Plunge? No Thank You, I Prefer The Balcony!

So I'm supposed to jump out of a perfectly good plane at 14,000 feet?

Why? It's not going to crash is it?

The only down side of this plane is that it's slightly dry.

NO GIN. NO CHENIN BLANC.

....Well of course I shan't jump.

Ridiculous really. You can't jump unless you have a little jumping juice in your tummy?!


Expecting my face to look like.....


When really it's like....

Case closed!

The Story Of Uncle Len

About five years ago when Dave and I were living in deepest darkest 'king Aberdeen we were chatting wistfully about puppies one night.



Dave: I've always wanted a dog.

Me: What would you call it?

Dave (without hesitation): Uncle Len.

Me: .....?



We were pissed (obviously) and so we promised each other that one day we would have a dog and name it Uncle Len.

So that's how this weekend we found ourselves the proud owners of Uncle Len....






...and then five minutes later we came to our senses and realised that she was far too beautiful (with not a comb over in sight unlike her namesake) and so had to spend a frantic weekend thinking of girls names.


Everyone, please say hello to Poppy.




You didn't really think we'd call her Uncle Len did you?

Thirty One Celebrations

My birthday.

It started well. Fresh faced and sober....



but it led to this.....


this...



this....




this.....


and finally to this?


Surely they will never allow me to sit the 'grown up exam' at this rate?

Sneaky Celebrations

Natalie on Friday, 24th August. Too much blood in her alcohol stream to do a jot of work!

So as this Friday 24th August approaches I just wanted everyone to know that I am in fact not wanting everyone to know that it's my 31st birthday.

I like keeping a low profile for these things don't you know.

However, if, perchance you find out that it is indeed my 31st birthday on this coming Friday the 24th August, I will (reluctantly) allow you to leave notes of adoration and birthday wishes here!

....but sshh. I don't want the whole world to know!

The Flaming Turd

The scene: It's nine thirty on a Saturday night. Dave and I are watching telly and consuming copious amounts of vino. The doorbell rings.

As we open the door we are faced with a paper bag burning with vigour. The thing to do would be to stamp on it and put the flames out.

We're too pissed to care and so watch it, fascinated, as the flames die down.

The flaming turd trick completely wasted on us.

I like to think that the little buggers were watching and were suitably disappointed!

The Slow Drag

me this week....

I'm not freakishly tall by any means. I think 5'8" is ok for a woman. I mean, of course I still get a little self conscious when I'm out in heels (taking me to well over 6') and all of my friends appear thousands of feet below the cloud line! I do seem to stoop a bit more but that's only because I can't possibly hear the conversation from my lofty position. I remain grateful that I can claw my way to the front of the crowd at a gig and be able to mosh in the front few lines without missing any of the hot band action.

This week though, I have had to re-assess my situation and have wished for the first time that I was just a little smaller....maybe 8 inches or so!

Swing dancing is to blame.

I had attended another class with a genius named Shane (my inappropriate crush for the winter, resplendent with tattoos and wearing trousers befitting any grandfather! Swoon.... but I digress) and we were to learn the slow drag. This is a swing dance for those times when the music slows and you're trying to woo the lady of your dreams. The man approaches, takes your hand and then thrusts his body into yours achieving contact from the chesticles to the hips. From there he swings you round and you endeavour to look a little like Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing but with the man less shining torso a la Patrick Swayze-the delish and more flannelette shirt a la Doug-the idiot.

Here within, the problem lies.

What happens when a perfectly skilled Asian of less than average stature tries to swing you into one of these slow swing moves?

The old joke of the Doctor examining a woman's breasts, comes to mind.

"Madam, before I examine your breasts I shall have to numb the area...

....numb numb numb numb, num... yum..."

Snakes. Why'd It Have To Be Snakes?

My hero, the perfect man, is back!

Indy, how I have missed you...


...I hope he rips his shirt in this one too!

A Horrid Realisation

The thought had been creeping up on me for a while. However, as always, I talked over the little voice in my head with something far more entertaining... the thought of beer!

Now, though, I cannot ignore the small whimperings any longer.

I. Am. FAT.

Fat, I tell you.

As porky as an overfed pig.

It ain't pretty. The saddlesacks have sagged nearly to my knees and my undulating bum resembles cottage cheese so much that I fear arrest each time I step into a supermarket.

Once again, it is time to take action against my unruly wobbly bits.

