I had big plans. I was going to write 30 posts in 30 days. I'd been planning to do it for years. It was going to be a challenge, sure, but I was confident I could do it.
But life, as it has a habit of doing, got in the way, big style, and I'd underestimated just how much energy it would take. Energy that sadly, this month I just haven't had.
More than anything, this month has been a month of adjustment. Of rationalisation. Of frustration. Of sometimes having to give in and accept that sometimes, matter wins over mind and I can't do everything that I want to do.
In some ways this has been a quiet month, but in others, it's been incredibly busy.
I've travelled hundreds of miles and spent more than 24 hours sitting on (various) trains (although not in one go). I've done things this month that I've never done before, and it's given me a sense that despite everything I've actually achieved some stuff this month, even if it wasn't everything I wanted to achieve.
I had lots of things I wanted to write about - things I started to write about, but for one reason or another, the posts didn't get finished. Sometimes because it was just too emotionally difficult and draining, sometimes because I couldn't find the words, sometimes because I just didn't have the energy.
My birthday is tomorrow. In a few hours I'll no longer be in my 20s. I suppose I should be feeling ready for celebrating, but to be honest, it's the last thing on my mind. I have no celebratory anything organised for tomorrow night, which is just as well, because I really don't have the energy for it anyway.
More than not having the energy for it, I'm not particularly in the mood. My beloved Fredcat is terminally ill and failing fast, and although I'm glad I got to see him over the weekend, I feel awful that I won't be able to be there to hold him when the Vet does what's necessary on Friday.
I know he's a cat, and not a person, but for 13 years, his wee furry face has been there to greet me when I got home, even if I haven't been home for months. When I was home at the weekend, he barely left my side - sleeping on my bed most of the time, and, when he figured it out, in my case.
I'm really going to miss him.
So tomorrow will be a quiet day. I'll be at work, doing what I can, and then I'll come home and have a quiet evening, and I'll wait for the bleeping of my phone that'll indicate that my sister has gone into labour and that I'm about to become an auntie.
Now that. That'll be something that'll really be worth celebrating.
When you're in high school, the boys in the year above always seem impossibly attractive, and in every year, there are one or two who are the most sought after - the prize that every girl wants to win.
My friend S was one of those boys, and was made all the more attractive by the fact that he wasn't aware of it. C, however, was different.
He was good-looking and knew it. Cocky but charming - a dangerous combination. More than one girl had her teenage wings burned by getting too close to the heat of his particular sun. In short, he was so entirely out of my league that I didn't even waste any energy fancying him.
Eventually, he settled down (as much as any teenagers do), with a steady girlfriend - who actually wasn't all that steady - she would teeter around the shopping centre in her 6" stilettos, hair almost as big as her torso, seconds away from disaster at any point, but for all they looked like an odd couple, they stayed together for a long time (in teenage years) and it was just accepted that they were an item and he was now off-limits.
In school I was never even close to being part of that crowd, but by an accident of circumstance, I found myself on the edges of it through a friend who went to a different school, and got an invite to a secret party which was being held in the kiddie adventure playground of a local country park.
So there I was, with my "boyfriend" of the time (2nd and last time I met him - we'd met the weekend before, walked round the shopping centre three times before he kissed me and somehow, that made him my boyfriend), my friend and her boyfriend, and another friend and the wider crowd of friends of friends which included C and his girlfriend.
We sneaked into the park under cover of darkness, bottles of whatever alcohol we could get our (mostly) underage hands on in cheap plastic bags, and a party was had. Being the entirely rubbish rebel that I was, I took one sip of the litre bottle of Electric White Cider that was my party fuel for the evening, decided I didn't like the taste and ditched it, choosing instead to pretend that I was drunk rather than show myself up as the uncool kid I really was.
Had I actually been drunk, this story may well have had an entirely different ending, or I might not have remembered it at all, but at some point, for reasons I can't remember, lots of people decided to go try and climb up a nearby steep bank and I stayed behind, preferring to sit on the edge of one of the obstacles, swinging my legs off the side.
It was a nice night, and I was enjoying the feeling of being a rebel (I'd lied to my mum about where I was, and coupled with the alcohol and the company, I was feeling particularly dangerous) listening to the shouts and shrieks coming from the bank when C appeared in front of me.
I was fairly sure that he had no idea who I was, or that I even went to the same school as he did, being from the year below him and certainly well below his social strata, so I was surprised when he spoke to me.
That surprise didn't go away, and in fact, increased exponentially when he put his hands on my legs, stepped forward and told me he thought I was gorgeous.
You know that sound of a needle being scraped across a record that gets used to indicate shock or surprise? That's what was going on in my head. That, and looking round for the candid camera team.
Here I was, 15 and deeply uncool, and one of the hottest boys in school was stroking my legs and telling me I was gorgeous. Surreal doesn't even come close to describing it.
Of course, being sober and being me, I couldn't accept this, and logically pointed out that he was drunk and didn't mean it, and more to the point, he had a girlfriend and I had a boyfriend and it just wasn't right.
Bless him, but he argued with me - determined to have his way.
... and so it was that when he decided verbal persuasion wasn't effective enough and perhaps a demonstration of his superior technique would be more effective and leaned forward and took my face in his hands and tried to kiss me, I didn't give in, and turned my face and pushed him away, leaving him slack-jawed with surprise.
Confused, he tried again, and again I dodged his advances, all the while wondering what on earth I was doing - I mean, how dare I - the deeply uncool - reject one of the most wanted - was I mad?
Perhaps, but it still makes me smile a little - knowing that not only would nobody believe that he'd even made the advance, but that even fewer people would believe I turned it down.
I tried to run away once.
I didn't get very far.
I was two years old, and already it was becoming clear that patience didn't number among my many virtues.
We were due to go to my gran's house in a small village in the Borders (the Scottish side - just) and were due to set off just as soon as my dad got home from work. Something which, apparently, wasn't happening nearly fast enough for my two year old self.
So I decided I'd had enough and was going to go right this very minute.
Being the sensible child I was (even at two), I knew I had to pack, so into my little case went six pairs of knickers and six pairs of socks, and a book (for the journey), and off I went, ready to walk the 100 odd miles to my gran's house.
I got as far as the end of the road when mum caught up with me and brought me back home.
I can't remember now why I did it. Curiosity, I suppose. Challenge, maybe. Or maybe I was just bored.
I'd been doing one of those little logic puzzles you get in the back of Sunday supplements, and when I read the small print, I saw that Mensa had placed it there. The accompanying text suggested that those who'd completed the puzzle should send it back, with a stamped addressed envelope, and in return – if the puzzle was completed correctly - they would send you a home test to complete, to see if you might be eligible to join.
So that's what I did. I carefully cut the completed puzzle from the magazine, put it in an envelope with a stamped addressed envelope and waited.
Sure enough, a while later an envelope arrived with the Mensa logo on the front and the at home test inside, complete with instructions on how you should complete it and how long you should allow for completion, which I followed.
Test done, off it went, back to Mensa for marking.
