Nana's. Ding Dong.

Well. Crikey. Has been a long time between posts. I wish I could say that my jet setting life style had forced me to abstain but, truth be told, I have done nought of note in recent months apart from getting an elderly cat (Gentleman Gus - more on him to follow), getting a new job (promotion - hurrah!), getting my ho ho ho on (Christmas - festive!) and starting volunteer work (Nanas - elderly!)

For this post I shall concentrate on my cat and Nana's, as both are crooked of hip, short of tooth, and have captured my cold, crone like heart.

Gus came into our lives when I decided that I'd like a companion for my Sunday night Come Dine With Me marathons. Simonski often works Sunday nights. I have a perfectly good lap to spare and thought a kitten might be ace. After trawling the net and various noble agencies, I found Gentleman Gus. At the ripe old age of 16 he is quite the Nana cat. He is very distinguished and enjoys the following:

• Sitting on my lap for hours on end, meowing pitifully when I am required to remove him for urination, food, or bed (mine, not his)
• Perving on me whilst I take my morning shower
• Hopping into the shower when I am done where he sits and contemplates the universe (and drinks my left over shower water - I think he is quite taken with my 'Bedhead' honey and oatmeal conditioner)
• Dining on the finest cat food money can buy, as well as upon salmon, chicken and other delights fed to him by Simonski (who is an absolute sucker for our furry friend)
• Waging his midnight campaign of terror which generally consists of him jumping on our bed (damn our open plan and almost doorless abode!) sitting on my head and attempting to drink from my water glass
• 'Teddy Time'. This - the strangest of his habits - is apparently something he's done since he was a young 'un. It consists of him grabbing his bear (a little yellow teddy he's had since kitten hood), 'giving it' to teddy, and meowing in a plaintive manner while he wanders about in circles. He never has Teddy Time in our presence . It is very private, and on the couple of occasions we have caught him in the act he simply drops Teddy and carries on as if nothing has happened.

I am not really a cat person. I've never really wanted a cat before. But Gus is such a weirdo that he's captured my heart. Like the Nana's have.

I said I would write of the Nana's in this post, but I have decided to keep you breathless with anticipation til my next instalment (soon!) Nana's to follow!

Sun, sea, sand and assault by sequined fat men. Plus pooping of pantaloons on flight home.

Just returned from two weeks of (slightly overcast and not altogether warm) sun and fun in the land of the pide bread. Was delightful. We had only one domestic (involving mojitos and tanning cream) and one dark evening where I was insulted by fat men in sequins. Apart from that, it all went swimmingly.

We arrived at our (very swanky) resort on Monday evening. Our room was roughly the size of a football stadium and equipped with a main bedroom, sitting area, bathroom and dressing area. Unfortunately the dressing area featured a full length mirror and lighting akin to that you find in the dressing rooms of Target. I had spent several months fine tuning my bod before departure only to have my self esteem unravel in approx 20 seconds when I glimpsed myself in said hideous lighting (in the nude) before launching myself at the cupboard and hiding the horror in my complimentary robe. Why - oh why - would one decide to have 'down lighting' in an area where one oft appears in the raw?? It makes no sense. Evidently a male made this decision as no woman would think that light which accentuates every lump, wrinkle and crinkle would be an ace fit for a dressing area.

When dawn broke and we noted that the view from our balcony was almost as grim as the view in the dressing area, we elected to change rooms. We did not come on holidays to admire the back of other buildings! We came to see the sea (so to speak). Some cash changed hands, our bags were moved and we were inserted in a delightful new room with a fantastic view and no hideous dressing area. Bravo!

Le Pond was determined to come back from hols the colour of burnt toffee, so we carted ourselves off to the beach at the crack of dawn the following day. Unfortunately, the best weather was on days one and two! It wasn't RAINY, but was quite breezy and the breeze was icy. If you had a spot without wind it was glorious but I spent more than one day with a towel under me and another on top (I was v close to nana status - all I needed was my knitting on a stable table and I was there).

Food was amazing and we did eat more than usual but Pondy swam every day and I took myself off to the gym and caned myself on a regular basis. Lovely gym and I often had it to myself. Occasionally shared with Germans in very short shorts, but am wife to Pondy so used to large amounts of leg on display. We were not completely well behaved and did have a couple of boozy nights. We went to bingo one night and I won a (not v fetching) picture frame and endeared myself to all the Turkish waiters with a cartwheel of victory. We also went to a show called 'Dream Girls' which was basically fat English men in drag miming badly to show tunes and taking the mick out of the audience. I was seated in the front row and was picked on mercilessly. Vicious bloody things they were too. Still, I was sloshed to the gills on cocktails and didn't mind too much.

