Catapult 30

My other half turned thirty last week.

Unlike most turning-thirty-year-olds that I know, he didn’t have a panic to himself. He was actually pretty calm and accepting of the fact that he’s now over the hill, despite me continuing to ask him if he needed a seat/his knees were okay/he’d remembered to put his teeth in.

Amidst all the madness of planning a surprise party and trying to ready the house for guests that he didn’t know were coming, we had a wonderful wee conversation about his “Things to Do Before I’m Thirty” list.

He said he’d managed to cross most things off his list, and the things he hadn’t managed to do he wasn’t too bothered about.

I started to think about my own list, and how many things I’d managed to complete. The more I thought about it I realised that I didn’t really have a definitive list, that I tend to do things when I want to do them rather than have one big overarching BY THE TIME I’M THIRTY I’LL HAVE TAKEN OVER THE WORLD kinda list.

For example, this year I wanted to go to the Magic Kingdom and go on the Peter Pan ride.

I wanted to start writing stories (which the world will never see  for they are drivel).

I wanted to pass my driving test.

I wanted to go Sober in October in order to support Macmillan.

I wanted to spend more time doing things I chose to do, and not feeling obliged to go somewhere/do something just because “I should”.

I wanted to complete Tough Mudder.

I wanted to perform God of Carnage on stage.

I wanted to make a point of regularly seeing people I had perhaps neglected in the past.

I wanted to go to Paris and climb the Eiffel Tower… So guess how I’ll be spending my birthday this year?

I’ve completed everything on my list without ever actually meaning to.

When I was little, the idea of getting old was pretty scary. At thirty, I’d be ancient and smell faintly of wee. I’d probably live in a big ol’ empty house cos all my friends would have died of old age.

But now, at this ripe old stage in my life, I’ve realised that age isn’t scary. I know it sounds so clichéd but you genuinely are only as old as you feel.

I have no absolutely intention of becoming a responsible adult.

Sure, I’ll do all the things I need to do in order to live a comfortable life (have a job, pay the bills, keep myself healthy), but I’m going to have as much fun as possible while I’m doing it.

Don’t fall into the trap of acting like an adult because it’s what’s expected of you. Go and throw yourselves in the grass/leaves/snow/mud and roll around in it because we all know you want to.

Turn thirty or fifty or seventy, but stay young. Wear purple. Read Peter Pan over and over again.

And remember – just because you’re grown up doesn’t mean you have to be grown up.

P.S. When I do eventually turn thirty and have a meltdown, please feel free to direct me back here!

Ghosts n Goblins

Last night I shared a true story with my Twitter pals. Now it's your turn, you poor sods. 

It involves ghostly portals, candlelight, moving objects, and a whole lot of talcum powder. 

To see the whole thing, continue reading...

If you're not a fan of ghost stories, definitely DON'T continue reading and, instead, look at this lovely picture of a wee kitten. 



Then scroll down and stop being a wee fearty. 

Born to Run

Well, hello there. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I’d like to tell you I had a brilliant excuse for not posting in a month, but it’s basically a very boring excuse. I’ve been training for Tough Mudder, the most horrendous obstacle course known to man.

This hilariously dangerous event takes place a week on Saturday and will involve me and three big blokes throwing ourselves into ice baths and running through a series of electrically-charged wires. Sounds like great fun, eh?

So, basically, for the past month I have been gearing myself up for this madness. The hardest part by far has been the cold showers. The first time I tried it I got such a shock that I screamed, fell out of the shower and writhed around on the floor like a baby cow trying to take its first steps. It was not a pleasant experience – for me, or for Dear Prince Charming who came running to the rescue.

I say he came running, but really he gave a half-arsed yell of “y’awright?” from the living room. He would be a freakin’ awful knight in shining armour.

Anyway, aside from the self-torture of routinely bathing myself in water cold enough to give an eskimo the willies, I have been working on upper body strength training, stamina tests, ladder sprints and blah blah blah. You name it, I’ve tried it. I’d like to tell you that the result has been I now have abs of steel and could take out Dog the Bounty Hunter with one punch, but that would just be a big dirty lie.

All that’s really different is I can now run for twenty minutes longer than I first could without feeling like I’m going to barf/collapse/wet myself. But hey, I’ll take it.

