Confessions of a dancefloor phobic

It's been a long time since I went dancing.

People who know me well know for a fact I do NOT club anymore. In fact, the idea of going clubbing on a Saturday night is as appealing as having my feet licked.

Obviously this was a different story back in the late 1990s/early noughties when I was a Uni student up North - nearly every weekend and one day during the week, I was shaking my young, firm and slightly smaller boot-tae to the sounds of Shakira, Britney, 5ive, Limp Bizkit and Chesney Hawkes' 'I Am The One And Only', all in the same night.  And I loved it.

Now aged 32, the only thing my fatter arse gets down to is on the sofa to perv at Masterchef, Come Dine With Me and The Great British Bake Off/Menu, which suits me fine.  I dislike clubbing with a passion, and have no interest in taking part in an evening that involves it. Mainly because I'm happy being a boring old bastard.

That was until recently when a friend told me about a Roni Size DJ set that was happening.  As I am a massive Roni Size/drum n bass fan, it seemed like something I could check it out.  Saturday evening arrives and I'm walking to my friends' place, ticket in bag, comfortable clothes on body, apprehension in head.  It suddenly occurred to me that I was pretty much going to my first club night in over 5 years. Was I going to enjoy it? Who knew. Plus, I have a 'Cinderella Pumpkin' mode built into my body (the moment it hits midnight, my body shuts down and conserves energy for the journey home), so if Roni Size's set was after 12, I'd be missing it in favour of a late night cup of tea and biscuit.

But what followed surprised me; I got really excited about going out and dancing.  We even had a dance in the living room to rev ourselves up.  And the minute I entered the venue, I was ready to hit the tiny portion of  the dancefloor people would allow and work it.  Mr Size wasn't on stage until 12:30, and weirdly enough, I didn't mind - I was more than happy to keep on dancing until his set.

Everything about that night was amazing - the sets were awesome, the music was banging, Roni Size blew the place apart, and  I danced non stopped for about 4 hours.  I even left the venue at 2am when the gig was over, which is very unlike me. I think what really made the night was being there with my friends - all going for it as if we were all 18 again, and only stopping when the gig came to an end.  All that was needed to keep us going were banging beats, strobing lights, some adult beverages and a kebab dinner.

I dragged my exhausted legs, feet and aching back home, listening to the sounds of early morning birds greeting an approaching dawn at 4 in the morning. I hadn't arrived home that late, or danced like that since I was at uni, which is a clear sign that I must of really enjoyed myself.

The experience hasn't gifted me with a new love for going out dancing...but I probably wouldn't say no to doing it again.

2012

2013 has finally has arrived with the bravado, giddy optimism and promises of hope and happiness that every January 1st has brought before it.  At the end of the day, January 1st is just another day, and if you're lucky, a chance to be off work.  But it promises so much, and as its bastard of a brother 2012 taught me, delivers so little.

This time last year, that giddy optimism and hope didn't seen so bullshitty; I celebrated my one year anniversary of being with a man, and I was offered at job at a cancer charity I had always wanted to work for (albeit as a temp), which meant that when my electricity bill came in, I would no longer need to consider the jumping off the roof option.

And that's as far as that happy period lasted; the job ended three months later, and for four months I was back to signing on and watching three Jeremy Kyles everyday in my pants.  The only rest bite from this depressing period was in the summer where me and three of my closest friends escaped to Spain to see our friend get married, and feel something we hope we can feel someday - happiness.  During that one week of eating, drinking and swimming in the summer sun, I was the most relaxed I had been since I last digested a cheeseburger.  At that period in time, every problem that existed back in the UK did not matter.  I even forgot about the two interviews that awaited me upon my return.

A week after I returned back to reality, I was offered a permanent job.  Yay, I thought, I'm finally working again, and doing what appeared on paper to be very interesting job.  Four months later, I resigned from it thanks to a very not nice manager, and realising the role I was doing was not the one I saw on the application.  I might as well have been working in a Tesco - completely different job, but I probably would have been happier.  I suddenly realised that I'm pretty unlucky when it comes to jobs, but I was fortunate enough to get temporary job with another cancer charity for a few weeks, before being offered my current temporary job - a job that is so far from what I want to do, I fear my chances of being a writer again are slipping away.  However, it's been pretty cold this winter, and that bill will need paying somehow.  Still, at least I'm not unemployed again.

