Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Rebel with a cause

It's day 28 of Narnowrimo. Expected word count - 46676. My word count - 0

Calm down, I'll do it when I get home tonight.

I'll tell you what it's not - IT'S NOT PHYSICAL PROOF THAT I'M NOT A REAL WRITER.

And to prove it, I'm going to my writers' group on Sunday. YEAH, with proper paper and everything.
So screw you voice in my head - you patronising wanker (sounds a lot like Stewie questioning Brian over his first book. And if this reference is lost on you, march your uneducated ass down to Play.com, and spend your wage on a Family Guy boxset instead of food. There, that's the spirit.)

Or, just listen to it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9rv1oJ4Res.

ALSO

I've been wondering if you're a sad act square for frequently going to the Library, but then suddenly a badass if you get a fine? I asked one person, and he agreed, so that's that. £3, and I've got street cred. And you know how much they were overdue? By a WHOLE day.

God, I really take things too far. I should calm down. Like sometimes there's a queue for the bus, and I sit down on a seat in the middle of the bench, and when the bus comes, I pretend I was in the middle of the queue the ENTIRE time! And sometimes Ginger Beard let's me do the weekly shop, and he's all like 'How are we supposed to survive on 8 ripe pears and tiny tins of coconut milk?' And I'm like 'Shut up and eat the fruit bitch!'

So, I'm glad we sorted that out.

I definitely feel better.

ALSO, this girl, who used to be my friend, told me it was okay to lean backwards when you're on a gym ball. It's not okay. You fall into one of those bikes nailed to the floor. And you get this big bruise on your back.. I hate that girl. Security were watching through the camera, and when I left the building they said 'Did you have a nice time in the gym?'

OBVIOUSLY NOT.

Hey, so mulled wine is like the best thing ever! Why do we only drink it near Christmas? I find, that if you pop lots of fruit in, it's practically a soup, which is a meal.

In case you were wondering, I've not had that much coffee today, only six cups.

I hope you've had a really nice time.


Monday, November 19, 2012

Pinnochio strikes back

Please try not to panic. I know the temptation here, is to run from whatever room you're currently in, screaming, and shave your head.

But I promise, it's going to be okay.

If I flex my surprisingly capable mathematical skills, I can work out that the average Nanowrimo-er should have written 31,666 words by the end of today. I'm not far off - I've written 0.

I can still totes do it.

As per the infinite words of George Micheal - You gotta have faith. Yeah, you gotta have faith.

So have some fucking faith.

Thanks.

ALSO

On my bus, there's a mystery farter.

Seriously, at least two mornings a week, the farter lets a big one go on the top deck, and clears it. I'm not kidding. About thirty of us flee our seats and wait on the stairs, sometimes 2 or 3 stops before our own stop. It's horrendous. It's a slap to the face.

I'm going to start making a note of the people around me every morning. By process of elimination I can source the guilty party. Then I will slap them with a rotten egg and declare, 'There, now we're even.'.

ALSO

I've been doing a lot of house hunting of late.

Did you know that what looks like a considerable about of damp, is just the wallpaper paste innocently coming through, which is perfectly normal? No, neither did I.

Or, that if you invite someone to view a flat, but don't have a key, they won't be able to view it?

Or even, that you can wait thirty minutes before finding out the estate agent's been in a 'car accident'.

I feel pretty shitty about this last one, because she actually was.

Or at least, they went into a lot of detail to secure the story, and I'd hate to believe that 'The airbag broke her jaw.' was a concoction between three of the lying bastards over coffee.

See, I'm trying to be a better person. It's just that I find everyone suspiciously fraudulent. Maybe it's because I make stuff up all the time. Yes, that could indeed be it.

I mean, isn't it just a teensy big convenient, that on the way to get us, a car smacked her bitch up?

SORRY

What I'm trying to say is, Get Well Soon.

People in this renting game want to charge you tons of money for doing sweet FA. If you ask them how the signing fees break down they're like:

'Sure, okay, so £50 for me to talk to you in this oh so patronising tone, £10 for me to grab a 'Bucks' (that's obvs Starbucks to the lamen), and muffin on the way back, £100 to loan you my pen, and I don't know, let's say another £30 because I'm a wanker.'

THANKS

So, basically, we've put an offer in that's like, half the rent, a point blank refusal to pay the fees, and the request for a free bed.

I'll let you know how that pans out.

Did you know Arthritis, is not pronounced Arthur-itus? I didn't.







Wednesday, November 07, 2012

Je ne parle pas anglais

Hello fellow chumps, how goes it?

I was watching the news the other day, and there was this story about a man who found a pigeon leg. Like, he was inspecting the chimney or something, and it fell down, this foot and leg, with a little red capsule round it. They interviewed the couple, and the wife said, 'It's like Christmas!'

IS IT?

You know what it is like? It's like it's Halloween, and some fucked up mental patient is feeding bird body parts into your house from the roof.

It would be great to be part of that family, because of their horrendously low expectations around gifts.

ALSO

This drunk girl dropped her scarf and didn't notice. Because I'm working very hard on being nicer (I've recently been accused of lacking empathy for the common man), I picked it up and gave it back to her.

She said, 'Oh my God, thank you, you've saved my life!'

Why are people taking the English language and abusing it?

I am a bit perturbed at the extent of dramatics, but also overjoyed at achieving hero status after investing such a small amount of effort. Sweet.

Then she fell on me at the pedestrian crossing.

Advice of the week: Have you seen a film with Joseph Gordon-Levitt, called 'Uncertainty'? No?
Don't watch it.

ALSO

It's day seven of Nanowrimo, and I've only just realised. How incredibly exciting. I have to write approximately 1666 words a day, so that on the 30th of November I have 50,000 shiny new words before me.I mean, it's not like I'm doing it as an act of desperation, to prove to everyone that I'm not, as some may perceive, languidly clawing at the pathetic wispy tail of my escaping dream. NO, THAT'S NOT IT AT ALL.

By my estimations I'm nearly 11662 words behind already.

Luckily I'm being thoroughly motivated by my favourite exercise bike, the screen of which is frozen on, 'You are doing a great training.' Even when you don't pedal! I've never felt so full of optimism and motivation.I do do a great training.

Please pass me the vodka.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

To write or not to write

Hello chums........so, I joined a writer's group! Hurrah!

But I've not had much success with these.

I tried one at a book shop full of 40 somethings, completely terrified of their own writing, and voices - jabbering wrecks. Which isn't a very nice thing to say, but when there's twenty of you, and you're the only one who reads, and the only comment is 'Nice', it's not working.

At the next attempt, they were all too weird. Now, potentially, these are my people. Potentially I'm one of them, an oddball, a misfit. Maybe my internal rejection of the group, is the knowledge that deep down I too, have hygiene issues, intrinsically know how to speak Elvish, and think it's appropriate to bring two babies with me. This is a truly terrifying prospect.

This is my last go at it. I'm totes serious. HILARIOUSLY, and you too, would find this hilarious, I was overjoyed to find that the venue was next to my flat, and then utterly devastated to note that one of the emails on the mailing list belongs to a man who once fired me. Now, my plan is, to make him so uncomfortable, that he leaves.

What do you think?

I mean, I have searched high and low for this. I've been out of University for over four years, without a writing support group to prop up my pitiful sense of being 'a writer', and this could be the one. The one that reinforces my ambition. The one that sparks me off. And we would all become simply the best of friends, and meet up to critique each other's work outside of the group. And from this, a novel would bloom. And then money, lots of money, and - I CAN SMELL IT.

So if all I have to do is turn up crying, address the group, and say that, as a result of being fired some years ago (looking pointedly at man in question), I lost my home (it wasn't a paid job), my integrity, my relationship, and - I don't know - other important, tragic things, like my ability to experience joy - then that's what I'm prepared to do.

Every time he reads something out, I'm going to say it's shit. Even when it's not. Even if could eat Pride and Prejudice or The Great Gatsby for breakfast. And I'll cough through it, and roll my eyes, and feign wrist slitting.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking - will this be enough? I'll let you know.

ALSO,

The prep for the class is to write something silly, fun, and playful.

I'm not being dramatic here, but I currently feel like my soul has been crushed by a falling piano, acid has attacked all of my happy memories, and that one more, tiny bit of stress would see me launching my sobbing body in front of the next Waitrose truck (because if I'm going to die, I'm going to die posh).

I'll email the tutor and say, 'Sorry, couldn't manage that. Instead, here's a rather fetching poem about loss, and suffering, sprinkled with loathing.'

Wish me luck.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Grr, Argh, and many other aggressive noises

Don't you love it when it' winter, and you're like on the bus, and like all the windows steam up with condensation so you can't see, and then you like, miss your stop. THANKS WEATHER.

So, I've been pretty clumsy recently. I mean I'm usually a mess when it comes to basic movement, and avoiding danger, but I've really stepped it up. I let the wind blow my umbrella into my face. Which is broken by the way (the umbrella, not my face). I lose a spoke a day.

But you know, I've spent £76 on umbrella's so far this year, so I'm not buying a new one. We always ask ourselves - where does all my money go?

