented to have been a clever and quick witted girl, remarkable and with a vast political acumen for her age and sex given the time.

She watched the court before her and saw her sister become the mistress of the King, producing a child sworn as illegitimate, and when the King cast his eye on her, she saw her  chance to do things a little differently, and have a massive influence of the running of the country. So she let him woo her, but vowed that she would be his partner only in the bedroom once she was the rightful Queen of England.

Clever girl.

Henry the Eighth then invented divorce, divorced his Queen and married her, and she spent her three years on the throne having a massive influence over relations between Tudor England and the rest of Europe, smoothing over relationships that Henry had destroyed and setting the president for the way the country was, and still is, governed.

Her reputation for being quick witted and ‘with forward manners’ was fine as the mistress to the King, but as Queen was frowned upon. So she wasn’t meek and mild, and stood up for what she believed in, and that’s why I love her. She didn’t care that she didn’t live in a time where she was expected to accept the will of the men around her, but strove to protect her ladies in waiting and improve conditions for all those in her staff. Quite frankly, if she was born another 500 years later she would be heralded as unique and ahead of her time, and she was. Just a bit far ahead.

Ann Boleyn was beheaded at the Tower of London in May 1536 at just thirty years old, but what a life she led.

So, I would be the second Queen of Henry VIII. But the Jonathan Rhys Meyer version, just so we are clear.

My little sister sent me an email this morning, linking out to this article about a little girl who had written the best running away note. Her message simply read “I imagine you wrote something similar” In case you can’t read it, it says:

“I am runing away becas you think I farted when I dident. PS You are Mean.”

Without checking with my mother I can’t be sure that I did, but it’s more than likely. I was the precocious little child who wrote letters to anyone and everyone, including leaving a note to Mary the Toothfairy under my pillow. and writing to ERNIE the Premium Bonds machine to demand why I hadn’t won anything on my investments (It was later explained that ‘Granddad’s friend ERNIE wasn’t a real person, when I accosted one of granddad’s actual friends and asked why I had received no money).

The one running away incident I remember was when I was about six. I can’t remember why I ran away, but assume it was something to do with my sister being allowed to do something at an age that I wasnt allowed) and I packed a bag with a few essentials, like biscuits, and informed my mother that I was off to find a new family. She told me to go ahead, so I did.

I made it to the top of the road, in floods of tears, as my father turned the car in on his way home from work. He wound down the window. told me to get in, and took me home. Years later I found out that my Mum had followed me in her dressing gown up the road, seen my Dad and hot footed it home, ready to remark that I hadn’t been gone long when Dad brought me back into the house and stuck me in the bath.

Did you or your kids ever run away?

thats normal. She has a groom!

Bubbly brides is one thing and I can handle some excited squealing and planning of wedding  days, after all, raucous hen dos are fun and it’s an excuse to go shopping and buy something fancy, not to mention toasting the happy couple with copious amounts of champagne and dancing the night away to cheesy eighties tunes which I do all the time makes a change.

What concerns me however is the emerging trend of BWG’s. Boooo… I hear some of you hiss. Not me, I didn’t have a bloody clue what this meant, so had to research it. Apparently it means ‘Bride Without Groom’ and is an exploding new phenomenon of women who have planned their whole weddings, regardless of whether they have a boyfriend, or perhaps, and in my opinion, slightly more scarily, if they have one but they are not engaged… yet (OR NEVER IF YOU CARRY ON LIKE THAT!!).

We all know I love a good lever arch file and anything involving a post it is like heaven to me, but the idea of having a hidden box file marked “important papers” which is actually stuffed full of venues and seating plans makes me feel a bit nervous. I would constantly be living on the edge (i need to actually start living on the edge) in fear that it would get found and I would get dumped for being such a closet nutter.

