Books are better than family.

In true Gemma style, I am currently reading a book about running, but not actually running. Which reminds me ever so much of fifteen books I own on Writing.

Is it possible, that my true talent has been brazenly staring at me, all these years, and I just never looked up?

I think it is.

My best skill (ooohh the suspense), is reading about things that other people just do!

How exciting!

I'm going to suggest to my boss, that instead of turning up to work from now on, it will simply suffice to skim through a few chapters detailing someone with a job.

And to that end, ask my boyfriend, if instead of investing time in our relationship, I can just borrow 'The Notebook' from the library. I'M JOKING - THE QUALITY OF OUR BOND PALES IN COMPARISON TO THEIRS.

The title of this blog is actually something I once said to my Mum, when asked to stop reading so much, and the cause of the only time I ever got grounded. Sharing this with you probably detracts from the crazy, troubled childhood you assumed I'd had. So I'd like to add that at one point (I think I was around 7), I only owned three ponies.

Would anyone like to buy a freezer? I'm serious. Let me know.

Linking in to the above sell - I'm moving to London, wahey! To live with strangers, wahey! Well, alright, Ginger Beard (bf) will be there, but we're practically strangers now. In fact, and I'm sure he won't mind me saying, the only thing we have in common is a desperate need to escape the suffocating noose of what once was our love.

Does anyone remember how to live with people you don't like?

It's just that there's going to be eight of us, and the chances of it being some kind of modern day Walton's are slim. I'm so prepared for battle, that I'm already pissed off over someone drinking my milk, and the the 2am drumming. Not to mention when I need the bathroom, and they're using the bathroom.

CAN YOU IMAGINE?

No, I don't think you can. Because unlike me, a student is something you were once, before you got a crap degree and extended your intake beyond beans. Not something you plan on regressing back to. But thanks to London. That's right, London, you fucking, extortionate, tube laden bastard, we can't afford to live anywhere but practically squashed into the armpit of another overdrawn, milk stealing commuter.

The only remote plus side, is how much material this less-than-ideal, shitter of a situation will offer up for my blog.

And I would probably be less in-advance angry, if I'd gone for a run, INSTEAD OF JUST READING ABOUT ONE.

Becoming Janet

Just in case some of you are missing Ginger Beard (My Geordie other half) as much as me, I thought I'd share this snippet of classic conversation. And I guess if you didn't know him before, you really will now.

Ginger Beard: So, at work once, they put all the women on assertiveness training. It can be really difficult for them not to feel intimidated in a male dominated environment.

Me: Really? That's great. Did it work?

Ginger Beard: Not really. They just went around being complete bitches for a few weeks.

There, feel better now?

I thought so.

ALSO

People keep phoning my house at all hours asking for Janet. I started to feel this incredible pressure to be Janet. They all seem so excited at the prospect of talking to her. It's like, she must be so charismatic to have this many friends!

I phoned Plusnet to complain about it.

David: Basically, you have to tell them to stop it.

Me: Okay.

David: You have to be all, 'this number has been recycled and reassigned to me, and this is unacceptable.'

Me: What if that doesn't work?

David: Then you phone the police and report it as harassment.

Me: Wow, okay, like a crime?

David. Yes, it is a crime. And then phone me back with the crime reference number and I will give you a new number.

So, what? I've practically got to perform a citizen's arrest to get some peace?

It seems easier to just take Janet on like a a second personality. I'm going to try out a few accents and intonations on the next ten or so calls. I'm bound to get her voice right eventually. I guess that in time I can model my second self on the information I get, but for now I'm going to be:

-Hooked on crack cocaine.
-A veterinarian
-An optimist

This morning I lost my balls.

Stranger: Hi, Janet?
Me: Yep.
Stranger: Is that you Janet?
Me: No, not it's not.

I think it's because Janet would never say 'Yep' like that. Tomorrow Janet will try saying, 'Fuck yeah.'

I can be your hero baby

So.....You know when you're watching Brucey strut his stuff in Die Hard, and you're all I wonder what that feels like, to be an action hero, to be forever battling life and death, to start every day knowing it could be your....

Well now you don't have to!

Wonder about it, I mean. Because now (how exciting is this!) you can just ask me.

That's right. Yours truly has experienced a moment which would not look out of place in Mission Impossible.

Can I firstly ask that you don't treat me any differently. I'm the same person, it's just that you'll now be immensely aware of my super human abilities.

SO

There I was, making my way to the station, staring at the back of this person's head going, Man? Woman? Is it? Could it be? Definitely a man, probably a Woman, Man's clothes, woman's hair...... when the lady walking ahead of the Woman/Man drops an unnoticed ticket on the floor.

