Back it up, back it up.

It briefly occurred to me yesterday that I could start a running blog, and sort of smush (smush is a word) it into this blog. But then I realised that to profess a level of expertise over something to the point of creating a blog on it, you really should:

-Know something about the subject

-Be good at what you’re advising on

-Do the thing your suggesting

And that’s why I won’t be writing a running blog.

Most of my recent runs remind me more of running’s second cousin –walking. But I do move my arms a lot, and I think that needs to count for something. It’s like, I start moving, and I realise, wow, I’m so tired, this is so hard, how does anyone actually keep this shit up?

I think it’s the heat. It’s got nothing to do with my mental stamina and physical ability

.

I’ve spent a good year believing that everyone was better and faster than me. I’ve recently worked out that if there was anyone slower and shitter than me, I wouldn’t know about it because I can't see them. And they say the ability for us to learn drastically reduces as we age – what tosh! Thus, there are probably loads and loads of people, even more inept than me. THUS, I am a truly awesome athlete.

Thanks for listening.

In the massive gap since we last spoke, I have achieved many great and wonderful things, including (but not limited to):

-Walking into a cactus in Croatia, which ripped off the sleeve of my favourite holiday t-shirt.

-Been pushed into a traffic cone and fallen over it during the Electric Run (only my pride was injured).

-Started dieting with Ginger. Each night we share the same exchange. 

He says, ‘You’re looking better for it.’ 

I say, ‘Thanks, I’m starving.’ 

It’s really lovely.

-Shared out brioche between my battered colleagues mid pub crawl. (Have I now surpassed my middle-class roots, and bashed head first into the elusive realm of upper class? I THINK SO.)

-Realised that I can’t EVER spell ‘absolutely’ properly (yes, I’ve just had this little bugger spell checked to make him right.)

-Thrown up in front of a family beside the Thames after inhaling a swarm of midges.

-Made no progress whatsoever on my patchwork cushion (a project I started to expand my abilities and creativity). Looks like I’ll just stay exactly as I am.

-Started reading a book on what happens inside people. Learnt a lot about urine and mucus. I’m not going to share. Read it yourself.

-Remembered how funny it is to freak out Ginger Beard by

                              Talking to him using the Salad Fingers voice.

                              Trying to draw the cross on his chest whilst saying, ‘I bless you in the name of the Father, the spirit….’

                              Picking off my nail varnish and leaving it on his side of the bed. Despite telling him it’s a gift, he gets super Geordie.

I’VE DONE SO MUCH. BLIMIN ECK!

I'm now going to do much, much less.

Sleep of the week: Marcus

This week's Sleep of the week has been kindly donated by Nia Edwards.

Nia Edwards is awesome.

But can anyone ever be as awesome as Marcus?

Marcus is not messing around.

He was born in London, and thus, he is fully prepared.

I really want to know how this is packaged. I like to think that he never removes it, as it provides so many benefits:

-Retaining heat in the neck and jaw
-Preventing attacks to the neck and jaw

He has a very smug sleep face. Of course he does; will you check out the frigging cushion.

I bet he's a chiropractor. His glasses look serious, and he's wearing them in a very serious way. The shirt/jumper combo was a brave choice.

Unlike Todd from last week (remember Todd? Bless him) Marcus probably does have a special someone; a wife, who is never allowed to leave the house.

From the looks of it, no one is sitting directly to his left. Good decision. But on his right, you can just make out the stiff collar of Sherlock's coat.

And that's this weeks, Sleep of the week!!! (imagine jingle).

Still sponsored by Durex - 'Respect it. Protect it.'

Face Off

I met a very nice chap on the tube this morning.

I could tell, by reading his ID badge, that he was a temporary contractor for Harrods in the field of '3 way displays.'

Early on in the journey, he decided to use my leg, in order to display his bag of shoe boxes. And although it's quite possible that he, nervous about his first day, was using the commute to warm up, I was left rather displeased.

In order to point out the obvious health and safety failing, I pointed to the bag and said, 'I think that's going to fall over,' and displayed this by moving my leg, and letting the bag fall over. My display it turns out, was much better than his.

He said, 'sorry', correctly interpreting my utterance as, 'Move you fucking bag.'

It used to be that other people on the tube scared me. Now, I scare myself.

ALSO

I recently hooked my umbrella on the back of a chair in a pub, and then went to sit in a different part of the pub for approximately two hours. A responsible (probably) amount of wine later, I returned to rescue it. By this point a man was sitting there, with his coat and bag over the chair. I said:

'Sorry to interrupt. Can I just get my umbrella? I don't want you to think I'm going through your bag.'

And his girlfriend was like: 'What?'

And I was like: 'My umbrella.'

 And I lifted the jacket up to show them that my umbrella was there, and he said:

'Why are you going through my bag?'

They're very lucky that I didn't beat them to death, but I'd gone to so much effort to get the umbrella back, that it seemed a real shame to break it.

I think I'm coming across as a very violent person, but lucky for you, this has only recently materialised as violent thoughts. In the past I have:

*Dropped a rock on a frog. Mum put in the bin, after pronouncing it dead at the scene. But in the morning it was hopping around the patio with a mashed in face. What a relief!