I'll tell you: Umbrella's, Barnardos direct debit, lemsip, fucking birthday cards (I'm sorry - but what is it with all these birthdays suddenly?), recently essential survival kit (wellies, rain mac, rope in case need to be pulled out of a puddle by helpful passer by), Groupon (which then fail to use), Activia yoghurts, book on confident public speaking (because noticed legs started doing strange wobbly collapse thing), taxis, Netflix. That's where.

Hey, you what you could do that's really useful?

Spend an hour writing a To-do list on the back of a Morrisons receipt. Then lose the receipt.

Sooooo, I did this really dramatic gesture recently whilst queuing for lunch, and cupped someone's *cough* 'member.'

(Mum, I don't want you thinking that I have some kind of dodgy obsession with men and their trouser snakes. If I'm honest, I don't find them, they come looking for me. I like to think I have a pretty healthy attitude towards sex, and that I'm not some covert pervert. It really was an accident. I know it's hard to believe, but I really hope you can trust me. Maybe we can have a conversation about it next time I'm home?)

Like, one minute, my hand was flying about, and the next minute it was holding something.

I don't know how I get places, as horrifically humiliating as right here.

I've been studying Chavs again. For those of you don't know, I put up a blog a while ago concerning my observations of the modern Chav. I like to take my earphones out on the bus, and just absorb the wisdom. I even make notes.

Does this make me a qualified Sociologist? Yes, I think so too.

So I've got some fascinating findings that I'll share with you soon. I'm not too sure where the notes are. PROBABLY THE SAME PLACE AS THAT FUCKING RECEIPT.

I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.


Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Nuff Respect

Okay, let's admit it.

Fellow Peers, many of us have hit 25+ and become decidedly 'non-street'.

But panic not, for help is here! I happen to be Facebook friends with a few teenagers (They're family. Don't make it weird), and studying them has helped me to regain my previously lost cool.

Now, I could leave you all in the dark. I could unleash the below phrases on you in conversation and watch you despair. But I'm a good person, and so, will begrudgingly share:

Phrase: 'Get your essay out boi!'
Translation: - You're waffling on.

Phrase: 'Check you out, acting ten men.'
Translation: Bark is bigger than your bite.

And finally............(I've heard this one on the bus)..........

Phrase: 'Man's gonna get dropped.'
Translation: I'm going to beat/kill him.

Now, go forth my children! Use these with gusto. May I also suggest that you try to get a three in one. Let me know how it goes.

Example:

Mum: How many times do I have to tell you to wear suncream. Look at the state of you. It's terrible for your skin. I don't know why-

You: Get your essay out boi!

Mum: What? Don't you talk to me like that I'll-

You: Don't go acting ten men!

Mum: Frankly, I'm disgusted by the way you're addressing me, and I-

You: Nah mate, now man's gonna get dropped.


Don't worry guys, this one's on me.


Tuesday, September 04, 2012

Sorry Mum

So, I wanted to book a meal at this restaurant.

And I was emailing on my phone.

And instead of being a normal person, to which nice normal things happen, I put, 'Kind Retards, Gemma'.

Then, I went to Co-op and picked up some milk, put it in my basket and stood in the queue, and was like why do my legs feel so wet? And looked down. And half of the bottle was on my tights and in my boots.

So I went over to the security guard, and pointed out the situation, and he said, 'It's okay, I can get you a different one.'

And I was like, 'God thanks, because my main concern here, was that you might charge me for wearing the milk.'

Also, I was on this bus, and the driver pulled over for five minutes, so I went up and I said, 'Is something wrong with the bus?'

And he said, 'No, we're just early, and some people are really impatient.'

So I said, 'No, some people have just been waiting ages, and would like to know what's happening.'

To which he went, 'Whatever' and then started the bus.

I went home. Ginger Beard said 'Hey, how was your-'

And I just started hysterically crying, yammering on about kind retards, and milky legs, and shitty bus drivers.

I really have a lot of empathy for those people who are scared to leave their houses. The world is awful. I might steal a loaf of Warbutons or something just so I can get put up in one of those nice hotels, where you get free food and education (also known as prison).

The washing machine broke, so I invoked the Karate Kid, and kicked it right in the face, and it started working. We were brought up on the idea that violence is never the answer. I think violence is always the answer.

I went to this open air classical music concert, and started talking for like 4 seconds, and this woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me, do you think you could keep it down, I'm trying to listen to the music.' And my friend was smoking, and I asked him if he could put his cigarette out on her eye. Which although it totally OTT, is very illuminating towards my state of mind.

Half an hour later, we started a song, which involved singing the phrase, 'Don't be loud' at various volumes to something from The Nutcraker.

Why don't you just slap me with an ASBO and be done with it.

Fuck my life.





Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Full of beans

Day five of no coffee. It's not pretty folks.

The view from my window is Starbucks.I've had my fingers pried from stroking the glass twice, alright, three times.

But you don't know what it's like!

It's like I'm in a prison, a prison that doesn't serve coffee!!

Unfortunately, coffee was having this mild side affect, whereby if I hadn't consumed any by 10:30am, I felt nauseous, and got a headache and my whole body went floppy. Apparently (according to a few friends) this was a bad sign.

But I liiiiikkkee it, I likea the coffee. I guess it's like that advert, where that woman's putting on mascara, and her eyes are bleeding, and they're all 'Would you ignore this?'

Yes, Yes I would, for a very long time.

But no more! I am not a slave to my addiction!

I went cold turkey over the bank holiday, and you know, I felt like complete shit.

Yesterday, I cheated, because I found this chocolate with coffee in, and I totally consumed it.

But mostly, I'm on the road to recovery. With every passing day, I feel a little bit less horrendous. Which is nice.

ALSO

Some complete tard-face vandalised my bus stop. They smashed the glass and stole the giant time table. Download it! You ASBO chump. It would be nice to think a proportion of my taxes could be funnelled into the repairs, but probably not, because it's too busy funding the FUCKING OLYMPICS.

(Mum, again, I'm really sorry about my vulgarity. To be honest, I think this is a direct result of my troubled upbringing. I was never really encouraged to express myself in the home, and bottled up my feelings. As an adult, this represents itself in bad language, and violent outbursts. I know what you're thinking, but I don't want you to blame yourself. It's really not your fault. I'm so glad we can have these talks).

ALSO

Ginger Beard has run away to Newcastle. Now, I wasn't that fussed at first. It was rather nice to eat chicken, and leave my clothes everywhere, and watch The Bachelor without judgement. But then I had a moment, it's one of those life changing moments, where you realise you really do love someone, very much. And their separation from you, is like a serrated knife, plunged into your....pancreas.......

I was hungover, practically dying, mentally sharing out my possessions, dry retching my way to recovery, when it hit me - I need ice lollies. I need them bad.

For the first time in five years, if I wanted something from the shop, I was going to have to go to the shop myself.

And that's when I realised, that I missed him.

It's modern romance people! Disney is so out of date. Aladdin shouldn't take her on a magic carpet ride and show her the world, he should hold her hair when the alchopops are coming back. We don't need Simba (Yes, I know he's a cat), to (what did Simba ever do that was romantic?) walk around to an Elton John song looking at that other lion. We need him to make lasagne when we've had a shitty day at work.

I digress.

The point is, I don't have any coffee and I really want some coffee, and I looked on the internet to find
caffeine withdrawal is totes and completely explains why I can't:

1. Stay asleep
2: Keep my head up
3. Say anything remotely intelligent.
4. Tolerate anyone.

CHEERS.



Thursday, August 16, 2012

Whoops

Writer At Lunch, learning about life so you don't have to................

It turns out that you can't separate frozen chipolata sausages with a glass pepper grinder and a knife. Which is shocking really. Because I thought it looked quite reasonable at the time.

Approach:

Leave sausages in plastic tray. Place on chopping board. Apply tip of large knife between first two sausages. Turn pepper grinder upside down. Smash base repetitively down on knife handle.

Voila!

Glass all over your sausages and a kitchen floor of peppercorns. You really should try this at home.

I'm sure you know what it's like - you really want some fucking sausages, and you'll employ any means necessary to get them. We've all been there.Thanks for understanding.

ALSO,

I walked into this man. He was a pretty normal man in a nice grey suit. Potentially, it could've been quite romantic. We both would've laughed, faux brushed one another down, and looking deep into my dull blue eyes, he would've exclaimed, 'Why, I do believe I'm in love' (because he's quite posh). Sadly though, a girl walked immediately into me, and you know what they say, three's a crowd. It's all because another girl, had decided to abruptly stop, and tousle her hair using a a police van window. She was so into it, she didn't even glance at our human pile up.

You know what though, it was totes worth it: her hair looked great. CHEERS.

And then there was this construction man, talking to this other construction man, and I was walking past with my headphones in, and he suddenly turned to me and said something.

So I stopped.

And I said, 'Sorry?'

And he said, 'What?'

And I said, 'You just shouted at me.'

And he said, 'I would never should at anyone.' And turned to his friend, who nodded, supporting this.

So I said, 'I had my music on, so I couldn't hear. But you said something.'

So he said, 'I didn't'.

And then we just stood there for a bit. Which was really uncomfortable, and then I left. The moral of the story is, if you think someone's trying to get your attention, ignore them, because you might just end up extending your work commute by four minutes, having no choice, but to avoid the Leeds Trinity Shopping centre, until they've finished it.

I'm completely plagued by social awkwardness at the moment. I don't like leaving the flat.