Based on this test, they'd tell you your provisional IQ (actual IQ can only be ascertained in a supervised test) and if your provisional IQ was high enough (98% or higher), they'd invite you to go sit the supervised test. If the resulting score bore out the results of previous tests, you'd be invited to join Mensa.
I had no expectations of a high score, and figured I might be in the slightly above average category at best, but a few days after I sent off the test, I stopped haunting the postman and forgot about it, so when a plain brown envelope with my name handwritten on the front arrived, I had no idea what it was.
Curious, I opened it up and when I peered inside and saw the Mensa logo on the letterhead, the adrenaline kicked in. It's funny, the results of the test didn't matter at all – whether I passed or failed or whatever mark I got wouldn't materially change my life. It wasn't as if it was a pass or a fail on a school exam. The only thing that it would decide was whether I would be allowed to sit another test.
So with shaking hands, I pulled out the various pieces of paper from inside the envelope and unfolded the covering letter… and nearly dropped it when I saw what it said.
My provisional IQ was marked, in pen, at the top of the letter, on what was obviously a form letter. Also marked in pen was a score.
They were congratulating me, and inviting me to sit the supervised test.
My jaw dropped. I couldn't believe it. Here, in black and white, on headed notepaper, was proof that someone other than my family thought that I was clever.
Fantastic. Amazing. I could go sit the other test! I could be in Mensa! I could be clever and lots of exciting things would happen to me as a result!
So I went to tell my dad, to show off, because after the initial shock wore off, I was proud of that bit of paper.
… and my dad's response, when he saw 99% marked on the letter?
"What happened to the other 1%?"
He was joking, but pride goeth before a fall, indeed.
She hated me, at first.
Miss MacKinley, English Teacher and Head of Department.
Unknown to me, my competition winning short story (which I wrote about in The Firsts) was used by my teacher, who was Assistant Head of the English Department, as a bragging tool, in a rather unfortunate "see how good my pupil is" kind of way.
Unfortunately, this fuelled an existing rivalry between the Assistant Head and the Head of Department, and when my teacher started bragging, it pissed off the Head and for whatever reason, she was set against me from that point.
In the Scottish system, we were the first year sitting the Standard Grade exams. The whole year was streamed into three broad bands - Credit, General and Foundation. Everyone sat two papers - the General paper, the top grade for which was a 3. Those who were thought likely to do better sat the Credit paper which meant you could up your grade to a 1 or a 2, otherwise you sat the Foundation paper so if you failed the General Paper, you could get a 5 or a 6. It was designed to ensure everyone, as much as possible, left school with a qualification (however worthless it was).
There were enough pupils in my year for there to be six English classes, which were broadly arranged in terms of who was expected to get what result, based on the papers submitted as part of the portfolio containing the best of our work from the first two years of school.
Based on my work, I was expected to go into the top English class, so it was a nasty surprise to get back to school for Third Year and find myself in the third class - the General class. When I asked what had happened, I found out that my folio had gone missing over the summer, and as a result, I'd been placed in the General class, because there was no proof that I deserved to be placed any higher. I also found out that the Head of Department had made the decision, and that she had not been prepared to listen to any appeal from either of my first two English teachers - especially not my first year teacher.
Ordinarily, it wouldn't have been an issue, but for the whole banding issue. Only those in the top two classes were being put forward for the Credit exam, which would mean that the highest grade that I could get would be a 3, which would potentially have an impact on my future.
No amount of appealing was helping my case, and I was left with a "well, prove that you can do better, and we'll see" hanging over my head. Again, this wouldn't ordinarily have been a problem, but for the fact that the class I was in was taught by the oldest, most doddery teacher in the department, who couldn't control the class, set rubbish essays and was generally just useless. Despite doing the best I could and getting some of the best grades in his class, when I submitted my folio to back up my request to be moved into a Credit class for Fourth year and the second year of the exam course, I was told that it wasn't good enough (it was, more than) and that I still wasn't going to get to sit the Credit exam.
Looking back, it was actually the best thing that could have happened. The teacher I had for Fourth year was excellent. She was new, and didn't stick to the more obvious books in the curriculum. Her style was fresh and engaging and her classes inspirational. Instead of doing the more turgid classics and Shakespeare, we did The Woman In Black and helped produce a script for a play, which was then produced and performed at the end of the school year. She, being new, didn't know the background and the politics, and when she asked why I was in her class when the stuff I was producing was of sufficient quality for me to sit the Credit exam, and why I wasn't being allowed to sit the Credit prelim, which I had to sit, if I was to be allowed to sit the final exam, because it contributed to the final grade, decided that it was unfair, and set about putting it right.
She worked with me so that I could write papers that she could submit on my behalf to the senior staff in the school and the exam board and eventually got agreement for me to sit the Credit prelim, which I passed, enabling me to sit the Credit exam at the end of the year, which I also passed, with a pretty good grade.
At the time, I wanted to be a teacher (don't laugh), and to be a teacher, I needed to have Highers, so I went back to school for Fifth year and Higher English, and was somewhat alarmed to find myself in the top Higher class - taught by none other than the Head of Department herself.
I don't remember exactly why now, but for some reason, I got a summons to go talk to her one afternoon, and frankly, I was terrified. She was well known for being something of a battleaxe, and I wasn't in a huge hurry to get yet more hassle from her.
When I got there, however, I was surprised. She told me that she had been wrong about me, and that she wanted to apologise for that, and for being excessively harsh on me in previous years. She told me that she thought that I was talented and that she was looking forward to having me in her class, and that she was expecting good things from me.
I went from being terrified to being relieved to being pleased to being shit-scared, all in the space of a few minutes.
When I actually got into her class though, it was excellent, and I could see why she was Head of Department. She was an excellent teacher, and I really started to enjoy myself, feeling stretched and inspired by the work I was doing. Soon it came time to decide on the book we would be required to do our RPR (Review of Personal Reading) on, which would form something like a third of our final grade. There was a list of books, and a cupbard next ot the class, and we were sent to go pick a book.
I was quite pleased to find 1984 in the listing, went to the cupboard, grabbed myself a copy and headed back into the class with the others, so she could review our choices. When she got to me, she took the copy of 1984 off my desk and told me that I shouldn't do it, and in fact, I shouldn't do anything that was on the list, as each and every book on the list had been done to death, and there was very little chance of getting a really good grade because the examiners had read so many essays on it that they were fed up with it. She told me that I should try something different - completely different - and that it was possible to choose a book not on the list if she approved it, and she would.
I wasn't sure what to choose, and truth be told, I wanted to do 1984 cos I really enjoyed the book, but she suggested I try something else - a book called Paradise News by David Lodge - something she'd read recently and thought I'd not only enjoy, but be able to write about well. She even brought her copy from home and let me borrow it.
Not long after that, I got the migraine of doom - and by doom, I mean that it lasted for four months, and decimated the rest of my Higher year. In the early days of it, I struggled to try and have a normal life, and when it was clear that I was ill and struggling, she held me back after class, offering support and aomeone to talk to, saying she understood because she was a migraine sufferer herself. She offered to send work home so I could keep up with class if I felt up to it, and for a while, I did that. I really appreciated her help and support, and confided in her some of the frustration I was feeling at being ill, and some of the stuff that was going on at home at the time. The battleaxe became more human and less scary, and I really appreciated her taking the extra time to push me to fulfil the potential she saw in me.