But 2012 wasn't just a cunt to me, it was one to my closest friends too.  Two of whom saw their long term boyfriends open the door and walk away from their relationships, and to cap of my already amazing year, so did mine.

Even as I type this, I'm surprised I haven't resigned to a life in bed watching Come Dine With Me. But what would that give you other than a sore side and a rumbling stomach?

So, how did I propose to welcome in another year of potential disappointments?  By getting drunk enough that all memory of 2012 would temporarily vanish from my mind, especially as there was not much about it worth celebrating.

And now 2013 is here.  I begun the first day of it with a hangover so bad, all I thought about was swallowing a nuclear warhead. So far, nothing is appearing in front of me to prove that this year is going to be any better.  But I believe it can't be any worse than the one that's departed.  Maybe I'm being a bit too impatient.  I mean, we're only seven days into 2013, what am I expecting to happen now?  A shower of malteasers to hit me on the way to my dream job that's magically appeared in front of me?  Would be nice, though.

I guess one will have to wait and see what this one has in store for my tired, battered body.  But if new years are all about bringing hope, then the only hope I have is that 2013 is kinder to me.

Sir Patrick Moore: a tribute.

Like many people in today's society, I learn about celebrities' deaths on Twitter.  I could be randomly glancing through the long line of comments and suddenly I'm snacked in the face with a retweet from the BBC News Twitter feed saying someone has passed away.  And on Sunday 9th December at around 2 in the afternoon, that's how I discovered that a man I had looked up to and admired for most of my life had died.

Sir Patrick Moore was my idol, from the moment I learnt who he was to his death.

I was a young child when I first saw The Sky at Night. I couldn't understand most of what was being discussed, but it was Patrick Moore's eccentric wild hair, the monocle and his boundless energy and enthusiasm that kept me hooked.  For many years afterwards, I continued to watch him and learnt so much.  It was because of The Sky At Night that I fell in love with Astronomy.

I think what I really liked about Patrick Moore was that he never claimed to be an expert, nor did he act like one.  He was a man who simply loved the night sky, and everything that lies within it, and all he wanted to do was make me and countless others realise why we should take an interest.

His age and failing mobility should not have made his passing a shocking one to me, but it was.  You forget your heroes are not immortal, and you believe they will always be there because they always have been.  So when I saw on my Twitter feed that Patrick Moore had died, I was crushed.  I stared at the BBC News website for hours reading the headline over and over again, and couldn't completely believe that he was dead.  Two days on, and I still cannot believe that he is gone, and that when, or if The Sky At Night continues, it will not be him presenting it. 

If I was ever lucky to have met him, or to have even had the privilege to glance at him from across the room, then that would have been a very significant point of my life.  It's with a heavy heart that I must accept this will never happen, but I am very grateful that he existed in the first place.

For me personally, there are two ways Patrick Moore has influenced my life: the first is he gave me a love for Astronomy.  Everything I've learnt and all I know about the subject is down to watching him on The Sky At Night.

Secondly, Patrick Moore was the best example of a person who took something he loved, and turned it into a life long career. There are many things he could have done to earn a living or a fortune, but he chose to live his dream of studying the objects of the night sky, and share that with the rest of us for most of his life.  If I am ever able to find the job of my dreams, then I would have fulfilled one of my life's goals, and it will be all thanks to Patrick for showing me it's possible.

Thank you, Patrick.

Learn to fly.

It's fair to say that I lead a pretty boring life at the moment.

I am now four weeks into my unemployment, and the majority of my days consist of applying for jobs I won't get, keeping the boy company whilst his fractured ankle slowly but surely heals itself and watching episodes of Masterchef: The Professionals on YouTube in my pants.

Since turning 30 I have stopped yearning for unrealistic, exciting things to magically happen to me. Sure I long for something interesting rather than a double bill of Jeremy Kyle in the afternoons to come along and fill my long, unemployed days, but as I am a hell of a lot happier now than I was this time last year, I'm kind of ok with my days being simple and uneventful.