Oh! I really wanted to talk to you about Fifty Shades, but I can't be bothered now,  because I'm so effing tired, so..........

Here's my new favourite video instead. I watch it when life gets too painful.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCiY1y3uJ3o&feature=g-all-u





Friday, August 10, 2012

Throw the dice

Times are desperate. I've started gambling.

For the first time ever, in my life, I'm playing the lottery.

It started with a work syndicate in Leeds. And believe it or not, we won. I almost handed in my notice, but decided instead (after counsel from close friends) to invest it. It was £2.80 between five of us.

The Manchester office also has a syndicate. I cheated on my syndicate. I couldn't help it! The possibility that they would hit the jackpot, and my whole life would suddenly snag on the small moment that I'd said, 'No,' was too painful.

I think I've finally acknowledged that I'm not likely to get rich via this blog, via being spotted in the street by a model scout, or via marrying a rich, vulnerable old man (though I'm not sure whether or not Ginger can be considered in this category if we're looking five years ahead).

ALSO

The bus is becoming my new playground for odd experience. The train's still mighty cack, don't get me wrong. But the bus has opened up a whole new world of possibility. Take yesterday for example. I'm looking out the window, at some poor bastard's crippled bike. He's locked it up in front of a church, and someone, under the watchful eyes of God, has stolen a tyre. My soundtrack, is one man, informing another, that he often feels like he's almost shitting his intestines. Then, a skinny fella, in tight pants, forces his crotch into my arm. I say forces, because I've never had a clearer impression of the shape of someone's penis against my shoulder. I felt so dirty, I had to confess to Ginger Beard that I'd cheated on him.

 (Mum- I'm really sorry about writing the word 'penis', but it did happen, and it's very therapeutic for me to share. Also Mum, do you remember the days when you would comfort me, over say, a cut knee, or tonsillitis, and now, strange men on buses are assaulting me with their genitalia. I bet you feel helpless. It's okay, that's normal. We can't protect our children forever.)

ALSO

I got on a train to Manchester with this blonde woman, and then, she was sat next to me on the way back too. Wow! I felt like we were friends! I wanted to ask her if she'd had a nice day. I wanted to be all like, 'Hey! What are the chances?! And what kind of job lets you wear flip flops to work?'  Then she phoned her boyfriend to tell him exactly how she wanted her eggs cooked, and I wanted to shout, 'Hey! I actually prefer my eggs scrambled.' But I realise many of my inclinations are, in the main, inappropriate.

It's kind of like when you see a group of strangers everyday at the bus stop, and you start to believe that you know them. Is that just me? SHUT UP.

Bye.


Monday, July 30, 2012

Chump-lympics

Is anyone else too hot?

I've been too hot for like, ten days.

Remember when it was too cold? Bring that back! I miss that.

It is however proving to be a rather fabulous excuse about why I can't exercise. These days I have to get the bus home (or as Ginger calls it, 'The Peasant Wagon'). Currently, you settle in for a good twenty minutes of being boiled alive. You depart, a red, sweaty mess, and fall into your apartment, muttering a word which sounds vaugley like 'water'. It's very nice. I really can't recommend it highly enough. Your Ginger will then make several comments expressing his sheer disbelief at how destroyed you are.

No shit Sherlock, my Taxi man quit.Sometimes in the mornings, I eat really loud, and bang into everything, and sing horribly, just to let him know how I feel about it.

ALSO, I hit my mum in the face with a coat hanger at the weekend (accident), and it worries me that I found it so amusing. Honestly. My priority, above checking she was okay, was giving it to a good bout of hysterical laughter.

I'm not a good person.

I also read this book in two days called 'The perks of being a wallflower' which was completely absorbing. When I was younger I used to opt out of life in favour of a good book, and it really took me back to the rosy old days. Reading it was like being under hypnosis. It seemed much more real. I also watched this film, called, 'The Thirteenth Floor' which was all about fake realities within fake realities.

Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?

Somehow, and I really don't know how, this abomination, called the Olympics, has been allowed to continue. I thought our combined British cynicism would weigh it down, and it would just like, sink to the bottom of the ocean. Ginger said he watched the opening ceremony and he might as well have been watching someone repetitively set five to wads of money.

I really don't know how every resident of London hasn't killed themselves due to the looped announcement from Boris Johnson in the tube stations, 'MILLIONS of people are coming, PLAN your journey carefully, or be trampled under their eager, sport loving feet.' Thanks Boris.

Why don't they get it, that all British people really want is a well made cup of tea? It would be soooooooo much cheaper. I mean, I never really excelled in mathematics. I barely dragged my number-challenged brain into the C grade bracket at GCSE, but I bet it would save a fortune.




Thursday, July 19, 2012

Philip was right

The bus journey yesterday taught me two valuable things:

1.Charlotte got chinned by Luke, and her mates are like totes going to hunt Luke down and kill him.

2: Some peoples' lives are a lot worse than mine. Like the guy who initially couldn't take the call, because he was on the bus, but then five minutes later was screeching 'Stop being such a fucking bitch' with real gusto into his phone.

I hope this wisdom also aids you on life's journey.

ALSO, I'm sorry I've left you alone for so long. It's been a demanding few weeks, and yours truly looks like sleep-deprived shit.

On the plus side, I did sent a spam email to everyone I've ever emailed. That was a real hoot. I looked lovingly into my inbox one day to note that my father had sent me a personal message. How lovely, and on my birthday! I then proceeded to re-enter my password in pursuit of assumed amusing/affectionate message. Love really does make you blind, and a complete tard at that. My disloyal inbox then fired off the same trick to my whole address book. Thanks.

The real bastard here, is that my farther already knew that he'd been hacked. He's just so damn chillaxed, that he forgot to mention it. He did inform me that his computer is now clean, so he doesn't really know what the problem is. And I'm sure all the individuals I'd previously emailed about writing jobs will feel the same.

To quote Philip Larkin, 'This be the verse' -

'They fuck you up your Mum and Dad
They may not mean to, but they do.'

Well said Philip, well said.

I've got this other issue at the moment, where I keep trying to buy things in shops without any money. it always goes like this:

Shop Assistant: Great, that'll be £7.15 please.
Me: Oh no. Oh crap. I've not got enough money.

I'm so special. I keep leaving my debit cards around the flat to fend for themselves.

Recently, I looked over my attempted purchases and was like,

'Okay, put the toothpaste back, and put the butter back.'

You know what this left me with? You know what I'd decided was essential over toothpaste?

Three packets of Brivita Breakfast Biscuits (on offer).

Try cleaning your teeth with that.

I give up on myself completely.


Tuesday, June 26, 2012

You're my hero

I was walking down the road. A man came off his motorbike turning the corner before me, and slid across the tarmac.

I've always asked myself, 'What would you do? Are you the kind of person who would jump right in there, cape billowing at your shoulders, a red S stitched across your chest? Or would you just stand there, helpless, struck dumb?

I stood there.

For a few seconds, I watched other people, better people, run over to him.

The road was puddled with purple oil, and it terrified me. It made me think of blood.

When I made it over, the better people were already asking the right questions:

'Are you okay? Can you move? Should I call an ambulance?'

The better people helped him up, and held him up.

What did I do? I took his helmet and gloves off the road, and put them on the wall. And then I too, desiring to be one of these better people, resenting my slowness, furious that I had fallen victim to a paralysing shock, attempted to be a better person. I peeled his jacket off, not very effectively though, my hands were shaking.

Under the jacket, his left arm had begun to swell and bruise. He didn't want an ambulance. He wanted to call his girlfriend and say, 'I've come off my bike, but I'm okay.' Because in his near-death, he was suddenly very alive. He wanted his own voice to reinstate him as very much here, a boyfriend, a father, survived.

The other people left. I said I'd wait with him. I don't know what we were waiting for. We watched his arm. It grew worse with every minute, black from his wrist to his elbow, angry. His ribs were suffering too. He asked me what I thought. Are you supposed to lie? Maybe yet again, a better person would've said, 'It will be fine.' I said:

'God, it looks awful, horrendous. We need to get you to the hospital.'

When Ginger Beard arrived, he helped move the bike out of the road. The man wouldn't accept a lift. We weren't far from the hospital and he wanted to walk.

I didn't blame him. I bet everything looked instantly incredible. I bet he wanted to be with his working legs, his working brain.I bet he wanted to call everyone and announce himself as a small miracle.

Mostly, we find ourselves saying, 'It could've been worse', about everything we face. And it could have. Luckily there wasn't a car to collide with, lucky the bike didn't end up on top of him. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Probably just a broken arm and a second chance.

Other than making me realise that my reactions to emergencies are somewhat lacking, it also inevitably fills you with a 'live for the moment' whim, a kind of appreciation.

So take it, do something you wouldn't normally do. Don't take it all for granted. Try harder. We all need reminding that it's short, and it's special, so make something of yourself now.


Friday, June 22, 2012

Into the jungle

If you live in Leeds, you'll probably know about Tropical World. And I highly recommend that on some lazy Sunday, you grab your kids (or someone elses' - it's just important that children accompany you.), and mooch over to let the fun begin. It's £3, and I'll tell you exactly what you'll get for your money:

*Prams, everywhere. Prams of every colour and configuration - mostly manned by people who really shouldn't be parents (I know this, because although it's difficult to pin point how to go about being a great parent, it's very obvious to spot a bad one). And trying to hit a giant butterfly with your baby, while your wife chases you with a Kodak, is not a good start.