Eventually, things got so bad I was signed off school for a few weeks, and so I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when news broke that she'd been brutally murdered.
Instead of being part of the hastily called assembly, where the news was broken gently, and counsellors were standing by, I found out by turning on the news, where it was the leading story of the day, cos, well, there are not many places where a school teacher being stabbed multiple times won't hit the headlines.
Over the next few hours and days, the story emerged, although certain details weren't broadcast, presumably to shield those of us who were her pupils from the gory details.
It turned out that she'd never married, and that she lived alone in a tower block, and that her life was the school and her church. She'd been stabbed in her home, and there was no sign of forced entry, indicating that she possibly knew her attacker.
What they didn't broadcast were the details of just how brutal her murder was. I wouldn't know them, but for the fact that my mum sat on the train every day next to two Scene of Crime Officers (think CSI) - one a forensic specialist, the other, a police photographer, and that as the main SOCOs for the area, they'd been called to the crime scene.
It had been an especially brutal killing - multiple stab wounds and lots of blood, and they were pretty sure they knew who did it - the son of a friend who lived a few floors below her in the tower block. He'd had a history of mental illness and violent behaviour, and while osme evidence pointed in his direction, there wasn't enough to secure a prosecution, so they had to let him go.
I never got a chance to give her back her book.
I still have it, somewhere.
She might well be gone, but at least by me, she's not been forgotten.
I was a girly girl once.
I wore pretty dresses.
I had my hair put in ringlets and wanted to be like one of the Railway Children.
I coveted my sister's teddy bears.
I danced.
Hell, I even wore pastel colours and flowery prints.
But along with being a girly girl, I was also a bit of a geek, and very much a daddy's girl, and the older I got, the more I began to feel like my breasts were getting in the way of my relationship with my dad, and the girly girl took a back seat while the geek took over...
... and I realised something this summer.
I realised that while I've spent most of the last 20 years involving myself more and more with computers (especially in the last 11 years since getting online), I must have missed a memo or two along the way.
Cos honestly, I never knew it was a cardinal sin to exit the house while wearing sandals or open toed shoes without my toenails painted.
It's really not something I was aware about before, but this summer in particular, I've become conscious - at least partly, because I actually had a woman tut at me on the bus when she looked down and spotted my unvarnished (but clean and not totally gross) toenails - of being the only person on the bus or tube, or wherever, with unvarnished toes on display.
So I gave in to peer pressure, and decided to paint my toenails.
Which is when I came up against the first problem.
What with?
I dug through the drawer of makeup and girly stuff I (almost) never use, but all I could find was either black nail varnish (which might possibly look like I'd had a major DIY accident) or pale pink that I'd been given in some set or other, and that just wasn't going to work, so when I was out with Christine, when she was staying with me earlier this year, I bought what I thought would be an acceptable compromise.
I avoided the pale peaches and pinks and the harlot reds (not hugely approprirate for work, said the back-brain mother - a bit like a back-seat driver but more pervasive) and picked out a purple. Not too gothy. Not too flashy. Not too tarty. Perfect.
Except not.
They tricked me.
What looked in the bottle like a nice mid purple with a slight sparkle, in actuality, is an almost clear polish, full of glitter.
So. Very. Wrong.
But in the interests of not being tutted at in public for being so shamelessly toenail naked, I gave it a shot. For two weeks I walked around with sparkly toenails, feeling strangely disconnected from my toes (and even, on odd occasions, doing a mini double-take when I'd forgotten what I'd done), but it's no use.
I hate the glitter and I can't be bothered with the maintenance and seriously, the next person that tuts at me for not having painted toenails?
Is gonna get a punch in the knees.
For I have made a decision.
Toenail polish be damned.
I will walk around, (toe) naked and proud of it.
After a 30 minute interrogation, designed to ascertain just how pathetic I was, and how long I was likely to remain that way, I was led, slowly, down a corridor (while being watched by someone else, just to make sure I wasn't faking it) to the assault course.
The wheelchair assault course, where I was to take a driving test, to make sure that I could operate an electric wheelchair in a manner that wouldn't result in me causing chaos and mayhem wherever I went.
Once in the chair, I was given some basic instruction on how to start the thing (make sure the batteries are connected and either push a button or flip a switch, depending on the model) and how to make the thing go where I wanted it to (not as easy as it looked).
The basics are simple - a slow/fast switch, and a joystick. Push forward and it goes forward. Push forward harder, it goes faster. Let go and it stops (although not immediately - it needs some braking distance). Pull back and it reverses. Go anywhere other than forward or backwards and it turns, to varying degrees.
Easy.
Or so I thought.
Going forward or backwards is the easy part. Going round corners is ok. Reversing round corners isn't so much fun, but I had that pretty much under control, and was pootling round the specially constructed wheelchair assault course in no time. Up and down the humps, round the tight corners. It was actually rather fun.
Until the final part of the test.
The test of nerves. The bit where they tell you that the only proper way to get off a kerb onto the road if there's no dropped kerb is to reverse off it.
Yes, that's right.
Talk about a leap of faith?
So they got me up on the fake kerb, and told me to reverse, and it's the scariest thing in the world, because you need to make sure you're straight, because if you're at an angle it can all go horribly wrong and the thing'll tip over and you'll fall out and the wheelchair might fall on you and god knows it's embarrassing enough being out in an electric wheelchair without falling out of it in public in the middle of a road that might have cars coming along it and your mind is racing and every fibre of your being is telling you not to do it because it's just totally and utterly wrong.
I obviously wasn't the first person to look at him like he was insane, so to get me started, and reassure me that it was perfectly safe, he gave me a helping hand, reached over and hit the joystick, reversing the chair off the kerb.
I think it's to my credit that I didn't scream like a girlie, because for a split second, I really thought it was all going to go horribly wrong.
Then he made me do it without his "help", and once I stopped my hands from shaking enough to control the thing, I did it, and then did it again, because he was obviously a sadist.
Then I got to try the other fun trick with kerbs. Getting up the damn things, using the obviously named kerb climber attachment, which somewhat predictably, helps you get up kerbs that aren't dropped.
Not content with making me throw myself backwards off the kerb, he now wanted me to drive straight at it. At speed. Without automatically letting go like any sane individual would do when faced with an obstacle and armed with even the scantest memory of being taught Newton's laws.
Despite visions of being launched out of the chair and performing a spectacular face-plant in the faux scenery they'd so carefully constructed, I did as he said, and miracle of miracles, actually got up the kerb, at which point he made me reverse off it again.
Eventually, he was satisfied that I could operate the wheelchair (or got bored tormenting me, I'm not sure which), documents were signed, stern warnings about wheelies and showing off given (not really, to my great disappointment) and delivery of my very own electric wheelchair was arranged.
Funnily enough, I didn't particularly feel like celebrating passing that particular test.
The man in the corner shop where I used to live, who'd slip a penny chew into my bag of shopping when I obviously couldn't hide the fact that I'd had a hard day.
