It's only a metaphor

I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humour. Maybe saying that is like when someone says they’re ‘laid back.’ Anyone who says they’re laid back definitely isn’t.

Anyway, I always try to laugh at myself.  I laugh and smile often. My face regularly hurts from the above.

And just in case, the fella certainly keeps me on my toes with regard to whether or not I am taking myself too seriously...

Many people have messaged me to say that they loved the ‘s**t my boyfriend says’  post. So I’d been making a note of some of the more ‘amusing’ things he’d said with the view to compiling a second list.

They included the hypothetical

“Do you think our daughter would get your fat arse?”

And, after looking at some recent photographs,

“You probably shouldn’t wear that dress that makes you look pregnant again love.”

Yes. I think I can still laugh at myself. Thanks my darling.

But then last night he was out on the pop. When he came home we had the following exchange:

Him: “You know us; do you ever think that we’re only together because no-one else would have us?”

Me: “ Umm no. And that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

Him: “I’m joking.”

Me:  “What?”

Him: “Ok then, it was a metaphor.”

               

If you missed the first post in this series, you can catch up with it here

a highland fling

I am sitting overlooking a loch. It would be pretty spectacular if it stopped raining for long enough for me to see the water. Really, this is the kind of rain that they have in the Bible.

In light of the rain, we took a ride out to the tourist information to enquire what we might do on a rainy day in this beautiful spot. The tourist information woman – Carol – had one suggestion. ‘Have you tried the wildlife hide?’ We had.

Actually it had been pretty magnificent. We turned up, with none of the correct outdoor activity gear, just at the right time to see a group of otters playing on the island and a couple of seals coming into shore. And then we left. It was cold and damp – I’m sure you’ll understand.

Well, what a success. How very efficient of us. The people who were waterproofed up to the nines in the hide had likely been sitting there for several hours. Then, these two imposters turn up in jeans, (jeans are useless in rain) and get all the action in twenty minutes.  I wouldn’t have liked us very much either.

When we had first arrived at our accommodation, Val (the cottage owner) showed us around. She handed us the key, which had a wind up torch as a key-ring. ‘City types don’t tend to have a torch to hand’ she’d said. I wanted to tell her that I had an app that served as a pretty bright torch, but as a city type, I just keep quiet.

This place is unspoilt, uncrowned and often shut.

Mo’s fish and chip shop, which proudly displayed a sign claiming it was the ‘best fish and chip shop in Scotland’ had run out of fish. On a Saturday night, at 7pm. Oh - and curry sauce. And chips. Actually, turned out that Mo hadn’t run out of any of the above, but she wanted to get home to see the X-Factor, and our custom was set to get in the way of the opening credits.

Obviously no establishment takes card. Obviously we hadn’t thought this through, and as such have a limited supply of money. There is one petrol station with limited opening hours. We did however have enough spare change to buy raspberries from an honestly box at the side of the road. Yum. Actually, I hope the petrol station accepts Visa. If I could get signal I’d phone ahead to check.

There is little scope here for the 24-7 facilities of the modern world most of us inhabit. You might wonder how people survive without Tesco Metro, but it seems they’re surviving just fine.

Tomorrow we’ll show up at Ardnamurchan Point just in time to catch a pod of whales, capture the moment in high-res on our smart phones -and annoy another bunch of waterproofed professionals.

You should visit; it really is a chance to enjoy a gentler pace of life in the most beautiful spot. Just don’t expect to get fish and chips for your supper; seems people have got better things to do.

A revolution: One chord at a time

I have a red ukulele. My new ukulele and I are getting on swimmingly. The boyfriend claims that the sound of me tuning it is driving him demented. I reckon he doesn’t know talent when he hears it.

Frankly, it’s a four-stringed marvel.

And there is even a Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. Who knew? Perhaps I could turn my hand to busking?

I can almost play 3 songs.

I wanna be like you (the Jungle book)

       Hey Ya (Outkast)

       Back for Good (Take That)

Back for Good on the uke is perhaps not exactly how Gary intended it to sound, but I’m giving it my best.  Maybe I’m not quite ready for busking.

The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain’s first album was called ‘Anarchy in the Ukulele.’ Is the ukulele really anarchistic?

The Punk movement, which was all about the anarchy, was about putting creativity back in the hands of the people. They said that anyone could make music, and to prove it claimed that any song could be written with just handful of chords. (E, A and B7 in case you wondered.) They printed  diagrams of finger positions on a guitar for these chords with the caption ‘Here’s three chords. Now form a band.’

Well you only need three chords to play most uke songs. And will a guitar fit in my handbag? No it will not. But my little uke...

Well look at that, I think I’m part of a revolution.

“Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it....”