My bike which had lain so forlornly for months with a busted inner tube was fixed by my indolent self. With a quick dust of the handlebars and water bottle located from somewhere deep within the caverns of the kitchen cupboard I swung my leg over the seat and hopped on.

Someone has obviously been at my saddle though. I don't remember it being so pointy and so damned uncomfortable last time.

I pushed on, encouraged by the memories of when I would cycle to work before we lived in our present house. As I peddled faster I thought of all the gorgeous places I would cycle past by the river.

Places like this....



and this....




This ride was different. I was not expecting to be scared shitless at the imposing derelict power station.




It looks so eerie that you could be forgiven for thinking that nothing good could ever happen there. Like a building dementor



You also wouldn't have thought to cycle down stretches of road with massive pylons where creepy looking men drive ever so slowly past you and then park up fifty metres away. (I pegged it so fast past him that he wouldn't have stood a chance!)




Or part way round the coastal path, you wouldn't expect to cycle past a cattle station where in days gone by the cattle ships would offload their animals onto the beach.



Or to realise the reason CY O'Connor Beach is named as such is because this was the place that the infamous engineer decided to blow his brains out while out riding his horse.

Or that there is a statue erected and partially submerged in honour of his brilliance?!



But as I cycled into Fremantle I realised that it would be worth the eerieness and general decay of the surroundings as I would be fit once more. This body that belongs, so obviously to someone else and not to me will be banished for once and all.



Plus the view when you get there is a bit nice!

Only In Australia... Part 357.

Builders....

.....

Builders working to hospital guidelines.....

.....

We didn't stand a chance!


Our unit has been undergoing renovations which were to have taken "....*draws air through teeth*.... about twelve weeks, gov."

FIVE months later, said unit was presented to managers with the equivalent flourish of jazz hands and a welsh coal-miners choir of "da-daaahhh"

The manager walked around complementing the guys on their handiwork until she came to the isolation room specifically designed for sick/immuno-compromised/infectious patients (delete as appropriate).

The door was too small...

Hmm...

The door was too small to fit a bed through!

?

Thus rendering it useless to patients unless during an emergency resuscitation on them (in the extreme event of them arresting) we could call upon them in between chest compressions and injections of adrenaline, to get out of bed and walk through the door way and climb into a bed outwith the 'special room' that would be able to be wheeled to the ICU!

Needless to say, the move back into our unit has been delayed again for another couple of weeks whilst some seventeen year old bashes a bigger hole in the wall!

Ooh I Do Love A Good Wedding...

Anything to get the monkey walk recorded in history!



Confetti chucking...


Chuz and Rhona. The next ones to get married. I've told them. They have to you see, I introduced them too. I think he really loves her. You can tell by his face eh?



Ali and I. My saviour and bed chamber mate. Cups of tea back at ours at two in the morning.

Wedding Belles

Part of my trip home was to attend the wedding of my gorgeous friends Jim and Kirsty. I simply had to see them get married as I was the one responsible for introducing them.

I am, in fact, Cilla. With smaller teeth. But with a singing style not dissimilar to the warbly one!

Kirsty had asked me to be part of the wedding by doing a reading during the service. The thought scared the hell out of me. However, after swigging pimms and lemonade from a orange flowery hipflask outside the church the thought of reading in front of an audience of thousands terrified me to the point of nausea.

My terrifically high stilettos now slipped around my heels as I perspired with nerves. As I walked to the front of the church clutching my ragged piece of paper my heels dragged across the flagstones like a ten year old playing dress up in her mums lady shoes.

I took my place at the front of the church and I started to read the piece entitled 'A Good Wedding Cake'. The reading is based on a recipe for wedded bliss. It therefore calls for 1lb of good looks....that is when the nerves took over and in a desperate bid to catch my breath and calm myself, I found myself pausing and then... winking at the groom!

I. Winked. At. The Groom.

Oh the horror. God should have struck me down right there and then.

Everyone thankfully laughed (probably at the look of shock on my face more than anything) and I was able to skulk back to my seat and skull the rest of my pimms with Ali!


Ali, Kirsty and the Public Speaking Idiot.

The Madness Of Diet Pills

Bovisand beach, Plymouth

The biggest memory of this place is the Christmas when Paul Cooke and I ran down to the beach after my dear mama gave me one of her diet pills as it 'makes you all hyper-active'.

She hadn't realised that the pills had a form of speed in them.

Paul and I had!

Cue much running around the beach playing princess barbies.