The elderly couple who stopped to help me when I, foolishly and stubbornly, bought a joystick (which came in a massive box) from Game, and attempted to carry it out of the shop despite having to use two crutches to stop me falling flat on my face before going two steps. Mrs Elderly Lady having been brought up properly, immediately knew how to turn the shoddy attempt made by the shop girl at creating a handle with string into an actual handle with string and saved me the indignity of merely kicking it along the ground until I got somewhere near public transport.
The people who randomly sent me stuff from my Amazon wishlist earlier this year when I was really struggling and worried about how I was going to cope with my hands not working the way they should.
The second secret sock pal, who sent me a most amazing package when she really didn't need to, and which arrived last week, right when I was feeling particularly awful.
The pub landlord who provided free pizza for 15 hungry knitters, because we were his first (and longest standing) regulars.
The lady who emailed me out of the blue earlier this year to say that she believed that God wanted her to make some sort of a donation to help people who's joints dislocated easily, and that after doing a google search, she'd found my blog, and did I have a specific need, or did I know anyone who did, or should she donate to the UK Ehlers-Danlos Support Group. A lady who, despite the rather unexpected and specific nature of the urge, and my initial wariness, donated money to the US Ehlers-Danlos National Foundation. That her email arrived right at the point where I was particularly struggling with my joints and really did have a specific need (not that I mentioned this to her - I would have felt wrong taking money from her when it could have gone to someone who perhaps needed it more than I did) is a coincidence that is particularly spooky.
The person who lent me moving boxes at very short notice and rather than listen to my stubborn insistence that I would just take the bus back with them, stuffed me in a cab and handed the driver some cash too.
The random people who email, every so often, to say they love my photos, or that my photos have moved them in some way.
The online yarn retailer who send out pens and lollipops with every order.
The restaurant owner who treats me like a regular despite me only visiting once every several months, and never charges for all the food we've eaten.
Because these are just a few of those I've been privileged to be on the receiving end of, and when life is particularly challenging, sometimes it's important to look back and remember the positive rather than the negative, even if it's something as simple as a penny sweet.
Divot in the middle of my forehead: Chickenpox scar, from one of the three (yes, three) times I had chickenpox. Yes, I picked my pox. Didn't everyone?
Three-inch long diagonal scar just below my right collar-bone: From a semi-feral ginger cat named Tiger. He lived in the caravan site where we went for most of my childhood holidays. We bonded instantly, and he would let me pick him up and hug him. Unfortunately, he didn't like the caretaker of the site, and when said caretaker came near, struggled to jump free, catching one of his black claws in my jumper, and leaving a deep scratch on my chest.
Small hairless patch on my left arm: Site of multiple midge-bite, which I scratched, and picked at and scratched some more.
Stretch marks: Too many to count. Genetic collagen imperfection meant that stretch marks started appearing from a very early age, when my skin couldn't keep up with my growing frame. Exacerbated by prescription drug induced weight gain in late teenage years. Constant reminder, no matter what size I am, that I was once bigger. No bikini wearing for me.
Tiny circle on right wrist: Yet another insect bite that I scratched.
Six-inch scar on inside of left elbow: Scar from my ulnar nerve translocation operation. My elbow was dislocating so often it was trapping the nerve, and I was in danger of losing the use of my ring and pinky fingers, so they opened up my elbow and moved the nerve from going around the outside of my elbow to along the inside and then stitched it back up again. The scar would have been worse had I not thrown a tantrum when the surgeon wanted to take the butterfly stitches holding the wound closed off after a fortnight and a nurse helped me out by sneaking me clean stitches, dressings and sticky stuff remover to allow me to keep the dressing and stitches clean and replaced.
Back of heels: Every single shoe and boot I wear seems destined to leave its mark on me, and years of wearing stupid shoes has taken their toll. They're not broken in until they've drawn blood.
I had begged, pleaded and grovelled and for a change, it had worked. For my 17th birthday, my gran gave me driving lessons.
Of course, having a birthday at the beginning of autumn and not quite getting organised for a month or two meant that I did the majority of my driving lessons in the dark, in shitty weather conditions. In fact, I think I first attempted reversing round the corner on a big patch of ice.
All through late October, November and December I went out once a week in that silver Vauxhall Corsa and learned to drive. Gradually, I stopped being petrified that I'd kill myself and my instructor, then I graduated to being less petrified of killing other people, and then I actually started enjoying it - except for the night I drove back to my town after having gone to the area near the test centre for a practice and found that while I'd been gone a blizzard had settled in. Ten roundabouts, in the driving snow, on ungritted roads, in a Vauxhall Corsa. I have to at least get some points for being able to do that.
Anyway, 10th January rolled round, and 10th January was Driving Test Day.
I was incredibly nervous, because although I had most of the stuff under control, I still hadn't quite got the hang of reversing around corners or parallel parking, but still, the instructor thought I was fine, so off for the test we went.
When we arrived, the instructor got out of the car, went into the test building, and out came my tester, a Grumpy Old Bloke. Great.
Said Grumpy Old Bloke didn't just look like a Grumpy Old Bloke, he actually was a Grumpy Old Bloke. Of the type that didn't believe woman should be wearing trousers, much less out in public, voting or, god forbid, driving.
Great.
So off we drove, him being grumpy in the passenger seat, me even more nervous than I was to begin with, but all was going well until I got to the three point turn.
I'd been told that when doing a three point turn, if traffic comes towards you, you're to let them pass, holding the clutch at the biting point and keeping the car stationary, then continue the manoeuvre when it was safe to do so.
All fine, not a problem.
Except Grumpy Old Bloke chose a road, typical of the area, to ask me to perform a three point turn on. Originally cobbled, layer upon layer of tarmac had been added on top, mostly in the middle, containing a road with a hump in the middle, and cobbled edges, with cars parked on both sides at irregular intervals.
Still, not a problem, after all, car brakes are good, and it wasn't like I was going to be waiting for long, because any car coming towards me would know to just go right past, cos that's the rules of the road. Right?
Wrong.
Dead wrong.
What actually happened, was that the appointed spot to perform said three point turn was opposite a line of parked cars, with sufficient space to do the last leg and return from whence I came, which wasn't really the problem.
Well, not entirely.
What was the problem was the learner driver who came along, and seeing me about to finish the three point turn, panicked. Possibly because she hadn't read her highway code or her instructor hadn't told her, but anyway, she panicked. She didn't drive past like she was supposed to.
Which would have been fine, had she made the decision to stop where she was and let me out at a point where I could still have got past her and completed the turn.
Only she didn't.
I tried communicating with my eyes that I was on my test and could she get her fucking arse in gear and let me get on with it, but that didn't work.
She panicked and she faffed and she crawled forward and then my leg, which had been holding the clutch at the biting point and the car entirely stationary for the last five minutes went into cramp. My foot slipped off the clutch, the car rolled back, very gently, kissed the curb, and stalled.
At which point Dozy McPanicked finally got her arse in gear and went past... and Grumpy Old Bloke marked two strikes on my form.
He failed me.
For something that wasn't entirely my fault.
