Cinderella (kind of).

So, this week I have started my life as a Housekeeper. I have agreed to be Cinderella in exchange for living rent free and being taxi-ed around when I need it. A fair deal I think, especially considering that I'm...probably inadequate anyway. Sure I did clean the bathroom with a toothbrush yesterday, but today I sat and read Harry Potter as Mum vacuumed around me. And I got a cup of tea in bed this morning.
Thanks Mummy!
In my defence, I made the tea yesterday. However, that may be her one and only treat...I'm not getting up before her once she's back at work and getting up before 7. I'm an artist daaaarling...that would be ridiculous.
I do think I'm doing pretty well with the cooking. I actually made food for the grandparents and an aunt yesterday. Salmon. Then I wrote a fairytale about a salmon. All in all it was a successful and creative day. And the family thought the salmon were delicious and entertaining respectively. They may have been just saying that to make me feel better, but I chose to believe them.
I'm enjoying the cooking. I mainly have my friend Sam to thank for the few recipes I've mastered. Once this limited repertoire runs out (in about 2 days) the experimenting begins. I've been watching Lunch With Gino and Mel this week in preparation. That Gino...he makes everything look so easy, even when he does set fire to the kitchen cloth.
I set fire to stuff too though: the microwave once, when I was heating up pancakes. My lesson from that was to not read whilst preparing food. Its too distracting. It is difficult when Harry is mid-duel with You-Know-Who.
The microwave incident was a long time ago though. Recently I'm much more likely to get bored halfway through the cooking process and serve semi-raw potatoes. Or as I insist: al dente. This is OK when you are only cooking for yourself but I cannot serve my family raw potatoes. Again. This is cosy, middle-class Wales, not Communist Russia.
However I have 2 months and I'm determined to perfect this art. Maybe I'll start taking pictures of my food and this can be a food blog.
...NAH!

The world is my oyster.

And so I begin my first blog away from the constant buzz of London and I would like to write about...TFL.
Did I ever mention how sterling an organisation I find it? No? Well, now I'm saying it. Sterling.
One doesn't appreciate it enough when one has been waiting for a bus for 6 minutes and then when it comes, you have to stand. Damn that cost me £1.35.
Having waited in the rain for 20 minutes the other day for a bus that should have come in half the time, and having paid £1.70 on the only not broken ticket machine for the privilege, I yearn for the days of the 6 minute wait being about the maximum. Oh Boris, how I miss you...
True, this bus was not so crowded...but that's only because the service was so appalling it just wasn't worth it. I just can't drive so i'm stuck with it. Boo.
But, this was in Chester, a metropolis of public transport compared with the one solitary bus that passes through my village every couple of hours. Now I'm really going to have to time this carefully. Or sweet talk my parents into becoming a personal taxi service. I'm sure they will. They loved it when I was 15.
I have yet to decide where I need to go though. I am so far unemployed (a state I'm rather enjoying) and generally undecided about who might give me a job for 2 or 3 days a week for 2 months with preferably no weekends. Hmm... is it ok to sign on so I can save for travels? It doesn't seem quite right somehow. And I really don't know how I would get to the job centre anyway. The bus remember...
And don't feel sorry for me but I am so far friendless (probably because I have been confined to the house by copious amounts of unpacking and healthy supplies of both cheese and cake) so I have absolutely no reason to need public transport anyway.
Which is what brings me to this blog. Nostalgia for the ability to not even notice how much the bus costs because of the magic wand that is an oyster card. The freedom that comes with having a choice not to run for the bus and take one in 2 minutes. Or having a choice of routes. Or having someone to meet at the other end, or a museum to go to, or an Urban Outfitters...alas...
OK, I'm exaggerating a little. I've been here less than a week so my withdrawal symptoms are at their peak. I do not miss being at armpit height on a crowded tube. There.
And actually I've been a lot more productive than I've been for a long time. The time I used to spend on the tube I'm now devoting to perfecting Moon River on the ukulele (I want to be Holly Golightly). And today I re-ignited my love of The Sound of Music. I'm uplifted and ready to climb every mountain, ford every stream...I will have to, if I continue to procrastinate this much I'll miss my bus. Walking up a mountain might be the only way.

Can someone help me please?!

