I find that the older I get, the more I appreciate being as young as I am. A contradiction in itself I know.
My friends, most in their late 20's, are, like me, looking for love. But they feel as though time is running out. It is 2am on a Saturday morning and I have just spent the past hour and a half convincing my distraught flatmate that there is nothing wrong with her, that she just hasn't found the right guy yet.
Why do we put this pressure on ourselves to 'have it all' by the time we hit 30? We expect to have got the study out of the way, got the travelling out of our system, be in a stable career, have met the love of our life, got married, and be popping out babies. That's a lot to fit in, in essentially 12 years (18-30)!
50 years ago, all we had to do was get married and have babies. But my generation, Gen Y, have put this new life-goal pressure on ourselves, and its all controlled by a ticking clock... But 50 years ago, living until you were 70 was quite an achievement. Now, it's considered the norm. We are living longer, fact
On average, women live, I believe, 7 years longer than men. My Nan says its because "women work so bloody hard all their lives dealing with men, it's our time off at the end to have a bloody rest!"
My Mum had me when she was 39. When I was younger, I didn't like that she was the oldest Mum in the playground. Now I love it. When she gives me advice, I know she is speaking from real, hardcore experience. She knows her shit. She is my best friend and my most favourite person in the world.
I think it is great that women want (and do) so much these days. I think we should continue to aim high and get everything we want (and deserve). But I also think we should give ourselves more time to do it in.
I say, 40 is the new 30. Let's embrace it.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Act like a child, and I shall treat you as one...
I dressed up as a school girl last night for the guy I was seeing who is a teacher. Bit warped I know but it was fun.
I knew it was going to be the last time we had sex because he has been all over the place emotionally and I can't drag my heart through that kind of shit. I couldn't cum though. I didn't want to because I didn't want to let myself go that much. I just wanted to 'go out on a bang', so to speak.
It's stupid, but I feel like there is some magic ingredient for finding someone special. Like, you know how they say 'it will happen when you are not expecting it' and 'stop looking and you will meet someone'. But I think all that is bullshit.
I think everyone, everywhere, is always on the lookout for someone special. Just look at The Farmer Wants a Wife. And "they" are right - you can't plan when it will happen, when it's the right person it just does. Take married people, for example...I'm sure when they get married they really believe they will be together forever, but how many people have affairs? Is that just the right person coming along at the wrong time?
I can't believe I used to just be able to give my body physically and it not mean anything. Now, I don't understand how someone can want me so bad in a sexual way (he was actually shaking touching me), and not want the rest of the package (I think it's a pretty good package).
I had to explain that I can get a fuck anywhere...that's not want I want anymore and I can't believe he treated me like that. I have done some slutty things in my time but the way he treated me this morning actually made me feel cheap.
How come so many guys you think are 'one of the good ones' turn out to be complete pricks?
I started crying this morning and he actually left. He left me crying. If I see a stranger on the street crying, I check they are ok. I don't just leave them. But he just left. Unbelievable.
And it really hurt. Crying like a schoolgirl. How ironic.
I knew it was going to be the last time we had sex because he has been all over the place emotionally and I can't drag my heart through that kind of shit. I couldn't cum though. I didn't want to because I didn't want to let myself go that much. I just wanted to 'go out on a bang', so to speak.
It's stupid, but I feel like there is some magic ingredient for finding someone special. Like, you know how they say 'it will happen when you are not expecting it' and 'stop looking and you will meet someone'. But I think all that is bullshit.
I think everyone, everywhere, is always on the lookout for someone special. Just look at The Farmer Wants a Wife. And "they" are right - you can't plan when it will happen, when it's the right person it just does. Take married people, for example...I'm sure when they get married they really believe they will be together forever, but how many people have affairs? Is that just the right person coming along at the wrong time?
I can't believe I used to just be able to give my body physically and it not mean anything. Now, I don't understand how someone can want me so bad in a sexual way (he was actually shaking touching me), and not want the rest of the package (I think it's a pretty good package).
I had to explain that I can get a fuck anywhere...that's not want I want anymore and I can't believe he treated me like that. I have done some slutty things in my time but the way he treated me this morning actually made me feel cheap.