*Heat, 40'c to be exact. It was never going to go well for me. When I was eleven, my family and I travelled to America. The moment we left the air conditioned airport, I decided I couldn't breathe, and panic attacked/screamed/cried my way into the hire car.I don't like hot air - air so hot, that you can't feel the oxygen entering your body, and the carbon dioxide escaping it. It's like someone's holding a pillow over your face. Well, in Tropical World, your skin melts. Your skin turns to wax. The denim of your Jeans becomes one with your thighs. Enjoy.

*Assault - You and everyone else is packed in there. Don't know that strange man over there very well? You do now! You've never been this close to anyone! Now you know what his hair tastes like. Yum.

 The children are the worst. They walk over your shoes. They use your arms and hands as hanging vines, and swing their way through crowds. I'm sure children have their good points - but what most of them lack, at that young, E number riddled age, is manners. Squeezing their skinny bodies in between you and the glass, banging their sweaty fists on the wood and shouting at the Meerkats. Will someone please restrain this monster? No, no one will, because kids will be kids won't they. I don't think they will, not if you leave them in the car (recommended).

ALSO, because I'm sure you miss hearing about my train journeys as much as I miss talking about them: I had a right belter last night. First, I approached my seat to find three people discussing it.

Man: Oh, no, please, you take it.
Woman: I couldn't possibly, go ahead (to woman 2)
Woman 2: It's fine, really, I'm getting off at the next one.
Man: (gesturing to woman 1) I insist.

What I then said was:

Me: Sorry guys, that's my seat.

And strode past assaulting each in turn with either one or a combination of the items I was holding: lap top rucksack, water bottle, handbag.

Now, judging by the subsequent glaring, I can only assume what I really said was,

'Look, you mole-eyed degenerates. IT'S MINE;'

And finally, if you want to read an incredibly well written book, about a woman who forgets who she is everyday (and as Ginger Beard rightly suggests, is pretty much 'Memento' on the page), then pick up 'Before I sleep.' I read it in a few hours, and had horrendous nightmares. But it really does make you appreciate your working noggin, and the writer can really spin one hell of a story. WriterAtLunch stamp of approval.



Good news for you, if like Ginger, you can't read:





Monday, June 18, 2012

Officer, I've never seen this gun before in my life

At the moment, I'm spending a rather odd amount of time with the Police.

Now, as much as I'd love to tell you why, I can't. Because I'd have to change my name to Billy Bob and move to the American outback.

The first thing they wanted to know yesterday, was what we'd had for dinner, as the array of leftovers present on the table baffled them (I almost suggested that they send away the remaining crumbs for testing - such is the technology at their disposal, but did not wish to impose). Regrettably, I told them the truth, which was, 'Soup with Pizza.' I then tried to justify the combination, but I could see their training kicking in. It didn't help that the room is covered in bunting and hanging paper things (in preparation for a party), and the largest object is a giant pink and black hula hoop (exercise). Also Ginger Beard has tied my hair up while I was doing the washing up, and has done a poor to awful interpretation of what a bobble's for.

After this, it was hard to have a nice conversation. We looked like mentals. The very same mentals they were hunting.

They keep leaving me voicemails, and when I phone back, no one's ever heard of the Officer in question. This makes me the worst prank phonecaller ever:

'Oh. hello, I was just returning the call of a PC Jones.'
'PC Jones?'
'Yes.'
'Reference number?'
'Um, I wasn't given one.'
'Why not?'
'It was a message.'
'Well, they would've left a reference number, and besides we don't have a PC Jones.'
'Okay.'
'We have a PC Mcendrick.'
'Right.'
'But she doesn't work Mondays.'

SORRY FOR BLOODY TRYING TO HELP. WHY DON'T YOU JUST ARREST ME?

Yeah, so before this call they caught me in my grey. furry slippers, green pyjama bottoms, and maroon hoody, then the call, then the soup with pizza.

It's like when the Police walk past me in the street, and my face automatically arranges itself in the exact expression which projects, 'Not only do I have drugs, but I killed a man, and cut him up, and the bits of him are in my pockets.'

I automatically assume a position of guilt.

Why?


 I forget how to be normal as soon as they're around. I don't stand a chance. I'm going to get 15 to 20, in an all women unit with packet mash and ill fitting shoes. I'm getting dandruff, and a nail to scratch the slow passage of days into the floor, and, AND I'm going to have to be someone's (inevitable) bitch.

Write to me.





Thursday, June 14, 2012

The ageing process

I've got a new best friend, she's called Touche Eclat, and is, by nature, a rather highly regarded concealer (literally).

Touche and I have formed a strong bond over the past few weeks, one which Ginger is increasingly jealous of.

Ginger: What's that?
Me: It's my touche a la touche.
Ginger: What are you saying?
Me: It makes my eyes look better.
Ginger: I think your eyes look fine.
Me: No, come here. Look, I'm getting old. It's horrific. Bags, dark circles, awful.
Ginger: They're fine! Look at my thirty year old eyes, tired, bags, dark-
Me: Oh my God you're right - Would you like to use my Touche Eclat?

*Cue tantrum*

Have you joined in the Graze box craze? It's amazing! You pay £3.50 for a box full of bird seeds in four sections!

ALSO

I accidentally went to the gym in my pyjamas. In that I grabbed what I thought was my gym kit off the dresser in the morning, and found out was my lacy PJs (thanks Topshop). Now, some people would've stopped right there, and said, if someone sees me I'm going to look like I have a dirty fetish to sweat in silk. But I just manned the frick up, and went for it. The only person I ended up having to justify myself to was the cleaner in the lift, and she hid behind her mop. Turns out that I was like soooo comfortable during my run. Highly recommended.

What else? Oooohh I pressed the little button thingy on my new umbrella that makes it big, and it shot out of my hand and hit a woman in York.

AND Ginger Beard rapidly sat back on the sofa, hitting my elbow, which was attached to my arm, which was attached to my hand, which was holding a glass of juice, which punched me in the face. Luckily, it only caused internal bleeding in my mouth. Unluckily, this has resulted in zero attention. I hate it when something hurts and no one can see it. How can anyone feel sorry for me without a proven visual? I'm considering putting my face in a cast, or making some kind of face sling. I also might fall on my face, just to gain the attention I truly deserve.




Friday, June 01, 2012

When did you get so random?

Is anyone else really struggling to get the Ghostbuster's theme out of their head today?

I just want to call them.

I'd tell them there's something wrong in my neighbourhood, and it's called David Cameron.

I KNOW, I GOT POLITICAL.

That's enough.

Because truth be told, my Dad was a Labour man through and through, and raised me as such (supporting Labour, not as a man. Though come to think of it, I was made to watch a lot of football.) Unfortunately I've absorbed all of his enthusiasm and none of the principles. My outlook essentially boils down to:

Labour Good!

Conservatives Bad!

And I throw myself wholeheartedly into alcohol fuelled debates concerning the state of the nation, only to be exposed as a tad thin on the details:

Me: Yes, exactly, and Cameron sucks. He like totally sucks, and I hate him, and he's practically murdering the UK.

Them: Oh, so you're a Labour supporter. Well then what about the NHS; Labour royally fooked the NHS.

Me: Did not! And Cameron looks creepy. He looks like he'd take someone's children.

Them: So essentially, your political standpoint is he can't be good for us because of his face.

Me: Yes. And he steals from the poor to feed the rich. Robin Hood will be pissed.

And so on.

So every now and again I force myself to pick up Ginger Beard's Private Eye, or watch the news. But in Private Eye, they just chuck loads of stats at you in really small print, and I start thinking about the 20% off sale in Oasis and drooling. And on the news, everyone is always dying. I used to watch it every morning during breakfast, and end up depressed all the way to lunch. It's not that I don't think it's important to keep tabs on what's happening in the world, but it seems like only bad things happen, or half an hour is dedicated to the cat that can tap dance.

The one thing I am really interested in is the Holocaust. But that's not the best thing to bring up at a dinner party. Ginger says that I always find a way to drop it into conversation when I'm in a crowd. As in:

Crowd: So, what's your job?
Me: Funny you should ask. By day I work in an office, but my true occupation is unearthing and sharing the human suffering stories from the Holocaust.
Crowd: Right.

I don't do that! Okay, sometimes I do that.

I can't help it. Every year I read Anne Frank's diary, and am completely dumbfounded. The idea of this girl, trapped in an attic, loyally recording time, and you're right there with her. Incredible.

How did this go from David Cameron to Anne Frank?

I suppose you could say that Anne Frank was fucked, and Cameron is fucking us.

Oooohhh - link.


Monday, May 28, 2012

Go for the burn!

I know you've said it.

You know you've said it.

At some point last week you went, 'Oh, isn't the weather amazing! It's incredible, I just love it.!

And ten minutes later, 'God it's hot. Are you hot? I'm too hot.'

It's okay. It's because you're British. You never really had a chance. Our grandparents do it. Our mothers and fathers do it. And now, throughout your life, you will do it. Accept the inevitable.

I also don't have any stories about seating!