However, the past few days made me realise that life can present you with the oddest situations without warning, and my plans for a chilled but lovely weekend kind of went out the window quicker than a piece of cucumber in my salad.  Instead of spending the weekend hanging out with the boy and seeing a friend for Sunday lunch, I went to Senegal...as in the country.

Why, I (pretend to) hear you ask?

Last Wednesday, another day filled with hours of YouTube viewing awaited me when I suddenly got a call from a dear friend of mine, who was working in Senegal for a well known charity, and her HR person, where they proceeded to tell me that my friend was over worked and exhausted.  I have to admit half of me wasn't surprised; the line of work she does and the environments she has been in was sooner or later going to result in being royally knackered,  but that doesn't mean I wasn't worried. In fact, I was worried sick for the woman, and since I was many thousands of miles away, it broke my heart to know that there was nothing I could do to help.

However, I was then told that the organisation felt it was best for my friend to return to the UK, but they didn't want her to fly back alone. So they asked me if I would fly to Senegal that weekend, pick her up and bring her back. I was pretty much put on the spot as they needed me to answer there and then, and leave in two days time. Processing all that info was more challenging for my mind than trying to recite my nine times tables, but I had a friend who needed my help, and so I found myself agreeing to fly to Senegal - a country I never thought I'd step foot in in my life.

My boyfriend thought it was a great idea - a free holiday to a different country and an interesting experience - something that had been lacking my life for a while. Plus "it'll get you out of the house", he said. And he was right; it would be exactly what I needed to inject some life into my pretty stale way of living.

Just one problem - I have a fear of flying.

Luckily my fear doesn't prevent me from entering an airport or boarding a plane, but from the minute I walk into the plane to the moment we touch down, I am in hell; scared silly at the thought that my life will end in a plane crash, even though I know statistically that I'm more likely to meet my end running towards a plate of pie and mash waiting for me across the road.  That doesn't stop my heart from beating the same rhythm as a drum n bass tune, but I forced my legs to take me to Heathrow last Saturday afternoon, board a total of four planes in the space of 30 hours, go to Dakar in Senegal, meet my friend and bring her home the next night, arriving back in good old Blighty yesterday morning.

In total, I spent less than 12 hours in the actual country before we had to fly back, but my short time there was a very pleasant one; I was greeted by the sight of clear blue skies and embraced by the warm weather the moment I woke up at my accommodation, I enjoyed a delicious fish lunch at a restaurant on the beach, and sunbathed in the 27 degree sun on a gorgeous sandy beach.  How many people can say that they jetted off to another continent for the weekend for lunch and an outdoor tanning session, especially when they're an unemployed pleb like me?

Sadly I'm now stuck with four packets of malaria tablets I'll have to take for a month, but the important thing is that my darling friend is back in the UK and is relaxing at home. That was all that mattered.

So now, here I am; sat on my bed on a Tuesday night, surrounded by familiarity and looking back over the past few days in bafflement. The surreality of the whole trip is so great, that it currently feels like one of those dreams that felt so real you believed it was happening.

I'm very grateful to the charity who cared about my friend enough to pay for my plane ticket to Senegal (as it was pretty last minute the costs do not bear thinking about), and for that little pocket of excitement that briefly shook my simple little world to the core.  I'm also glad that I was able to help out a friend in need, and play some part in helping her become well again. However, I am very happy to be back in my bed continuing my Masterchef overdose, and returning to my boring, simple, but happy little life - one can no longer take that level of madness in my old age.

Also, for the whole time I was on the plane, I had this song and video playing over and over in my mind...

Making the most of my unemployment.

For the past few months, I have found working a refreshingly nice experience.

After spending most of last year walking into an office that destroyed my soul and faith in humanity, my last two jobs opened my eyes to a new perspective on working…as in, I actually enjoyed going into both places, hanging out with my colleagues and doing my job.

Sadly, both jobs were contracted, so once again I’m staring into the face of unemployment and feeling it’s stale cigarette breath on my features. So far, I’ve been on the dole line for three days, and I hope know it won’t last. However, as much as I’m missing the work (and the money), some situations are unavoidable, like a plate of mash potato and my face falling into it. But I’m a hell of a lot happier than I was this time last year, and it’s spring...so life isn’t all bad right now.