Being a little girl who dresses up as a princess and plays at her wedding day is one thing, but I actually have no recollection of doing this. I used to dress up in my tutu and pretend I was dancing the Royal Ballet, and the only boy I ever considered as a worthy life partner was a boy called Matthew who was the only boy in our ballet troupe. I think he was only considered as he wore a leotard and liked to pirouette too. But being a grown ass woman who has reserved her dress in the wedding store, identified the shape and colour of her bridesmaids dresses by putting together some clever equation cross referencing the size and shape of her friends against their skin tone and hair colour, and been and sampled wedding cake, is something that I find alarming, and quite frankly, ridiculous.

So I Googled it. Obviously. The standard responses came up ‘bride and groom’, ‘bridal services’ but no ‘bride without groom’. I was hoping to find some fantastic scientific research on this as a syndrome and be able to explain it away in a bid to gain some sanity for the female population. Instead I found this ..

I read through the story incredulously, thinking that some of the engaged girls I know ould be amazed at her levels of organisation. Until I got to the part where she had told her friends, and they were standing there in the shot with their bridesmaids dresses.

WHAT?!

I have an awesome group of friends. For example, if I announced that I was off to audition for the X Factor they would be encouraging about my outfit, say how nice my hair looked and as I headed for the door they would yell “DON’T TAKE ANOTHER STEP! YOU CAN’T SING YOU MORON!!” and that’s what friends are for. Because I sound like a cat being skinned, and the world should not be allowed to witness that.

So if I was to announce that I have reserved my wedding dress, chosen the bridesmaids dresses and nailed the food, I’m pretty sure that my nearest and dearest friends would give me a verbal smack down, put a bag over my head and lock me in the wardrobe until I came to my senses. Not pose holding the dresses I had picked out for them, looking pleased at the results. I’m not sure what planet these people are on, but it’s definitely not my one.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to book my wedding venue watch the TV.

Do you know anyone who has done this? Do you think it’s as crazy as I do?

Come awwwwwn, who wouldn’t want a Charm City Cakes birthday cake? Although my Mum makes them just as well.

But in the true spirit of celebrating being alive another year, and it all being about me, I thought I would pull together a birthday wish list, with plenty of time for you to all chip and see if we can start crossing some of the items off…. Deathly silence? OK, no worries then.

Its kinda a money can’t buy list anyway….

With evolution at the advanced stage that it is, the lack of hair over our entire bodies (in some of our cases) and the developed brain, I don’t understand why from March to October, my feet take moire work that octuplets on Red Bull. Forget using the pumice stone, my feet are as hard as the pumice stone, and have to be moisturised with industrial elephant skin moisturiser to ensure that I don’t rip my sheets when I slide in of a night, such is their cheese grater-esque presence. So I wish for dainty little baby feet that although soft and smooth, don’t get sores or blisters from heels or new shoes, don’t ache, and don’t swell like a pregnant lady on an aeroplane.

To have a small win on the lottery so I could pay off my debt, but Jules some champers, Sam a shed load of tequila and take a wee jaunt to California would be grand. I mean, who needs enough money to but an elephant and ride it to work anyway?

Don’t all you gym bunnies clamour at once, I don’t care what you say. The gym appeals to me about as much as licking a sumo’s armpit, and as my friends and family know, I can think of the most far fetched reasons to not attend any sort of exercise class. But yes, I know, its good for you. So if it could be as fun as eating ice cream and feel as strenuous as sleeping, I promise I would embrace it wholeheartedly.

Whether it’s the last day of your holiday or the time spent having a Harry Potter marathon, sometimes you look at the people around you and just wish you could stop the sands and just wait there, however briefly. So I think that you should be able to get a virtual hourglass every now and then, and just suspend it so the sand can’t move. You know what I mean.

Maybe a serious one, but if they can put a man on the moon surely they can find a cure for diabetes? I would just like my pancreas to produce its fancy fluid so that I can eat a chocolate orange and not feel like ive been hit by a bus for 24 hours. Please thankyou.

What would be your far fetched birthday wish?