How come so many guys you think are 'one of the good ones' turn out to be complete pricks?
I started crying this morning and he actually left. He left me crying. If I see a stranger on the street crying, I check they are ok. I don't just leave them. But he just left. Unbelievable.
And it really hurt. Crying like a schoolgirl. How ironic.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
It's better to cuddle a Teddy than the wrong man...
I still sleep with my Teddy.
When I was about 12, I tried sleeping without my Teddy. Instead, I put it on the windowsill with the other teddies. But most nights, after going to bed, I would get up and grab Ted from his little spot and snuggle up with him, then replace him the next morning. I thought I was too old to still be sleeping with a Teddy.
Then, around 15, I reached an age where I thought it was cool, it a retro kind of a way, to still have a fluffy companion at night.
And now, I just plain don't care.
I have been ill all week and in the absence of my Mum, Ted has done a good job of comforting me. Aren't Mums great? They pick up your snotty tissues and hold your hair back while you hurl, all without a thought to themselves that they might catch your lurgy. Ted, whilst he can't pass me tissues or clean up sick, doesn't mind at all when I cough in his face, or steal the blanket away from him. He is just there.
Any men in my life have stiff competition to face in Ted.
You would think that my current squeeze (I'm actually talking about a man now, not my Teddy) would want to race to my bedside and mop my fevered brow when he found I was ill...ok maybe not race, but at least reluctantly walk with a pack of Paracetamol in tow.
But no. Although he was planning to see me on Sunday, he actually changed his plans in order to avoid me and my flu.
Part of me reasons that this is a very logical and sensible thing to do and completely understandable. And the other part is just hurt. I am the other side of the world from my family, I was very ill. And I needed a little company. And more importantly, and this is what puzzles me as to whether I should be wasting my time on this shmuck, is that I would have been there for him. So where does that leave us?
For the mean time, it leaves me and Ted. And I'm quite happy with that.
When I was about 12, I tried sleeping without my Teddy. Instead, I put it on the windowsill with the other teddies. But most nights, after going to bed, I would get up and grab Ted from his little spot and snuggle up with him, then replace him the next morning. I thought I was too old to still be sleeping with a Teddy.
Then, around 15, I reached an age where I thought it was cool, it a retro kind of a way, to still have a fluffy companion at night.
And now, I just plain don't care.
I have been ill all week and in the absence of my Mum, Ted has done a good job of comforting me. Aren't Mums great? They pick up your snotty tissues and hold your hair back while you hurl, all without a thought to themselves that they might catch your lurgy. Ted, whilst he can't pass me tissues or clean up sick, doesn't mind at all when I cough in his face, or steal the blanket away from him. He is just there.
Any men in my life have stiff competition to face in Ted.
You would think that my current squeeze (I'm actually talking about a man now, not my Teddy) would want to race to my bedside and mop my fevered brow when he found I was ill...ok maybe not race, but at least reluctantly walk with a pack of Paracetamol in tow.
But no. Although he was planning to see me on Sunday, he actually changed his plans in order to avoid me and my flu.
Part of me reasons that this is a very logical and sensible thing to do and completely understandable. And the other part is just hurt. I am the other side of the world from my family, I was very ill. And I needed a little company. And more importantly, and this is what puzzles me as to whether I should be wasting my time on this shmuck, is that I would have been there for him. So where does that leave us?
For the mean time, it leaves me and Ted. And I'm quite happy with that.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Random musings...
Lately I have had many random ramblings pop into my head that I thought would make for an interesting post. I always write things down on my phone if I don't have time to think about something but want to ponder it later.
Having looked at my latest musings, I don't think they qualify for a whole post each. However, I thought they were quite funny so I will share them with you...
1. My friend Steph recently came out with these words of wisdom, "Boys are yucky - like disposable tissues. Good to throw dirty, used tissues away." I'm not quite sure why this struck a cord with me but it did. Perhaps I have been studying drama too long now and can find meaning in anything. If only boys could be disposed of as easily as tissues.