So, as well as putting various words together to form a plea of employment, I’ve been:

• Staying up until one in the morning overdosing on Daria DVDs;
• Perving over various recipes I will cook when I can afford to buy things other than Tesco value goods;
• Basking in the spring sunshine and admiring its effortless beauty;
• Looking forward to my 31^st birthday and feeling grateful I have gotten this far.

I'm not going to lie; walking past offices have made me feel like a homeless person looking into a cosy home watching a family sit down to a roast dinner, but until the money starts to run out and boredom becomes more painful than passing a hard stool, best to enjoy the freedom and the choice to wake up when the lids decide to open. Doesn't sound too bad...for now.

14th February

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Already you have returned to loom over us like a sudden urge to go to the toilet.

I found it amazing that soon after Christmas was done, I was being told to start thinking about Valentine’s Day, as well as how to shift the post Christmas flab and how to breathe in and out.

To be honest, Pancake Day is a FAR more important day in February, so where are all the reminders for that? I even started making pancakes on New Year’s Eve in preparation for that glorious day.

Being in a relationship on Valentine’s Day can be either a great thing, or a depressing thing. Great when your loved one gives you a gift (no matter how big, how small or whatever) they planned and really thought about because they knew it would make your heart melt; depressing when, unless agreed, they didn’t bother to even say it to you.

Tomorrow I will be seeing in my second Valentine's evening with a man who shows me everyday that he adores me, and tomorrow will be no different for either of us. And why should it be?

Yes, it's lovely to be treated because your partner wants to light up your heart, but you shouldn't have to wait a whole year for your other half to show you, or tell you, they love you because a day has been created for them to do this. It’s bollocks and for me defeats the purpose of what being in love is.

As far as I’m concerned, if Valentine’s Day was really a celebration of love, it shouldn’t be limited to just couples; what about your friends and family? You love them, right? I know I love mine.

Unless you were a truly heartless bastard, there will be at least one person (whether it’s a family member or a dear friend) in your life that you love very much, and whose presence has made your life a wonderful one to live.

So ignore the marketing fad behind name, and remember you are loved - by those most important to you.

That’s what Valentine’s Day should be about, and February should be allll about the blessed Pancake Day :D

Sharing is caring.

Just wanted to share with you this amazing image - things like this are great for reminding me that the smallest, simplest things can warm your soul

(National Geographic)

Haven't said anything for a while...comeback blog post coming soon.

Mixed Britainnia

Finally, the BBC have given me a good reason to pay my licence fee...

The Mixed Britannia season currently running on BBC Two is something I have been waiting to park my botty to for many a week. It promised to deliver insightful, eye opening and educational programmes about the history behind mixed raced relationships in Britain.

As a black woman who's relationships have all been inter racial - among the men on my past dating list, include a polish man, a half white half Chinese man, and am currently in a wonderful relationship with a white middle class man - the subject of inter racial relationships has always been of great interest to me, mainly because I have always known, even from the first moment boys entered my mind, that if I ever got married, it would not be to a man my colour. And that is purely down to personal preference.

Watching these programmes in the Mixed Britannia has really opened my eyes, and made me realise just how lucky I am to live in the society I do today.

If me and my boyfriend were alive and seeing each other 50 years earlier, society would have done everything in its power to stop us leading a normal life.

If we were living in South Africa a mere twenty years ago, we would not even be able to hold hands in public.

If we were American, living in the USA in early 20th Century, and we had met, it would have illegal for us to have been a couple.

Learning those facts made me shed several tears for those mixed raced couples who existed years before me. They didn't notice the colour difference, but everyone else did, and because of that, they were deemed not entitled to be in love with that person. And that really broke my heart.

I was never aware of the prejudices such couples faced - sure you would get a few funny looks in the street (even I've had that and still get it on the rare occasion) - but never did I think a British woman marrying a Chinese or a black man would result in her having her nationality taken from her; that men were rounded up and sent back to their homelands after serving with the British in the Second World War (even those who had a wife and children), or that disgusting taunts would be shouted at those who dared to indulge in an inter racial relationship. Even the idea of a woman being so badly shunned in society because she had a mixed race child that she had to put that child in care, never existed in any form of possibility to me.