We went to the main town of Bodrum several times. Lots of sightseeing (castles, ruins, relics). Not a lot of shopping as every shop sold the same things (I shit thee not - if you wanted a mock Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt, fake rolex or imitation Prada bag, then bully for you. If you wanted anything else you were flat out of luck). Also there were no prices on anything so they were free to charge you what they wished, and then you had to haggle to get them down to a reasonable price. I loathe the haggle. I like to know a price and pay that price. I don't have the time, patience, or fortitude to haggle. Especially when I know I am earning more in a week than they earn in a month. It makes me feel kind of sick. Luckily, Pondy shares none of these concerns and managed to wangle himself a couple of bargains. All in all, we had a dandy old time and were v sad when the time came to return to chilly old Cornwall....and the hideousness that was our return flight.

We didn't take off until 10:55pm Monday. As we had to check out at midday, Pondy and I spend the whole (rainy) day mooching about the resort - reading, snoozing, playing pool etc. We were both exhausted by departure time. I was also feeling really freaky - kind of dizzy and spacy. Think I was just tired but it felt like I was walking around with moon boots on. We finally boarded and were seated in front of a couple of complete knobs and their spawn for the trip. Male knob was as thick as a brick. He spent the whole flight LOUDLY sharing his theories on everything from aliens ('has to be sumfin' else out there babe') to the minds of air attendants ('they're just waiters luv - they expect to be called on. Gemme a rum and coke will ya?') whilst his child kicked the back of my chair repeatedly. Mum was too busy complaining about needing a fag to address this issue to my satisfaction and I ended up cracking about thirty mins into the journey and giving the child Kath look number 4 (mild irritation with threat of spilt blood). Kicking stopped soon after.

Pondy was snoozing when I first noticed lightning. It was initially several miles in the distance, but didn't take long before it was RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW and we were shaking about like jelly in a dish. They started serving our food, but stopped at our row (we were 6 from the front) then the captain said they'd be postponing drink service due to the turbulence. We were rattling about like crazy. Then, I spotted one of the hosties RUNNING from the back of the plane to the front where he chatted (very seriously and with much animation) to the two gals up there. They burst into the cockpit, more worried running around then followed complete with actions which looked a lot like 'battening down the hatches'. Drinks and duty free items were stowed away, meals snatched from our hands, requests to stow trays and restore seats to upright. The whole time - and this is what really threw me - they all looked PETRIFIED. That was the scariest thing. They didn't look at all calm or reassuring. They looked bloody scared.

People started whispering and looking around them - 'something's happening', 'something's wrong' and I seriously thought - well, this is it. I'm gonna cark it. I closed my eyes, ignored Pondy (still eating - obviously deciding to die on a full stomach), resisted the urge to suck my thumb and waited. The plane started descending. I started to poop my pantaloons. Pondy abandoned his sausages and started to worry with me. A woman up the front demanded a double brandy. We were minutes from the ground when they finally told us that someone at the back of the plane had suffered a serious epileptic fit (perhaps due to lightning) and we were landing for her. While I felt exceptionally bad for the poor lady who was ill, I was also really pissed off with how it was handled. Why didn't they tell us this when we first started descending? Why didn't they behave professionally and not run about like frightened school children? It was really grim. So, as a result we were late into Bristol and didn't get home til 7am Tuesday (Pondy driving whilst I watched him like a hawk lest he fell asleep at the wheel).

Have now been back for a week and the holiday now seems like a distant memory. Sigh.... Italy next year (hurrah!)

Primark, tough teens and wild eyed nanna's.

Shopping can be hell.

On a business trip to London recently my colleague and I decided, on a free afternoon, to pop off to Primark on Oxford street. She wanted to pick up some cheap vest tops and stocking fillers (yes – already!) and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

Well. Let’s just say I’d rather eat bark than ever set foot in Primark again.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure - it basically is a big shop full of cheap crap (that looks cheap, feels cheap, probably dissolves on its first wash) piled up in every square inch of available space where it is pawed over by wild eyed shoppers – in a near frenzy at the thought of a £2 t shirt. The queue to the dressing rooms is roughly three miles long, but the intrepid Primark shopper cares not for queuing – it cuts into bargain time! They simply whip off their keds in the middle of the store and get changed in public. A few of the more modest Primark shoppers gather a gaggle of friends or relatives around them while they strip (a type of human shield) but some just GO FOR IT. It’s quite disconcerting spotting brassieres and underoos in the public domain. It’s not a flipping beach for Christ sakes.

