A Long Time Since Christmas

It has been, hasn't it? Christmas felt manic and underproductive and under pressure and under everything. Now the crocuses (crocae?) are coming out, the air is warmer, people seem happier. I have more film work on the go, far less money but with potentials to getting more. Maybe.

Bobbi is nearly 1! He's still cute and ridiculous, but now there's more of him, he's proper cat sized.

M and I are going to Thailand! We've got a vague plan of going from Bangkok (without going into the city) flying straight to Chiang Mai for a few days before (Railing? Flying? Unsure) going down to Phuket, doing the islands around there and working our way back up to Bangkok city before flying home. We've got 3 weeks, totally doable. Am so excited thinking about it makes my toes tingle. Any advice well accepted.

The very latest move in my life so small, is I am fast becoming a 'Hauschka' one of those people I used to laugh at. A 'Hauschka', dear readers, is my nick name for the types of women who come into my place of work demanding their expensive 'Dr Hauschka' cosmetics that we sell. Unfortunately we rarely have what they're looking for because we only do a selection of the range. These women are rude, unfriendly and often dislike the shop, they are only interested in the Hauschka products. So the time came for me to learn all about these magical products and attend a training course. It was here I was converted.

Dr Hauschka was a herbalist bloke in the 1920s who started experimenting with natural herbs and flowers picked from his garden. He started by putting rose petals in some spring water and leaving one jar on his desk, and putting one in his wardrobe, in the dark cool air. The one in his wardrobe, he stirred every day and left for several weeks. He simply left the one on his desk, for several weeks. At the end of his experiment, the jar on his desk was rank and rotten while the jar in the wardrobe smelled amazing. This method of stirring in a dark cool environment is still how they make their rose water. Rose is a powerful ingredient that is used in nearly everything they produce. Hauschka's pretty dead now, but where he started off, his company has continued and they grow all the plants and flowers bio-dynamically (by the pull of the moon, like tides) making sure even the earth they grow from hasn't had any chemicals anywhere near it in nearly a century. As you can imagine, this stuff is not only incredibly effective, it's incredibly expensive. Their theory is that skin needs balance to keep it healthy and with all the pollution, make up and astringents we chuck on our faces every day, it's no wonder we get spots, dry patches, wrinkles etc. So they say to be very gentle with your face, use no night cream (your skin won't breathe) or exfoliant (you're rubbing away the good cells along with the dead ones) and to always use everything, er.. made by them.

Unfortunately, they gave me a free starter kit at this training day and IT'S AMAZING. My skin feels fit. So that'll be setting me back a good £40-50 every month. Well, theoretically.

So, what's new with you?

Christmas joys

Last night it snowed. Last night M and I danced under the street light lighing up the thick heavy flakes that were settling around us and we kissed in the cold, the snow gently falling on her hair, coats and eyelashes.
Last night we watched Bobbi discover the snow. He walked across the patio taking long strides, leaving tiny paw prints stretched too far making him look, frankly, really silly.

Today I make thousands of star shaped Christmas cookies to give as presents. I only ate two, and one was burnt anyway.
Today I listened to radio one from 10am onwards and cried when Greg James played his 'best of the radio' which was Terry Wogan saying goodbye to his listeners on his last ever show. I don't even like him, but damn the speech was good.

Today I had to go to my local cake decoration shop (yes, that's right) and buy more snowy white icing to go on my cookies. I had the correct change and the shop owner called me a 'good girl'. I felt warm and fuzzy inside.

I love my days off.

Today

Today I laughed a customer and simultaneously realised my job undermines my intelligence, yet again. When I say I laughed at her, I was actually laughing AT her, definitely not with her. Picture the scene: We have run out of stock of catnip pet toys. More specifically, mouse,fish and bird shaped cat nip filled fabric toy things for your cat. These things sell faster than hot cakes on a cold day. We had 400 delivered on Wednesday. We were sold out on Saturday. All day Sunday I had to literally break people's hearts by telling them, no, we don't have any until next week.
Today, for the thousandth time, a woman came in asking for said product. Because it had got to the point in the afternoon where I was hysterical/delirious/beyond caring, I laughed when she said 'Well I find this utterly unacceptable! It is absolutely ridiculous!' and ranted for a while in a very posh angry voice. I laughed, because yes, Madam, it is ridiculous that so many people can get SO upset over cat toys.

This is my job. I have to tell people over and over and over again we are out of stock of things they want, but do not need. Imagine being a doctor and having to tell people they're ill or going to die?

I can't take the strain.

So when I got home, I did the washing up, put a cake in the oven, pre-made supper and poured myself and M a gin. Ahhhhh..... and thanked my lucky (purple and gold Christmas themed) stars that Bobbi isn't interested in catnip toys. 'Cos the owners turn into nutters. Or as I like to call them, nippers.

Favourite food

Recently have made self-observation. Regardless of whether am ill, sad, alone etc. My favourite comfort foods also happen to be the same foods that I adored as a child. Observe.

• Peanut butter and jam sandwiches, with a glass o' milk
• Spagetti hoops on toast with grated cheese
• Fish fingers, chips and peas with tomato sauce
• Sausage, egg and chips
• Tomato soup with cheese on toast
• Jacket potato with tuna fish

I have also realised nothing on this list is particularly healthy. Such is life.

When I'm feeling healthy, happy, sociable, I enjoy much more adult palates. Honest.