2. Why do they place condoms next to the pregnancy tests in pharmacies and supermarkets? Is it to remind you what will happen if you don't pay an obscene amount of money for what is, essentially, a bit of Glad Wrap. (Wow, puts a whole new meaning to the words Glad Wrap hey!) So, if you are in 2 minds about whether you should pay $20 for one little packet, your eyes stray to the right and you realise that $20, in comparison to 9 months of being fat and 18 years of actually having to be a grown-up, is really quite a good deal.
3. This was just a drunken comment my friend Sue came out with when we were very drunk...she was talking about winning drinking competitions and I said that it didn't make you look very good having downing competitions to which she replies "It doesn't matter, I down better than my baps look!"
4. Why do people in Brisbane continue to wear hats when inside? Do they not know that it's not the done thing?
5. I think it's unfair that, whilst going through puberty, we girls are told that boys are 2 years slower at developing than girls. Why lie? What not just tell us, there and then, at the ripe age of 13...to look around the room... 'cos girls, this is as good as it gets. They don't mature much past that...fart jokes will, to them, always be funny, and they will always be obsessed with boobs.
6. I have noticed that people say "um" before saying their name...listen out for it. It seems to happen particularly in doctors surgeries. For example:
Receptionist: "What's your surname?"
Random person: "Um, Robinson."
Receptionist: "And your first name?"
Random person: "Um, Jessie."
Do we forget our names when put on the spot?
Having looked at my latest musings, I don't think they qualify for a whole post each. However, I thought they were quite funny so I will share them with you...
1. My friend Steph recently came out with these words of wisdom, "Boys are yucky - like disposable tissues. Good to throw dirty, used tissues away." I'm not quite sure why this struck a cord with me but it did. Perhaps I have been studying drama too long now and can find meaning in anything. If only boys could be disposed of as easily as tissues.
2. Why do they place condoms next to the pregnancy tests in pharmacies and supermarkets? Is it to remind you what will happen if you don't pay an obscene amount of money for what is, essentially, a bit of Glad Wrap. (Wow, puts a whole new meaning to the words Glad Wrap hey!) So, if you are in 2 minds about whether you should pay $20 for one little packet, your eyes stray to the right and you realise that $20, in comparison to 9 months of being fat and 18 years of actually having to be a grown-up, is really quite a good deal.
3. This was just a drunken comment my friend Sue came out with when we were very drunk...she was talking about winning drinking competitions and I said that it didn't make you look very good having downing competitions to which she replies "It doesn't matter, I down better than my baps look!"
4. Why do people in Brisbane continue to wear hats when inside? Do they not know that it's not the done thing?
5. I think it's unfair that, whilst going through puberty, we girls are told that boys are 2 years slower at developing than girls. Why lie? What not just tell us, there and then, at the ripe age of 13...to look around the room... 'cos girls, this is as good as it gets. They don't mature much past that...fart jokes will, to them, always be funny, and they will always be obsessed with boobs.
6. I have noticed that people say "um" before saying their name...listen out for it. It seems to happen particularly in doctors surgeries. For example:
Receptionist: "What's your surname?"
Random person: "Um, Robinson."
Receptionist: "And your first name?"
Random person: "Um, Jessie."
Do we forget our names when put on the spot?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Just as I am
I spent 2 hours at my friend's hair salon today, trying to decide whether to get my hair and the extensions I have in permed, so as its permanently curly, or to get some new hair extensions and become a red-head. I decided on the latter...think dark Lindsay Lohan stylee rather than ginger-nut biscuit.
I then got home and had a mini break down, furiously trying to unclasp my current hair extensions and in the end just ripping or cutting them out of my head, leaving me with much less hair that when I started. It seems the extensions began to resemble the 'old me' and that I needed them out out OUT!
I really don't know when this 'new me' started. It wasn't a concious decision to change, as I have said before. But my hair, which was dark, straight, long and sexy in a slutty Playboy way, suddenly represented everything that I'm not anymore.
I don't want to be that person....you know when you know you look good...but guys look at you, and then look at their buddies, and give each other that 'yea, I would fuck her' look? And then they look at you in that 'yea, come suck me then' look?