Of course, being in the raw in a busy shop is frowned upon and, to be fair, the security guards were doing their best to keep everyone clothed. But the shoppers are out of control. Not only did I witness many barely contained bosoms and bums, but I was also in fear of losing my life. I was bashed out of the way by pregnant women, bowled over by sweet looking school girls. Knocked into next week by nana’s on a search for bed linen. I couldn’t bear it. Everyone’s feverish excitement started to affect me - I felt that I must be missing out on a bargain and if I didn’t get shopping quick smart I’d regret it forever. I grabbed a shopping basket and headed into the melee where I proceeded to pick up things I didn’t need, want, or even particularly LIKE simply cos they were so cheap. Will I ever wear a pale pink sequined snood? I think not. What about a pair of bright orange underoos that I’m not entirely sure will even fit me (the sizing structure is 8 - 10, followed by 12 - 14. I am a 10 - 12. Do I go for potentially baggy undies, or for ones that may cut off the flow of blood to my nether regions?). I also grabbed a pair of pyjamas for £5, a roll of wrapping paper, a pack of face wipes and a lip gloss. Then I wigged out completely.

I was trying to make my way to the tills when a dirty little tart with a face like a smashed crab knocked me flying into a rail of (£2!) hats. ‘Excuse me!’ I said, in my best mum voice. ‘Can you please watch where you’re going?’.

‘Watch yourself woman’ she replied. Watch yourself woman? For the love of God. I tried desperately to think of a witty come back, but my brain was too addled by the proceedings of the previous 30 mins. ‘You watch yourself, little girl’ I snarled. She turned towards her equally attractive mates – no doubt looking for back up. This was too much. I was about to get punched out (or maybe stabbed – we were close to the homeware section with the (£4!) knives) by a teenager in Primark. As she grabbed her mates and stomped back towards me I flung my basket on the floor and fled – passing two half naked nana’s on the way out.
I shan’t go back again.

My muffin top has become a baker's dozen

Went to the beach on the weekend.

Good God.

The last time I wore a swimsuit for any extended period of time was in Crete with the Pond family. We were there for two weeks and I was bikini-clad every day. I walked around in my bikini. I swam in my bikini. I even jogged in it once (to the toilet – was v close to wetting self and refused to just ‘pee in the sea’). I was happy in my bikini. More importantly, I was comfortable. Not so comfortable that I would do any major strolls without a sarong at the ready, and certainly not so comfortable as to wobble my way through a game of beach volleyball, but I felt respectable. Healthy. Reasonably toned.

This weekend I grabbed my favourite bikini which had not seen an outing since Crete and attempted to shoehorn myself into it.

Top half was ok – needed a bit of a jiggle and a wiggle to secure the gals in place, but, once they were trapped, I looked perfectly presentable from the belly button up.

Then came the bikini bottoms.

They are hipster bottoms and they have always been a tad snug, even in Crete . I remember on that very holiday pinching a teeny tiny bit of skin at hip level and complaining about my muffin top.

Well. If THAT was a muffin, I now am the proud owner of a baker’s dozen. There was a distinct ROLL over the top of my bottoms. It need not be pinched – I could actually GRAB a large chunk of myself. (And so could Simon, as he happily demonstrated – helping himself to a hearty handful whilst I was assisting our niece in the digging of a – very impressive - hole. He ended up with a shovel up the side of his head).

This is my own fault. I have spent the summer (grim though it was) in a giddy haze of dinners, bbq’s and carousing. Well, NO MORE! The realisation that my Turkish holiday is only 32 sleeps away has me apoplectic with fear. When I imagine the holiday in my head, I always look fabulous. I picture myself in my new denim skirt (pre-summer purchase - good God, will it still fit me??) and bikini top, looking trim and terrific. If I don’t curb my love affair with cider and cheese pronto, I may well be waddling along the Turkish beaches swathed in a kaftan with my new skirt working outside its remit as, perhaps, a hat.