Woman/Man, drags his/her ugly suitcase along, and stops to pick up the ticket. Meanwhile ticket dropper is through the barriers and hot footing it up some stairs.

Woman/Man gets to barrier, and frantically searches for his/her own ticket.

This is where I come in. Like Silvester Stallone. Like *insert well known tough man*, I was ready.

Firstly, I approached Woman/Man, 'Do you want me to chase her?'

Woman/Man was German! 'Please!'

Not the first time the Germans have fucked up.

I'M JOKING. I'M COMPLETELY JOKING.

I took the ticket. I ran through the barriers. I zigzagged up the stairs, around a stampede of rude commuters, ever chasing the brief flashes of her blue coat.

Across the second set of stairs I bellowed. 'STOP!' And everyone stopped. I have never been so respected.

She stopped.

I rushed over and presented the ticket, like the fitting glass slipper, and said 'It's a good day to die hard.' No, I didn't, don't be ridiculous. I said, 'You dropped your ticket.'

She said, 'Oh, right.' Took the ticket, and fucked off.

A hero who goes unrecognised, is still a hero.

This story, as well as exhibiting that the only thing I'm missing is a costume, also proves that I can do my own stunts.

My awesomeness - Coming to a cinema near you.

Okay, but really - I mean, where were her fucking manners? Was she dragged up? I think I'd of got the exact same response if I'd saved her baby moments before a train squashed it. She didn't have a baby, but you get the point. If she had had a baby I would've slapped it across the the face and said, 'For your mother's crimes against humanity.'

I'm genuinely gutted now that she wasn't with a child, which I could've assaulted.

Have a lovely day!

Rage against the....anything.

I've still got cake left!

Just in case you wanted some. Let me know.

ALSO

I was on the train the other day, and there were two thick girls in the aisle.

I know that sounds harsh, but wait for it.

Me: Would you both mind moving there (two empty seats) so I can get past.

*Blank stares*

Me: It's just that I can't get to my seat.

One of them moves out the way, one of them stays where she is.

Me: If this is going to work, it will require both of you to do that.

THEN, and I shit you not, the one girl who'd moved out of the way, shifts back into the aisle.

Me: The initial problem stands.

Girl one: But I did what you asked!

Me: Yes, but BOTH OF YOU NEED TO GO. AT THE SAME TIME.

It's the 5:07pm train between Manchester and Leeds. I've had a bad day. I've got an audience.

Girl one: I don't get it.

Me: For fuck's sake. (Old people in carriage gasp).

And then I basically pushed them into the space, because as it turns out I have a very Nottingham temper. For anyone who doesn't know Nottingham that well, people who spend a lot of time there stick loyally to the below:

-Swearing is always necessary, the more the merrier.
- If there's no path through a crowd, you fucking make a path (sorry, I'm props back in my Midlands mentality right now).
-Someone's just been shot? Tell me something I don't know.

It's like that time I went swimming, and this girl ignored the anti-clockwise lane system, and I splashed water in her face. Or when this other girl got too close to me at a Kate Nash concert and I pushed her over. Or when.....I think you get it.

Maybe I have some serious anger issues. Does anyone know a really great, Leeds-based therapist, so I can talk my issues through. I'm pretty sure it all boils down to one incident in my childhood, when my Dad bought be a bike and it wasn't anywhere near the colour I'd specified.

You have no idea about what I had to put up with.

BYE.

Can't cook, don't cook.

So....on Saturday night I was like, I'm going to make a Me cake, that is, a cake just for me. Don't panic, I don't have an eating disorder or anything. I've just never liked sharing, and it really ties in with one of my Resolutions to be more selfish.

We tend to think Resolutions should be about becoming a better person, or helping someone, but sometimes you've got to ask, 'What about me? What do I want?' And I wanted cake.

I set up a little baking station in front of the TV, so that I could continue to spend as much of my weekend as physically possible with Dexter. Did you know that it's really tricky to sieve flour from a height when you're watching one man kill another with a machete. It's like, I may be 25, but I'm still stumbling over these really important life lessons, such as 'Don't prepare food in the lounge,' and 'cracking an egg on the side of a bowl sometimes causes that bowl to be catapulted'.

Please learn from my mistakes.

ALSO, the scales were broken. But I thought to myself, is it possible that I'm such an experienced baker, I don't even need to measure things anymore? Could I be one of those people who simply feels their way around recipes. I mean I could start going around saying 'pukka' and write a freaking book. How exciting!!

Well it turns out that no, no, I can't be that person.

I'm so fucking distressed at what happened to my cake that I've put it in Roses tin, and left it on the hob.

Is that weird? So what if it's inedible? What harm will it do, to stay in that tin awhile pretending to be a great cake, that someone expertly created?

