My crush and me

Last night I was a woman possessed. There’s really no other word for it. I was in exceptionally close proximity to my beloved Mark Owen, and it was emotional. I’m not sure the word crush comes close, it’s love. And yes, I know he’s a cheating love rat - but readers, I forgive him all.

You see I liked him the first time round. When I was young and had dozens of Take That stickers from Smash Hits magazine all over my folders. And posters from Big plastering my walls. And when they split all those years ago I was bereft, and there was not a middle-aged woman being admitted to A&E in sight.

I do feel that I’m in good company with my slightly obsessive crush. The lovely Kate Winslet has admitted that her current co-star was in fact her teenage crush. Guy Pearce was the "heart-throb” she obsessed over as she was growing up in the Berkshire countryside when he was an actor on Neighbours, the hit Australian soap series.

Such was her obsession with the 43 year-old British-born actor, that Kate would even pretend to be ill so she could skip school to watch the soap. Clearly she didn’t realise it was also on at 5.30pm?

But you see for her, things have really worked out. She’s now a stunning Oscar winning actress being paid millions to get naked with her crush.

I am stuck screaming, along with all the other lunatics. Mark is just a few feet away, but is protected from us by a band of burly security types. He says he loves us, but is ready to have us forcibly removed at any moment.

We reach and long to get a touch. It’s embarrassing, it’s tragic.

But... perhaps all is not lost.

Maybe I’ll be a famous author yet. Then perchance we might meet at a showbiz party. He’ll buy me a drink. We’ll laugh at how I wore an ‘I heart Mark’ t-shirt and know all of the words to Babe.

Rachel Owen, it’s got a certain ring to it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to perfect the dance moves to Pray. I’m sure that’ll win him over.

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Needed: Cardboard boxes and valium

I am spending the weekend packing boxes, because folks, I’m moving flat. I am leaving the posh Georgian West End of Edinburgh for the slightly more ‘colourful’ Leith. (Location of Trainspotting for the ill informed.) The flat is lovely – in the up and coming part I’ll have you know.

And if perchance I do need drugs, they'll be easy to come by.

It is a cliché that moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do, second only to divorce. I have no direct experience of divorce, but indirect experience is bad enough, and I would certainly not choose to go through it. I do, however, choose to move house from time to time. I admit that there is stress along the way.

So far in this house move episode, I have smashed a picture, sliced my finger on the broken glass and caused a cardboard cut nice and deep on the crease where my thumb is attached to my hand. I now have only one opposable thumb.

As Celine Dion once sang, ‘It’s all coming back to me now.’ When, 2 years ago I moved into this flat, I made a solemn vow that I would be leaving it in a box. But no, seems it’s me loading up the boxes once again.

2 years ago I moved from Durham to Edinburgh. When the removal man vomited in the afternoon, I wondered if there shouldn’t be a Government Health Warning on moving house. Throughout that long, exhausting day I’m convinced my blood pressure hit danger levels on a number of occasions.

Although it could have been worse, a friend recently moved house and the day didn’t start terribly well when the removal lorry arrived at her home and reversed clean into her car. Whoops.

When I moved, an Edinburgh parking warden (read evil Nazi ticket distributor) stalked around the van desperate for me to leave it even momentarily unattended.

Whilst I was guarding the van from our fluorescently -cladded friends, the removal men were busy tearing the leather of my flatmate's one thousand pound sofa, scratching my dressers and vomiting in the stairwell.

I knew I shouldn’t have booked through gumtree.

This move hasn’t started well with my string of injuries, but I’m optimistic for an easier move this time over.

Although I am thinking of setting up a removal firm that provides a counselling service to help repair the shattered nerves of homeowners. We’ll also leave a welcome pack containing spare keys, plasters, bandages, scotch and valium.

Interested? I’ll be taking bookings... as soon as I get through my own move of course.

Poor kids

I told you last week how I loved a documentary. I’d been watching Made in Chelsea and it had upset me.