There is nothing more awkward than misunderstanding a situation and having to deal with the fall out afterwards, when your brain doesn’t catch up with the moment until you are well and truly knee-deep in misunderstandings. It often happens around the microwave at work during the busy lunch period (“Are you feeling OK? You sound sick.” “Are you saying I look rough? My boyfriend dumped me” Oooooooouuuch.) or when making polite conversation on a conference call while waiting for all attendees to dial in, but the most awkward one is when you accidentally overhear people talking really loudly and can’t help but laugh at their conversation. It happens a lot on public transport when you either overhear a really inappropriate chat or someone misunderstands the conversation you are having. I can assure you, this happens to me, Awkward Annie, at all times.

On Saturday I went for a lonesome jolly around London (one of my favourite pastimes) and hopped on the bus as my little legs were weary, to take me home. I sat behind two twenty something boys who were whinging about their girlfriends and the lack of fun in their lives. My ears pricked up. I’m nosy, and was hoping to uncover some sort of weird fetish that would provide me with a story for my friends at a later date. None of that, but it didn’t take a psychologist to work out what the problem with this guy and his girlfriend was.

“I just don’t get it. She literally doesn’t want any physical contact with me anymore. We’ve only been together three years!” Poor him, I thought, that doesn’t sound nice.

“Ah mate” his friend replied “Does that mean you haven’t had sex since dinosaur roamed the earth?” Good line..

“Nah not really. She doesn’t like the fact I play Xbox in bed, and also she thinks it’s bad that I thought the clitoris was a Greek God till about two years ago”.

I snorted. I couldn’t help it, my iPhone battery had died (again) and I had nothing else to do but listen in! They turned around and scowled at me like I had mugged their grannies, and then I made it worse. Of course I did. “Sorry, but it WAS funny”. I know, I’m going to hell without a get out of jail free card, but if you are sensitive about this kind of chat then please, for the love of Christ, don’t talk about it on a busy bus.

And then, this morning, when getting the Tube into work, he and I were laughing at the fact he never gets angry over anything, except the amount of people in the tube station. I get annoyed at a lot, but funnily enough the amount of people at the Tube isn’t something that bothers me. The way i see it is everyone needs to get to work one way or another, and sometimes you get a bonus cuddle with a hottie if the tube is full. Or a tramp, which in all honesty, is the more likely one to happen to me.

Image sourced from hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com – check Allie out, she’s hilarious!!

So I was laughing at the rage of the happy kid and how he turns from this smily character in pretty much the image order above, and said, not in a loud voice; “Try not to assault anyone on the platform today, Hulk. It’s not the done thing.” I didn’t realise however that a woman was actively listening to our conversation, and as he got off the tube at his stop she visibly shrunk against the side of the train to let him pass, like the rage was catching and she had a low immune system. She then proceeded to try to catch my eye for the rest of the journey, and scowl when she did, and I swear she stuck her foot out when I got up to get off the tube. To give this some background, he isn’t exactly rocking the Rocky look, smiles at everyone and when we were out one Friday night, after walking past a homeless girl, he doubled back and gave her a tenner because it was cold.

You know what though? Life would be far less amusing and easy to get through without an awkward situation or two.

Have you ever overheard something really funny when you probably shouldn’t have been listening?

** I would never actually say this. This was another overheard bus conversation, but this time, amongst teenagers, a breed I don’t understand and a language I am not fluent in.

At work, we have a carefully selected music system, where we all submit an eight-hour playlist, and these playlists are rotated so that there is harmony on the songs that are played and the regularity in which we hear them. You would think that given this system, there would be relative calm and a happy work environment, but there is not. I’m not sure what possesses some people to select songs that feature on their playlist, but I can assure you this; they never admit to it. I personally love a good selection of Wham!, but I wouldn’t actually go as far as to opt for it as part of my eight hours, for fear of becoming a social pariah in the office. It was bad enough when the Beach Boys came on and when the moaning started I stood up and hotly claimed ownership, arguing that I defied anyone to not feel happy when the Beach Boys were playing. They couldn’t. Win.

So far we have had all sorts. The office is a melting pot of ages, sexes and upbringings, so there is of course a wide variety of songs, from The Eagles to Daft Punk, Rihanna to Bob Marley. What you can guarantee, and is as certain as death is to life, that at least once a week we will get Imogen Heap, and also a song that sounds like a smurf has been carefully fed into the paper shredder, with someone drilling behind it.