Soon after, you pass a girl or two, who look you up and down. Here in Swindon, we refer to the expression on their faces as 'dogging' (as in, "did you see that bitch just dog me up?") Then comes the cackle from the group of girls as they are far enough out of ear-shot to bitch about how short/tight/tacky your skirt was.
And, although you still know you look hot, you don't feel beautiful.
Then there is the person that I am apparently becoming, in which you can be walking along...say in a pretty white dress, little makeup if any on, hair in a pony tail or loose ringlets, and you walk past a guy and he actually looks at you. And then you walk past a girl and she smiles at you. Because you seem like a 'nice girl', someone wholesome enough to smile at. And you feel beautiful.
Having said all of that, it's not others opinions of me that make me feel good or not. I used to be able to go out, tarted up to the nines, and looking bloody good (though I say so myself!) and not give a damn what people thought. When guys looked, I would stick my boobs out further and wiggle my arse more. When girls dogged me up, I would give them a pitiful look, flick back my straight long hair and toddle off in my stilettos feeling even greater about myself because someone thought I looked good enough to be jealous.
I went out in Swindon the other week and I could not believe my eyes. The skirts had got shorter. The jeans tighter. The boobs bigger. The hair straighter. Through the course of the evening I witnessed:
-A woman giving a man a blowjob on the street
-A heavily pregnant woman bump and grind her arse into a bloke to some RnB on the dancefloor
-A man, who had fallen asleep in the chip shop, get carried out and placed on the pavement outside
-The police walk past said man, point, and continue walking
-On the drive home, a girl run into the road screaming for help, fleeing from a bloke a few metres back. I slowed the car and she jumped in crying, telling us to 'just drive'. We dropped her at a petrol station where her friends picked her up.
I have always been a far cry from all of the above I am pleased to say.
And the attention I want now is different. I am comfortable without being tarted up. I feel hot when I am just in my pajamas, my hair in a plait, with my glasses on, first thing in the morning. I'm happy just being me.
And I want someone who wants me, as me. I want someone who calls me pretty instead of hot. Who says I'm good at talking rather than good in bed. Who rings me randomly just to chat, rather than for a booty-call.
But if I don't find a man with all that, then that's ok too. Because I am happy being me, just as I am.
I then got home and had a mini break down, furiously trying to unclasp my current hair extensions and in the end just ripping or cutting them out of my head, leaving me with much less hair that when I started. It seems the extensions began to resemble the 'old me' and that I needed them out out OUT!
I really don't know when this 'new me' started. It wasn't a concious decision to change, as I have said before. But my hair, which was dark, straight, long and sexy in a slutty Playboy way, suddenly represented everything that I'm not anymore.
I don't want to be that person....you know when you know you look good...but guys look at you, and then look at their buddies, and give each other that 'yea, I would fuck her' look? And then they look at you in that 'yea, come suck me then' look?
Soon after, you pass a girl or two, who look you up and down. Here in Swindon, we refer to the expression on their faces as 'dogging' (as in, "did you see that bitch just dog me up?") Then comes the cackle from the group of girls as they are far enough out of ear-shot to bitch about how short/tight/tacky your skirt was.
And, although you still know you look hot, you don't feel beautiful.
Then there is the person that I am apparently becoming, in which you can be walking along...say in a pretty white dress, little makeup if any on, hair in a pony tail or loose ringlets, and you walk past a guy and he actually looks at you. And then you walk past a girl and she smiles at you. Because you seem like a 'nice girl', someone wholesome enough to smile at. And you feel beautiful.
Having said all of that, it's not others opinions of me that make me feel good or not. I used to be able to go out, tarted up to the nines, and looking bloody good (though I say so myself!) and not give a damn what people thought. When guys looked, I would stick my boobs out further and wiggle my arse more. When girls dogged me up, I would give them a pitiful look, flick back my straight long hair and toddle off in my stilettos feeling even greater about myself because someone thought I looked good enough to be jealous.
