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Pimps, Blackberries and My Local Caff
I bought my first house recently. It is the most beautiful and perfect house anyone has ever seen, to my mind at least. Some times I buy it presents… bistro tables and picture frames. I live in my house and my house lives on a lovely road. It’s not a road you would find easily, and if you did you would not notice it at all (very Harry Potter) but this road is just fascinating and I am only scratching the surface as its newest resident. For a start there are at least 5 Eastender style garages on my road, and the owners (all definitely of Mitchell stock) do great trades in Gucci Watches, YSL purses, murders of relatives and pimping). They are all my friends now and as such I have my pick of drivers and cars (vintage triumph motorcycle, bentley, ferrari) who I never take up on their offers – but they are there at least for possible lifts and murders. The joy of these guys whole lives (apart from my house mates legs) is the local caff, with its smeary windows and huge silver pots of tea. I once ventured inside (depsperate pre-work hangover moment) and all 40 of the men in overalls - many who I am sure never leave (why would you), all with cigarettes stopped eating their eggs and glared at me. I learnt quickly that I did not belong in this world, I am too blonde and too corporate on a weekday and certainly too female. Although they did not run me out of town the moment I entered their world (dazed and confused and rather acidic as I was) I know they wanted to. I’d still like to spend a morning there soon though, in Charlene style overalls with a B&H dripping out of my mouth. Maybe I will. My road also has a taxi firm, who jut randomly make up prices according to how they feel and will pick you up from anywhere. You can wake them at 5 in the morning too and they all still smile and say ‘Islington? Oh I think that’s about £8 love – but can you man the A-Z, coz I haven’t got a clue how to get there’. This morning the blackberries finally ripened behind my house (hundreds and hundreds of them). So when I come back from Liverpool on Monday I am going to climb over my balcony and go blackberry picking with my friends George, Julian and Dick. D x x
Please...
Some one who is good at IT stuff (giggle, flip hair, bat eyelashes etc etc)... How can i put a picture of a daisy next to my name?
Just had first glass of wine BTW - an excellent start to a fantastic weekend I am sure. X
Childhood sweeties
1) Black Jacks and Fruit Salads - fantastic fun and still hugely amusing to stick your tongue out at people on the bus
2) Those weird pink prawn things that kind of melt when you suck them
3) Ditto the bananas
3) White mice - the best chocolate ever invented, although not sure if they had ever seen a coco bean.
4) Cola Bottles (I once kept one on my tongue for 27 minutes before swallowing - quite an exciting childhood you're getting a glimpse of there!!)
5) Jelly Tots (my mothers answer to anything - 'What do you mean you've broken your finger/ teddy bear/ head/ Barbie - have a Jelly Tot')
6) Strawberry bootlaces - still make my teeth hurt.
7) Exciting and strange sweets that looked like blackberries that my father would bring back from German and I would swap for crisps, stickers and pencils with my friends
8) Jelly Babies - Always bite the head off first so that they don't feel any pain when you eat them!
9) The white chocolate circles with hundreds and thousands on them that always ended up in my pick and mix.
10) Suggestions? Anyone?? X
Hone sweet home
The best thing about coming home to a small town is that nothing really changes. I go to my local and find the same people on the sames stools drinking the same drinks. What would happen if Spog and Fat Pam moved away from Flambe? The same thing that would happen if I suddenly made my bed and kissed my sister probably.
The gossip is great too - I get regular emails updating me about most things that happen here while I am in the big smoke, but just incase I miss something my friend gets a copy of the 'Formby Times' sent to him in London each week by his mother who is worried that by working in journalism in the capital he is losing touch with the important things that happen in the world. Oh you may mock, but Flambe has its own stalker, a letter bomb, a kidnap, they burnt down the only nightclub (Shorrocks Hill Country Club and Disco) for insurance, someone murdered their wife the other week having pretended for years to be wheel chair bound. It's just fascinating...
On that note - I have to go, my mother has told me a coffee bar and cocktail lounge has opened in the village but until I see it with my own eyes it remains an urban myth. Like my teachers husband, the church curate who ran away with the 16 year old sunday school teacher and was forced to paint the outside of the church hall for days and days as penance (I've heard this story many times but have never found anyone who actually saw him painting).
D x x
Virgin Express!
The worst part about visiting my parents is having to make my way back to London afterwards. In fact I have so many bad travel stories that I could blog for hours just on them. I’m resigned to it now though and so yesterday I boarded the Virgin Train headed straight to first class and secured myself a big old greedy table for four. I spread out my magazines, got out my knitting, texted about 7 people and basically settled in for the night. As ever my first plan was to eat enough complementary food to make the £15 upgrade worth it. I usually manage it comfortably. All was well until we got to Birmingham. Firstly because the train isn’t actually supposed to go to Birmingham and secondly to my horror I started to hear words like ‘declassification’ and ‘train merging’. I was also asked to take my bag off all three other chairs in my little area that I seemed to have spread over… The doors opened and all hell broke loose as literally hundreds of people stormed into my carriage in an angry blast, sat on my knitting and knocked over my (2nd bottle of) wine. People were poking each others eyes out to get a seat and in the survival of the fittest I was luckiest enough to get three of the fittest sitting with me I won’t be telling Richard Branson that though in the letter I am composing to him right now.
). There followed the best journey of my life with the Glasgow train in fine spirits (despite their 4 hour delay) and the Liverpool train doing its best to join in. Wine flowed as did conversations. There was flirtation over Now magazine and swapping of best drunken stories and stag/ hen do stories (I think Glasgow beat Liverpool by the narrowest margin). I have to say I was almost sorry when we shuddered into London Euston.
Things I wish I was doing right now.
)
Smile!
Remember I told you a little while ago about my tooth cracking on a piece of vicious diet food?
I have a check up today at 4... turns out while filling my tooth they found about a billion things wrong with my shiny white hollywood looking teeth (another example of appearances being deceptive!). Now they are going to make a long long list of them and then charge me a lot of money for an on going nasty experience to put them right.
The worst thing is that I am a credit card baby from a lost generation of people who got so badly into debt as students that money has lost all value, as such the only way I can pay for any of this without sacrificing shoes, hair, nails or a couple of weeks in the sun is to get my parents to pay.
Who would have thought - new teeth for my 27th birthday? Nice....
This is an all time low....
Oh no, hang on - I've lost a turkey for my photoshoot... it just go worse.
Help
D x x