And the lyrics! Some rap songs, for example, make it really hard for me to understand what the hell is going on, and the motivation for this particular lyrical avenue. It’s almost like the dictionary had a lobotomy, and I just know Bob Marley is turning in his grave, alarmed at the amount of overshare that we get as an insight into these people’s lives.

Historically, rap (I use this in the loosest terms so I don’t get abuse) hasn’t had much to look up to. Lets take the unique Vanilla Ice

“cooking MC’s like a pound of bacon / Take heed cos I’m a lyrical poet (that’s opinion) / if there was a problem, yo ill solve it / check out the hook while my DJ revolves it”

And then, years later, graduates from the Vanilla Ice school of lyric writing, LFO:

New kids on the block had a bunch of hits / Chinese food makes me sick… when you take a sip you buzz like a hornet / Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets

Apparently, if it rhymes, you’re good to go. I hear these boys also wear a badge stating they are poets but they just don’t know it.

And even today, they are still at it, with Kanye West leading the pack

You should make your own toilet roll, cos you the s**t”

Compliments a plenty with that one, hey? Obviously, this is a cultural pandemic and not just specific to rappers. The worst ones have quite a catchy tune so you find yourself humming along, but then you clock the words and have to head off to the loo to apply some brain bleach to the affected areas.

And here are my top 5 terrible song lyrics, as chosen by me:

5) Hanson – Mmbop

Plant a seed, plant a flower, plant a rose/ You can plant any one of those / Keep planting to find out which one grows / It’s a secret no one knows.

Lets be sure of this people, it is a secret we know. You plant a seed, and the majority of the time, it will grow. Sure, if you find the seed on the street it will be a surprise as to what actually grows out of it, but chances are, the majority of seeds will grow.

4) Black Eyed Peas – My Humps

So don’t pull on my hand boy / You ain’t my man, boy / I’m just tryn’a dance boy / And move my hump.

This upsets me as Will.I.Am wrote the lyrics to Ordinary People, a song that I absolutely adore. And then this. How. HOW?!

3) Vanilla – No Way No Way

Ah, if you got the genes and think / Ah, you can buy me with one drink / Ah, come we’re livin’ in a dreamworld, boy / Ah, no no no no no way, no way, man-ah man-ah man-ah

Is a highlight. Lyrical genius.

2) Vengaboys – Boom Boom

Boom, boom, boom, boom / I want you in my room / Let’s spend the night together / from now until forever / Boom, boom, boom, boom / I wanna double boom / Let’s spend the night together / together in my room

What a double boom is ‘bear thinking about.

1) Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney

Because she’s mine  /The doggone girl is mine / Don’t waste your time / Because the doggone girl is mine

I can’t help but think that this trend for terrible lyrics comes from looking up to Michael Jackson and Sir Paul McCartney. I just cant fathom how two of the greatest songwriters ever were put in a room together and the only word they could think of to describe the girl they were fighting over was doggone.

I rest my case.

Know any ridiculous ones?

It. Was. Awesome.

I’m a little young (it’s rare I get to say that!) to really remember New Kids on the Block, but I could hum along to enough of their tunes to be OK with going to see them, but the Backstreet Boys are a band I knew as a child, mainly because my sister had a massive obsession. She loved them and listened to their music all the time, and by osmosis the songs perforated my hearing and nestled in my head.

So I was surprised when I emailed her to say I had tickets, and she seemed quite disinterested. Fine! I thought. Plenty more people who will come with me!

But she came, and it made me laugh when, about half way through, she looked across at me and mouthed “I LOVE Brian!” gone was the emo kid with a cool taste in music, replaced by a ten-year old who wanted nothing more to grow up and marry a Backstreet Boy.