I went out in Swindon the other week and I could not believe my eyes. The skirts had got shorter. The jeans tighter. The boobs bigger. The hair straighter. Through the course of the evening I witnessed:
-A woman giving a man a blowjob on the street
-A heavily pregnant woman bump and grind her arse into a bloke to some RnB on the dancefloor
-A man, who had fallen asleep in the chip shop, get carried out and placed on the pavement outside
-The police walk past said man, point, and continue walking
-On the drive home, a girl run into the road screaming for help, fleeing from a bloke a few metres back. I slowed the car and she jumped in crying, telling us to 'just drive'. We dropped her at a petrol station where her friends picked her up.
I have always been a far cry from all of the above I am pleased to say.
And the attention I want now is different. I am comfortable without being tarted up. I feel hot when I am just in my pajamas, my hair in a plait, with my glasses on, first thing in the morning. I'm happy just being me.
And I want someone who wants me, as me. I want someone who calls me pretty instead of hot. Who says I'm good at talking rather than good in bed. Who rings me randomly just to chat, rather than for a booty-call.
But if I don't find a man with all that, then that's ok too. Because I am happy being me, just as I am.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Paella, Vino y Sol
Hola!
I am in Spain, with a belly full of Paella and mucho red wine. I am pleased to report it is very hot. I have not got out of a bikini in 4 days and the tan is coming along nicely.
Not much has happened which is why I have not felt the blog-need. Being back in England for 2 weeks reminded me why I left - it is crap. No two ways about it. And the main thing that the UK did have going for it - courtesy - has been abandoned. The country has gone to the dogs. A sad time.
I was very bored a few days ago here in Spain, it being just me and the parents, but now I have relaxed into the very laid back swing of things and am enjoying myself. I unfortunately had a few home-truths revealed to me that I would rather have not known about. My dad's dad had an affair, as did my mother with another married man before she met my father (who was also married when she met him). Confused yet? Me too. Having worked it all out, none of my elders have not had an affair, that includes both my parents, and both of their sets of parents respectively. I come from a long line of it. God help me.
I guess I should talk about Ross, although I can barely be bothered. He came down the Friday I got back, it was ok but nothing special. The sex was great when I finally allowed it to happen - after a good 10 hours in each others company (which for me is pretty good). But the conversation didn't flow. You would think after 8 months of not seeing each other that we wouldn't be able to stop talking, but no. We went to Bath for the day and walked by the river, then had a lovely Thai meal followed by the theatre.
A 'nice' day (I hate the word 'nice' as it usually seems so non-descript, yet here it perfectly sums it up) but he didn't rock my world. He didn't hold my hand or kiss me once, and, whilst I'm not big on public affection, a little bit of intimacy doesn't go astray.
So he left on the Sunday (it was father's day) and I haven't heard from him since and I'm actually not bothered. I believe he is giving me all he can in his own way. But it's not enough. He did talk about moving to Australia - we spent a delightful hour looking at where his company had offices situated in Oz and at that point I thought there might be hope. But until he actually does something and actually wants me then I'm not going to waste time over it.
But at least I got all that out of my system. I move on pretty fast.
Now, I don't know if it's the sea air, too much sun or the abundance of vino but I've got thinking lately about a certain someone back home (Oz home that is). Although I don't know if I'm just latching on to him because there is an absence of other interests? So I will wait until I am back in 2 weeks to check out my feelings for sure.
We have been really good friends for a while now, in fact we used to date, and I can talk to him about anything. We often chat shit for hours and it's lovely. He treats me very good, a gentleman. And I have been insanely jealous after reading his emails containing details of his frolicking with other women.
There is a lot of potential that we haven't followed through on previously. And I know that if it didn't work out romantically, our friendship is strong enough to survive it. Maybe I have just been reading too many trashy romance novels on the beach in which the story line is basically: 'he was right under her eyes all along'.
My cousin came over with his 20 month old son (I say cousin, although due to my messy little family history, he is actually my brother's cousin, but not mine) and it made me so broody. There are kids everywhere. The Spanish seem to have kids younger than most of the West - around 25. Or maybe they just look younger because of their Mediterranean diet? I'm not saying I want a husband and babies...there is still a lot of the world I would want to explore.
But it would be nice to explore it with someone who holds my hand, and shares a bottle of vino with me.
I am in Spain, with a belly full of Paella and mucho red wine. I am pleased to report it is very hot. I have not got out of a bikini in 4 days and the tan is coming along nicely.