On Tuesday night I watched another documentary. This one actually upset me.

Poor Kids, on BBC 1 was a gut wrenching documentary about children living below the poverty line in the UK. I felt ashamed that I had ever moaned about having to suffer a camping holiday or cancel my glossy mag subscription.

The kids featured, 11-year-old Sam and his 16-year-old sister Kayleigh in Leicester, eight-year-old Courtney in Bradford, 10-year-old Paige in Glasgow – speak for themselves, but also for the 3.5 million other children living in poverty in Britain. And boy did they speak well. Honest, eloquent, strong, and mature beyond their years.

So much of it was unbearable: Sam being called a big girl's blouse for wearing his older sister's hand-me-down shirt to school, Courtney's resignation that she will always be poor, or saying her family doesn't go on holiday because they can't get on a plane because they're afraid of heights.

This is so different to the world I inhabited as a child – which by no extent was what  you might call 'privileged', but was filled with things like summer holidays to Wales, tap lessons, Brownies and birthday parties.

There was a moment in the film where Sam, on his 12^th birthday was being given a cake and sung happy birthday by his small family, and the electricity went off in the house.

Whatever people want to say about their parents, if there really are children who don’t have a meal in the summer holidays because they are not getting their free school lunch, we really have a problem.

How can these children have a realistic expectation that they will ever amount to anything when they are surrounded by news of job cuts and an estate full of the unemployed?

I don’t know the answers but I know that so much of it is a disgrace – the mould in Paige's flat that means she can’t sleep on her top bunk, the fact that Courtney's mum can't afford the bus fare to take her swimming, or that Sam sometimes ‘saves up’ his hunger for when his dad can provide a meal.

These kids are bright. At the end of the programme Courtney comments "I don't want to grow up."  Heartbreakingly it's due to her fear of what's to come, not so she can stay forever young in a magical Neverland.

These children could go onto great things given the right chances. So the right chances must be given.

If you didn’t see the programme, you can watch it on catch up here

A little joy goes a long way

This afternoon summer arrived in Edinburgh. At 5pm I was promptly out the office door and off to the pub. I sat in the afternoon sunshine, having a beer with friends and it was a Thursday afternoon treat.

Perhaps this delight is heightened by living in Scotland. For those who do not live in Scotland I should explain. In Scotland sunshine is a rare and wonderful thing. Scotland is good in theory. People often describe it as ‘bracing,’ which I’ve come to realise just means freezing. A friend of mine recently described Scotland as a cold purgatory.

Charming.

Well this afternoon, the sun was out in force. Out came my freckles, and goddamn, I even went a little red.

As I walked home, a little tiddly after a few beers, I realised that I really was incredibly happy.

And so, today, rather than having a wee rant, I thought I’d share a few of my favourite things – even though I could tell you the horror that is the fact that yesterday Gail Platt (of Coronation Street fame) was wearing my new White Stuff shirt. Gail blooming Platt.

Anyway, as I was saying.

Things that make me happy

The sun on my face

Bacon sandwiches

Playing on the swings

Fresh bedding

A lie in

Laughing until you can’t remember what was even funny

Christmas carols

My mum’s roast beef dinner

Earl grey tea from a pot

Dinner with friends

A power shower

A cold beer on a warm day

An afternoon snooze

Homemade apple pie                                                       

Breakfast in bed

The sea

Getting drenched in the rain

Cracker jokes

Old books

It costs me a lot to look this average

I need to ask a question. When did personal maintenance start costing so much money? There was a time when I knew nothing of beauticians, deep conditioning treatments, anti-aging eye creams or waxing. I miss the days of not knowing about waxing. They were a happier time.

And the thing is, I know that as I get older it is only going to get worse/ more expensive. Men don’t have to worry about this. Ok, they might go bald, but unless they know a wig-maker or believe in miracle re-growth creams, they just need to learn the art of acceptance.

