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100 ideas for your blog, Life in general, Random

Fess up: 100 ideas for your blog #2

The idea of this post is to confess, blab about your failings, tell people you’re human. This already feels uncomfortabe…

Here’s five…

Hare’s breath
When covering a court case as a junior reporter I wrote that the defendant was within a ‘hare’s breath’ of *insert punishment for menial crime here, I can’t remember the details* What, in fact, I should have written – and was pointed out to me by the smirking subs’ desk – is that the magistrate actually said ‘hair’s breadth‘. Duh.

Man found hanged
Sometime later, as a deputy editor, my headline on a story about a man who killed himself in the car in his garage – suicide by intoxication – was ‘Man found hanged’. I’d read the story, knew what had happened but for some reason typed in ‘man found hanged’ in the headline box and, wowsers, it was a perfect fit! What’s more amusing is that the reporters who proofed the pages didn’t pick up on it AND neither did a SINGLE reader. Amazing. Lucky for me it was the same week as my editor made a typo in a headline which should have read ‘Grass cutting’ not ‘Grass c*nting’. That one made it into FHM magazine.

Falling in love
When I was in high school I was delighted to be friends with one of the hottest guys ever, in the year above me. Trouble is, I was always ‘the mate’ and never the girlfriend. So I was a smitten kitten when Nicky – that was his name – challenged me to a race on the playing fields one lunch time. I’d won the 100 metre sprint at the recent sports day and he reckoned he could beat me. I knew he couldn’t. So we raced, to the amusement of our friends who were watching. I was ahead of him, the finish line was in site, when… he took my legs from under me and I went FLYING. Arse over tit, skirt not covering the bits it should, face utterly red. I laughed it off with the others but I was DYING inside.

Tale of too many tissues
During my journalism training we visited a prison and had a look around a lifer’s cell – which was rammed with boxes of tissues. I stupidly piped up, a bundle of nervous enthusiasm, and asked what all the tissues were for. “Take a look at the walls love,” said the warden guy, as I glanced up at poster after poster of nude women. Ah, nuff said. *Red face*

Science failure
I was the only person in my year to fail my science GSCE. I took the top paper (why did you insist Mrs Miller, you silly teacher, you!) and so the lowest grade I could have got was a C. I missed out and even after a remark, failed by two points. If I’d taken the lower paper I could have scraped a D. I am very BITTER about that.

Inspired by No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 Ideas For Your Blog by Margaret Mason

Holidays, Life in general, Marriage, Random, what I think

£50 on eggnog lattes!!! Am I Mrs Scrooge?

I’m full of the Christmas spirit – yes, it’s only November. I’m watching my swelling collection of festive films, recording everything TrueFilm on Sky has to offer in seasonal movies and Michael Buble’s new Christmas CD is now the only music I play in the car. I am the incredibly proud owner of snowflake pyjamas, two Christmas jumpers and a cardigan sporting knitted reindeer and I keep getting distracted from my MA studies by mince pie recipes on the internet. I’m also thinking about making mulled wine for the hobbits visiting from the shire this weekend and have organised my diary around the switching on of Newport Pagnell’s Christmas lights. Oh, and my reward for submitting my first MA assignment in a couple of weeks will be a visit to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland.

Merry Crisis and Happy New FearAll that said and done, I have a small inkling that I may be turning into Mrs Scrooge this year – ever since my husband announced he’d spent almost £50 on eggnog lattes this month and I nearly choked on my turkey and cranberry panini. Now don’t get me wrong, eggnog lattes are lush – but £50!

There’s one more pay day between now and Chrimbo and it’s just not going to cover the yuletide spending frenzy I’d like. And this year I’ve become positively anal about savings and don’t want to dip into that pot, uh uh. And I’m worried that I’ll be asking Santa for contributions to my inflated car insurance, due for renewal in January and bound to be extortionate following a recent prang. Bloody Milton Keynes and its roundabouts!

I’m also wincing at the fact that now I’m a married woman I have to cough up for extra presents, which means less money for myself. Christmas is about treating yourself, right? Oh no, it’s about goodwill and peace to all men, or something like that. Pah. We have two families to buy for and I very much like the gift of giving, even if I don’t like paying for it.

So I purposely left toilet roll off the weekly shopping list yesterday, just to save myself a whole fiver, when I’m only going to have to order it next time because loo roll, let’s face it, will always get used. Toilet roll manufacturers are never going to go out of business are they?

This time of year is also sociable and sociable generally means expensive – Christmas dos, catching up with friends over eggnog lates – and we all know how expensive that can be *coughs and points to husband*, iceskating trips, and buying useless Christmas trinkets because you’re too weak to walk past shop windows without popping in to ‘browse’.