Not much has happened which is why I have not felt the blog-need. Being back in England for 2 weeks reminded me why I left - it is crap. No two ways about it. And the main thing that the UK did have going for it - courtesy - has been abandoned. The country has gone to the dogs. A sad time.
I was very bored a few days ago here in Spain, it being just me and the parents, but now I have relaxed into the very laid back swing of things and am enjoying myself. I unfortunately had a few home-truths revealed to me that I would rather have not known about. My dad's dad had an affair, as did my mother with another married man before she met my father (who was also married when she met him). Confused yet? Me too. Having worked it all out, none of my elders have not had an affair, that includes both my parents, and both of their sets of parents respectively. I come from a long line of it. God help me.
I guess I should talk about Ross, although I can barely be bothered. He came down the Friday I got back, it was ok but nothing special. The sex was great when I finally allowed it to happen - after a good 10 hours in each others company (which for me is pretty good). But the conversation didn't flow. You would think after 8 months of not seeing each other that we wouldn't be able to stop talking, but no. We went to Bath for the day and walked by the river, then had a lovely Thai meal followed by the theatre.
A 'nice' day (I hate the word 'nice' as it usually seems so non-descript, yet here it perfectly sums it up) but he didn't rock my world. He didn't hold my hand or kiss me once, and, whilst I'm not big on public affection, a little bit of intimacy doesn't go astray.
So he left on the Sunday (it was father's day) and I haven't heard from him since and I'm actually not bothered. I believe he is giving me all he can in his own way. But it's not enough. He did talk about moving to Australia - we spent a delightful hour looking at where his company had offices situated in Oz and at that point I thought there might be hope. But until he actually does something and actually wants me then I'm not going to waste time over it.
But at least I got all that out of my system. I move on pretty fast.
Now, I don't know if it's the sea air, too much sun or the abundance of vino but I've got thinking lately about a certain someone back home (Oz home that is). Although I don't know if I'm just latching on to him because there is an absence of other interests? So I will wait until I am back in 2 weeks to check out my feelings for sure.
We have been really good friends for a while now, in fact we used to date, and I can talk to him about anything. We often chat shit for hours and it's lovely. He treats me very good, a gentleman. And I have been insanely jealous after reading his emails containing details of his frolicking with other women.
There is a lot of potential that we haven't followed through on previously. And I know that if it didn't work out romantically, our friendship is strong enough to survive it. Maybe I have just been reading too many trashy romance novels on the beach in which the story line is basically: 'he was right under her eyes all along'.
My cousin came over with his 20 month old son (I say cousin, although due to my messy little family history, he is actually my brother's cousin, but not mine) and it made me so broody. There are kids everywhere. The Spanish seem to have kids younger than most of the West - around 25. Or maybe they just look younger because of their Mediterranean diet? I'm not saying I want a husband and babies...there is still a lot of the world I would want to explore.
But it would be nice to explore it with someone who holds my hand, and shares a bottle of vino with me.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Done Thing
I am now back in sunny England and yes, it is raining. I guess I would kind of be disappointed if it wasn't.
I would like to put it out there to the universe - Is there a trolly at Heathrow that is not wonky? My god, it's like trying to guide a drunk person home, through a crowd, after you have just spent 24 hours on a plane.
Now, being back on English soil, I was expecting to pleasantly smile as British correctness took over...I'm talking about etiquette here, people. The Done Thing. Within minutes of landing, I was queuing for passport clearance with my EU passport (thank god I didn't have to wait in the International line, which was 3 times as long and moving half as fast.) And, much to my disgust, 2 guys pushed in front of me in the queue. It's just not The Done Thing. But it's also not The Done Thing to actually speak up and comment on it. You just look around and sort of 'tusk' with other people, and look at the 'pushers-in' with disdain. So I did just that. I did The Done Thing.
The two gents proceeded to talk very loudly about thier dull little lives and I continued to stand behind them glaring. Now, I don't condsider myself racist but one of them was certainly not of full English origin, so I guess his behaviour can be excused, as its not The Done Thing in his culture to be polite.