Yes, I should perhaps have put the handbrake on, but at that point, I didn't know I could or should. I'd never been in this situation and my instructor hadn't told me about that. I was just following instructions, and as a result, I failed.
I don't remember much of the drive back to the test centre, or, for that matter, the drive (with my instructor at the wheel, I was too angry to speak, never mind drive) into Glasgow afterwards, where I was due to meet my mum for lunch, to celebrate, but I've never got behind the wheel of a car since, unless you count computer or console games... which, given my virtual driving style, is probably best avoided.
In a rare moment of bravery/stupidity, I purchased - approximately six weeks ago - a pair of jeans.
In blue, not black.
Don't all faint at once.
I took them home and tried them on (for shop changing rooms are places of terror, where evil mirrors suck the life and self esteem out of you and replace it with horrifying images of someone else's enormous wobbly arse), and to my amazement, they fitted (mostly, things never fit me at the waist - apparently having a waist is out of fashion), and didn't look entirely hideous.
Delighted, I've taken to wearing them on various occasions, like going out of the house to do stuff.
In this time, I have come to a slow realisation.
If one has to pull the jeans up to hide one's arse cleavage every time one stands up, they're probably a little big (or cut a little low for comfort, time will tell).
If one can put on, and pull off said jeans without undoing the fastenings, it's probably time to buy a new, smaller, pair of jeans.
If one can, in the process of moving quickly (or if one had the energy, jump up and down or run for the bus) feel said jeans begin to remove themselves from one's personage in a downwards fashion, obeying the laws of gravity in preference for the laws of decency, then it's definitely time to buy a new, smaller, pair of jeans.
Which begs the question, how in the holy hell did I manage to lose enough weight to require the purchase of smaller jeans when I've eaten mostly rubbish and spent most of the last two weeks in bed, exhausted and feeling like shit?
What kind of bizarro diet is this, and how can I make money from it?
The good news: blood tests indicate nothing majorly wrong (and by major, I mean immediately life threatening), other than an increase in white cell activity, which is to be expected when recovering from a cold/sinusitis.
The not so good news: all signs point to post-viral fatigue (otherwise known as ME, or if you're particularly cynical, yuppie flu), resulting from my dose of flu earlier in the year.
If I had the energy, I'd laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. On one hand, I have a genetic condition that means I have to maintain a level of fitness and exercise to keep my muscles holding my skeleton together, and on the other, I have a condition that makes me so fatigued that at times I can barely sit upright.
You just couldn't make this shit up.
If I'm honest, having a label for what's been wrong with me for the last six months is actually a good thing, because it means I'm not entirely losing my mind, and I can, to a certain extent, stop pretending that I'm ok when I'm really not, which has been increasingly difficult to do.
The trouble is that there's no quick fix for this. There's no magic course of antibiotics that's going to sweep through my system like a white knight, slaying germs as it goes.
Instead I'm faced with terms like "pacing" and "lifestyle adjustments" and a whole pile of other stuff that just means doing less of what I love doing, like work, and socialising and thinking and stuff.
To say I'm frustrated is an understatement, but the silver lining to this particular black cloud is that by some miracle I seem to have a supportive GP in addition to fabulously supportive work colleagues, which should help make the next couple of months a little less bumpy than they might otherwise have been.
It's late. I've been up longer than usual for a Sunday, and I've had a long day, but despite being tired, I'm not sleepy, and anyway, I have a post to write.
My mind jumps from topic to topic, rejecting each one as not quite right, based on that moment's utterly random criteria.
The fan hums softly in the background, competing only slightly with the TV, which is tuned to BBC3's new drama series, Sinchronicity, which is actually really rather good.
I'm more listening than watching, staring at the Movable Type new entry screen, which has an empty text box needing to be filled, when the sounds of simulated sex catch my attention and make me look at the screen, and there it is.
The slip.
I recognise it, because I have one just like it, and it's utterly surreal watching a TV character wearing something you own (although this case is slightly better than the previous time, when I immediately threw out a jumper because I walked into the room to catch sight of Eastenders and was horrified when Patsy appeared wearing my jumper...).
She moves on top of her boyfriend, and I remember how the material felt against my skin when I wore it.
I remember how the material felt between my finger tips when I spotted it on the rack, in a shop in Paris, and the subtle irony of going to the City of Romance, known for it's fancy pants, and buying lingerie I could just as easily have bought if I'd cared to talk a wander down Oxford Street.
I remember it especially because it was something quite different from something I'd normally buy, but something about it just wouldn't let me walk away without buying it.
I remember putting it on for the first time and feeling fabulous...
... and then I remember why I no longer wear it, for any length of time, or for actually sleeping in.
I wonder if she was wearing it long enough to discover it's fatal flaw.
It goes against every fibre in my film-snob body, but I really like chick-flicks, with a special place being reserved for those featuring Sandra Bullock (and to a lesser extent, Julia Stiles).
I just can't help myself. The cheesier the better.
High school geek in actually prettiest girl in school shocker? Fantastic.
Wacky girl is deeply annoying and clumsy but still manages to pull the hot guy? More!
Cheerleading squad in perilous danger of not making the regional finals? BRING IT ON! (and the sequel too!).
For every West Wing box set there's an equal and opposite Sandra Bullock film. For every oscar winner there's Mean Girls or that obscure film nobody's heard of with Freddie Prinze Junior and Julia Stiles as a couple who split up for no reason at all and spend the film trying not to get back together.
It's not something I'd ordinarily admit (and I have, on certain occasions, hidden the more embarrassing ones from view), but I just can't help myself, there's nothing better for those days when you're too ill with the cold to do anything but make mountains of snotty tissues than a Chick Flick while wrapped in a duvet.
Yes, I'm sorry, the shameful taste in entertainment continues.
I can spend entire days watching back to back episodes of America's Next Top Model (even seasons I've already seen). Same goes for Australia's or Britain's (although those are pale imitations of the original).
Location, Location, Location? - addicted, addicted, addicted.
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition? If you want to come into my room while I'm watching, you'd best be quiet, bring tissues and wear waders, cos I've cried at almost every one.
Carpenty is endlessly fascinating, and nobody beats Norm and his safety glasses, and I was on the verge of writing to complain when I turned over and shrieked in delight to find a new series of This Old House with Steve and Norm on the other day, only to find that Steve had been replaced by some pale imitation called Kevin. Blasphemy, I tell you!
More embarrassing possibly is my (deeply unladylike) habit of shouting at the telly, and there's little better for telly shouting than a Formula 1 Grand Prix race, especially if Jenson button isn't winning (which he never is). Of course, I reserve my choicest swearwords for those truly beyond the pale - step forward Jacques Villenueuve, Ralph Schumacher and, of course, Michael Schumacher.
Although I probably should be, I'm not in the slightest bit embarrassed to admit to liking bands such as Lordi, Bon Jovi, Europe, Iron Maiden, etc. etc. etc.
Bet you didn't know I can sing the entirety of Christina Aguilera's Stripped Album or know all the words to every song on Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson.
Found via blinman.com, a list of things which apparently I should have done before reaching 30. Let's see how many I've accomplished.