This week I'm faced with the appalling task of packing.
Crap.
Just so you know, I struggle with this at the best of times. Every time I leave the house I spend slightly longer than necessary deliberating what to take with me (it might rain at any time you know!); I regularly overpack when I go away; or forget something crucial like my toothbrush or pyjamas.
These problems are less of an issue this time though because I have to pack EVERYTHING. That is seven years of...stuff...into one car. How did I do this before? It feels like an impossible challenge.
I think the key will be a sudden charitable spirit. I with have to ruthlessly give away all of those things I don't use but hang onto "just in case."
But i neeeeeeeed it all. The incense set you never use? Yes, I fancy a fragrant bath experience when I get home. The old videos? Yes! Good Will Hunting is a classic. The broken bike? Isadora is merely sick and I will nurse her back to health for some glorious country cycling.
You see?
And then once I have crammed my life into a combination of suitcases, cardboard boxes and bin bags I'll have to then unpack. Which is worse. Much worse. Because the thing is, at my parents house, where I am temporarily a lodger/squatter I have even more stuff. Where am I supposed to fit all my clothes, books, sewing machine, tool kit etc when the wardrobe is full of purple Lycra catsuits, tutus, and boxes of old school books? And a million teddy bears, most of whom I have forgotten the names of but can't bear to send away. They'll be so sad. I've seen Toy Story.
What I suspect will happen here is that I will just transfer a lot of stuff to the attic. Don't tell the parents. They'll just get a pleasant surprise when they get the Christmas tree out in December and find my life in the way.
But I'll be far away by then...MWAHAHAHA!
Alternatively I'll become resident interior designer and rearrange the whole house to make a space for myself. Thus far, I have not really looked into potential employment so I may as well add this to my current list of things to do: learn to cook; learn to run; clean; write a book of fairytales. Re-decorate. Lovely.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't even have any cardboard boxes yet. All I've done is look about me in dismay and wail: "Can someone help me please?!" and then immediately leave the room and concentrate on diminishing my food stocks one potato at a time. In my head this is productive.
Maybe I'll wait until my Dad comes to my assistance. Or maybe I'll invite various friends over to talk to me while I agonise over whether I will ever wear that bright green flowery halter neck again.
Expect a call friends. I need you.

Olympic Spirit

I am simply so excited. For someone who never shows any interest in sport, for two weeks every four years I am fascinated by them all. Truly I can barely tear myself away. So much so that this blog has taken a lot longer to write than it should have.
Not only am I hooked by the normal sports I'm also suddenly quite knowledgeable about Dressage, Archery, Fencing. How cool would it be to be on the fencing team and feel like one of the three musketeers? Very. As it is I have to be content to just cheer on the talented members of the nation from my sofa, and plan to join a club so I can make my hugely successful debut at Rio 2016.
And we are doing SO well. To be appropriately cliche: Go Team GB!! For such a tiny island we got some great people, no? Not least, Jess Ennis, who is amazing. Heptathlon is a crazy event as well. Look at a hurdler, then at a shot put thrower and they are not similar breeds, and here are these people who can do it all, and put us all to shame with their washboard stomachs. Jealous much?
Actually no. Just massively proud, as if I personally contributed to this incredible sports person's victory. I think a lot of people feel the same. Because we love her. Fact.
And then even more gold medals on the same night thanks to Rutherford and Farah. Whoop for us. Outstanding GB, outstanding.
As you can tell from my last blog, I have been watching a lot of cycling and was truly devastated when Cav didn't get a look in medal-wise. Poor tactics I guess, but he should have won.
And this is what I really love about the Olympics: that as a nation we jump to our feet and scream all together in both glory and disappointment.
I don't care how much everyone complained about it before, about inevitable transport failure (which hadn't happened), crazy busy London (which hasn't happened) etc. As soon as all those volunteers started dancing around the maypole at the opening ceremony, we were all hooked, proud and behind London 2012 all the way. Do not try to deny it. You'd be lying to yourself.
People are so happy, on the first day I made several new friends including Dennis and Jackie who were out to soak up the atmosphere and basically have a chat. That's great, huh? This Olympic spirit makes everyone so friendly. And all the tourists are so excited to be here. London is like the host of a massive party. Yes, it was a bit stressful to organise but now it's in full swing we're having a whale of a time. Let's do this every Olympics!
And still a week to look forward to. Usain is coming to win again. Now there's someone that transcends country loyalty. I always want him so win. To be superman for 9 seconds. And what a nice man!
And Dai Greene who I support especially, him being a friend of my brother in law. Go on boy! Bad rehearsal, good show, that's the way it is.
For now, tennis, where if Murray continues in this vain he will win at Wimbledon against the man who just stopped him a couple of weeks ago. Fingers crossed.
God bless the home crowd. I wish I was there, somewhere, to share that adrenalin. Still time. That failing, I'm booking my flight to South America for four years time.
So that's it. I'm off to indulge my temporary passion and eat a biscuit while I watch some super fit people running around. Ah the ironies of being a sport fan...