Legless In Looe

In the olden days, mum would organise a "legless in looe" trip for her workmates and I would come along and develop inappropriate crushes on all the young guys who she worked with.

The object of the trip would be to try and drink in every single pub in Looe.

No one has ever completed the challenge!

One or two of us gave it a bloody good try though including a guy called Richard who tore all his clothes off and threw himself into the freezing sea after someone shouted "skinny dip anyone?". He lost his clothes and had to suffer the giggling and pointing from all of us...that sea was very cold!

It happens to be quite a nice place to visit when you're sober too. However try not to go in the rain....

The Legend Of Nic, Nat And A Little Scrumpy

( Charles Church Roundabout in front of the new shopping precinct)

And so a little history lesson....

Charles Church roundabout. All I ever knew about this church was that it was the bombed out church left as a memorial to the devastation of World War II. Nicola Holdgate and I used to drink White Lightning Cider out of a can with a straw (the bubbles go straight to your head that way!) when we were seventeen.

I didn't know that whilst Nicky and I were giggling over who was the most 'tipsy' from our solitary can of scrumpy we were languishing in the second oldest church of Plymouth. And when we were scaring ourselves silly at the eerie shadows on the churches ruined walls we hadn't known that this church had come into being because of the anti-royalist feeling amongst Plymouthian puritans at the time. This church has become historic for the fight between King Charles' royalists and the puritans of the day who fought for democracy.

If we had known this, would we still have sneaked into the church grounds after dark, clutching our cider and straws wearing our hippy/goth clothes?

Probably but we would have had the decency to sing loud renditions of Seth Lakemans 1643 whilst we were drinking!

A Pole In Love

Last night saw Sparkle, Mookie and myself meeting up for a dignified one drink!

So you all know how that turned out?

...a conveyor belt of beers finishing with a man falling for me in an instant



Him: (heavily accented) You are the very lovely, no?

Me: Where are you from?

Him: Poland. You know, yes?

Me: Gen dobre. Pienke kolono!

Him: (puzzled) Erm, hello, and beautiful knees?

Me: Yes, you have beautiful knees.

Him: ?

Me: In Polish?

Him: (swoon)


I was hoping he was Dutch though. I would have rather liked serenading him with a "May I borrow you garage?"

Rocking Around The A38

After an ardous journey trying to not dribble on my neighbours shoulder when falling asleep, I arrived back in the motherland.

PLYMOUTH..... Pervy Lesbian Yaks Masterbate Over Ursula's Thighs Hoorah!
(Adrian Edmondson, 1996)

It smells the same, that fresh, crisp scent mixed with a hint of field! However WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE TOWN CENTRE? It's gone all 21st century on me!

The new shopping centre is huge and has REAL shops in it. Not a pound shop was to be seen. This is not the Plymouth I remember.

And for Maxine, I know that Plymouth is supposed to be the worst dressed city in the UK but I did not see one pair of 'fuglys' worn by a janner (however this is subject to change, I've only been here for 24 hours, afterall). In fact the only reason I knew I hadn't secretly been whisked away to some more cosmopolitan place was the fact that everyone spoke janner.

There were "all right m'luver"s coming from every direction!

Anyway I have to go shop now. May not hear from me in a while, there are a lot of shops to look in, see?

I'll leave you with a lovely piccy that I relate to home.

PS, The most bizzarre sight of my 13 hour flight from Kuala Lumpur was the moment I spotted a gentlemen travelling in his finest tuxedo suit resplendant with dickie bow tie and stylish hankerchief!
.....In Cattle Class!

Back To The Land Of Clotted Cream And Seagulls

I'm coming home!

Tomorrow I fly to t'other side of the world to nestle in the bosom of my home country.

England, I salute you for two weeks and three days....

...After that you can just go bugger off again! Have you not heard I have a sexier homestead now?

But I'm desperate to see:


My mama Sparkle.





Pasties...



Cornwall...



And Simon Amstell...



What more is there to life in good ole Engerland?

Wish me luck on the flight of the under-stair-cupboard proportions!

Where The Air Starts To Thin

I have a gorgeous pair of new shoes. They were a bargain and exactly what I was searching for, perfect for Kirsty and Jims wedding in a couple of weeks time.

However I have a few issues regarding these implements of sluttish behaviour:

1. They have the most massive heel. Somehow I look a little less Glamazon and a little more Danny La Rue in them. Lets put this into perspective, in these heels, I'm as tall as Dave.
   
   Dave is 6'3"!
   
   ....I'm a man for gods sake!
   
