A prisoner in my own room

She was after me. As I lay in my room last night, the realisation trickled icily down my spine.

She wanted to destroy me, torture me, devour me limb from limb. I kept dead still. I could feel her eyes on me, that searing stare; there was no escape. No matter how hard I try to hide; she’s always watching. No matter how much I ignore her; she’s always waiting. No matter what I do, Ursula my room spider is always there.

It’s no joke, this isn’t your usual cliché ‘spiders are creepy’ situation- I despise Ursula. She’s got me trapped; a hopeless victim in her web of fear, spinning me into a crumbling, psychotic mess.

I’m a prisoner in my own room.

Worse yet, Ursula times her visits meticulously, inflicting her torment at only the most inconvenient of times. Last night, she decided, it was time for a visit.

It was 2am; I was essayed out and needed sleep. My eyes were aching and my bed was calling. As I sank into the gentle grooves of my mattress and shimmied down into the soothing embrace of sleep- there she was. The epitome of all that is wrong with the world condensed into one devilishly small, dark mass; Ursula.

With a wriggle of her ovular chest and jerk of her prickly legs, she crept closer; stopping directly above me on the ceiling. Hopes of sleep had now dissipated and I sat, frozen, staring upwards into the depths of hell itself.

 My nightmare had begun.

 “Spiders stop and freeze because they are just as scared as you are” What a dirty lie. Ursula stops so she can look into my soul.

Arched and menacing, she pierced through me with those eight, dark spherical abysses, teasing out all of my fear and feeding her ego. As my body jittered in her psychological throttle, I’m telling you, I saw her smile.

Knowing I needed sleep and a stare off with a spider was a little ridiculous, I decided there was only one escape route; through darkness. With one mighty, brave effort I clenched my eyes shut, broke away from her eye web and plunged into darkness. At first it eased me.  Then, she crawled back into my mind. I thought of her suspended by my face, swinging into my mouth and laying her spider eggs under my tongue. Or perhaps Ursula was plotting? Recruiting all the other spiders in the room to launch an attack. It was too much- thoughts of a dense spider army covering my ceiling and swarming towards me, forced me to open my eyes. What I saw was ten times worse. On the ceiling above me there was nothing; Ursula had moved.

I was sure I could hear her malicious chortling echoing around the room; her game had just begun. I grabbed for my pillow and duvet.  Her superior sniggering encased my bedroom as I cowardly slipped downstairs to the sofa.  Ursula had won, again.

The language of Football

I was sitting at the dinner table last night and I found myself amidst the presence of another language. Now this wasn't a kind of exotic, vibrant and intriguing language  that aroused interest and awe but rather a dull, drone that did nothing but baffle me. The language of football.
Wow. Never, in my 16 years of living, have I experienced such a draining 20 minutes filled with my brothers and father going on about players, transfers, leagues and a number of other dull words. I mean I've heard my guy mates talk about it in small doses, but this...this was something else.

As the foreign fumble of words darted back and forth across the table, I felt lost- stranded in a sister-less household.

And the worst bit? The jabber was so intense and peculiar I couldn’t find an entrance in to the conversation. So I sat there and enjoyed flattening my mash potato with a spoon.How  can a conversation go on for so blimming long on what is essentially a bunch of overpaid sissies trying to kick a ball into a net? I mean don't mistake me for one of these footy-despising females because I actually quite like playing it and watching it can sometimes be enjoyable( only, of course, if there are men on the pitch who aesthetically please and there's another girl in the room to discuss this with)

Yesterday, however, I learnt an invaluable lesson. That’s right- listening to the unfamiliar, incessant drone between the males across the dinner table taught me that  I can actually appear clued up on the whole football scene. You see, I noticed that lots of the same phrases popped up in the noise that vacated their mouths. So, by repeating these(and forcing a face of genuine interest), I have myself a brilliant way to engage with the male species.
Ladies, if you're interested in this discovery, here's a few phrases to get you started:

 ‘‘That ref was a JOKE'' ''it was end to end''  ''He's only in it for the money ''There was NO WAY that was a penalty'' ''what was he doing upfront?'' “He’s bloody clueless” ''Should have taken him off second half'' ''We need to rest him before next match'' ''what a touch'' “he hasn’t got a football brain’’ ‘’He’s a  liability- picks up too many yellows” “The defence was a complete shambles-all over the place” '' ''What was the REF THINKING?''