A new legend is born.

Yesterday was a landmark in sporting history: a man with quite outstanding sideburns became the first British cyclist to win the Tour de France. Bravo Bradley Wiggins. Yellow suits you.
The Tour has long been my favourite sporting event of the year, mainly because I like the scenery. France is just so pretty. I spot my 'future home' at least once every stage that I watch. And I'm equally entertained by such a fine collection of legs. Lovely. Yes, I know that's not the point.
Don't get me wrong, I'm hardly a hardcore fan. I dip in and out and vaguely follow what's happening, helped along by my Dad's avid viewing. If I want to talk to him in July, I will pick up a thing or two about various jersey patterns and time trials and sprint finishes.
And talking of sprint finishes, one Christmas I fell upon the best present. Mark Cavendish was doing a signing in a bookshop I happened to be passing. Well, I was straight in there buying Boy Racer and queuing. I did get a little bored though and the message I finally got him to write on the title page read something like:
"Dear Richard, I hope you appreciate how much your daughter loves you. She's had to wait bloody ages for this. I hope it's worth it. Merry Christmas, Mark Cavendish."
I may have paraphrased there but you get the gist. Mark actually chuckled as he wrote and now we're best friends. Fact.
Or we could have been, but I'm very busy and important you know, so I had to rush off.
Still, as I saw him winning Champs-Elysees I was quite proud of my best friend and did a small skipping circuit of the living room in excitement. He is faaaaaast!
And what made it all really perfect was the fact the Brad, golden shirted winner led him into it, spectacularly doing it for both Team Sky and UK. Allez! Allez!
In sport, the thing that inspires loyalty in me is when someone is a hero. Like when Tyler Hamilton came fifth with a broken collarbone. Now there is some respectable feat. I was much less impressed when he got disqualified for doping a few years later. I felt personally betrayed. Heroes do not do drugs. That is all.
Bradley, on the other hand, is very articulate and clearly passionate about both his sport, and the purity of it. One can cheer for him in all respects. And because of the above mentioned facial hair he has become (in my head at least) some kind of eccentric sporting legend. Like that swimmer with the moustache, Mark Spitz. Or Steve Prefontaine.
I digress. What I'm trying to say is congratulations Mr Wiggins. A well deserved victory to an awesome chap. I will even get Sybil (my bike) out of the shed in a fit of sporting inspiration. That, and I have no other option: the Olympics are coming and I suspect London will be impossible without her. No sprint finishes for me. I might get me a yellow t-shirt though, now the sun's out.

Farewell

Yesterday I left a job. It was not a job I ever loved. I complained about it often enough and have in fact been looking forward to leaving for at least the last two years (of two and a half that I was employed). But now here I am, having to say goodbye and it's actually very sad. Whatever faults it has, the company has impeccable taste in employees- that is why I have stayed so long- so this blog is for all of you, to celebrate comradery and friendship.

Friends,

It’s hard to know where to begin actually. I’ve said so many goodbyes in the last two and a half years but now it’s my turn to go. How odd it will be not to see you all everyday.

I don’t know how to make emotional speeches, so even though it has been requested several times you aren't getting any such thing. Ha. Besides, so many of the people I cared about have already gone, said their own goodbyes, that I decided to write instead. 

As much as I hate to admit it, as much as I have complained about it, been angry with it, bitched about it, this job has been a massive part of my life. And I owe so much to it: learning how to cope when there are 300 people wanting coffee and only 16 cups and 7 teaspoons; how to survive for two months of the years on maximum 4 hours sleep a night; how to smile when all I want to do is scream and slam all the doors on my way out; how to tell people off(!!!) and to stand up for myself. All key skills in life I'm sure you'll agree.