   
2. The fact that I haven't adorned such dizzying creations since the start of my antipodean adventure means that I am very bad at walking in heels. So much so that I have found that I actually walk as if protecting a scrotal sack between my gargantuan thighs!
   
   Or at least I'm strutting like Beyonce Knowles at any rate...
   
   
3. Because I have been living as a sandgroper for two years means that I have lived in flipflops and now my feet have spread and resemble those of Frodo the Hobbit. I have tried to stretch the shoes to fit non-asian princess feet but I fear nerve damage and amputation before my forth coming holiday is over.
   
   
4. I fear altitude sickness.
   
   
5. And alcohol....
   
   Did you not see Naomi Campbell in those Vivienne Westwood platforms that time? That will be me sashaying up the aisle to deliver my reading only to topple and drag the best man down with me, possibly showing my knickers to the entire congregation in the process!
   

Do you have any advice for me?

How do I learn to walk in heels in the manner of Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City?

People, you have two weeks to whip me into shape!

Swing Out Sister

Swing dancing lessons....

What a great way to meet young hot guys (yes I know I'm taken but there is nothing wrong with a little window shopping). I've always swooned at a fine gentlemens two step.

Reality....

Twenty guys varying from sweaty young things with issues of counting, to seventy year old hunk of spunks with wiggly hips and a colostomy bag.

I'm having the time of my life!

The Rise And Fall Of The Modest Mouse

Please note: The following pictorial is a re-enactment only. Please do not try this at home. No monkeys were harmed during the filming of this sory

Picture this. It was a Saturday morning. I was wearing the heavy overcoat of my hangover acquired from the cheap wine of a friday night. As I tentatively made a healing cup of char I saw something scuttle across my kitchen floor. Screaming, I threw myself onto the kitchen counter in the manner of some 1940s chick flick.

Egor the mouse was loose in the house.

He found refuge in the metal underbelly of the fridge. I lay in wait for nearly twenty minutes taunting him with my weapon of choice, a strip of highly polished bamboo flooring. When Egor tired of my pathetic torture he made his escape scurrying to the nearest cupboard.

Needless to say, I was now very cross. As I flung open the kitchen cupboard doors to illustrate my anger I spied the many many 'presents' Egor had left me. It was obvious that our prisoner had been escaping the theatre room every night after we had retired to bed.

So I stealthily opened each door locating the little bugger in the last cupboard. However, there is a reason why mice don't rule the world, they simply don't understand the principles of camoflage and staying hidden. He was crouched between the plates and the wall with his bum and tail fully visible practically chuckling to himself with his fantastic hiding place.



I looked at my bamboo plank and re-assessed. This wouldn't cut it. Obviously I needed a grabbing device. I quietly searched around the kitchen for such an implement when my eyes came across the barbeque tongs!

Perfect.

I crept up to the quivering mouse clad with pink rubber gloves (myself, not the mouse obviously) and with tongs held aloft. There I waited for my moment.


That's when Dave came home. Quickly I thrust the tongs at him, jumped around the living room waving pink rubber hands and bamboo around. Dave grabbed the mouse who was shrieking (the mouse and not Davo) and I held the door open for him as he marched outside and launced the mouse over the fence!



See, I caught him all by myself! Aren't I the bravest thing on the planet?

Mouse 1, Team Spacca 0

Due to the hugely environmentally unfriendly carnage that is my new housing estate, a few fluffy natives have been rendered homeless.

I arrived home late one night to find three dozen mousetraps laid amongst the shagpile and coffee table books of our modern abode.
(ie: bits of off-cut carpet and fishing magazines!)



Dave: We've got a house guest.

Me: Really? You treat all your guests in this manner?

Dave: He's really scary though

Me: Tattoos? Bad mouse-tach?

Dave: It was very scary and it lunged at me!




So that was the beginning of the 'Three Week Seige of Beeliar'.

The little bugger managed to steal the cheese and avoided decapitation for three days. Upon his demise, he sent for back up.

We are seriously in trouble!

Natalogically Done

Ta daa!

It's done.....almost. Well not even half way there as I still haven't chased the builder up about our lack of fly screens.

No. Fly. Screens... When I'm a mossie play park!

It's not been pretty in my house!




But the floors are divine and polished so highly that skidding around in your socks is a perfect way to unwind after a day administering incredibly toxic drugs to people to make them sick!

Improper Behaviour of Respectable (ish?) Pilots

James, you didn't have to beat him up so much!