And yet, that's what happened, right here in the same country I was born in. But I'm very lucky to have been born within it many years after racism was made illegal, and inter racial relationships was no longer considered 'weird'.

Nowadays, it has thankfully become the norm; nearly every friend I have has been, or is now in an inter racial relationship; my brother is currently in a long term relationship with a lady from Eastern Europe; 95% of people I have met in my life have been seeing, or is with a person who isn't the same race as them, and I am very lucky to be in a relationship with a man who's family doesn't even notice my colour.

I also am grateful for the fact that if I ever have children (who will be mixed raced) I will never have to worry about them being rounded up in the street by crazy, mad fuck head scientists testing to see if their brains, ears and legs functioned the same as a white child's did.

To think all this would have been so different for me and so many others like me had we been born 50 years earlier in this country.

We really are a lucky bunch.

Quote

"I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind.

Some come from ahead and some come from behind.

But I’ve bought a big bat. I’m all ready you see.

Now my troubles are going to have troubles with me!"

Dr. Seuss

Advice to my fellow Londoners...

(From the Keep Calm shop)

Riots and rainbows.

This evening, a rainbow appeared outside my living room window, brightening up the sky with its array of colours that pierced through the darkening blue. As a Hackney resident, I was very lucky that that was what I could see from my house, and not the shocking scenes I saw on the BBC news channel.

I had been aware of the fact that riots had occurred in a few places in London, but I never expected to turn on the news and see all too familiar parts of Hackney I walked down all the time filled with hooded people breaking the windows of buses, attacking police cars, and setting fire to bins. And for what?

People may argue that this is young people frustrated with the poverty they live within; frustrated with the lack of opportunities, jobs and ways out of their social situation. Or that this is all to express the anger of the death of young man by a policeman last week. But I don't agree. Looting clothes shops, smashing windows and setting fire to innocent people's houses, cars and businesses does not show me you're protesting against either of those two things. It just shows me and everyone else watching that there are a few too many pieces of walking, talking, bollock brained cock biscuits, who clearly ran out of things to do once they'd finished watching Jeremy Kyle, existing in London today.

What was looting JD Sports a protest of? The fact that it was shut early? Because unless you had shat your tracksuit bottoms and were desperate for a new pair to change into, there was no excuse for that. Was nicking packs of cigarettes and TVs part of the 'genius' plan to make the politicians and London sit up and take notice of your plight? If that was the case, and I know it wasn't, all you did was scare, inconvenience and embarrass your fellow Londoners at the expense of a cheap thrill and a new pair of trainers.

Even as I speak, random rioters currently continue to infect other parts of London, like a diseased bollock.

So whilst the young people in the Middle East fight for freedom and the right to live their lives without fear of oppression, the youth of London fight for a flat screen TV. I don't need to point out which country looks like the bigger twat here.

I dread to think of how I'll find Hackney looking when I go to sign on tomorrow afternoon. But after seeing buildings on fire in Croydon, Peckham and Clapham, I guess I'm very lucky I live far from where all this nonsense has occurred, especially as there are people out there who aren't or weren't.

Everyone is going to have their opinions, theories and beliefs into why this is happening, and has happened over a period of 3 nights. But I whatever the explanations are, I only have two words: No excuse.

Ich esse den keks!

When two of your favourite things are melded together to become one, the results are so beyond wondrous you want to weep with joy at its creation - like the discovery of sweet chilli sauce and mayonnaise.

Last night, a friend of mine pointed me in the direction of a YouTube video that did just that; a clip of my favourite Sesame Street character (Cookie Monster) singing on top one of my favourite songs from one of my favourite bands (Sonne by Rammstein).

I have no idea what he's saying apart from 'Ich esse den keks!' ('I eat the biscuits' I think), but it didn't stop me from laughing and watching it five times in a row, mainly because it's similar to how I act when there are orange club biscuits in my kitchen.

As I have added this to my all time favourite internet clips, I feel it needs to be shared and enjoyed with you all. So enjoy!