But I do have one about this lovely, orange woman in Boots. If you've never tired 'The Green Machine', from Naked Juice, then shame on you. It's packed with ingredients that you'd never normally eat, especially all together and looks like bile. But here's the thing - it tastes good, and if the label's to be believed - It is good for you.

When aforementioned orange woman said, 'Great choice, these are fab!' I thought, exactly, well done.

I said, 'They are, but I can't believe what's in them. Pretty disgusting.'

She said, 'I know!' (Looked at the ingredients). 'Three and a half apples! I would never eat that.'

What's especially astounding about this, is the sheer array of more plausible options she had at her disposal:


SpirulinaBarley Grass
ChlorellaWheat Grass
BrocolliGinger
SpinachParsley
Blue Green Algae
Garlic


ALSO,

Is there anyone else with feet like mine? Where within the space of four days you've exhausted all your summer footwear via injury. Blister between the toes - no more flip flops. Blister at the back of the heel - no more sandals. It's like I present anything other than converse to my feet and they strop.

'Feet, try these, you'll like these.'

Feet - 'No. Converse.'

'What about these? These are nice.'

Feet - 'NO! CONVERSE!'

I guess I should consider myself lucky that we only get seven days of summer a year.

If you haven't already, try and burn. It will be something to remember it by.




Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Having coffee with Jesus

The other day, I decided to go church.

Now, I'm not religious, but I do like to dip my toes into the pool of possibility from time to time. That is, that life gets incredibly boring if we strictly stick to what we believe, without ever entertaining alternatives.

I'm not a particularly wholesome person. I swear far too much, and I'm ridiculously selfish. Going to church doesn't mean I want to change. I don't. I have a lot of fun with my flaws. But what it can be, if you don't get too intense about it, is extremely motivational.

The speaker on Friday was incredible, a real two thumbs fresh. Hilarious, current, and right on the money. A comedian at heart, he played out various anecdotes, harping back to one core belief - Mediocrity is worse than failure. It was the idea that so many of us go around in this crouched position, never quite committing to the sit, never standing straight and fighting for something. And then of course, the tale would wind it's way back to God, and his role as a pillar of support in this battle. Well, that's where I sat back, and opted out. As I mentioned to my friend on the way home, 'I want to take credit for my strength.' If I wrestle with my demons and come out victorious, I've earned the pat on my own back.

I guess my struggle with this, with believing in God, is the idea that you require a third party to lean on, something beyond yourself that will help carry you through. Maybe I lack the required amount of faith. Maybe my own innate cynicism will always be what stands between me and divine intervention. But at this period in my life, only concrete sources keep me strong, things like friends, family, and the decisions I make.

On Saturday I had a spring in my step, and felt kind of restored to maximum potential. On Monday, I ran my furthest, thinking on the Speaker's well chosen words. And this is what I'm trying to say; I don't think you have to go to church with apprehension, with the idea, that as a non Christian it means you shouldn't be there, and that as a result, you have nothing to learn.

I learnt a lot.

I guess the ultimate battle is with yourself, and arming yourself with tactics, and the self-awareness to combat you, is a smart move. Plus everyone oozes niceness, and hugs you, and gives you a chance. When I compare that to the commuter train to Manchester, I can't tell you how much I need it.






Monday, May 21, 2012

Be nicer to your feet!

4000 hits! Thank you very muchly indeed. I feel like I should give something back, and so I shall give this:

If you run too much, your toenails fall off. Yes, they do. Because someone told me this story, about this person, who ran, like really far (marathon) and her big toenails fell off. And then I told Ginger Beard, aghast, and he said,

-Yeah, I know someone that happened to.

And then I was like, OMG this is inevitable.

Health Officials yap on about exercise, but seriously, could your body be any louder in taking against it?

Looooaaddss of people are signing up for charity runs at the moment, and asking me to jump on the bandwagon. Unfortunately, I value my toenails. I just don't think my feet will be the same without them.

Though I'm not prepared to give them over, I am giving money instead. So in urging said runner along, I am almost, almost, running with them, mile for mile (just in such a way that allows for the retention of my toenails.)

ALSO

This thing happened on the train (Surprise!). You'll be wondering to yourself, why are so many people so horrible to Gemma on the train? I ask the same question, and I can only conclude that it's probably my face. There's something about my face which makes strangers hate me.

This man was in my seat.

Me: I'm so sorry, but I've booked that seat.

Man: *glares*

Me: So if I could just....

Man moves from seat, growling and goes to sit in a different seat. Man, mere moments later is turfed from new seat by another ticket holder and has to stand.

Internal Monologue - HA HA HA YOU STUPID BASTARD. YOU CAN'T GET ANY SEAT, YOU DIRTY SEAT TAKER. SERVES YOU RIGHT, YOU BEASTLY SCUM..

At this juncture, I overhear:

Woman (to another woman) - Excuse me, that's my seat.

2nd Woman - oh dear, I'm so sorry, let me just move my.....sorry about that.

WHAT? Why do I never get the sorry people, the reasonable, apologetic people?

And I'll tell you why - my face.Because even the nicest person, hates the face.

The man soon ends up sitting next to me, and elbows me all the way to Huddersfield. By which I mean, that he non too subtly, strikes me with his atrocious elbow (GBH) every time the train moves a smidgen. I retaliate. Until we are like two squabbling siblings, jousting with crooked arms.

Which is great. Because now it's costing me £16.95, to get on a delayed train, not be able to get to my seat for 20mins, accept visual abuse from the tosser in my seat once found, listen to incessant lies over the intercom about apologising for the overcrowding, and finally, to get attacked by a complete jebeye whose mother obviously didn't love him properly.

This is me on a good day.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Chill your beef

Oh my God guys, it was so awful; I got kicked out of my own blog! I was like, but I need to update the people on yet another horrendous train journey and how I ended up snorting a grape. And I couldn't!

The writing lark is very cathartic for me, so I went around a little more furious than usual and took it out on unsuspecting strangers.

So.......the grape!

Right, I was eating this red, seedless grape, mushing it up with my teeth and shit, when a friend made me laugh and I snorted. The grape, in all it's lovely squashed form, went up my nose. Have you ever experienced the sensation of fruit stuck in your head? It's frigging unbearable. I wanted to be sick. But all I could do was sneeze and go buzz eyed.

My friend was like, 'Blow it out, quick!' chucking tissue at me. But it didn't want to go that way.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking Gemma, this is too much of a share. But I truly feel that no one else should have to endure this. Learn from my mistake guys. Don't consume grapes in moments which may potentially warrant laughter.

Over the next four hours, bits of the grape, fell back into my mouth.

THAT'S RIGHT.CAN YOU IMAGINE?

I DON'T THINK YOU CAN.

I also went on this train, and sat in my seat, and this woman came over and was like,

 'I'm afraid you've sat in my seat.'

And I was like, 'No, this is definitely my seat.'

And then we looked at each others tickets, and they were the same.

You know what she did? She asked me if I was going to move. What the fuck juice? (Mum, I'm really sorry about the language, but this lady was totally breaking my balls.)

So I said, 'Uh, no, I'm already sat here so.....'

And she was all, 'But it's also my seat.'

GOD HELP US ALL.

I suggested that she sought a refund, and pointed out, that she was obviously entitled to one. Then she stood next to me all the way to Manchester, for an hour. I don't think she stopped starting at my face once, so I made sure that my face was projecting, 'Wow, this is the best seat ever, what a great seat, and I am so ridiculously happy right now, all the happier for sitting.'

I do realise that a few of my blogs now have been all about seating. But this is what the world is coming to. It's a dark place for a commuter these days. In the words of philosophers Black Eyed Peas, 'Where is the love?'


Tuesday, May 08, 2012

Intimidation is underrated

If you're feeling like your recent cinema trips are a little too sedate, then I have some excellent advice for you. Simply recruit an aggressive Yorkshire man, and a clueless Ginger Beard, instantly transforming the event into an absolute hoot.

Firstly, you'll all be able to sneak in Starbucks, just by mentally projecting the threat of violence. Approach the ticket checker with a furrowed brow, crack your knuckles, make her realise you're serious.

Send your Ginger Beard up to the correct row first. Even though he can't see, and has no idea of your seat numbers, he will isolate a group of strangers and accuse, 'You're in our seats.'

They will say, 'No, there are our seats.'

And he will stare at them.

Introduce your Yorkshire man, who will point at a seat, and count along, '9, 10, 11, 12...' before looking up at a different man, and saying, 'Our seats.'

Chaos, as second group also refuse to move. Yorkshire man then realises he's been looking at the screen number instead.

Register that you're quickly running out of people to piss off.

You find the seats.

Your neighbour is so terrified, he offers to move further away, if it would make you happy.

Voila, absolute hoot.

Also - watch The Avengers, because it's like, totally, totally, AmazeBalls.

ALSO, watch it in 3D, becuase if you're lucky, in the way that I'm lucky, you'll get to wear the 3D glasses on top of your actual glasses, which believe it or not, makes you look like a covert celebrity with more style than substance.

Wednesday, May 02, 2012

Better than Monopoly

I've developed a fun new game, and unless you're ever in a car with Ginger Beard, you're not going to get to play it with him. If you ever are, then welcome my friend, pull up a chair, remember these simple rules.....