*Thrown a boy's watch into the road. His Mum came to my house, and had a massive go at my Mum. I sat on the stairs with a  glass of orange juice crying.

*Ran down a hill, jumped on a girl's back, and started slapping her cheeks. In my defence, she did insinuate that I dyed my hair (I did), and we were quickly toppled my another girl who then jumped on my back. Karma.

*Scratched my brother between the eyes and scarred him, after he put gum in the sleeve of my favourite jacket.

Is that it? I think that's it.

I've just noticed that aside from the watch, they're all facial. In my presence, no ones face is safe.

PROTECT YOUR FACE

Sleep of the week: Todd

It's that time already - this weeks, Sleep of the Week!!!

This is Todd. Well, he certainly sleeps like a Todd

I'm especially impressed by the way he uses the hand rail as a cushion. Todd is smart.

It's difficult to guess what he does as a job, but presumably something where your appearance is not relevant; radio?

A lot of men in London are grabbing themselves a pair of orange, corduroy trousers. Where from? Shall we find it and burn it down, as a mercy killing?

I like the way in which Todd is pensively interlinking his fingers - it adds a little elegance to the mix.

At Piccadilly Circus, he sprang up (thanks to his internal tube alarm clock), and left the train. Thus, I believe that he has resided in London for several years or more. This is very professional indeed.

I don't think he has a girlfriend.

Do you want to be his girlfriend?

I doubt he'd be difficult to spot in a crowd if you want to seek him out.

It's also possible that he's a spy. If someone said to me, 'Quick, you have to be a spy,' and I only had the contents of my own wardrobe, I might come up with something similar. The flat cap shields the eyes. The jacket has all the pockets you need to conceal weapons, and the orange trousers mean you're not trying too hard to be invisible. Perfect.

Do you think he looks happy? It's hard to say. But I don't think you can dress like that and be happy.

And that's this week's, sleep of the week!

Do you want to be part of this feature? Fall asleep in the same carriage as me, and see where it gets you.

Sponsored by Durex - protect it, respect it.

The Feaster Bunny

To escape the concern that my late twenties see me rather stale and predictable in my ways, I occasionally seek out a weird and wonderful experiences.

Mostly, they end up being rather shit.

In fact, the most exciting thing about them is the telling, the little brag, the 'You'll never guess what we're doing!"

But then you just end up intimately pressed against a man wearing a wig and make-up, in a hot booth, being told that you have elegant ankles.

Have I got ahead of myself here?

Maybe a little.

I convinced Ginger Beard that we should attend the Harvey Nichols Feaster Egg Hunt.

First, we stood in one of the shop's many entrances for fifteen minutes, whilst actors (see below) told us how pretty we were.

 

Now, I like compliments, but it was intense, and Ginger Beard grew increasingly upset with their lack of interest in his outfit. We didn't like it when they cooed over us, but we really didn't like it when they lavished their attention on others. I was once more reminded of the horror of sibling rivalry.

After the bizarre intro, we followed the faux French parade up four sets of escalators, encouraged to freeze like mannequins. I was itching to trash the place. The sales pitch was that you could manically run around the store in pursuit of the Bailey's easter egg, akin to a posh Supermarket Sweep. I've never felt comfortable in Harvey Nichols, so I thought that I could comfortably destroy it under the guise of playful fun.

No such luck.

We partook in a series of unfinished parlour games. I approached 'Musical Chairs' with a level of aggression I'd never possessed as a child. I didn't know what the prize would be, but I was willing to kill for it. I was ecstatic to get down to the final three, only to be clapped and told that we were all winners.

All winners?

Even a five year old in a sack race can deal with the brutality of being proclaimed the winner or a loser.

Having said that, I'd of happily accepted the same prize, dealt to all three. But we got nothing, and the rage building inside of me took me back to a vicious Pog battle many years ago.

 

Oh sweet, sweet Pogs, how I miss thee.

 

 

 



ANYWAY

Then a man took me into a booth and firmly closed the curtain.

It's not the kind of event I'd typically try and pull at, but when you've got it, you've bloody got it son.

So I went with it.

We took it in turns to pick out folded cards, concealing compliments. When my turn came, it was clear he was playing a hilarious joke.

"You have a beautiful complexion."

Thanks to harsh changing room lights, the fact that my skin resembled that of a thirteen year old acne ridden chump, was further on show. I bet it didn't say that on the card. Just like being back at school.

Where was my Mum?

I needed her, and she wasn't there.

THANKS MUM.

We tried to make friends when we sat down for the six course feast. Because in London, you can instantly become friends with anyone, talking about all the fantastically cool things you're up to.

No one wanted to talk to us.


I feel quite bad, because the actors were great, and so was the food, but my innate awkwardness restricts me from enjoying most things in life. And frankly my attempts to be the kind of person who's happy to go with the flow, leave me an adrenaline riddled wreck. All that said, it was a truly charming evening!

I'm sure normal people would've had a fabulous time.

I found their blogs, and they really did.

This is why I don't tend to write reviews.