Which brings me to my next whinging POM moment - where have all the English people gone in London? After making it through clearence and collecting my bag, I continued to be cut-up by Indians with their spastic trolleys, barged into by Africans with their big bags in tow, and eyed-up by dirty Korean men.
Nobody gave way to me. You would think being a single girl and reasonably attractive - although obviously not up to my usual standard after flying for the aforementioned 24 hours and eating yucky plane food (having said that, one of my best picks ups was after an international flight as Beeso can testify), that gentlemen would be polite enough to help a woman out. But no. Apprantly England has lost its politness in my absense.
So, 33 hours door-to-door, I arrived, fought my way through the mixed-race crowd and found...nobody to pick me up. They were late. 2 hours up the M4 was all they had to do. I had travelled 33 and was on time. I couldn't get the back cover off my phone to change over to my UK simcard to call them. I didn't have my parents phone numbers anywhere. And I didn't have any UK money on me. Fuck.
Fortunately, resourcefull little thing that I am, I found a payphone that took creditcards, spoke to a Yank to get connected, and phoned my brother, the only number I could remember, who rang Dad who then found me.
We drove home down a relatively quiet M4, with beautiful blue skies through the tranquil English countryside, at a pleasant temperature of 22c and it was suddenly all worth it. Drivers were not undertaking, or hopping from lane to lane, there were no Yutes (is that how you spell it?) or truckdrivers high on speed. My equilibrium had returned.
Now I'm sat in my bedroom, watching 10 horses in the field outside gallop powerfully along together through the mist of the rain.
Maybe England does still exist, I guess you just have to look for it.
I would like to put it out there to the universe - Is there a trolly at Heathrow that is not wonky? My god, it's like trying to guide a drunk person home, through a crowd, after you have just spent 24 hours on a plane.
Now, being back on English soil, I was expecting to pleasantly smile as British correctness took over...I'm talking about etiquette here, people. The Done Thing. Within minutes of landing, I was queuing for passport clearance with my EU passport (thank god I didn't have to wait in the International line, which was 3 times as long and moving half as fast.) And, much to my disgust, 2 guys pushed in front of me in the queue. It's just not The Done Thing. But it's also not The Done Thing to actually speak up and comment on it. You just look around and sort of 'tusk' with other people, and look at the 'pushers-in' with disdain. So I did just that. I did The Done Thing.
The two gents proceeded to talk very loudly about thier dull little lives and I continued to stand behind them glaring. Now, I don't condsider myself racist but one of them was certainly not of full English origin, so I guess his behaviour can be excused, as its not The Done Thing in his culture to be polite.
Which brings me to my next whinging POM moment - where have all the English people gone in London? After making it through clearence and collecting my bag, I continued to be cut-up by Indians with their spastic trolleys, barged into by Africans with their big bags in tow, and eyed-up by dirty Korean men.
Nobody gave way to me. You would think being a single girl and reasonably attractive - although obviously not up to my usual standard after flying for the aforementioned 24 hours and eating yucky plane food (having said that, one of my best picks ups was after an international flight as Beeso can testify), that gentlemen would be polite enough to help a woman out. But no. Apprantly England has lost its politness in my absense.
So, 33 hours door-to-door, I arrived, fought my way through the mixed-race crowd and found...nobody to pick me up. They were late. 2 hours up the M4 was all they had to do. I had travelled 33 and was on time. I couldn't get the back cover off my phone to change over to my UK simcard to call them. I didn't have my parents phone numbers anywhere. And I didn't have any UK money on me. Fuck.
Fortunately, resourcefull little thing that I am, I found a payphone that took creditcards, spoke to a Yank to get connected, and phoned my brother, the only number I could remember, who rang Dad who then found me.
We drove home down a relatively quiet M4, with beautiful blue skies through the tranquil English countryside, at a pleasant temperature of 22c and it was suddenly all worth it. Drivers were not undertaking, or hopping from lane to lane, there were no Yutes (is that how you spell it?) or truckdrivers high on speed. My equilibrium had returned.
Now I'm sat in my bedroom, watching 10 horses in the field outside gallop powerfully along together through the mist of the rain.
Maybe England does still exist, I guess you just have to look for it.
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