But most of all it is the friendships I’ve made that have not just helped me survive no taxis, horrendous hours and lifting twice my body weight in tables, but made it a joy. When I look back I will think of Top Trumps, Weird Crush of the Week, drinking Red Stripe on the Piazza, Naked Calendar, WAKA WAKA!!! Karaoke, eating ice cream on the balcony, cling-filmed shoes, prosecco in plastic cups, the Single Ladies dance…

Now I think I’m pretty good at keeping in touch so there is no excuse for becoming strangers, but I can’t believe the time has come for me to say goodbye. And I’m so fricking happy! It’s my turn. Hurrah! Onward and upward I hope, but let’s make sure we continue with the good stuff and I’ll just be exempt from all the customer service. Thank you Jesus H. Christ. 

Warning: small sad story to follow (ergh). When I was at college one of my teachers told my I was too emotionally immature and I needed more ‘life experience’ to do what I wanted to do. I cried. Of course I did, I was an emotionally immature 18 year old. And I was really at a loss. I danced, I worked hard, I had…have some amazing friends who are sisters to me. It’s only now that I have met people who challenge me, now I have been in love and had my heart broken, now that I’ve gritted my teeth and got the hell on with it, that I understand what she meant. 

And a lot of what I have learnt is down to you people. Who'd have thought? So thank you thank you with all my heart. 

Cin cin, toodles! I LOVE YOU!  Now bring me a flat warm prosecco, I'm signing out! HURRAH!

On a serious note.

I can't seem to be whimsical today and yet I feel the need to write. I'm afraid this may not be the light-hearted blog you may expect by now.

A man spoke to me about God this afternoon while I was waiting for a friend and I found myself thinking he was wrong. It was all wrong. Yes, I find religion interesting as a concept (how it makes people behave) and I would say I am culturally Christian. I pray occasionally, I like the stories, I find churches somehow comforting. But, amongst other things, the 'Afterlife' bothers me. There are questions I have about it that have no pleasing answer: how old are you in Heaven? I would like to be a child with my parents, old with my grandchildren. If you have loved more than one man, how will they feel about sharing? Won't it be hugely overcrowded and eventually boring? I'm not sure eternity is for me.

I have come to believe that Heaven or Hell is not a place, but the legacy that we leave. If we are happy and well-loved, we live on in beautiful memories and hopefully the lives of those we leave behind, which are better for us being in them.

If you inspire only hate, that is a Hell you've created for yourself.

But this evening I saw a documentary called Hitler's Children. Five descendants of leading members of the Nazi party talking about the guilt that their parents and grandparents have left them. 

I have no connection, as far as I'm aware, to anything so horrific but who knows...there have been many atrocities in history, and plenty of time to forget. But I wanted to talk about it for some inexplicable reason. It is one thing to have a million people despise you for your crimes. It is quite another to have your only remaining family have themselves sterilised, as Bettina Goering (niece of the founder of the Gestapo) did, to cut the line that you have tainted. To never have children because they believe anything that comes from you does not deserve to live. Hell, indeed.

But why should they suffer and feel guilt? Each new person is a new slate aren't they? 

But we are told so often how like our parents we are. And not just our faces. Sometimes we inherit a temper, or a stubborn streak. What is it like to fear you could be capable of the same crimes? The same blindness?

Niklas Frank, another of the 'children' has spent most of his adult life chronicling, condemning and telling the world about his father, a monster. But the thing I found most painful was not the fact that Frank felt he had to remind people so it didn't happen again, it wasn't that he needed to punish himself daily by recounting his own childhood memories and experiences of genocide, it was when he revealed that he continued to research because he was looking for one redeeming feature of his father, one life saved or spared, so that he could love his own flesh and blood. He found nothing.

But, there was love too. His daughter never had to fight her past because he has 'already defeated it' for her. And forgiveness as Auchwitz's commander's grandson returned there to be told by a survivor of the camp to stop blaming himself: "you were not there."

As I said, I know nothing of this. I'm highly unqualified to tackle the issue but I wanted to share with you this terribly poignant pragramme. I have no moral to share because I don't know what it should be. Love? Being good? Forgive and forget or remember and learn? Sometimes, a subject raises more questions than it answers, and the twisted, fragile and contrary nature of the human conscious is certainly one them.