VIP (Very Important Post)

My lovely friend Sweepy lost her Dad last week, and has decided to run the Race for Life this Saturday in his honour.

Because she has only just signed up, she needs to get the sponsorship cash rolling in asap. So if you have a few spare quid, email me and I'll send you her donation page details.

Thank you my lovelies.

Life Before Death

Nambo's dad died last week after a long struggle with motor neurone disease. Yesterday, we went to the funeral, which was one of those ones which was almost more difficult for its quiet dignity. Strangely, I actually feel more comfortable with open displays of grief than I do with the stiff upper lip attitude. Don't get me wrong, everyone has to deal with these things in their own way, but it was almost eerie in its calm. The only outward sign of what was happening internally being Nambo, holding my hand so tight I thought he might break it, while chatting away as though unconcerned.

Then I got a message from Sweepy this morning to say that her father died on Tuesday.

When did our parents become so mortal? I've realised while thinking about this today that I am one of very few people I know who still have two living parents. It feels so wrong. We're only in our mid twenties, our parents largely in their fifties. How can so many of them be gone already?

How Does Your Garden Grow?

My parents (well, DaddyCool mainly) are of the opinion that if something needs doing that you don't know how to do (plumbing, wiring, etc), then the solution is to hire someone to do it for you. A professional. Someone who is paid (a lot) to stick their head in the cavern under the sink for three hours to try and work out what's wrong with your drainage, fix it, and then charge you accordingly. This, to me, has always seemed logical. Particularly having seen the devastation wreaked when DaddyCool just once decided to Be A Man and try to fix a toilet leak himself. Believe me, you do NOT want to know...

In His family, on the other hand, Men are Men, and therefore if they don't know how to fix something, they just have to keep on trying until they can. No matter if it means causing more damage than good, no matter if it takes up their entire weekend, no matter if it makes them miserable as sin. To do otherwise would mean they lost their status as a Man.

So, about two weeks ago when we first happened to glance out of the window and notice the overgrown state of the back garden, my first reaction was "Let's hire someone to come and sort it out, then we can keep on top of it.". But no. I had inadvertently insulted His Manliness by even suggesting it. So, out into the jungle He strode, armed only with a flymo, and proceeded to struggle for the next two hours before admitting defeat. And to be honest, you couldn't really see any difference except that some of the long grass was flat and dirty instead of upright and green.

And so, last night, with Him sitting upstairs in the bedroom so He didn't have to watch, a team of professionals zoomed in, strimmed and mowed down the lot in under an hour, and then cheerfully zoomed off again taking all of the cut grass and weeds, and a cheque for £50.

Then, unexpectedly, He decided to prove His manliness in another way, by throwing me over His shoulder and carrying me off to His cave...

I should insult His Manliness more often. After all, it got me a lovely tidy garden AND a post-coital glow...

It's That Time Again...

... when my liver breathes a sigh of relief, as I embark on the annual detox/healthy eating/exercising frenzy that allows me to slide into a bikini come July with minimal paranoia.

Yes, I am off the booze. And the chocolate. And the Ben and Jerry's. It's a lean and saddened time in Mookmoo's fridge, where His cheese and whole milk hide quivering in the farthest corner, terrified of the new inhabitants fresh from the fruit and veg section of the supermarket, foods which they have never seen before, who strut around flexing their big green muscles and boasting about their iron levels...

And don't even get me started on the pitiful screaming from my stomach muscles which is keeping me awake at night.

Flower of Scotland

I'm slightly in love with Edinburgh. I am not, however, in love with anyone involved in the absolute mess that is London Transport, nor anyone at One railway company. Because apparently the fact that you can get from Edinburgh to London by train (about 400 miles) in 4 hours does not make it unacceptable to take 2 hours to get from the centre of London to Essex by train (about 30 miles). But anyway...

Edinburgh is gorgeous, stunning, great, and my only complaint would be that it seems to give me bad hangovers. Though one could argue that that's less the fault of the city and more the fault of all the wine that LadyDi and I drank while I was there. But really that's just a matter of opinion...

However thanks to the hangover and a distinct lack of sleep, I haven't really got the energy to tell you all about it. Suffice to say it was a good trip, but I wish I'd booked today as holiday to recover.

Running Backwards

It was very strange going back to Southampton. It wasn't different enough to be new, but wasn't the same enough to be familiar. For example, the shop that used to sell the best trousers in the world was still there, but is now selling cheap chavvy clothes instead of cheap indie clothes. And my favourite pub has been bulldozed to make room for new build flats. And yet the town centre remains identical, right down to the shop windows and the gangs of goths.

I think it proved to me that I can't go back though. Those three years were a great three years, but I couldn't recreate them even if I tried. Everything's moved on. The city, my friends, me...

Speaking of the past, I'm going up to Edinburgh this weekend to visit LadyDi, the only person from school that I keep in touch with. We were friends at school, bonding over our political opinions (and others' lack thereof) and passion for languages, and a year after we left the hellhole, we travelled round Europe together. Since then, I've only seen her twice (once at my wedding), but the bond remains via email and phone, and now I'm trekking up to see her. I'm excited. Nervous excited maybe, but excited nonetheless.

The past is a foreign country. But I've travelled to stranger places, I'm sure.