As a woman I dread to think what I will spend in the years to come trying to defy the passage of time, regain my youthful looks and turn back the clock. Should I be saving now for the face lift?

Hair

The amount of time and money spent on my hair is frightening. Not that you’d know. I am sick to death of washing and drying it - every damned day. Although I do have a confession, if I am feeling particularly lazy, a fringe wash will just about suffice.

People spend an hour a day, seven days a week, washing and blow drying. This is 365 hours a year. I’m not sure I’m willing to make that kind of commitment.

And which shampoo should I be buying? Shelf after shelf of multi-coloured bottles. How bad does my hair have to be to qualify as ‘damaged?’

And then what happens when greying forces you to colour it? A cut is expensive enough. I can’t cope emotionally or financially with greying. And that isn’t taking into consideration the time commitment. Hair needs colouring 6 weekly to avoid unsightly and age-revealing roots, takes 3 hours, and requires a remortgage.

The hair no-one wants.

At present I do not have a moustache. I have very dark hair, so it will come in time. Women are not meant to have moustaches, and thus are forced to either bleach it (unwise and unsightly), wax it, thread it, or laser the little blighter off.

Our eyebrows are expected to be neat, shaped and not meeting one another on our nose. So to avoid a Gallagher look we pluck, wax, or pay a skilled professional to thread. We endure the pain and eyes watering for the smooth and pristine result that is left. Until it grows back 48 hours later.

As for the hair of the lady garden, well ladies, what a hard time we have. Oh, lady gardens, what a bother they are. It's not like you can let them run wild, or even leave them for a few months to see what comes up in the spring. It’s Brazilians and Hollywoods and landing strips. Why do we need to shape our pubic hair like topiary? And don’t even get me started on vejazzling.

Staying trim

I wrote about my latest exercise experiences here. You should read it. After you finish reading this post of course.

I know people who are literally superheros in the exercise stakes. They get up at 5am. They run marathons, lift weights, and are so self righteous I wish to smack them clean in their very slim chops.

I have recently started swimming before work to stay in shape. Goodness, I’ve gone to the dark side of self-righteous exercisers. However, this righteousness is slightly offset by the water that then rattles around my head for the rest of the day. It’s torture. Have you ever had it?

Exercise is definitely overrated. In the history of civilisation, exercise is a rather late arrival. Until around 1910 people exercised all the time, but did not think of it as this, it was life itself. And then, along came cars. Cars are the reason people now have to go the gym and walk on a stationary conveyor-belt.

The good news is I don’t own a car. Maybe I can stop exercising?

Skin

I have a lot of lotions and potions. The boyfriend, whose idea of a beauty regime is a wash with a bar of soap, thinks it is hilarious. I know in my heart that all these potions are the same, and are designed to make vulnerable women shell out ridiculous sums for useless products; but I won’t be using foot cream on my face – just in case.

I worry that I am only a few hours a week, (and a fair amount of cash) from looking slightly homeless. The frizzy mop of hair I would have without my shampoo for damaged hair and most prized straighteners. The pot belly I would develop if I ate just half of what I think about eating and gave up the gym. The grubby nails, moustache, bushy eyebrows and worse.

I know that it’s only going to go downhill as the years go on, but at least I can console myself in the fact that I’m probably not going to go bald.

I’ve got pretty good feedback

Today I handed over my latest batch of parcels – mismatched shapes and sizes, patched together with brown paper and sellotape. Hand written addresses of strangers around the globe. 

The post office-man handed me my receipt and said ‘Latest eBay sales huh?’ I asked how he knew. ‘Oh you can usually tell,’ he casually remarked.

He could tell what? That I was a cheapskate flogging my old Topshop dresses for a few quid That I was stony broke? That I was not a professional parcel-wrapper?

I decided not to take offence. But for this guy to be so astute, he must have witnessed a whole lot of EBay sellers posting their items. People just like me, turning up with piles of packages. People who were once oblivious to the complex world of customs forms, shipping costs, the 

differences between a parcel and a package, and the veritable merits of proof of postage.