Read all about it! (For the final time)

Sunday is here, and so is the final ever copy of the News of the World. Bet all you Murdock bashing, NoW hating, disgusted smut readers secured your copies early this morning, didn’t ya?

Truth be told, I was a reader, and had been for many a year. But after the news broke that a murdered schoolgirl’s phone had allegedly been hacked into, and messages deleted leaving her parents to believe she was still alive, I made the decision to never purchase a copy again. Yes, I would miss the smutty, scandalicious goodness I would relish in some Sundays, but even for a twisted out of date cookie such as myself, those

allegations took the last bottle of piss from the cupboard.

Then lo and behold, news comes in that the paper is to close down. I was pretty shocked. For the whole week, this fast moving story gripped me harder than a pair of pliers to the nipples, and that revelation appeared out of nowhere – like a fart during a sneeze.

But I wasn’t sad. The paper didn’t deserve to carry on after all that. But what did sadden me was the fact that people who had nothing to do with the whole saga where the ones left jobless. I believe they’ll be a hell of a lot luckier in finding another job that I am, though…

Even though today’s edition would be the last ever NoW publication, I still decided I wouldn't buy it out of principle, and I actually believed that there would be hundred’s of people out there thinking the same. But since every newsagents I passed appeared to have been pillaged, I guessed I was wrong.

So, I scooped it out on their website to see exactly how they would be bowing out. I didn’t read the content, just the blown up words, which was enough to get the gist, and from what I saw, it was pretty self-congratulating – emphasising on all the scandalous scoops they covered and leaving out the hacking naughtiness two people went to prison over, and stories they were successfully sued over. But why mention the negatives, eh? I mean, would you really care about all the bad stuff you did if you were ceasing to exist the next day? I wouldn’t, so why should the News of the World?

I think what I’m most curious about is how many of those editions are going to end up on ebay, for how much, and what sad sucker would buy it (just had a look and there are a number of the things going for £5, a few some have bids on, and one which is going for £500…wish I’d thought of that.)

So, now the shops are closed, the papers have gone (some are on ebay already…this is not a joke) and the News of the World has gone forever. It’ll be weird not to see it lying next to my mum’s toilet, but I’m pretty sure there’ll be another Murdock smut rag in its place next week…and I still won’t be buying it.

A stroll in the park.

Saying goodbye to spring is never an easy task for me; it always manages to make one’s surroundings brighter, brand new, beautiful and full of life. However, one has accepted that spring cannot last forever, just as I have accepted that beetroots will always exist. Pity.

So, for the first time since I was a school child, and as I am now an employed writer, I have embraced the summer and its storms and sun. The longer days and enticing yellow rays have recently created romantic, whimsical and picturesque daydreams in my mind, much like the pictures I’ve seen on wonderful blogs such as Strawberry Koi and A Curious Fancy. Reading these ladies’ blogs over the past few months would make me sit at my desk for hours on end wishing I could frolic in fabulous parks in beautiful dresses, looking as relaxed and content as they do.

Well, now I have a lot of free time between looking for my dream job and watching Jeremy Kyle, so I have been doing just that.

Strolling through my local park on a Monday morning whilst the majority of London sits in an office, made me feel a bit a little bad for feeling at that moment relaxed and happy to be free, but this was momentary.

I realised whilst sitting in the park last Monday that from last April up until that exact point in time, I have felt nothing but stress; stress over finding a job and a place to live; stress over finding a new flatmate; stress over being underpaid and struggling month after month to buy food after the bills where paid; stress of trying to feel some sort of happiness with my life.

So, I have come to the conclusion that I've done my stress-time, therefore, I fully intend to enjoy these brief moments where my head is left emptier than my biscuit tin, and for the first time for as long as I can remember, completely at peace. Especially as I know the stress of finding a job I'll finally be happy in once again will return veeeeeery soon...

Week's end.

Do you know what I adore most about Fridays?

Not just the achievement of ending the week without having my head self bashed against the wall.

When 6 o clock starts to appear from over the horizon (or on the wall clock in front of me), one's heart starts to fill with dizzyingly high levels of relief and complete and utter joy, and I'm pretty sure those who like me work Monday to Friday jobs, the feeling is universal. Because you know that very soon you'll log off from your work computer, pick up your bag and coat, instruct your feet to lead you away from the office and walk away down the street towards two days of complete and utter freedom to enjoy in any way you see fit.