I also managed to tear my left quad and was resigned to crutches for a while. That wasn't too bad, really, as I just pretended my sticks were rocket launchers and used them to fire at people on the street who I didn't like the look of. 

Make of that what you will, Freud, I care not a jot. 

However, here I am, apologising for my absence and promising you it won’t happen again. I’m back and, provided I don’t end up severely injured/barfing/collapsing/wetting myself/ending up on crutches again next weekend, I’m here to stay.

Nae luck.

Here Comes the Sun

The sun has well and truly got his hat on this week, boys and girls. 

Isn't it amazing how a wee bit of sunshine makes you feel like anything is possible? The world is your oyster, you can do anything and you will champion at anything you set your mind to. 

This morning I took a stoat over to the new Commonwealth Lawn Bowls Centre and watched three consecutive rounds of Bowls. I'm saying they were consecutive, but really I haven't got a dangdoo if they were or not seeing as I couldn't tell you what one 'round' looked like in the first place. 

Anyway. As I sat there, trying desperately to look like I knew what was going on, I started to wonder if maybe I'd like to play Bowls. It doesn't look that difficult, and we live close enough that I could practice all the time.

Now, I don't know if it was the sunshine, or if it was the residual wine in my system from the night before, but I decided to talk to one of the nice wee Bowler men about the game. To preserve his anonymity, and mine if he ever decided to hunt me down, let's call our old man Frank. 

Frank waxed lyrical to me for nearly half an hour about just how bloody brilliant the game is. It's relaxing, says Frank. It's therapeutic. He uses it as light exercise for his arthritic knees, and as an excuse to catch up with the boys without his wife Helen getting involved. Helen doesn't like Bowls, you see. She's much more interested in having the dinner ready for her darling husband when he gets home from the Bowling club. 

Aye, I'm sure she is, Frank. 

However, Frank did convince me that I'd be good at Bowls. It's for people who like to concentrate, who get a kick out of a constructive win, and especially for those who turn their noses up at loud shouty fans. I was prepared to forego the 'loud and shouty' bit because, as anyone who has ever witnessed me in attendance at a game in Murrayfield will know, I am one the loudest and shoutiest fans around. 

The glorious sunshine and my new pal Frank had me convinced. I was going to become a Bowler. 

Frank told me about his Bowling Club (which I won't mention here, for fear of retribution) and told me to come along when they meet on Wednesday nights at 6pm. I told him I was worried I wouldn't have suitable attire. Oh, don't worry about that, said Frank as he gave me a pat on the back. Just wear a pair of trainers - but make sure you bring your own Bowls. The boys don't like sharing their balls. 

He did actually say that last sentence, and I did begin to laugh, but one look at his wee face told me he was deadly serious and, if I didn't bring my own Bowls on Wednesday night, then I might as well not come along. 

So, I did the sensible thing. I got home and I got on Amazon, my face flushed with the excitement of ordering my new Lawn Bowls. I started to think that maybe, if I worked hard enough, I could compete with Frank's club in their local tourneys. I had visions of myself being praised as the youngest member of the Club. Wednesday nights would never be the same again! Fame and fortune would surely be mine! 

Whit? 

£135 for a set of four Bowls? Nae chance. 

Frank can keep his baws to himself. 

Ten pin bowling will do me fine... So long as the bumpers are up. 

Everyday I Write the Book

If you're from the west of Scotland, you'll know what I'm talking about when I refer to the Glasgow Uni accent.

For those of you who have been fortunate enough not to hear this atrocity, it can only be likened to sticking a skewer into your ear whilst chewing tinfoil and banging your head off a brick wall, all as the theme tune from Neighbours blares repeatedly in the background.

Every sentence is presented like a question. Whiney “uh” sounds suddenly appear after words which end with plosive sounds. When a group of these people are together, the accent inexplicably becomes louder and, when alcohol is added, it becomes even more pronounced.

Perhaps most irritatingly of all, the accent is usually accompanied by a cigarette being carelessly waggled around in the air. Interestingly, these cigarettes never seem to be smoked very much – they appear to be used as more of a life-threatening accessory.

(As an aside, I haven't smoked now for nearly six months so I'm quite enjoying life up here on my nicotine-free high horse.)

However, the purpose of this blog was not to talk about the Glasgow Uni accent, mostly because it actually makes me feel a wee bit sick to think about it too much. The reason I mentioned the accent is because it's what drew me to a conversation I overheard in the park yesterday.