Media mix up

It is my day off today. I left my house at 10am to get the bus into Bristol, do a bit of shopping for my friend's birthday present before coming home, washing the kitchen floor, hoovering and dusting the rest of the house and changing the bedroom sheets. Then I had lunch, made a cake and blew up some balloons. I am a healthy, active 22 year old woman. Everywhere I look, billboards, supermarkets, TV, radio, MAGAZINES (though I don't buy them, doesn't stop you looking at the front covers) - everywhere talks about losing weight, eating less salt, doing more exercise etcetc. So I'm watching Living TV (I'm done with chores now, time for some tea) and there is a program about how thin celebrities like Victoria Beckham, Misha Barton got in 2009. How dangerous it is to be that thin and how awful they look. What's the next advert? America's Next Top Model showing 12 rake thin girls all DYING to get on the catwalk.

I don't understand. On the one hand we're supposed to be cooking from scratch but for God's sake don't use salt. Eat healthy, three meals a day. On the other you've got the celebs who talk about how much cabbage soup or whatever the hell they're throwing up and how great they look.

Media - decide. In my opinion, eat something for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Have a cup of tea in between and if your whole meal is beige, maybe add some colour. Make sure when you walk, you're out of breath. Take the stairs, not the lift. Dance around the house while you do the dusting. It can't be that difficult, to be healthy without the media forcing you to do this, but then do that when they change their mind.

And if you can see all your bones in your pelvis from the back - you have serious problems.

The Brilliance of Cats

This is Bobbi, in all his glory.

I am a catty person. Forget the namesake, for that was not deliberate.

I am desperate to write about my cat but fear the dreaded 'cutesy' attachment that follows writing about animals, in a way that reminds me of a girl I went to school with who had photographs of puppies and kitten all over her stationary. You know the one I mean?

Anyway, that fear leads me to write about Bobbi (yes, with an 'i', although I've no idea 'y'. Oh dear.) in a way that will hopefully appear enchanting, potentially amusing and not liable to send you running for the bathroom with images of huge kitten eyes and cutchy coo sounds following you all the way there.

I shall bullet point.

• Bobbi is the most cuddliest cat I've ever met. FACT. I carry him in my arms like a baby. He will jump on your lap even before you think 'where's the cat, my lap is cold' and then proceed to work his way up you until he feels he is close enough to settle down. This is usually in the shoulder or neck region where he can put his head under your chin. Optimum warmth, I'm assuming.

• He makes noises that the receptionist at the vets called 'Dinosaur noises' little bubbly sounds in his throat that vary between "I'm going to jump this distance between counter tops even if it kills me" to simply, "I'm HOME! I've been out five minutes but guys! Guys! I'm HOME!"

• Bobbi has complete, and utter faith in M and I that we will catch him if he falls. Not just falling from surfaces, furniture etc. But he will repeatedly stand on a lap and suddenly FALL OVER onto you, no matter how big your lap is or what position you're in. Then he will stay there, purring manically while we position him back onto ourselves. Incidentally, we find this hilarious. I realise it may be more of a visual thing.

• He's really soft. I'm talking, rabbit fur, those furry slippers you used to get, the softest fricking thing you've felt in ages. That's how soft Bobbi's fur is. He doesn't care where you stroke him either. My favourite place is his feet. He'll let me hold his paws and stroke the pads without putting his claws out, they're really warm.

Ok, that's probably enough. But it's more to say that he has become an extension of us as a couple, that when we're together in the evenings or the mornings, if Bobbi's not around, it's weird. He sleeps in his bed for half the night then comes up to us and sleeps in between us, stretched out so either one of us is spooning him. He is the perfect cat, and proof that you can get a kitten for 30 quid from some freaky family in Bristol and they'll be fine. Better than fine.

Bobbi Fine. Actually his official name is Bobbi Woolley but when I tried to explain to the vets that he had 'taken my boyfriends' surname, it all got very confusing. I started getting called into the room as 'Miss Woolley' ooh er.

Blogging about not blogging

I'm going to tackle a theory I think only I am suffering from. Does nearly a three year writer's block exist? Or am I, lets be honest, kidding myself?

Before I started my oh-so-useful-and-expensive Creative Writing DEGREE, I used to write short stories, wobbly poems and endless articles. I then started my degree, spent the first year writing odds and ends in between my course requirements and then all seemed to die out. Literally. Oh, I was still writing, but nothing that I wasn't absolutely supposed to do to gain marks. It was like the ideas part of my mind had been given a damp blanket and the kindling fire went out. No more ideas. No more writing. I was hoping that after graduating, with all the pressure to write something decent off my back, it would all come tumbling out again. But so far, no such luck.

It's like every idea I think of (for there have been one or two, I'll admit it) there is a little Idea Marshall stopping me with a quick 'thats just not good enough, soldier' and the idea fizzes out into nothingness.

Oh dear.

So, here I am. Blogging about not blogging. Because, my dears, every idea I think might be any good, gets turned around in my sad little mind and undermined. (oooh...)

But maybe this will help, maybe I'll stop worrying and just, for the hell of it, write my ideas as they come no matter what that stupid bloke in my head says (what's he doing there anyway? Surely there are better minds to worry about - there are not and don't call me Shirley) and let you all judge me accordingly. No one ever got anywhere worrying what other people thought, right?

Shame. I blame my degree. HA! £22,000 later and she blames the degree for not writing.. jesus...