You know, the bits around the edges really aren't that bad, especially it you favour burnt toast.

THEN

I tried to change my duvet cover, and after like three times, I was so frustrated, and on top of the cake thing, and the fact that I'd only had 11 hours sleep, I allowed myself a brief, but satisfying cry.

DON'T JUDGE ME.

Remember what R.E.M said? Huh? Everybody hurts God dammit. Even really successful writers.

In fact, I'm pretty confident that they hurt more.

And to all you people who insist on putting your beautiful, culinary efforts on Facebook - NO ONE CARES.

You may think it makes you talented, but I think you'll find it's harder to leave a cake in the oven for two hours, and find it's still not cooked in the middle.

Eat that and like it.

5k February

The only resolution I'm getting on board with at all, is this 10k lark. I guess, overall, it's a positive move, but let me tell you, there are soooo many upsetting bits along the way. Par example:

You: So, yeah, I've signed up for a 10k.
Them: 10k? Why wouldn't you do a marathon?

As it turns out, EVERYBODY runs. Not only that, but they run faster, and further than you, and they've been doing it since infancy. So if one of the main reasons you're doing this is for recognition (pretty much the main motivating force in my life), give up now.

They don't respect treadmill runners. That's not proper running. And don't bother with sharing your injuries either, because unless you're torn something/passed out onto your face/been hit by a cyclist, you are nowhere near being in the game.

Some days you will feel truly energised and brilliant. Most days you will feel like shit.

ALSO

There are these three old nurses on my bus. This, I assume, as only one of them has a nurses outfit on. Ooh, but maybe it's an unlikely friendship between a nurse, a surgeon, and a cleaner, sweeping aside pay brackets to generate a pure, long standing example of friendship!! Probably not.

The point is, one of them doesn't have a voice. And it's this one who does most of the talking. I'm serious.

It's a little bit Batman, but less, just the grating rasp. I don't mean to be harsh here, because I guess someone's stolen her vocal chords (perhaps her best friend the surgeon!), but why would you insist on babbling on every day with your life story? I can't understand what she's saying, and maybe that's why the other two don't reply. It freaks me out. It's like searching for the right radio frequency every morning for fifteen minutes. THANKS.

The cats aren't dead! I thought it would cheer you to know. But I can't go near them any more because it turns out I'm allergic to cats. I've never been allergic before. But then again, I've never stolen two of them, and let them rub against everything in my home. So....I can't help but feel it's some kind of punishment. Like God disapproves of me stealing other peoples things?

Like duh, I'm just going to stock up on antihistamines, and nick them again. Nice try though.

All cats go to heaven

So....

In terms of all those unrealistic resolutions,  the one I'm most proud of violating, is the no alcohol one. You'll be pleased to know I violated it good and proper, on many occasions.

It's just that I use alcohol as a balm to paste over my shattered dreams, to fill in the ever-increasing crack between the life I want and the life I have, and most importantly, to make boring people instantly more interesting.

And no one can tell me that's wrong. No one.

ALSO

The cats. I know, I know. Shut up about the fricking cats. Well you should be ashamed of yourself, because the cats are dead. You know that old murderous line 'If I can't have you no one will', well that's exactly what's happened here. She's punished them for loving too much.

How do I know this?

Because I've been watching a lot of 'Dexter', making me an expert at sniffing out criminals, this peppered with catching five seconds here and there of 'The Mentalist', and having spent most of my childhood trying to get my brother to eat mud pies which would of most certainly killed him, that's how.

There were no cat prints in the snow.

Cats can't fly!

And thus, they are dead.

Please now have a respectful moment of silence.

ALSO

Filo pastry is a smug bitch. I don't get it AT ALL. I never thought I'd encounter something in my kitchen which pisses me off more than cellophane. Seriously, I just tried to take a sheet from the packet, and I had no idea what was happening. So, in much the same way I react to spiders, I slowly backed away, and respected its space.

ALSO

I had this voucher for like £25, and I spent it on Amazon, as was like 'Gosh, 25 whole pounds! Better treat myself to an electric toothbrush charger!' And then I looked at the receipt, and they've ignored the voucher which had expired, and just charged my card anyway.

HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT?

If I'd know, that it wasn't free money, I never would've bought three pairs of winter socks, a Thunder Cats Yoyo, and The Wonder Years on DVD.

Amazon makes me sick.

Little update on my 10k progress; If any of you out there are thinking of using running to get skinny, forget it. it's not that I haven't lost a lot of fat, I have, just from my fingers. I'm pretty much exactly the same, except now I have to wear my rings on my necklace. If you're wondering what someone looks like when their head stays the same size, but their fingers turn to twigs, and they're running four times a week, please see  a recent photograph of me below.