So, there it is- my attempt at scraping the surface of the footy lingo. Now it’s time to conquer cars.

Talking of cars...Gor, how’s about that new Porsche Cayenne diesel? 3.0-litre V6 turbo diesel under the hood but pepped up with a new turbocharger, revised injectors and improved internal friction for slightly more power at 249bhp –she’s one beautiful beast.

See, a little listening here and there and I’m practically a man.

Half the bite,Half the guilt.

I write with news of a new 'dieting' craze that has taken my household by storm.

Ever wanted to eat your favourite sweet treats but with half the guilt ? Well my family has, in the greedy throws of raiding the kitchen cupboards, found a solution.

Take a half bite.

To be honest, there's not much to expand on that because it really is exactly how it sounds...

 a  half bite.

It works nice and simply too:

When craving something yummy, don't torture yourself by not having it. Instead, give in to temptation and have it. Just... half of it.

Forget all that 'opt for some fruit' rubbish, because I think we all know that just doesn't work. That simply results in you sitting unhappily, scouring at an  irritatingly healthy apple,wishing it tasted even vaguely like the choc you wanted. But,no matter how wildly juicy and succulent that little apple may be, it will never come close to the choc.

The half bite, however, allows you to tuck in to whatever you want. And do you know what else? It allows you to kid yourself, with far more credibility, that you didn't eat that much.

* So you can enjoy the soft, chewy cookie that crumbles on your palette..and smile knowing you didn't demolish  a whole one.

* You can crunch away contentedly into that fresh bag of crinkly,greasy crisps and beam proudly knowing you were a whole half a bag off finishing them.

* Go ahead and sink into that slice of fresh cream cake and then laugh at the missing half  of the regret.

It's simple:            
   Half the treat- Half the guilt.

Admittedly though, there are drawbacks. To put down the second half of your treat is somewhat excruciating. With the taste of the first half already sweetly stroking your taste buds- the urge to allow the second half to join in is overwhelming. Then again, we could pop this on a positive spin and say it teaches a little self restraint?

Another problem is that too often do I go to offer a mate a pack of biscuits from the kitchen or go to grab the pack of pancakes ...and to my dismay, I'm greeted with lots of half eaten specimens. It's pretty embarrassing; like the kitchen's been raided by raccoons or something...

But hey ho,everything has got its drawbacks. And to be totally honest, I think if you're following a 'cut back on the crap' regime that allows your favourite foods to  go into your mouth- it's a win win.

 Right, now to tuck into this vanilla cheesecake. Well, half of it. ;)

Help! Please save us from the LBE...

I’m not scared of the dark, I’m no woos with the supernatural and I’d happily spend the night in a haunted house. In fact, you can hurl me chained to Jeremy Kyle off a 2000ft cliff into a tank of ravenous sharks but I still wouldn’t quake like I do from the LBE.

 
Darker than your worst nightmare and more chilling than the shower scene in Physco –the LBE makes the most dreaded of horrors seem like Nickelodeon.  

Worst yet; the LBE is coming. 
Heart thumping and insides churning I, like every other 16 year old in the country, await in helpless anxiety for the LBE’s arrival. 



We can’t escape it, we can’t ignore it and on the 25^th August we’ll all be victims of that Little Brown Envelope.

What makes the LBE so menacing?, I hear you say. Well to put it succinctly, the LBE is inescapable. No matter where we are or what we’re doing- it lurks at the back of our minds ready to massacre any slight signs of complete contentment. To put it in a way all teenagers can relate to, it’s like a spot. It throbs and torments us with its relentless pulse and just won’t go away, no matter how much we try to cover it up. However, no amount of Freederm or Clearasil will affect the LBE.