When my mum lets a driver go in front of her from a side road, and I question it, she says, 'If we all let one in, everyone gets home.' Now, I didn't think about this in too much depth. I just accepted it, because my mother is very. very wise. (Apart from with vegetarians - she still thinks they can eat pea and ham soup if you promise to cut the ham up really small.) I digress.

So, as a relatively new driver, I have taken this phrase under my wing. I let people into my lane a lot. When Ginger's little face balls up, and his mouth goes 'for fucks sake', I politely inform him, 'But if we all let one in, everyone gets home.'

'That doesn't make any sense,' he informs me. 'They'd still get home. It's just that now, thanks to you, they'll get home before us.'

What I've realised is even more fun, is that now, every single time I let a car in, even before he's reacted, I tell him the skewed logic behind it. Sometimes I sing it. Sometimes I say, 'If we all let one in........' and give him a cheeky wink. He's started to punch the dashboard. And occasionally will just shout 'No, no, no, no!' and look like he's nearly crying.

Why not try this in your car, with a loved one? It's free to play, and never gets boring.

Tuesday, May 01, 2012

Let's now get a lot less serious

Sooooo......

I'm kind of skim reading a book by Danny Wallace at the moment, entitled 'Akward Situations for Men'. Most of you won't know this, but Danny and I, actually have a very special relationship. I queued to meet him once and managed to produce this beauty:

Me: Can you sign it to my mum please.
Danny: Sure, what's her name?
Me: Stan.
Danny: Stan?
Me: Yes, it's a nickname.
Danny: What's her real name.
Me: Ann.
Danny: How does that work then?
Me: So I used to call her St Ann, in a mocking fashion, and then I just pushed it all together to make Stan.
Danny: Makes perfect sense.
Me: Yes.

(Danny then draws a terrible doodle in the book for Stan.)

Me: Well, I see your drawing's as good as your writing.
Danny: Did you just insult me.
Me: (long pause) Yes, sorry.

Me exit.

Anyho,

This anecdote ends in a roundabout way, of me thinking I should counter his book with an 'Akward Situations for Gemma'. Particularly in light of a conversation I had this morning.

Me: Morning! How are you?
Reception: Morning, good thanks. Well, apart from, I wasn't supposed to be working today. I'm covering for Steve. He's taking two days off.

Me: Selfish! I'll give him a really hard time when he comes back.
Reception: He's going to a funeral.

REALLY? REALLY?

BRILLIANT.

Me: Oh, okay, I'll give him slightly less of a hard time.

AGAIN, REALLY?

EQUALLY BRILLIANT.

Reception man stares at me in unabashed horror.

Please excuse me, while I go off somewhere quiet put myself down (It's for the best).

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Let's get serious

Once upon a time, my career was working with children, of many, many varieties, but mostly angry ones. For the first time in my life, a child tried to strangle me with a ruler, I was punched whilst attempting to break up a fight, and I was threatened with criminal charges.

As an on call supply teacher, my phone would ring or not ring at silly o'clock in the morning, five days a week. Some days the call wouldn't come, and I felt  relief so strong, that I allowed myself a short, celebratory dance. But other days, it did ring, and thus began the dread.

Apparently a degree (any degree) and a CRB check, qualifies you to cope with troubled children. Well, it doesn't help you explain to year 8 why you're taking their French class, when you don't speak French. Or how to help a severely disabled boy build a truck in DIY. It certainly didn't help me undress and dress a boy with down syndrome for his swimming lesson (he sprayed me in the eyes with deodorant and ran around the changing rooms naked). And I guess it didn't come in handy either in feeding children unable to feed themselves, or changing the nappy of a teenager.

What I'm saying is, that as I get older, and this time becomes more embedded in the past, my anger only intensifies. I went to a different school almost every day, and in my head, apologised to parents that I was the best they had. How was this ever allowed to happen? Yes, I feel sorry for myself. I was struggling to get a job, it was very much a lump it situation for me. But I had zero training and support throughout. Half the time, I had no idea what I was doing.

What do you do when a girl, abused by her father, who's brother is in prison for rape, whose clothes are saturated with urine, and whose hair is alive with nits, runs over to hug you? I hugged her back.

What about when you've told someone off for being racist, and then you spot his father, that same day, yelling racist abuse across the car park at other children?

There are schools which operate like prisons. Where you have to escort every child to the toilet, because the twelve doors en route have to be unlocked and then locked behind you,
It wasn't all traumatic; I had some truly incredible moments. Like helping a boy to finally understand Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, by making it relevant to him and his friends, like teaching Polish children how to read, meeting all these tremendously talented, joyful children, and the teachers who gave up more than just their time. It just worries me that this is still the status quo.

We do need more qualified, specialist teachers. We don't need any more fresh from Uni, raised in cotton wool, closest-they-ever-came-to-suffering-was-a-paper-cut-pretenders.

Some of the staff were nice to me, and helped. Others ignored me, and didn't care much about what I said, or how I interpreted 'appropriate for the situation'.

What I did realise was that I couldn't do it long-term. I wasn't selfless enough. I didn't have a commanding presence. I had a few, blindingly brilliant break-through moments with children, scattered amongst God-awful ones.

Do all teachers have to scale such towering heights on a daily basis? No, maybe not. But I admire them all nonetheless. Trust me - It's harder than it looks.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

WOW, really?

Up until recently, my gym pass did not allow me into the gym. That is, that the gym had been rejecting me. Luckily, I could always sign out a card to do the trick. Unluckily, it meant that I had to endure the following conversation.

Me: Hi, Uh, can't get in the gym again.
Security: Just sign here. I'll get the card.
Me: Think God's trying to tell me something. Like, go home, have a burger.
Security: No, don't do that! You have to go to the gym!
Me: I do?
Security: You really should go.
Me: Oh.
Security: I have this friend, this girl, she can eat anything she wants, and it just disappears. She's tiny.
Me: I have friends like that.
Security: And then there are people like us.
Me: Like us?
Security: Like you and me. People who have no choice, but to go to the gym.

Now, you might be wondering how I've managed to memorise the above, and the reason is that I'm so deeply scarred. Partially, because the 'us' he's referring to, includes me, who is at the time partially concealed by a barrier, with only my face and upper torso visible, and him, 50+ man with more belly than body.

It's times like these, where I want to turn to the drink. And I don't think any of you, could tear that bottle from my grip.

At some point in your day, any point, please take a moment, to close your eyes, and think, poor Gemma, that poor, poor girl. Life tries to smash her down, but alas, she is so strong.

ALSO I'm getting really sick of Ginger Beard eating haribo. He walks around with his jean pockets stuffed with those little bags, smelling of gelatin. He's stocked the freezer with ice cream. Why doesn't he love me properly? I guess I should be grateful that every time I almost reach for the chocolate, the realisation that my male counterpart is an elderly, obese security guard, just stops me. Thank God for small miracles.

Your grouchy, deprived of anything fun, hysterical friend, WriterAtLunch

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

In the name of love

On Monday, I was finding life very difficult indeed. It had hardly taken its first baby step, and already I could hardly cope with myself. I had no idea where my house keys were. I'd forgotten my purse, and subsequently had no money. Security had to break into my locker at work. To top it all off, I was struggling to open doors. They were proving a real challenge.

If I had any common sense at all, I'd of just gone home , and cut my losses. Instead I went around saying odd and insulting things to people, and using the word 'awesome!!' with far too much emphasis.

Accountable for it all, is Saturday night's party. For which I was quite obviously, still suffering. Apparently you lose a few brain cells through drinking, but at some point, I've had a lobotomy.

I apparently led a class on how to assault your other half (if you must know: elbow to the face, other elbow to the face, and bring that knee up. You go girl!) We also started a choir in the kitchen, kicking off with 'Fresh Prince' and ending on Ring of Fire 'Johnny Cash. I agreed to open a textiles factory, and make nice pants. I brought a bit of Nottingham to the living room, which Ginger Beard found so appalling, he had to run away (in my defence I was only going down to the, down to the floor, and wind it back up, which we are educated to do in Primary School where I come from.)

When I'd decided that I'd had too much to drink, I was so disgusted with myself at being sensible, that I made a cocktail consisting of two ingredients, 1. Bacardi  2. Ice. Beauts.

I did manage to stay up to half 4, and only went to bed because I was so upset that I couldn't figure out how to get the duvet cover on the duvet.

I woke up at 8:30, and said a brief goodbye to everyone I loved, knowing I was firmly within my final moments on this earth. Then I got some juice. Then Ginger Beard sat on my side of the bed for the next two hours, where I dithered on the thin tightrope between life and death, informing me that he felt so sick he couldn't sleep, and thus, I had to get up to, because he was bored.

Now, I don't know how far love stretches for you, but for me, it's just not that far. I've told him to have a serious think about what he needs from me in this relationship, because it's unrealistic. If you would like to give him some pointers on how to man up, please do so on this 'ere blog.

Friday, April 13, 2012

The fairest of them all.

Yesterday, I thought someone looked nice and I said, 'Wow, don't you look Jazzy!'

Who says things like that? Seriously. I make myself sick.

I also discovered this guy - who's blog is way funnier than mine: http://copperbadge.livejournal.com/
And if that isn't upsetting enough, he's won an award for it.