I was walking home from work, happily contemplating the clean jammies and Great Expectations DVD that awaited me there, when I found myself stoating behind two girls, probably near me in age, who were loudly (remember what I said about the accent in numbers) discussing one of the girls' boyfriend's sister.

“I mean, like, she's in primary seven for god's sake, and she's still reading, like, Lemony Snicket. When I was that age, my favourite book was War and Peace, you know? Honestly, it's like, if you're not going to read properly, then don't bother reading at all.”

My happiness disintegrated quicker than I imagine her dignity disappears down the drain on a Friday night at Cheesy Pop.

(As another aside, I've also been Cheesy Pop free for more than two years so, once again, I'm allowed to enjoy my smugness.)

Now, I've read War and Peace, as well as the Lemony Snicket books - and I know which I'd rather read again. I'll give you a step for a hint... It isn't the one featuring Napoleon.

But it wasn’t the girl’s taste (or lack thereof) in books that irritated me – in fact, quite the opposite. It was how judgmental she could be about an 11 year old kid who was actually making the effort to read a book. If, when she was 11, her favourite book was indeed War and Peace (which I highly doubt anyway seeing as, ten years down the line, she still found it difficult to string together a sentence without the word “like”) then whoop-de-bloody-do for her.

However, if her beau’s younger sister was more interested in the Lemony Snicket books then what gives Mrs Tolstoy the right to judge? At least the little kid is reading a book (and a good one at that), which is more than can be said about some of her peers.

Remember how up in arms everyone was about the Fifty Shades of Grey books? Aye, they’re not the most elegantly-written novels of all time, but every woman (or man, I would hate to stereotype) that picked up one of those books was reading something, and developing their own sense of imagination. 

Say, for example, you have one child reading a Lemony Snicket book, and a second reading War and Peace. Seeing as we're imagining, we'll also pretend that the second child's tiny ineffectual hands haven't been crushed by how freakin' huge the latter novel is. Now, let's say they both finish their respective books. Which child do you think is more likely to have the desire to ever read again? I'll give you another step for a hint... Again, it's not going to be the one who just read about Napoleon.

No book can ever be deemed as "proper", and to do so shows a terrifying lack of common sense.

My degree is in English Literature so it goes without saying that I love nothing more than a good book. But I'm also aware that a lot of people don't enjoy reading and go through their lives having only read the stuff they were made to study in school. so, for this reason, when I see a person reading a book that I might not necessarily choose, I don't feel the need to bleat about how crap Cheryl Cole's biography is compared to Ulysses. Instead, I am encouraged by the fact that this person is reading something, rather than slowly becoming addicted to daft wee games on their iPhones. 

Different strokes for different folks. 

Saying that, if I ever see Mrs Tolstoy again, I will happily rattle her about the noggin with a copy of War and Peace and then calmly ask her how she liked them apples.

Thank You Girl

Yesterday I held a door open for a little boy and his dad. 

We were in a service station off the M6 (told you I had a tiny bladder) and I found myself in that awkward situation where you try to assess how far away is too far away to hold the door open for a person without looking like an overbearing idiot.

My method of decision in these situations is usually quite simple, if not completely mental. I think to myself, in the length of time it would take for said person to get from their current location to the doorway, could I sing more than the first two lines of Brass in Pocket? If the answer is yes, then fuck it. Cut your losses and run. 

This was the case yesterday. I should have just walked on and never looked back. 

But I didn't. 

I got one look at the wee boy's cute little face and stalled. I waited just a fraction of a second too long and then had to hold the door open. By the time father and son reached the doorway, Chrissie Hynde would have used her arms and her legs (and her style and her sidestep) to bat me about the head for taking so bloody long to make my mind up.

So, there I was. A smile on my face, the Pretenders stuck in my head, and holding the door open for this angel-faced kid and his dad. I was standing there waiting for the shining praise I was about to receive... When the thundering gobshite strode right past me without even a second look. 

Then the black rage descended. 

Did this man realise how much mental turmoil I'd gone through just to decide if I should hold the door open for his ungrateful backside and his snottery wean? 

Clearly not, as I saw him later in WH Smiths buying the child a bag of fruit gums without a care in the world. I can only hope the packet was filled with the rank green flavour gums that nobody likes. 