It wasn't my fault, but I did once have a ski-ing accident without actually ski-ing. I was spectating (couldn't ski because my knees were wonky) at the bunny slopes on Glenshee (which had melted so they were more bunny patches), when the instructor ski-ed up to where I was standing and asked why I wasn't joining in. I explained that I couldn't under doctors orders and he said that was a shame. For reasons passing understanding, he then leaned forward, grabbed me and flung me over his shoulder, fireman style (yes, I was screaming at him to put me down). He then turned round, ski-ed down the patch of snow and when he got to the bottom to put me down, slipped, dropped me on my neck and fell on top of me, nearly breaking my neck. Through a combination of embarrassment and adrenaline, I didn't realise how badly I was hurt until the next morning, when I couldn't lift my head off the pillow. I had to wear a cervical collar for 8 weeks and sued him. Unfortunately my lawyer was utterly useless and I never got a penny. Not even the pathetic £650 they offered me in compensation.
Does beercans off trees count? As a kid, my family used to holiday in a caravan in the Moray Firth every year. One year, an older couple were staying on the site, being between jobs (they were housekeeper/gardener for "big" houses) and being childless, indulged us more than they possibly should have. He was a fabulous old gent, ex-Air Force I think, and taught my sister and I to shoot with his air rifle, sniper style, because we were too little to hold the weight of the rifle while standing up.
Nope, furthest away from home I've been is Paris. I guess I need to get out more.
I'm geeky, but I'm not *that* geeky.
Nope. See above.
Nope, but I did once spend £450 on a top of the line PDA that I never really used and became obsolete about 3 minutes later.
Nope.
No, but I did break a wine glass last month.
Er. Why?
Does packing tape count? I've used several rolls of that stuff in house moves.
Never had my own house so that'd be a bit difficult.
No, but I did once drink vinegar to stop an allergic reaction.
Do I really need to answer this one?
No. I appreciate the workmanship of them, but never something I want in any house I live in.
I'm crap with money, but not that crap (so far).
No, I'm far too law abiding to consider it. Also, I don't drive so care less about them.
No, I'm too anal about my printers to use anything but proper ink cartrdiges.
Never. My mum would kill me then die of shame.
Don't drive.
Nope. I did buy a hammer recently though.
Nope. Never crossed my mind to, and I was never really into chemistry anyway.
Nope, although it's very tempting. I did once jump up and down and smash a "hypnotise yourself slim" video that an ex-boyfriend bought me. Felt so much better afterwards. Like a weight had been lifted off my bum.
Nope. Guess I've been slacking. Must try harder.*
*kidding Mum!
Nope. Suspect money is all a waiter would ever want from me.
Nope. I did once set a pot on fire by putting olive oil into it to heat it and then forgetting about it when something interesting came on the TV.
???
See above on the not driving thing.
... and again.
I'd love to. Since a was a wee girl I've wanted to live in the US. Wouldn't mind living in France or Belgium either.
Again with the no car.
I'm sure I have, but it was so entirely unmemorable that I've forgotten what it was.
No, but I do get static shocks a lot. Worst ever is the Jury's Hotel in Birmingham. Cheap carpet plus metal doorhandles = comedy jumping every time I went into or out of a room. Hellish.
My bed. Although I had help.
Nope.
Nope, although I did get sunburned in April, while watching the London Marathon.
OOooooh... something I still have time to do. Anyone up for a night out?
No, but I have stayed up all night listening to a boy have an emotional crisis.
Still got time, but I think I'll pass.
I'd love to, but the whole not driving thing kind of puts a crimp in that plan. You should see me play driving games on the PS2/Xbox though.
Yes, but I wasn't working the whole time.
Nope.
...
...
No, but I did pay to see all 3 Alien films back to back in the cinema. My arse was numb for days afterwards.
No, but I did once respond to an email from an ex-boyfriend because I thought he was someone else.
Nope, and I hope I never have to.
Nothing quite that bad, although it did make things awkward for a while.
Does losing your lunch money on the office Grand National sweepstake count?
Yup. Twice. First with the Da Vinci Code, then with Angels and Demons. Damn you Dan Brown, that's 10 hours of my life you stole!
Nope.
Wow. What have I been doing with my life?
Seven years ago tomorrow, I woke up disorientated and in pain, unable to move or speak. My hip was partially dislocated and I was bleeding from between my legs and it was at least two hours before I was able to speak to tell anyone I needed help.
No, I hadn't been raped, although at the time it felt very much like I had been.
I'd actually been under general anaesthetic having a Mirena intrauterine system device fitted as an alternative to sterilisation.
A few months earlier, at the relatively young age of 22, I'd made a decision, based on a number of factors, that I would ask to be sterilised. It wasn't a decision I made quickly or lightly. I put a lot of thought into it, based on what I knew and how I felt at the time, and made an appointment to see my GP, who'd cared for me since before I was born, and whose jaw promptly hit the desk when I made my request.
To his credit, after composing himself, he didn't patronise me or talk me out of it. He just asked me what my reasons were, and if I'd fully thought through the ramifications of my decision before agreeing to refer me to a consultant gynaecologist - one that he thought would be receptive to my request.
When the appointment rolled around, I sat in front of the consultant and once more made my request. I don't actually remember if he wore glasses, but it felt very much as if he were looking over the top of his glasses at me as he explained how they didn't usually do such things for people as young as I was. I explained again about the diagnosis of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Hypermobility Type and it's autosomal dominant inheritance pattern, meaning I'd have a 50% chance of passing it on to any child I had. Assuming I was ever able to carry a child to term.
I told him about the clear line of inheritance through my family, and the worsening the further down the line it got, ending with me, and the likelihood that any child of mine who inherited it would be at least equally, if not more affected. I told him about the miscarriages my mum had suffered, before and after having me and my sister. I explained the likelihood of pregnancy increasing the severity of my symptoms with the possibility that it may cause permanent damage, ultimately shortening the period of my life where I'd be able to be independent. I told him that having taken into account the risk to my own health and that of any child I may have, that the stakes were too high... the gamble too great for me to take any risks of getting pregnant accidentally. I explained the issues I'd had with various types of contraceptive tablet - the severe and heavy bleeding two weeks out of four, the severely debilitating period pains, the mood swings, the weight gain, the acne, the greasy hair. I told him that as a 22 year old in a stable relationship (and an allergy to latex), I couldn't afford the non-latex condoms and anyway, there was really no way I was going to stop having sex. I told him that I needed to have a method of contraception that had a better failure risk than the pill, and something that wouldn't cause such horrific side effects. I told him that I didn't want to be placed in the position of getting pregnant accidentally and either miscarrying or being forced to have an abortion, and so after considerable thought I'd identified the only possible course of action as sterilisation.
I told him that, at 22, I wasn't especially maternal and that having children had never especially been something I wanted. I didn't have my future all mapped out in terms of marriage, kids, grandkids, death, and that now I knew what I knew about EDS it was something I wanted even less.
For a while, I thought he wasn't going to do it. He seemed pretty obsessed about my age and the likelihood of me changing my mind later on, and then said that he wanted me to see a colleague of his, who was younger, and would talk over things further and make necessary arrangements.