Three blind mice (others available)

Some things aren't working out too well for me, and in most cases other people are to blame. I am to blame in precisely none of the featured cases. And though this is obvious, I think that it's important to stress the point.

Case 1 - Sleep

Unfortunately, when I'm tired, I'm horrible. This is genetically inherited. It obviously skipped a generation, as both of my parents remain reasonable and nice if unable to get a full eight hours. I can only assume that like me, one or all of my grandparents suffered from this condition.

It's a transformation, which sees me become a snappy douche bag, where I can neither be held accountable for my words and actions, nor reprimanded for them.

Now, Ginger Beard is fully aware of this, proven by the fact that if I am awful to my mum, she will turn to him and say, 'Oh dear, did someone not get enough sleep last night?'

And he will say, 'Afraid not Ann, afraid not." And then they feel sorry for each other.

So why, WHY ladies and gents, would he choose to wake me up last night with this:

GB: Gemma, Gem, wake up. Can you hear the mice?

Me: Wha? No. Go away.

*30 minute pause* (assumed)

GB: Can you hear the mice now?

Me: Shut up.

You know what, I wouldn't care if I could hear mice. I wouldn't care if Pinky and the Brain we're on our bed, plotting yet another ridiculous way to take over the world. I wouldn't care if an army of mice were holding tiny mice knives to our throats and demanding our finest cheese. Or if one was somersaulting in my hair, or running off with my much loved Tiffany lamp. Or a myriad of other unlikely mice based scenarios.

I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE MICE.

We discussed this at length the following morning.

Then we had a brief, but satisfying argument about shoe laces. Because that's what you get.

He's really lucky it didn't escalate. There have been past incidences (from both parties) that went way too far:

1. When Ginger Beard threw a packaged tuna sandwich at my face.

2.When I pushed Ginger Beard off a bus seat, and into the aisle.

I think we all know which hurt more.

ANYWAY

Case 2 - Being a hero

Last week, I went out for a rather fabulous meal with my Mum. At some point we noticed that the couple next to us had gone, and left behind a scarf.

She looked at me. Of course she did. In times of crisis, everyone is quick to nominate me, to do what needs to be done.

Even though I had no idea how much time had passed since they'd gone home, I decided to run for the exit.

Now - and here's my question. Who puts a step in the middle of a restaurant?

If it hadn't been for that step, I probably would've returned the scarf, and received a handsome reward. Sadly, the fall prompted a considerable delay.

I've been spending a  lot of time recently with my friend JB. JB is a very good person indeed, always helping others and volunteering his time. The 'step' incident has firmly destroyed the plans I had earlier in the week, to be less selfish (inspired by all his do gooding.) I'm actually going to focus on being a worse person, and armed with needlessly interrupted sleep, this will not be too difficult.

Watch out.

P.s - my house is currently riddled with mice (who knew?)

The many forms of love

So firstly, (and I want you guys to know before I break it to Ginger Beard), I've fallen in love. And not in the traditional sense, with a human being, but in a kind of new agey way, with their blog.

I can't even remember how I met their blog, but that's how love works; it smacks you BAM in the face, and you're a complete mess.

Will Ginger Beard feel a sense of all consuming rage, mixed with unbridled confusion, that I can so easily replace him with a series of hilarious posts?

Probably.

But as Alanis Morisette once said, "You live,  and then you bloody learn" (or something very similar).

If I had plans tonight, I'd cancel them, just to spend more time with this blog. And much like it is for loved up couples, who can recount the very moment when they 'just knew', I recognise mine. It was upon spotting that a pie chart (entitled 'My wishes' )  involved a segment labelled, 'That I had Jessie's girl.'

And if you don't understand that reference it's okay, because that means it's special for me.

And if you do understand that reference, and have also fallen in love with this blog, from a mere quote, let's get together and start a support group, ideally in London, but I guess we can work out the finer details at a later date.

I'm not ready to share it with you yet! I think this stems from the relationship my brother and I had growing up. Whenever one of us accrued something that the other wanted, we broke it. And even though he never reads this, Lee, I'd like to take the time to apologise for ripping up your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles posters. Because although the cellotape went some way towards improving things, those little heroes in half shells never looked quite right again.

ANYWAY

I also took a circuits class for the first time! And when I say 'class', I mean that a colleague of mine, who is also a personal trainer, and refers to himself as 'The Smiling Assassin', and two other people who believed things would be okay, forced ourselves into odd and uncomfortable poses in the park outside our office.

Things were not looking too bright for me, as later that night, at approximately 9pm, I got into bed with a custard Muller Rice, and started to cry.

Ginger Beard: Are you kidding me?

Me: Owwww! Ow! Ow! Owwwwww!

Ginger Beard: Do you think this is an acceptable reaction?

Me: It hurts so bad!

Ginger Beard: You're twenty-six years old.

Me: Help me!

Ginger Beard: Do you need to go to hospital? No? Then stop crying. Right now. Shut it down. Shut it up.

And that ladies and gentlemen, is a small window, into the vast world of psychological abuse I experience each and every day.

If you would like to make a small donation, which can be put towards healing my weeping, emotional wounds, don't be shy.