If Ebay has taught me anything, it is that anything can sell. Whereas our incomplete box sets, tatty furniture and old clothes would once have been boxed up in the attic, given away to charity shops or sold for a couple of quid at a boot sale, now we know better. We sell on eBay.

This virtual auction house is a phenomenon. Every day, 10m people in Britain surf more than 3m live listings, hoping to fall in love with treasures that others have outgrown.

3 million live listings. I need to up my game.

So I should get back to it. It’s time to wave goodbye to the Wii fit. What an utter waste of money that was.

I must say, as I photograph my possessions and load them onto the internet superhighway, I am reminded of the Weird Al Ebay song. For anyone who doesn’t know it, you can watch it on Youtube here

I'll buy your nick-nack, Just check my feedback, 'A++' they all say. They love me on eBay.

TV dinners are turning my stomach

I like a documentary. No scratch that, I bloody love them. Recent gems have included Inside the Human Body, Louis Theroux’s mega-jail horror, and (only available to the lucky few Scots viewers) The Scheme – subtitles essential.

I am not entirely sure about reality shows, but as they feature on most channels most days, and watching TV is infinitely cheaper than going to the pub, going out for dinner, or the incredibly expensive – going the cinema, I’ve been tuning in.

I do think that the term ‘reality’ should be applied somewhat loosely. Watch The X Factor, tune in to The Apprentice, sit through Saturday’s episode of Britain's Got Talent, and every one of these lunatics will have been vetted in a process as picky and rigorous as any Hollywood casting session.

Apparently though, reality isn’t quite real enough, and so the latest craze is ‘reality drama.’ These are really taking off. These follow real people as they go about their real lives doing real things – things that might have been only ‘slightly’ changed for dramatic effect. Right...

It started in America – of course it did – with The Hills (a load of spoilt LA brats) and moved to the UK with The Only Way is Essex (a load of spoilt Essex brats). Now we’ve got the horror that is Made in Chelsea which is about – wait for it – a load of spoilt Chelsea brats.

I sat down and braced myself, because it's easy to paint a bad picture of posh people; Chelsea is, after all, rather notorious for its landrover driving types.

Made in Chelsea kicked off with a bloke who did something in diamond-mining. He'd spotted a girl called Caggie whom he thought was "parfect, yah". She was wearing a fur coat indoors and his friend reckoned she looked "endangered".

I think he was trying to make a joke. How we laughed.

There was a pretty girl with hair so messy that she had clearly spent at least 5 hours making sure that she looked like she had never met a hairbrush and had in fact just had a fight with  a hedge. She wanted something to eat. "Chelsea girls don't eat! Guffaw" exclaimed a nasal man in a velvet suit.

"This one does," said the messy haired girl. When the velvet suit man sneered back "I know, I can see the cellulite," I judged myself for not turning off.

Ollie had a problem with his hair. Personally I feel his problems were more deep rooted than that, but he was worried his “once fabulous” locks were now “utterly crap darling.”

Luckily his hair worries were forgotten when he, Cesca, and Binky decided to escape to the countryside for the weekend because, as one of them put it so well, "I get bored of pavements."

Cesca said she felt like a "hefferlump". Binky asked what a hefferlump was. "It's not a real animal," said Cesca. "It's a bit like Eeyore in Winnie the Pooh."

"Who wrote Winnie the Pooh?" asked Ollie.

"Charles Dickens," said Binky, with all the confidence that the privileged are born with. "No! He wrote Pride and Prejudice," Ollie snorted through his hair.

"Actually," said an appalled-looking Cesca, "he wrote Victorian novels such as Great Expectations." Binky had heard of that – proof, she thought, that she was actually rather clever.

Turns out, you can’t fake that level of stupidity. Maybe Made in Chelsea is real after all.