Who doesn't enjoy having the freedom to live their lives in whatever way they see fit, especially in ways that makes them happy and content. I do immensely. As a simple minded soul, spending my hours in the company of my friends cackling from talking nonsense, wrapped in my my duvet whilst being comforted by the sounds of Radio 4, or walking hand in hand with my boyfriend are just a few of the small and simple things that make one feel truly happy. Sadly, such happiness doesn't last for long as Monday is only too eager to piss everyone off with it's presence.

But maybe that's a good thing...?

I realise you're probably wondering if I'm really as simple as I make out to be. The answer is yes but that's beside the point; like the average human being, my hatred for Mondays is the equivalent to my utter hatred for cottage cheese - the mere sight of it makes me murderously angry. However, the older I get, the more I realise that such small portioned out chunks of this happiness bread can probably serve my life better than having it available to me 24 hours a day all year round. Not that I'm implying that I like being stressed out, tried, miserable and frustrated even for five minutes - these things plague me five days a week. But that means the existence of weekends always give me something to look forward to - two days of freedom and 24 hour smiling.

But on the other hand, I always wonder how amazing would life be if it was that way all the time - every single day you wake up with that freedom to do whatever you wanted with your time. I had that a few years ago - it was called unemployment. Sure it was pretty sweet to wake up late in the afternoon, knowing all I was going to be doing was hanging out with my friends on a weekday probably in Forbidden Planet, but those kind of lovely feelings only last a few weeks before boredom sets in, followed a lack of self worth and the question 'what am I doing with my life?' streaming across your eyes constantly. Plus, unless you're living like a Kardashian, having no money limits your ability to do what you wish, like self restraint stops me from punching certain people's faces.

For me, after a while that prolonged period of freedom feels quite empty if it's not used doing something that not only makes me happy, but is worthwhile. Being in that bubble for almost two years is an experience one would rather not repeat, and that's why I tend to cut Monday a little bit of slack, because it reminds me that days filled with fun and frolicking should be portioned out and not over indulged to the point where you become bored and disillusioned with it - a bit like eating a bowl of Apple Crumble and custard every day to the point where one feels fat, sluggish and eventually so sick of the stuff (THE HORROR!!).

So this weekend will come, it will be lovely and fun, and working life will resume once again, bringing along with it that warm anticipation that there are two fabulous days for you to enjoy in whatever you please making their way towards you.

Surely that's a weekly excitement worth having.

The Wisdom of Dr. Seuss.

I can't speak for anyone but myself, but no matter how old I get, the words of Dr. Seuss never fail to bring amusement and amazement to my eyes. I remember being a mere spriglet of a nut case in primary school back in the 1980s when I picked up 'The Cat in the Hat' for the first time, and read it cover to cover, followed by 'Green Eggs and Ham'. At the time, the words that came out of those books would make me giggle - like the innocent, naive little fool I was.

Over 20 years later, whilst enjoying the unnaturally warm April sun, boredom and a laptop with working internet lead to me discovering some true gems that materialised from the pen of Theodor Seuss Geisel. After all these years referring to the guy as a mere children's writer, I found some of the most inspirational quotes put so simply that it makes nothing but pure sense - like a nap after a deliciously heavy meal.

So, I decided to share with you ten of my favourite Dr Seuss quotes that I think really speak the truth in the simplest way, which I hope will inspire you at least 5%:

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you'll go.”

“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities.”

“And will you succeed? Yes indeed, yes indeed! Ninety-eight and three-quarters percent guaranteed!”

“You can get help from teachers, but you are going to have to learn a lot by yourself, sitting alone in a room.”

“From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere.”

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own.
And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”

Full Bloom.

Winter has finally retreated back to into the shadows; Spring has come, bringing with it a beautiful display of blooming blossom trees, blue skies, warmer weather, a sense of new and exciting beginnings, and also the impending arrival of my 30th birthday.