It was so cool. Have I mentioned that? It did get a little inappropriate when New Kids on the Block, who don’t fall into the ‘kids’ category any more, were thrusting in their PVC pants. We all looked away, a little embarrassed that they were pulling out all their best Chippendales moves and we were ever so slightly repelled, and half of the party decided it was a good time to take a trip to the bar and/or the bathroom. After all, they are older than they used to be. There was also a chant that they were all trying to start, which went N-K-O-T-B-S-B, which was all too much for us (in fact, the whole crowd) and we got lost at the K and mumbled the rest. Plus, I was perturbed by the fact that they had missed a ‘b’ out in the middle.

But the Backstreet Boys were nothing short of legendary. Well, except the weird faces that Nick Carter was pulling. I try to keep my thoughts about his quiet as my friend Charlotte loves him, but when he pulls the face, it makes me feel like a teenager that just got inappropriately groped by a youth in a nightclub. Sort of dirty and like you want to curl up in the foetal position and rock. I think it’s the sweaty curtains that were only borderline fashionable in his heyday, let alone fifteen years later.

I recorded a lot of it on my camera, but unfortunately the over excitement got to much for me, resulting in some real Blair Witch Project style filming, not to mention the drowning out of the actual singing by the four of us screaming out lyrics and whooping at regular intervals. Embarrassingly, at one point you actually hear me say “Im so excited!” and my friend replies “i think I might cry!” hahahaha.

So my two close friends, my sister and I had the best night we have had since the days when we used to make up dance routines and sing into our hairbrushes, swooning over the appeal of those hot American boys. And I have had The Right Stuff stuck in my head for the past 48 hours.

Some things never change.

Thanks to the people at Superbreaks who provided us with the tickets. They offer hotels in London, and sponsored this post. But all opinions are, as always, my own!

Other currencies baffle me. I just spent 25 euro on a taxi, and sitting here in the airport waiting for my flight I have consumed 6 Euros worth of chicken nuggets, totally oblivious to the cost per pound of my reconstituted chicken armpits. I normally go by the rule that if that’s too expensive in pounds, then it’s too expensive. This works in America as it’s roughly half the cost, so angry dad in my head is subconsciously keeping track of my spending, but anywhere else it’s anyone’s guess.

But this is where holiday mentality kicks in. On holiday, it’s OK to have a glass of wine in the airport at 6am, or eating ice-cream as a staple food every day, isn’t it? Just like it seems to be OK to spend money as if I have been shrunk down and popped onto a Monopoly board, trying to avoid being eatedby a giant dog or stomped on by a massive boot as I make my way around the city.

Holiday logic. You wouldn’t drink more than one jug of sangria in a twenty four hour period at home or you peers might rush you off to the nearest AA meeting, but as soon as the sun is to and the people are speaking a different language, it’s OK. Holiday logic.

Everything is more fun when you are on holiday and sounds far more magical, but I hate the fact that I only speak my native tongue, At school I was good at French but my horrible teacher told me not to apply for it to A level as I wouldn’t meet the C entry requirement at GCSE. When I walked out of the exam with an A* (in your face, horrible French teacher) the course was full. I don’t have a natural aptitude for languages though, unlike my beautiful friend Aimili who speaks Greek, French, Italian and lots of others fluently. I get muddled up. Ask me to count to twenty in Spanish and I get to twelve and revert to French. Industrious.

The Spanish language is beautiful though. The taxi driver told me this morning that I was a ‘Bella chica’. Although he was middle aged and could have benefitted from a wash I went a little weak at the knees, when he was essentially just  calling me a ‘fit bird’, something that would have induced a full body shudder in the UK. The guy at border control then called me ‘bambino’ and I smiled sweetly and carried on. Being called baby by anyone at home causes me to involuntarily retch, yet in a different language it sounds musical and seductive from whomever’s lips the words are spoken.

I probably should learn Spanish; it would help me with uncomfortable situations like the one I found myself in yesterday. After trekking round the city we stopped for tapas and a much needed loo stop. Off I went, being pretty confident that I spoke enough Spanish to find the right loo, identifying myself as a senorita. There were no pictures depicting a dress or trousers, and no ‘s’ option on the door. I hopped from foot to foot trying to work out if I was an ‘h’ or a ‘d’ until I figured that it could be a font issue and after reasoning that if I squinted, the ‘d’ looked like an ‘s’, I plumped for that one.