So I guess I’m less a Mrs Scrooge – because I wholeheartedly support the feel good factor that Christmas brings – and more torn between wanting to splash the cash on having a very merry time and wanting to have something bigger than a rusty twopence in the piggybank by the time 2012 rolls around.

Someone pass the winning Lottery ticket! Santa? Are you listening?

Picture by decarr66 via Flickr under Creative Commons licence

friends, Just stuff, Life in general, Random, what I think

Why I hate nightclubs…

Fame hen weekendI had loads of fun at my mate’s Fame-themed hen weekend (I have to say that, I was co-organiser, but it happens to be true) although it did serve to remind me why my clubbing days are well and truly over. I used to love a good night out but now the sofa beckons…

Here’s why…

1) You have to pay to get in. And if you don’t like it when you do get in, there’s no refund policy or try before you buy.

2) Even if someone is shouting directly into your earhole, you still can’t hear them.

3) Random men feel it’s appropriate to dribble over you, grab your buttocks and spoon you on the dancefloor. It isn’t.

4) You have to queue for a ridiculously long time to get a drink. In this day and age where you can get the latest James Paterson novel on your kindle in three minutes flat, slow bar staff and elbow-jostling queues just doesn’t do it for me.

5) Clubs smell of incredibly sweaty armpits. The toilets smell of wee, poo and incredibly sweaty armpits.
Going to the toilet involves dodging other women’s wee, grappling for tissues in the absence of loo roll and getting scowled at by other women as you top up your lip gloss in the mirror. At the weekend, two guys were so brazen they chose the ladies loos as a good place to (potentially) pull. Helllloooo! Seriously guys, you need to try harder.

6) Women in nightclubs don’t like other women. Every other female who isn’t your friend (and sometimes even your friends count) is judged as competition for single men or a threat to happy couples and nice looking women are generally disliked most. None of this bothers me in the slightest but as a semi sober person I noticed a lot of women scowling.

7) High heels and dance floors don’t go. My trainer-hungry feet were screaming at me in pointy high heels and forced me to lean against a wall and sway for the latter part of the evening as my shoes lay idle on the floor and my bare feet dodged the spilled beer and broken glass.

8) Night clubs don’t get busy until very late. We arrived at 11.15pm and it was practically empty. 11.15pm is pushing my bedtime as it is, it’s a struggle to stay up later just to catch the crowds.

9) Leaving nightclubs is the best bit, the chance to kick off the killer heels, head towards a warm and cosy bed and maybe scoff a dirty kebab on the way. But first you have to dodge touchy-feely men, drunken shouty women and sporadic piles of sick, just to get to the taxi.

10) The reason why I used to like clubbing? I was so blind drunk that I never noticed any of the above. Maturity and sensible drinking has a side effect – awareness.

Just stuff, Life in general, Random, what I think

Brunette is best

I made a mistake on Friday… having taken the decision two months ago to change my hair colour from red-ish to blonde-ish (I fancied yet another change), I went to the hairdressers on Friday to go even blonder. You see, going lighter takes some time, especially as my hair’s been all sorts of colours over the past few years and blonde needs a bit of time to really take hold. Apparently.

Blonde hair disaster

Seriously bad hair day

But my hair sucked up all that bleach and now I have very blonde hair, whatever ‘very blonde’ means. And it’s dry as a bone. And it feels like straw. And I HATE it.

Every time I glance in the mirror, rage races through my blood, and I’ve spent the weekend with it tied up so I don’t have to see it scratching at my face or get my hand stuck in it when I attempt to move it from my eyes. It’s horrid.

Apart from it looking and feeling as thirsty as a desert – oh, how I miss the shine – I really don’t think I suit being a blonde. It’s just not me.

So, after wailing to my lovely hairdresser down the phone (she must think I’m bonkers) I return to the there at the end of the week to go dark brown. Dark, dark brown. For me, brunette is best, it’s what I’m comfortable with, it’s who I am. And I’m hoping the shine and gloss I once had will come back too.

Fingers crossed it’s not too windy this week, I’m fearful of my hair snapping off at the roots in a big gust of the stuff. Reminds me of when I was about 12 and the hairdresser suggested I cropped my long hair. I had no idea that cropping meant CUTTING MY HAIR SHORT!!!! otherwise I’d never have agreed. What resulted was a lot of tears, a refusal to go to school until it had grown back and a lesson to always talk the same language as my hairdresser.

To be fair, this time my hairdresser (not the evil woman who scarred my childhood) did what I asked and did it well. I have the blonde hair I asked for. What I didn’t realise was that with a bleached bonce comes knots, brittle locks and a fond longing to be a brunette again as quickly as possible. Roll on Friday!

Have you ever had any hair disasters?