I would like an award, so now I have to create 80 plus fake blogger accounts, and then comment on all my posts everyday. Because unlike with my blog, people actually leave their thoughts on his. Your secret thoughts are no good to me people, vent! Then I will cut up said award and give you a tiny, sharp piece. THANKS.

I also went all the way to Newcastle recently for a Nando's meal. They took so long to seat us, that I had to get my meal as a takeaway, and eat it on the train. Why does God hate me? I made the whole carriage stink of mango and lemon sauce, and this guy kept looking at me, and I wanted to say, 'When your life becomes one horrific joke after joke, don't come crying to me pal.' But I didn't, because mother didn't raise me to be quite so beastly to my fellow human.

I decided to speak to Ginger Beard again about how hard my life is, and he just nodded and played on Dream Zoo. It also doesn't help that I've given up nice food for a month, basically anything that tastes remotely palatable. I'm hitting the gym like a bitch (which is slang for saying, 'with much gusto'). It's day four of this new lifestyle, and I find myself thinner, with more energy, and generally being a complete dick. I blame the lack of sugar. I also think that it's better to look good, than be an upstanding citizen. I may not end up with any friends, but I will have a pleasant reflection.

I guess this is my way of saying, when I gave up coffee, I was probably awful to you. And now that I'm essentially GIVING UP food, chances are I'll probably still be awful to you. On the plus side, I recycle.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Amaze Balls

I would like to share with all of you, the search phrases which are directing people to this here blog:

Bullying for beginners
Don't know why
Not talking about the
The demon which I was hoping
You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar


It all makes perfect sense.

I do apologise for my absence. I've been in Scotland for a week in St Abs (or as I've affectionately named it, Stabs). Population - 3. They don't really know about mobile phones over there, so mine didn't work. AND the real shitter, was that I couldn't even get on Dream Zoo.

I know.

Apparently if you write a blog about your stay, which they like, you can get money off your next visit. I really hope they don't mind being referred to as Stabs. To be fair, I didn't get stabbed once, unlike in Nottingham where our favourite activity is comparing bullet scars.

One day, we all went out to try and find dead things. Because this one time, when we all went to Bamburgh, we found a dead rabbit, and it's become a sort of cosy tradition. No dice.

I also cooked a big fish pie, and didn't poison anyone (against the considerable odds). Yay for me.

Ginger Beard forced me to go on a cliff walk in high winds, and during our Fresh Prince of Bel Air duet, he got some of the words wrong, and it was a real disappointment to be with someone, with such a pathetic grasp on their childhood. I nearly pushed him off, but realised my blog would be considerably duller without my mocking of him. So, he lives.

We played poker. It turns out I suck at poker. I lost all my fake money, and consoled myself with pretzels.

I also didn't win Balderdash, with is essentially a game of lying. I mean, I lie all the frigging time. There's barely a spot of truth about my person. It's an outrage. I vow to be even more full of shit in order to remedy this. 

Oh, did I meet someone famous, hiding at the end of the world from the paparazzi?!! No, no I didn't.

But, did I spend most of the time missing my zoo, drinking Baileys, and reading terrible books. Why yes, yes I did.

The glamour never stops.

I'm having a massive party this weekend, and anticipating that we'll do crazy things, like drink through straws, and laugh, loudly. I'll let you know.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

So you think you can dance?

For some of us, those in their mid-teens and below, this is potentially the first time they've seen sunshine. Science classes UK wide are being modified to assure the children it's perfectly normal, and usually brief.

 I'm worried that if we pay it too much attention we'll scare it off. I think we should act all nonchalant, and dress for winter. Because we British have a habit of donning shorter than short shorts, greasing ourselves with factor fifty, and slapping a sausage on the barbecue upon the first sight of gleaming ray. Let's play hard to get, and then maybe once, just one time, we'll achieve more than 4 days of summer a year.

Have you heard anyone complaining that it's too warm? Of course you have, several times. Because as soon as it stops being too cold, it starts being too warm.

As I was enjoying aforementioned sun at the weekend, lying back on the grass, I was attacked, dear reader. I use the word attacked here, inferring to a kind of GBH incident of grand proportions. A good friend had given me a gift (free lip gloss with her magazine, but Clinique nonetheless). Ginger Beard had covered my trainers in the lip gloss, and the lip gloss layer in grass. My converse! My loyal companions on life's journey! Oh, and how they laughed at my sticky, pink feet! The bastards!

I'm currently scheming over how to get him back, and very keen to hear your suggestions. He doesn't read my blog, because he's too busy talking to pigs (I think he's a pig whisperer), so it's absolutely fine if you want to comment.

ALSO I am playing a game with Starbucks - name bingo. They've started to ask the name of each customer, to write on the cup, so that they can reluctantly yell out 'Hi Steve, here's your Caramel Mac to go!' The fun part is how they spell it. Today's variation is a 'J' with a 'G' on top of it, an 'e' bashed on top of both of them, and then 'ma'. Very exciting. Someone at work is planning to take six of his friends in to buy coffee, and pretend to be the seven dwarfs. They can probably do this straight faced because they are all accountants. I'm a bit annoyed, since this is a fabulous idea, and not one I came up with. I'd also be fascinated to see how they spell 'Grumpy' when my name is usually 'GJema'.

So there's this thing in London in like, hmmm, a summer month, where we learn to dance like the peeps in bollywood films, and then flash dance it up for charity. It sounds like an opportunity for maximum feel good/humiliation/expense. Who's in? Now that I think I can Zumba (I really can't) I'm going to do that instead (trading up on my usual Macarena/Saturday night remixed moves). Let's just totally do it guys, chums, invisible friends of mine. Huh? Yeah? FIT.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Don't talk about your cramp

A whole three people ended up here from a website selling generic drugs in India, naturally. My audience knows no bounds. I'm getting the impression blogger is lying to me about my traffic. Last week, I scoured several viewers from a Baby Monitor supplier.

I hope you realise that I've torn myself away from Dream Zoo to be here. That's right. I could be hunting down a mate for my monkey, and finding them a nice grassy spot to build a home together. But instead I'm here with you. And I really hope that counts for something. Ginger Beard has now been sucked into my addiction. Nothing makes him happier than when I produce my phone, after accumulating 90,000 and he gets to plan a land expansion. On Sunday, we sat for two hours, and caressed our joint venture, proving that existing in a fictional world makes you happier than facing your real one.

ALSO

I have cramp. I went into Starbucks, to look for drinks with high salt, because my lovely fake Doctor prescribed this to me. A barista asked me if he could help.

Me: Yes, do you have anything with a lot of salt?
Him: Let me look with you.
Me: Thanks.

*Looking commences*

Him: A lot of these have no salt.
Me: Oh, no, I need as much salt as possible.
Him (alarmed, and everyone looks up): But why?

What could I say? I had to tell the truth.

Me: I have cramp.

Then, suddenly, everyone who works there is looking for things with salt in, and discussing my cramp. I panic. I realise now, that crisps were the obvious choice. I shoved a smoothie at someone, and tried to pay on my Starbucks card. My face has turned against me and burning red. Why? Fucking face, chill your beef! But no, I'm blushing all over the place.

I didn't have enough money. But I didn't hear the first time he told me, so suddenly I'm being shouted at.

Him: You're £1 short!!!

And everyone is like, look at that salt deficient, cramping poor person.

So I had to put like, £70 on the card to prove that I'm financially stable.

Really stressful, and really expensive.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Klutz

With one week, I have managed to smash my phone screen, and snap the D string of my guitar, rendering both things pretty useless. It's true, that after twenty-four years of accidents, due mostly to my own stupidity, I should hardly register surprise.

Why do we so often choose to bypass that cautious, wizened voice? The one that taps us gently on the shoulder and warns. After all, it's usually right. Have we not heard it time and time again, offering its sound two pence at apt moments? It never gloats or boasts, because it, unlike us, is not remotely shocked at being ignored.

If achieving 'adult' or 'grown up' status is via a process of learning from your mistakes, then consider me approximately four years old. I live my life on whims, and with no apparent understanding that potentially risky situations will usually end with a loss of some kind. It always seems worth rolling the dice.

That's why the bed cover is stained with nail varnish, why my elbows are bruised from the attempted navigation of gaps, and why the vast majority of my possessions have been dropped, chipped, fractured, and killed off. When will I start to listen?

I feel that perhaps my life would be safer, and all the more pain free, if I sat on my hands at every opportunity. If I restrained them so that they couldn't damage. (I will try this - but not sure how it will go down in the office, only my productivity takes a dive). Other suggestions welcome.

I'm off to put some blood, sweat and tears into my latest novel - 'The Prick'. Excerpts will be arriving shortly. Watch this space........

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I dream of Laura

Generating a nice bit of traffic from 'Stop smoking instantly.' I can only assume my blog is helping the nicotine obsessed kick the habit. Anyone out there throw a packet of fags away after each read? Do let me know (also, if decomposing lungs would help, I could arrange a picture wall?)

Speaking of addiction, yours truly has a little problem, I say little, because technically the physical size of it is very small. It's called Dream Zoo. And you can get it on your android, but you really shouldn't. It's not my fault. I'm from the tamgotchi generation. Remember those little bastards? We spent our youth feeding them, and cleaning up their digital shit, training ourselves in the fine art of motherhood, without even realising. Well now I've got loads of animals, a whole zoo of them! And I can breed them, and wash them, and even generate money from them. I'm just having a tricky time of pulling myself away.