That pure, focused fear of receiving an envelope which holds the accumulation of all you have worked for (or not) is quite simply overwhelming. All those stuffy lessons, mocks, homeworks and timetables. Years of working the 8.30 to 3.30 and it all boils down to the LBE.  Shudders.

As the fear of failure wafts thick and pungently everywhere you turn, post-mortems bubble to the surface and your mind kindly reminds you, with unnerving clarity, of all those mistakes you made. Oh-the-bliss.

Worst yet, the LBE creeps up at the most irritating point possible. If it came at the beginning-at least it’d be out of the way. If it came at the end- We’d be heading back into school mode anyway. But no, oh no, the LBE deviously seeps into our Summer ¾ of the way through, shrouding the first ¾ with thoughts of it’s arrival and ruining the last ¼ with it’s aftermath. Then, before we know it- it’s back to school.

On that ‘Back to School’ note, I’d like to say to all supermarkets and shops with those vulgar ‘Back To School’ signs up, that on behalf of every kid in the country…Shut-up and stop rubbing it in!

So, the LBE will come and go, but in the meantime we must sit and quiver in the darkness of foggy anxiety. We can’t run, we can’t hide, so instead- we must wait...

Pen: An endangered species?

When sifting through the papers this morning, I was deeply saddened.

The gurgle on my insides and tug on my heartstrings was due to an article I saw reporting: 

  "Schools in Indiana are abandoning teaching children how to do joined up handwriting in favour of showing them how to type"

Now, is it just me or does this frighten the hell out of you?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of these technophobe fuddy duddies who spends their time nibbling custard creams,hugging a typewriter while moaning about modernisation , I'm awe inspired by the marvellous capabilities of the Internet...but doesn't the jump to a completely  digital world make your spine tingle?

What cuts me up the most though, is that I know this Indiana study is just the beginning. With the rapid growth of emails and expansion of online potential... the pen is slowly becoming neglected.

My reason for this little post though, was to dive into the sea of bloggers and soak up the general wave of opinions ...

I'm sitting at my work desk now, but I couldn't resist popping this finding online to see what the blogging world believes...so please, do pour out your opinions...

Anyone else, like me, scared to imagine a world consumed by technology and lacking the trusty pen?

Anyone else think they'd miss that feeling of pen-in-hand and  sense of control as your ideas flow through a nib and form on a page in front of you?

Anyone else just feel so much more content with a hard copy piece of writing and feel words on a screen lack dimension and security?

So, yes I'm aware this blog is a little hypocritical ... but I'm so intrigued! In fact  think I'm going to write an article for work on this today.  Are we about to dip into a icy online age? Will future generations and my children turn, perplexed and ask ''Mum, what's a Biro ?"

Shudders.

Car-mirror Cringe

Today I found myself blushing more than I thought it possible.
In fact, if my cheeks went any redder, I think I may have genuinely been mistaken for a tomato.

The situation was simple, harmless and I'm sure it's happened to tons of people. Actually, I'm not sure- but it soothes my pride, so let's roll with it...

You know those times you're walking down a road and you can just sense there's something wrong going on with your face/hair? Maybe there's a tickle or an itch or perhaps it's just a hunch. Now, If you're not someone who tends to carry a mirror around with you, or a reflective surface... what would you, clearly, do to check your face?  What's that I hear you say? 
CHECK IT IN A CAR WING MIRROR? 
Spot on- so that's exactly what I did.

To be honest, I reckon car designers probably created wing mirrors in thought of this handy trick. I mean, why else would cars sit quietly perched on the roadside with those alluring mirrored ears?
The modern rushing man/woman needs public mirrors to aid their frantic darting and wing mirrors provide a helping hand. (Or ear)


So there I was, already in a rush for a work experience interview, squatting down in front of the nearest car and adjusting my hair. While adjusting, I realised I'd forgotten to put my mascara and eyeliner on. I peered along  the street-no one was to be seen- so I  reached for my  makeup bag and began to apply.
While I was there, why not just top up my blusher too? Yes, good idea.
Cue pouty fish face.