As we continued our journey, I kept on thinking about the importance of saying thank you. Driving on the motorway was a perfect example. 

In the UK, I'd say 95% of drivers on the road are courteous. When you let someone in, there's usually a wave, maybe a quick push of the hazard lights, or (my favourite) that brilliant wee flick between both indicators. When I'm behind the wheel it tends to be a nervous combination of all three cos I'm neurotic and worry that the driver behind hasn't seen me thank him.

These minute responses all make us feel quite good about ourselves. We relish the little flash of pride.

However, we all know very well that firey spurt of anger we feel when a person doesn't signal their gratitude. Robbed of the right to gloat, our reaction is usually something along the lines of "aye, you're welcome, fud" and a quick flash of the vickies (low enough that the driver in front won't see, obviously). 

My favourite reaction to uncourteous drivers comes in the form of my step-dad. His method is to wave madly at the person as if he knows them, until they wave back. He'll then shout "no problem pal!" to no one in particular, and continue on his merry way. Comedy gold.  

Recently we were in the States, where driving is an entirely different experience. Nobody lets you in. Nobody says thank you. Everybody gets slap-happy with their horns. It's the stuff of nightmares. It is genuinely like a real-life version of Wacky Races where every other driver on the road is Dick Dastardly.  

But the only people who seem to care are the foreigners. Americans just go about their daily drive from A to B and never get worked up about the lack of gratitude. 

Why have we got such different attitudes? Why is it so rage-inducing when people can't just say "thank you"? Is it really that big a deal? I have no idea. 

But the one thing I do know is this - the next person who doesn't display some manners when I go out of my way to help them is going to get a high five. In the face. With a brick. 

You were warned. 

Talk Back Trembling Lips

Analytics on this page let me know how many views my new-fangled blog has had. Currently it's sitting at 102. That's over a hundred people to whom I am going to have to personally apologise. It's also 102 taunts that I can expect in the near future (actually, it's probably only about 80-something given the amount I received in the office today). 

My day today was permeated with various clever remarks such as "blog about that" / "ooh, careful she doesn't write a blog about you" / "your writing changed my life, please don't ever stop". The last line was actually uttered, but it was followed by a sentence including a few choice words like "arty farty" and "pain in the arse", so I'm beginning to think it may have been facetious. 

However, I'm sure that at least one of you (hi mum) will be pleased to hear that I'm going to power on and continue writing. Don't all celebrate at once.

This morning I was sitting in a waiting room (for an appointment which was typically running twenty minutes late), catching up on the news of the day, when I stumbled across this aggressively hilarious story in the Guardian. For those of you who can't be bothered clicking on the link, I'll sum it up for you in ten words. Harlem woman uses second hand lipstick, gets herpes and sues. Idiot. 

Fair enough, that was eleven, but the last word was clearly needed. 

This numpty went to a Rihanna concert in Brooklyn and let a stranger (albeit one dressed in a MAC uniform) apply used lipstick to her mouth. Unfortunately, but somewhat unsurprisingly, our poor heroine then contracted herpes, and is now suing MAC for infecting her with an incurable disease. 

The suit she's filed states: "(MAC) should have known ... it was unsanitary and exposing patrons to possible spread of disease."

True that. The representatives peddling make-up on the night should have been made aware of these issues and been given appropriate equipment. 

The report then goes on to say: "(MAC) didn't use a fresh or new lipstick tube, but rather one that had been used for other patrons."

At this point, surely, a wee bit of common sense might have kicked in? If you'd spotted this, wouldn't you have avoided the make-up tent like the plague? Would you use a strangers' toothbrush (even if they offered it) and then complain when you contracted an oral virus?

I just don't get it. Yes, the company should have followed the correct measures, but everyone has to play their own part when it comes to their well-being. 

It reminds me of that age-old saying my mum drilled into us as kids. "Don't talk to strangers. But if they offer you their lipstick, just make sure you remember to blot afterwards."

Finally, let's remind ourselves that she was, in fact, at a Rihanna concert and that's almost reason enough to enjoy a bit of schadenfreude. 

Anyway. DPC and I are driving down south tonight so the next blog is likely to be themed around the domestic we'll inevitably have in the car thanks to my peanut-sized bladder insisting on stopping every twenty minutes.

Take care, boys and girls, and don't use strangers' make-up.