It's beautiful escapism from the real world. I can pretty much convince myself that my main responsibility for the day is naming my giraffe and collecting funds for a land expansion. Of course I know what I need to do. I need to kill it. It's gone too far. Can you please steal my phone and get it done? I don't have the mental strength to do it myself.

I almost wish my problem was cigarettes, they would consume less of my day, and life (short term of course). It's quite sickening to think how much of my holiday I could've spent writing, but instead was on safari hunting for a mate for my pelican. HELP ME PLEASE.

In other news, mother dearest and I went to see Laura Marling last night, and I was speechless. Which those of you who know me well will realise, rarely happens. She was sooooo far away, and looked like a blonde wig on a broom, but it was good enough for me. Her awkward stage presence delighted. As did warm up act Pete Roe - check him out. She even covered a Neil Young song about heroin, which made me well up thinking about Dream Zoo. The band were good, but she didn't need them. She can stand there in her maxi dress, with an out of tune guitar and sing until you forget where you are.

Friday, March 09, 2012

Zumbariffic

For some reason, neither I nor Ginger Beard* can be bothered to buy cereal. Do we have the folded remnants of forty-two different varieties stuffed into one box? Why yes, yes we do. But will be ever desire a pic 'n' mix approach to breakfast? Certainly not.

As a result, ladies and gentlemen, I have come into the office and created my own breakfast: lemon green tea, grapes and a banana. After Zumba last night, I'm feeling so healthy I could do a cartwheel and survive (last time a cartwheel was attempted, it was not pretty, and could not walk properly for days).

I will not do this, but will instead drool over biscuits, which remain from Biscuit Monday. Will also smell green tea, but not drink it, and mush grapes into desk. Yum.

Unfortunately, I've got worse at Zumba. Yes of course I can still perform the kind of moves one might spot a prostitute using on a street corner luring in clientele. But that's a given when you've grown up in Nottingham (as well as being able to cope with being a shot and never really knowing who the father is.) I think the wine I drank last week made me 'think' I was alright. Now, in my complete sobriety, I see that I am a joke. But that's the power of beer goggles.

You should do it! It's a fabulous lesson in humiliating yourself in public.

Have you ever been holding a cup of water, and your handbag, and trying to get into your house, poured that water into your handbag? No? Highly recommended.

I'm holding off on my reading of Sylvia Plath's journals, because I'm worried I'll reach the same conclusion that she herself was drawn to: putting my head in an oven. And I've still got a lot more people I wish to annoy, and handbags I'd like to ruin, before meeting such a heated end.


*Ginger Beard - for those who are unaware, is my lesser, more ginger other half. He thinks that he's a doctor, but really he plays around with pigs all day or something, taking their knees away. It's really quite sad. If you would like to make a donation to me, to help me cope with this, it will be accepted.

Wednesday, March 07, 2012

Nice shoes

Today I sniffed my hand cream and gave it a little squeeze. It shot into my nostril. I don't know if you've ever tried to snort Nivea, but I wouldn't recommend it.

So Zumba.....all the better for a glass of rose (downed) and a pizza (downed). I would thoroughly recommend this, or any class, if you're not one for commitment when it comes to exercise. The shame of quitting would be too much, so you have to dance on. I did go purple. For my colleagues, who are not aware of just how dramatic my skin can be, this came as a bit of a shock. One did attempt to comfort me - 'At least you can see it's having an affect.'

I did shake it, both like Shakira, and because of what my momma gave me. I did not shake it very well. To be fair, I stood behind a man who moved his hips like a he should be at a strip bar, living a luxury lifestyle from tips alone. My focused face was also a point of much amusement. Is it so bad that my features gravitate towards a central point when I concentrate? Luckily, I am used to this, as Ginger Beard laughs at it, when I watch TV (mostly political dramas like Vampire Diaries).

What's great about when you exercise for one week, is that you can now start dabbling in the below phrases:

'In my spare time, I hit the gym, hard.'

'I feel like I spend my whole damn life on a treadmill. But one does have to tend to the temple.'

'You should go to the gym more.'

You can also call other people fat, because all you have now is muscle.

On the train, this lady let her daughter stand on me, because she was chasing imaginary fairies. And because her quest was so vital, it was okay for her to commit GBH. Parenting skills people!

It was nice to see you today. I like your shoes.

Thursday, March 01, 2012

Drive by splash back

When you haven't exercised for three months, and you decide to do a 30minute fat burner programme on the bike, there's one inevitable question:

Have you broken your arse?

And the answer is always going to be - Yes.

Last time this happened to me, there was no one witness my attempt to get off. This time there was a girl, a running a girl. And though her back was to me, my reflection was in the TV screen she was facing. I waited a while, just sitting there, until the feeling returned to my legs. Then I fell to the left, and hoped my feet would remember that they hold my body up.

I considered getting some water. The water was just too God damned far away. I did a very fancy shuffle to the car, and people crossed the road to avoid me.

Tonight is Zumba night with work. If they find my daily conduct inept, wait until they see my dancing. Secretly (because I can be very subtle) I am going to mix the Macarena in with a bit of Saturday night, and repeat for the full hour.

I'm a little bit scared, because this one time, at band camp, my friend said, 'Hey, fancy trying out this dance class?', and I said, 'that sounds like a swell idea, buddy'. And we went. And it turned out to be an advanced class. And I was HUMILIATED. Because while everyone else had obviously been born wearing ballet shoes, and had memorised the full routine from Cats, I only knew how to tussle up my hair, and wind it on down to the floor (after growing up in Oceana nightclub, single). This did not really agree with my personal mantra, of always trying to be awesome.

It's quite lucky then, that my legs still don't work, and just in time for tonight's debacle.

Oh, don't worry - of course I'll remember to write, and tell you just how horrific it really was. You know you can rely on me.

Like the other day, when I chucked a jug of hot water at the windscreen, and Ginger Beard chose that moment to put the wipers on, and it all shot back into my face. And those early morning commuters, once so desperate to speed into work, slowed down to take in the dripping girl, and chuckled behing the wheel. THANKS.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Tall, Venti, or Grande?

Day 3 without coffee. Let's pretend it's for lent and not to prove I don't had a problem. My name's WriterAtLunch and I'm addicted to Starbucks.

It turns out, when coffee-free, I'm not at my optimum. My words trip over each other, like over-excited morons. my thoughts are slow and have to be dragged into being. At exactly 3pm every day, I experience an overwhelming crash. My bowling ball head longs to meet the desk. In the morning, I walk past the life giver itself, Starbucksium, and in the evening, force myself past once more.

Do you see how happy the people are inside? How awake they are? Each one of them coated in a golden glow, greddy fingers round those bright, white mugs, the sweet syrup inches from......

*passed out*

It's too hard! Give me coffee! Aarrggghhh!

ALSO

It turns out that if you bring your gym kit to work, and just leave it under your desk, it creates the illusion of fitness. I spot it every morning, a trainer poking out the bag, and think, 'Good for me, being all pro-active with exercise. At any moment, any moment at all, I could go to the gym'.

It's fabulous, you should try it.

Get to the end of the day, and ask yourself, 'Is today the day?'

Then say, 'No, but tomorrow will be.'

Repeat all week. Make it to the weekend, and feel so very sporty. You're one of those people, who can't stop thinking about going to the gym, and one day, you might actually make it there.

Anyhoo, I'm too busy at the mind gym, trying to construct a personality out of what God gave me. previously, half of myself was made from coffee beans, but I can't rely on that anymore. I'd like to apologise in advance if you run into my substandard self, I'm working on it.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Murder by numbers

Does anyone else have Sisqo's 'Thong Song' on loop in their head?

Just me? Oh, okay.

I am considering moving this blog to Tumblr, because I feel that it has outgrown this place. *Sob*
Well not really, it's actually because I'm all about aesthetics and Tumblr is prettier. I don't really understand it, and it freezes constantly. The most I can achieve is a blog called 'Untitled', and no posts. I think you'll agree, it's a definite improvement on what I've got going here.

ALSO, I've gained a small but steady readership in Venezuela. Welcome, hang up your coat, stay a while.

ALSO, I came home (alone) last night, and noticed muddy footprints up the stairs. I hesitated. I looked at the clean soles of my boots, and continued upwards. And then, entering the bathroom, I got the whiff of a man, a man previously unknown to me. A man who had recently been in this very room. My nose has all the capabilities of Sherlock, if he had been a hoover. It knows everything from a few inhalations. The only logical thing to do was get a knife from the kitchen, and go looking. I chose a dirty knife, speckled with spring onion slices, and hunted him. I brought forth the knowledge I had stored from every horror, ever psychological thriller, and unleashed it. I tip toed, I sought out nooks and crannies. I branded my knife, high in the air, ready at every turn, to stab.

So it turns out, our bath is leaking down into the shop below, and the plumber had come round (after speaking to Ginger Beard) and performed some Plummerish things.

At least I know, that when the time arises I will be ready.

To be honest I was thinking, 'Not here, not now, not by some cocky mo fo, who has the audacity to take a bath in my home before he murders me.'

Also, I am often compared to Rambo by my peers.