While looking at myself in the mirror... I realised; what better way to practice my interview speech? So I did. I also topped it off with practising the likes of 'concerned face' 'intellectual face' 'listening intensely face' ' and 'this opportunity won't be wasted on me face'.
Brilliant, good prep. Good, PRIVATE prep.


Then, woe betide, as I went to stand up...It hit me.
                                   BAM.  Goodbye dignity.

              BAM. Goodbye self respect. .

              BAM.       Hello red cheeks.

There, in the car I knelt beside -laughing hysterically- was a man watching me behind his tinted windows.

Oh no.


So  There I blushed.
      There I cringed.
      There I stared, looking bewildered as a rabbit caught in the headlights, for about 15 seconds straight.

The longer I stared, the redder I became. 
Eventually, with an embarrassed fever and wounded pride, a little miss tomato face walked away from the car -looking alot worse than she had done before.


So my message is simple. By all means make FULL use of the secret splendour of wing-mirrors, soak up their nifty brilliance and take advantage of this underrated, practical prop...But erm, just one teeny tiny tip-


Check there's no one in the car first!

My first steps into womanhood...

It's taken 16 years and at last it's happened. There have been twists and turns and now it's happened. All this waiting to reach the peak that defines my existence and now it's happened.

On this momentous,glorious and invigorating day I can smile like I've never smiled before,laugh like I've never laughed before and hold my head higher than I thought it ever possible.

 For today, I  have become a true woman.

Now, to those perplexed readers... I'm not talking about puberty changes, marriage or any of this predictable nonsense. True woman out there  know exactly what I'm on about.

The purest and most definitive moment that epitomizes becoming a woman, is the day we look down and realize we possess a love greater than can be expressed in words.

 As those two jewels gaze up at us with such effortless beauty and graceful innocence, it hits us that no-one in the world could love them more. We realize ,life wouldn't be worth living without them and wonder how we ever coped without them there before.

A love like nothing ever felt, imagined or dreamt before-it's a love that defines us as women.  So yes, this defining moment ladies and gents, is none other than the moment a woman

falls in love with a pair of shoes.

Before, a pair of shoes could be 'nice', 'handy' or 'do the trick', but now that  I've entered  into the female field of pristine adoration for feetly comforts; my view will never be the same again. I've been awoken to just how divine shoes are.

Shoes aren't just there out of convenience or out of necessity for when our feet need protection ...

oh no . 

 Shoes don't just affect your feet area- they define both who you are and your purpose in life.

 A pair of shoes practically screams out your character to the world.

 Do you like comfort? extravagance? Fine dining? Sport? Adventure? Trying new things? Homely coziness? Formality?  Well, there's no real need to ask; your shoes will tell me.

So this pair of shoes that have so kindly walked me into womanhood are out of this world. Soft, faux fur lining, lace up boots that just... well, they just smile. I try to wear outfits just so they can feature. I find myself watching them as I walk (which has resulted in quite a few stumbles) marvelling at how gorgeous they look as the sunlight trickles off them. I feel like everyone is watching them too...as if they are emanating this infectious, beautiful blaze.

These astounding angels sweep me along in their warm embrace and cuddle my senses, from toes to head. I am well and truly walking on air.

We smile together, explore together and soak up the surroundings together.
We. are. one. 
And do you know what? When I'm away, I  miss them. When I'm not wearing them, I picture them sitting at home, empty, sad and missing my feet to fill their tums.

 I position them just near my bed so that when I wake up... they're the first things i'll see.

The alarm screeches, my head spins and in flood the thoughts of all the daily toil and stress ahead. My head begins to throbs, eyes sore and body heavy as lead.... but then I see them.

My beautiful babies, beaming heartily at me, reminding me that life is good. I haven't even had my coffee and i'm already wide awake and grinning like a Chesire.

 Aaahhh boots boots- what would I do without you?

So you may be thinking it's awfully sad to pin so much joy to a pair of shoes?  Rather pathetic to feel so refreshed by some material for my feet? Well, do you know what?  You're missing out.

I think I speak for all true women when I say...

a sweet tooth for shoes will cure ALL your blues.