After answering what felt like hundreds of detailed and faintly embarrassing questions this younger doctor (who, at a guess, was maybe only three or four years older than I was) asked me if I would change my mind about sterilisation if there were another option that was as safe, but not as final and irreversible. He went on to explain about the Mirena system, which was a fairly new device at the time, and usually only given to women who had already had children. He explained that in many cases, this was actually more effective than sterilisation and that it would more than likely put an end to the serious period pains and other problems I'd had since I first had periods. He explained that it would need to be inserted under general anaesthetic because it was likely to be painful, and that it would need to be replaced every five years and that if I ever changed my mind it could be removed and I'd be able to get pregnant (assuming all went well) almost immediately.
... and so, a few days later I turned up, not particularly knowing what to expect, and had the thing fitted, and after the initial pain and shock - I felt incredibly violated - it turned out to be the closest thing to a medical miracle I've experienced. Almost immediately, the pain and illness I had every month disappeared - along with most of my periods. From bleeding over a week (and sometimes up to three) every month, some months I didn't bleed at all, and if I did, it was only for a day, two days at most. The side effects from having to take the pill cleared up (although the weight didn't immediately drop off - but it never does) and I started to forget it was there.
Two years ago, among the ashes of that stable relationship, I made renewed that decision. I made an appointment with my GP, explained myself all over again, and got it replaced.
Now, 27 days before my sister is due to give birth, I'm only now really realising the true meaning of that decision, and for the first time, fully realising the ramifications of the choice that I made, and how that affects me as a person.
For starters, there's no getting around the biological imperative. Humans are built to breed, like it or not, and whatever logical decisions are made can't change the biological urges we feel. For all that someone might say it's not an issue because they don't want kids either - feelings change, and what wasn't an issue at the time can become one years later.
Then there's the self-esteem aspect. How do you explain to someone, on getting into a relationship, that you are irretrievably damaged at such a basic level that you've taken the decision to stop the genetic rot and not reproduce. Never mind how - when? Tell someone at the start and run the risk of scaring them off with the resultant direct hit to the ego and feelings of rejection. Wait a while to tell someone, and run the risk of losing them because they feel like you've swindled them with false advertising. Cos you walk like a woman, and talk like a woman, and have all the physicality of a woman, just not the ability to reproduce like one.
It's hard to sell yourself as a package, or to feel worthwhile as a human being when there's so much pressure to conform to the norm. It's only really been this year that I started to feel that pressure, started to realise that maybe the biological clock isn't such a bullshit marketing tactic by the "lets keep women barefoot and pregnant" faction. That maybe, when I made that decision, I hadn't considered how I'd really feel when more of my friends - or my sister - started having babies.
I hadn't really thought that maybe my long and loud protestations that I didn't so much hate kids as couldn't eat a whole one were more a form of attack as defence, and that I was trying to convince myself more than anyone.
Don't get me wrong, the reasons for making that decision still stand and I still am in no way even close to being ready to bring a child into my life...
...but I'd be lying if I said that I'd been entirely unaffected by the pregnancies of both Karen and my sister.
For the first time, I really got to see (and read) what I'd cut out of my life. I got a glimpse down the road not taken... and for a while I was worried that for all my protestations, I might just get kicked in the head by this biological clock thing, and really start to want to have a baby.
Seems silly now, but I was really quite worried that on going to see Pete, Karen and Bernard, I'd burst into tears. Thankfully, I didn't embarrass myself, but I still wonder how I'll feel when I meet my niece for the first time
Logic tells me that it's entirely possible to love my niece and be able to interact with other people's children without wanting one myself, but I guess only time, and silent ticking will tell.
First Breath: Around 8.10pm, 31st August 1976.
First Celebrity I resembled: Winston Churchill on a bad day (apparently).
First Cat: Black stray that turned up while my mum was still pregnant with me. Messy on the outside but sound on the inside, we called him Darkie, cos he was black, and in 1976, nobody batted an eyelid or thought that offensive. He became my "guard cat". When my mum would put the big Silver Cross pram with me in it out in the front garden so I could get some air, he'd sleep in the basket between the wheels and woe betide any neighbour who crept up to have a peek at me. He'd immediately go on the offensive, raising his hackles, and hissing and spitting at anyone who came near, unlike our other cat, Snuffy, who just kept trying to use the carry-cot as his new bed.
First word: DaDa, at 3 months - because my mum didn't teach me to say Mummy first so when I said DaDa she could nudge my dad to get up to deal with me. By 9 months I was a right little chatterbox.
First pair of shoes: Red shoes with a buckle, by Start Rite. Hurt my feet but because I couldn't speak I couldn't tell my mum why. Were eventually found to have lumps of glue under the inside of the sole. The start of a long history of uncomfortable shoes.
First steps: 15 months old.
First book: Something cloth with pictures, read while sitting on my potty.
First sneaky move: Trying to convince my parents and their friends I could read at 18 months, when in reality, what I'd done was memorise my entire book collection. Had them going for a bit, until one night my dad accidentally turned two pages over and I read what was on the page before. Busted.
First musical instrument: The piano - just as soon as I was big enough to reach the keys.
First Holiday: To what is now the Stanwix Park Holiday Centre in Silloth in Cumbria in August 1980, just before my 4th birthday. I remember being overjoyed to find that they had Wombles. My baby sister was less impressed. To her, wombles were huge scary monsters and she screamed her head off.
First major illness: Tonsilitis that was so serious I had to be hospitalised for an emergency tolsillectomy when my throat closed over. Unfortunately, emergency tonsil operations were impossible on the NHS, with a waiting list of 9 months just to see the consultant and a further waiting period of 9 months after that to have the operation. I'd have been dead within a week, so my gran paid for me to go into a private hospital to have the operation, whereby I saw the same consultant the next morning and had the operation very shortly after. My delight at being given ice-cream after the operation turned to sorrow when I couldn't eat it because my throat was so inflamed.
First day of school: Continuing the precocious swot theme started earlier in my life, I hid the fact that I could already read from my teachers, and came home crying because we didn't get to do reading in class.
First major experience of another culture: Attending Durga Puja celebrations in Glasgow with sister and my next door neighbours (who were Indian). I wore a sari and had a bindi stuck to my forehead, and I loved the whole experience - the sights, sounds, tastes and smells were so different to anything I'd experienced up to that point. Nobody thought it particularly strange that two white children were among the celebration, and mostly they kept offering us food to try.
First computer: Sinclar Spectrum ZX, the 48k one with the squishy keys. I wrote programs on it in BASIC and the only games we were allowed to play on it were educational.
First (and only) attempt at political comment/satire: In first year of secondary school, being asked to write a story based on Tales of the Greek heroes, I wrote a piece based on people being punished by the angry gods and being forced to pay a "Pollus Taxius". It was entered in a local library short story contest and caused a small kerfuffle when it was deemed good enough to win a prize. It was felt that it would piss off the adults who'd entered if they gave me an adult prize, so created a special prize just for me because there was no junior category. The prize was a pocket dictionary that I have since used as a doorstop due to it's entirely non-pocket size.