So here I am - counting down the final few days before I wave goodbye to my 20s and welcome in a new decade of responsibility and adulthood. People have asked me if I'm getting freaked out at the idea of hitting the big 3.0. Honestly, the answer is no - I embraced my inner Grandma a long time ago, and I'm ready and waiting for the dawn of a new age to take me into its arms. And even if I was freaking out, how on earth would I stop it? By bribing Doctor Who with sexual acts to take me back another year in his Tardis?

Besides, why would I want to go back? I hated my 20s. It brought me more stresses, insecurities, disappointments, headaches and more pains in the arse than constipation. However, in saying that, it also brought into my life an amazing group of people I'm lucky enough to call friends. I have also learnt a lot about what I can and can't do; what I will and will not put up with, and who I am as a person. And I guess that's the whole point of your 20s. It's shame I'm yet to find the amazing job I'm happy and content with, but you can't have everything you want when you want it. Just as long as you retain the belief that you will get it one day if you keep trying. Which I am :)

So, what do I have to take into my new decade with me?

• An amazing bunch of friends who continue to support me, keep me sane and provide many hours of giggles that remain forever in my memory.

• A great family who never stop believing in me.

• A lovely house that makes me feel happy whenever I walk into it.

• A job to help me pay rent for my lovely house - I may not enjoy it, but at least it's a job.

Also, after over a year of endless disappointing dates, I have finally found a man that wanted to stick around, and become my boyfriend. Regular readers of my blog will recall the heartbreaks and disappointments I chose to include in this blog, and I'm now thankful to say that after 6 years of being single, I have taken myself off the shelf and place myself in the arms of an amazing man. And he is another of the wonderful things I'm taking with me into my 30s.

But he most importantly thing I take with me is the ever growing thankfulness that I've made it to this age when so many haven't, and it can only get better from here...I hope.

So this week will be a non stop celebration - because I am an only child and possess a constant desire to feel of some significance. Tonight, I celebrated with one of my favourite little pleasures - luxurious little Macaroons, with a cup of tea.

Quote

"Enjoy what you have today, and worry about the tomorrow when tomorrow comes."

Mother

Do you remember...

Spending your Fridays after school hiding behind your sofa whilst watching Knightmare?

For the 70s children, it was Tom Baker's Doctor Who that would make them cower in fear. For most of my fellow 80s kiddie-winks, in was Children's ITV's Knightmare, which used early CGI graphics to navigate teenage dungeon masters through a world of medieval evil and sorcery.

Watching it now the graphics are embarrassingly dated, but when I was 6-11 year old squeaky voiced munch kin it scared the living titting piss out of me.

I discovered last year that some amazing human being - who's confirmed to the world that he has waaaay too much time on his hands - had uploaded every series of this awesome show for me and my fellow nerds to hide away from the outside and relive our geeky yoofs with. And I for one am very grateful.

However, watching it now in my ripe old age, I realise that the deaths in that show were downright brutal! Being swallowed up by talking walls, bashed on the head by guards, sliced in half by approaching axes - the producer clearly hated children.

Someone has compiled a selection of the most brutal ends for your sadist viewing pleasure, which I had to included on my blog, because enjoyed watching it...because I'm an evil bitch.

Oooh...nasty.

Non-refundable.

Is it me, or did January suck big, swollen donkey balls?

I almost feel like though I was sold a dodgy product after being suckered in by it's pretty, shinny wrapping, only to find that once you've unpeeled it there's a solidified bar of shit staring back at you.

For me, January was a month filled with a constant stream of disappointments and let downs more vast than the Thames. I left 2010 so stressed I thought my blood pressure was going to be touching the surface of the moon, only to enter 2011 immensely pissed off to buggery.

As much as I try to climb out of this hole, I just can't seem to see the light, and that was not what 2011 had promised me. Maybe I'm being too hasty in my expectations, or perhaps a tad too impatient.

No, I think I've been cheated out of a promising start to the year, and as it's non-refundable due to something about time being irreversible and all that crap, I'll have to except the fact that it's happened and that my pissy-off-ness is to remain for a while longer.

Filling my beautiful blog space with such bitter musings probably had a high percentage of boring the bollocks off readers, hence why I decided to leave the month blank - in a vain attempt to forget it ever existed - and start anew on a new day of a new month.

So, February - what have you got in your sack to fling at me?