So I’ve decided I’m not drinking in September. Nor am I indulging in any crap. I’m going to be as pure as the driven snow (not snow that has actually been driven ON, as this tends to be quite disgusting. As pure as the stuff that actually is falling from the sky). I have only 32 days to fit back into my bikini bottoms. I’m too terrified to try my skirt on again.

I have several social engagements this month that I will now be attending sober. Come along and enjoy the ride!

* Join me as I say no to free glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
* Laugh as I ask for ‘orange juice please’ at the wine bar.
* Delight in my discomfort as I socialise with acquaintances while sipping on a soda water.
* Gag as I eat an egg white omelette for breakfast!

I will keep you in the loop. Perhaps I should post a picture of my baker’s dozen on here? Do I dare????

Stay tuned...

I am a Cow Watcher

Good God I’m knackered. Seven days of non stop sightseeing and carousing with my visiting Aussie buddy has left me as squinty eyed and dehydrated as a smoked mackerel.

Unfortunately, she has now left Cornwall ’s fair shores. Sob. But we (Simonski and I) certainly gave her a good hard flogging while she was here.

We took her to beaches (where we paddled in water so cold that we lost all feeling in our toes), the mountains (where I realised I am not afraid of heights, I am only afraid of cliffs), the fields (where I encountered* my favourite kind of cow – the delightfully fluffy ‘Banded Galloway’) the pubs (so many pubs…).

So all in all, an action packed week.

My favourite part was a visit to the local Legion’s club where we were served cheap drinks in delightful company, sang karaoke (Burning Ring of Fire) and did Irish dancing and cartwheels in the streets til the early hours. I blame mead.

* ‘encountered’ makes it sound like we just happened upon them. In fact I dragged us to Zennor and searched every field in the manner of a crazed cow spotter (if train spotters are called ‘twitchers’ does this make me a moo-er?)

Is it wrong to dangle bits of yourself into an occupied cubicle?

Today I was in a cubicle in the toilets at work when someone entered the toilets, took up position in the cubicle next to moi, then settled in with her foot IN MY CUBICLE. Why??? It was a rather large foot with toe nails in need of attention, clad in a comfortable black sandal. What was it doing in MY cubicle? There is obviously sufficient room in a toilet stall for you to keep your appendages contained. It was almost resting between my ankles.

I found this v disconcerting. I also became extremely interested in the footwear of everyone within my company but have not spotted the same shoe yet. I have concluded it must have been an outsider.

My boobs have been flapping around like a spaniel's ears for three weeks...

Good God. I have just realised that my boobs have been flapping around like a spaniel’s ears for the last three weeks without my knowledge.

How did this happen, I hear you ask?

As the weather has been warm (by UK standards), I had taken to wearing a singlet to my circuit classes. It is one of those singlets with a built in bra top, so I felt it was safe for circuits. I wore it secure in the knowledge that my modesty would be preserved as I squatted, star jumped, and generally bounced about.

I was so, so wrong.

My house has no full length mirrors. If I want to see what an outfit looks like, I have to stand in front of our glass shower screen. However, I have never ‘bounced’ in front of the shower screen – I have not felt the need to. And I certainly have not bounced in front of the shower screen in my workout gear.

This is a mistake I will not make again.

For after THREE weeks, THREE weeks of star jumps, tuck jumps, skipping and other boob bouncing behaviours, I - whilst strutting through Falmouth on a power walk this afternoon – caught sight of myself in a shop window and gasped. Suddenly, the ogling I’d received from some elderly men on a pub crawl made perfect sense. I was boinging about like nobody’s business.

Evidently my ‘inbuilt bra’ was not built for boobs on the move. It was a wonder no one arrested me on my 45 min stroll for indecent behaviour.

I immediately put my coat back on and, arms crossed, strolled very carefully home where I confronted Simon.

Our conversation ran thus:

K: For the love of God – why did you not tell me how much my boobs bounced around in this top?

S: I thought you knew

K: How could I possibly know? We don’t have a full length mirror. There aren’t any mirrors at circuits. They’ve been flying around, barely contained, for three weeks now! Why didn’t you say something….Oh God… I’ve been doing STAR JUMPS like this! And SKIPPING!!!

S: I like it.

K: Well I don’t! Those poor men in our circuit class. They mustn’t have known where to look. I’m bopping, I’m bouncing. Good God Simon! I’m your WIFE.

S: I know. I like it.

Etcetera. Honestly, what hope do I have?