First "proper" best friend: L-----. In retrospect, a bit of a nutter, but responsible for introducing me to heavy metal (the music, not the actual metal). Most memorable moment, when she threw a fit in a second year English class and screamed the place down because a boy used his jotter to whack a big beetle down the radiator at her. Was removed from class and given stern talking to. On her return to the class, someone casually pointed out that said beetle was now crawling up her leg. Cue further screaming.
First boy I ever really liked: S------. Tall, slim, with long dark hair and dark eyes. Played the drums and guitar and wore black jeans and a leather jacket. Was all round lovely bloke, and at least 60% of the school had a thing for him (including a couple of teachers). Hasn't influenced my taste in men at all (much).
First Kiss: J---. Friend of a friend. Happened while standing on a small patch of ground round the back of said friend's house. I was wearing leggings, a white t-shirt and Doc Martens and he tasted of beer and cigarettes. Never saw him again because something happened and I got grounded and couldn't meet him again.
First porn I ever saw: Friend found stepdad's porn stash hidden in his jumper pile in the wardrobe. Sheltered life forever destroyed in a "can they actually do that?!?!?!" kind of way. Stepdad apparently had fairly specific (and rather extreme) taste in porn.
First appearance on TV: On Songs of Praise. Some time later, my dad "accidentally" taped a Scotland international football game over it.
First "proper" boyfriend: Memorable for all the wrong reasons.
First suicide attempt: Overdosed on painkillers. Seemed like the only solution to the various problems I was having at the time. Inexperience or accident of body chemistry meant that it (obviously) wasn't sucessful.
First time outside the UK: 16 years old. A week in Holland with a youth choir I was part of. Existed on bread, ham and cheese for a week and on our day trip to Amsterdam we fell on the first McDonalds we saw like a pack of hungry wolves. It was only after we'd got our food that we realised we were on the edge of the red light district and that the shop opposite was a fully functioning sex shop. Suddenly, all the boys were more interested in looking out of the window than eating their lunch. After lunch, went to see the Anne Frank house and was very moved by the experience.
First job: Receptionist for an Estate Agent in Glasgow. Ended in redundancy three months later on account of my boss spending more time in the Bookie next door than actually doing his job.
First driving test: Failed. Never re-sat it. Still can't drive.
First time online: June 1995. Compuserve. Life changing experience.
First Sci-Fi convention: Wolf 359 - The Alliance. Blackpool, July 1997. Memorable snippets include the Spice Bunnies, my Fancy Dress costume (I still own the dress) and making friends there that I'm still in contact with today.
First website: Comic book fan site (for Strangers in Paradise by Terry Moore). Hosted on geocities, created in February 1998.
First time in an aeroplane: Glasgow to Paris, via London Heathrow. I was terrified, but it was worth it.
First time living away from home: Moving to London in 2001.
If you've arrived here from Magknits - hello! Nice to have you here and I hope you like the pattern.
If any of you decide to give it a go (although in the heat there's been lately, maybe not for a wee while), I'd love to know how you get on, and see what you do with it. Please do feel free to email me with any comments and/or pictures.
If you're a regular reader, you're probably wondering what I'm on about.
Well you see, I designed a pair of knitted wristwarmers and the pattern, Chance, has been published in the August issue of Magknits. Not only that, but it's on the front cover too.
The yarn came from the fabulous Nickerjac, and was much admired, even before it was knitted up.
This makes my second published pattern, the first of which, for the Hopscotch Socks, was sent out to the Hipknits Cashmere Club earlier this year, which makes it more difficult to link to, since it's not online.
So there we go, I can add "knitwear designer" (in the loosest sense of the term) to my list of things I never thought I'd be before 30.
Time flies, doesn't it?
Seems like only yesterday I was in school, thinking "oh wow, I'll be 24 when we reach the year 2000..." and not even contemplating anything beyond that, and now we're in 2006 and I'm staring down the barrel of the next big birthday milestone.
Yes, that's right, I'm going to be 30 at the end of this month.
30!
It's not that I've been particularly obsessing over this fact (much), but the truth is that I hate birthdays, almost as much as I hate Christmas/New Year and Easter... and not for the reasons you might think. I hate them because they make me think (which I already do way too much of than is strictly healthy) about things like:
... and so it goes on.
On one hand it's a good thing, and it drives me to do better/faster/more, but on the other hand, I've got a tendency to beat myself up because I'm not perfect, or for various entirely justifiable reasons I've not done the million and one things I over-ambitiously decided (in an entirely arbitrary fashion, and mostly in my head only) that I'd do by this particular milestone.
Then there's the whole looking back thing, a veritable can of worms inside a pandoras box wrapped in a riddle and tied with an enigma. What else are birthday's/new years/anniversaries of traumatic life events for if you don't stop and look back and think about what went before/how you changed/whether now is better than then?
All of which is a partial explanation for what I'm going to be doing here for the next 30 days.
Inspired by the absolutely incredible 40 in 40 days series written by Mike Troubled Diva a couple of years back, and continued in style by Anna Little Red Boat last year, with her 28/28 series, I'm going to do something I haven't done in a very long time.
Starting tomorrow, I'm going to write a series of very personal posts, covering some of the major events of my life so far (and some other stuff, whatever springs to mind really).
I feel like I should bold that. Make it stand out. Perhaps in red, with a big WARNING stuck in front of it (to also convey in a non-visual way that it's a warning, of course).
You see, when I started this blog, all those years ago, I wrote lots of really intensely personal stuff. Then I stopped writing personal stuff because a bunch of people I worked with went looking for me on t'internet and found me, and it, and made fun of it, and me, and left shitty comments, which was horrible and made me want to take it all down. Obviously, I didn't... but it had an effect, and gradually, over the years, I've censored myself more and more, and in the process, lost the great outlet and feedback loop that writing a really personal blog/journal originally was.
So, assuming you've read this far, consider yourself warned.
It's going to get personal round here like it hasn't been for a very long time (I have a blog and I'm not afraid to use it!).
I'm going to be talking about stuff that might actually be really depressing (both to me as author and to you as reader). I'm going to be talking about stuff that I'm proud of, which might make me look like an arrogant arse. If you're lucky, there might be the odd splash of funny in there too...
... and here's the most important part:
I'm not going to apologise for any of it. I'm not going to feel guilty that I might be crossing over into "too much information" territory. I'm not going to worry about freaking out or putting off any of the wonderfully diverse groups of people that make up my (small and fabulous(ly exclusive)) readership.
So if you don't like personal stuff and don't want to read it, find another blog to read for the month of August, unsubscribe this site from your newsreader, or simply look away. If you continue reading and don't like it - tough - you've been well warned.
For the avoidance of doubt - comments will be open and unmoderated.
I very much value discussion and free speech and for as long as I can remember, I've done my utmost to only delete spam comments, but do bear in mind that I'm getting personal here, and for all that I value free speech, if any particularly shitty comments are left, I reserve the right to delete them, and if necessary, ban IP addresses.
My gaff, my rules.
My life, in 30 days.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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