So by the time you read this I will be firmly back on British soil, excited about seeing New Kids on the Block. But for now I must wait for my plane and try to ignore the enormous diet coke that came with the nuggets, for fear that I might need to use the bathroom on the plane and get sucked from the plane, to my death.

Do you speak any languages?

tour guide. Complete with accessories

When you think of Barcelona you think of Gaudi, and that’s what I spent the day thinking of yesterday. I had my very own tour guide who has a brain like a sponge and manages to soak up pretty much everything he hears or reads, so I was far luckier than the tourists with the guides or the headsets.

We started off with a long and steep walk up a mountain big hill complete with escalators until we reached the top. Which was totally worth it. We had reached the Park Guell, made famous by Gaudi and Dali, and in my opinion, looking like a gingerbread village.

so pretty

As we walked around, it was explained to me that the park was created not only by Gaudi but by his friend, Salvatore Dali. The mosaics at the top of the park were laid by Dali in a bid to help his friend complete his work, but Gaudi didnt like it. Rather than removing it, he dug out the ground underneath, determined that the roof would fall in and he would rebuild it. But it never fell, and the columns were put in to preserve the work, resulting in what remains there today, and is absolutely beautiful.

We wandered down some pretty steep steps, with him running down and me gingerly grabbing onto the hand rail, as usual. I was offered a piggy back, which although a nice offer, make me want to throw up. Again, I underestimated the step phobia and felt a little silly as little kids went running down beside me.. ah well!

Then we head off to the Sagrada Familia, the church that Gaudi was building when he died. Parts of it are being rebuilt, and I was informed that people believe that it’s because as he died he cursed the progress of the church. As an artist, he was known and loved within the city, but not a lot of people recognised him. After being hit by a tram, no cab drivers would take him to the hospital, and he died. ever since his death, when they try to build parts of the church they simply fall down.

From the two different sides, the church looks completely different. One side is quite modern and featured carvings of faces, and the other more baroque and imposing. Inside, you are overcome by a feeling of awe and I couldn’t help but think that it would be absolutely fantastic to be in there by myself, away from the hustle and bustle of tourists with cameras and the sound of footsteps.

The imposing church has scores of stained glass windows, giving it an ethereal feeling. It’s the sort of place that even someone who doesn’t believe in the presence of a higher being might thing twice, and wonder if people have a point. The light streams in through the vibrant colours like a kaleidoscope, and the feeling you get is of pure amazement. I absolutely loved it.

And that’s Barcelona so far, I’ll update when I get back!

I reality, the Darcey Bussell in my head is more like th Tasmanian Devil – manic, hurried and with a touch of dribble. I hate packing and therefore I leave it to the absolute last-minute like this week when I frantically threw some of my belongings int a bag and left for work. At the airport I wondered which things I had packed and what remained, forlorn at being having left behind.

My friends are the same. Before either of us go ona trip, one friend and I like to ritually text each other to find out the packing progress. I normally take the first flight of the morning to the US, so the conversation will go a little like this.

“Hey buddy! all packed? Have a fantastic time! xxx”

“Hey love. well, I’ve caught up on Eastenders, my eyebrows are immaculate, DVDs organised alphabetically.. and two pairs of socks have made the cut in the last two hours. I hate packing. xxx”

It’s the same every time. I have a brain, you think that I would learn from the previous frantic packing attempts after having left it far too late, but no, I never do. As a result I spend far too much money in the country that I am going to as I havent been grown up enough to write a list. Sure, I might have remembered to pack my neon joke sunglasses, but I forgot a mains adapter, deodorant and a toothbrush. Win.

So arriving in Barcelona and grabbing my sisters camera from the case (I’ve lost the charger for my own, standard) I realised the battery was dead and I don’t have a mains adapter. Of course!!

What’s your packing ritual?