On getting pickier

This weekend I caught up with a couple of old girl friends. Not ‘old’ in age you understand, but in years of knowing. Although perhaps those things are intertwined nowadays. Jees, are they? We do all use eyecream after all.

Anyway, Friday night was a chance to catch up. We have known each other since 1995, when we started senior school. In 1995 I considered it ‘the fashion’ to hair-spray my fringe into individual strands, wear an Adidas drill top, and had my first kiss (with a runty boy named James) at the Grammar School Disco. I was, I recall, wearing a classic two-piece from Tammy Girl and lipstick from Miss Selfridge.

So, out came the old photo albums. We laughed so much that red wine was spilt all over the sofa. Luckily, because we are now grown ups we knew exactly how to deal with this situation and chucked the best part of a bottle of pinot grigio on after it.

After the spill, conversation turned to the old boyfriends. Luckily James from the Grammar School Disco did not come up. We’d only had one date anyway, on the 510 bus the following Monday morning. He went to the boys school, me to the girls. It was never going to work.

We remembered the days when one kiss consummated your relationship. Boyfriend and girlfriend you became. Criteria for the accolade of ‘boyfriend’ was limited at best. Two boys, two girls, and one question. ‘Which one do you want?’

Over the years we’ve really kissed an unfair share of frogs.

But at some point we developed an idea of what our boyfriend should be -  a list of criteria that our dream man must measure up to. This never quite panned out of course, most likely because our lists were utter nonsense.

Worryingly I have watched my friends dismiss lovely men because they didn’t match up to the romantic ideal that they had developed. On the other hand I have witnessed people dating absolute cretins because they apparently ticked all the boxes.

But on Friday, as we finished off the bottle, we all agreed that real relationships are bloody hard work. They are not one continual dream of romance, fluffy animals and mini-breaks. Love is not a big ring, or a box of thorntons chocolates.

 A man who sorts the rubbish and puts it in the right sacks for collection – well there is one that’s worth sticking with.

Of course, if he could also pick his towels off the floor, not make crumbs in the bed and know how to rustle up a risotto – well that would be super.  There are some criteria worth holding onto.

S**t my boyfriend says

There are a few things a lady prefers to keep to herself. Exactly what percentage of her clothes no longer fit her, for example, how many times she really wears a pair of jeans before putting them in the wash, how late she is in paying her credit card bill, or how knowledgably she knows the plot of Emmerdale.

But today (mainly because I threatened to do it and then he dared me) I am sharing the ‘top 3 ridiculous things’ my other half has uttered in the last few days.

1. Are you just going out with me for blog material?

2. Isn’t it funny how you’d rather I insult your intelligence than your weight?

3. Women’s magazines are worse than Mein Kampf.

I should add the third comment was accompanied by him reading passages from Zest Magazine aloud to me, at full volume, whilst on a plane, yelling words like ‘propaganda’ and ‘Nazis.’ Apparently he did not believe that the ‘Zest tips for a healthy lifestyle’ had any founding whatsoever in science, and that it was thus an insult to womankind.

When he is not yelling from a soapbox about the fate of womankind he’s rather lovely.

But if he could just leave me in peace to learn exactly how many minutes of squats it’ll take me to burn off this cake - I’d be delighted. Turns out I’ve got a high percentage of clothes that no longer fit me.

I'm out of the office

I remember the first time I sent an email. I was 14. My dad had brought a computer home from school, and my brother and I hauled the whole thing out into the hallway and plugged it into the phone-line.

I had mail.

My teenage years were spent patiently waiting for dial-up to load. My parents loved dial up less than their teenage children and spent their time (less than patiently) insisting that ‘someone is probably trying to get through on the phone.’

When I say insisting, I mean yelling.

These were the good old days; when MSN messenger was the height of sophistication, when Facebook’s founder was still playing with meccano and when no-one even knew they wanted internet on their mobile – for they had all they needed in snake.

Now of course, we are slaves to our email. Recall that time when, if you were on holiday – you were on holiday. You were not attached to a blackberry, recalling all your blunders at work and remembering that you forgot to email so-and-so before your left. You didn’t check your blackberry every 15 minutes, as if the world might collapse otherwise, when in reality your colleagues were probably delighted that you weren't there.

So yes, email has got my goat. The world still turned when we couldn’t check them 24 hours a day. Business deals still got made. Companies survived.

For goodness sakes, I’m think I’m getting arthritis in my thumb from smart phone scrolling.

I have been out of the office for 2 working days. I have 127 unanswered emails. Imagine how much work I could do if I didn’t have to answer all these e-mails. Even as I type I am watching for that friendly email icon bubble to pop up in the corner of my screen. Something incredibly important could arrive at any second. Invariably it won’t.

I honestly do not require viagra, ‘special’ offers, a lottery win from Nigeria or advice on ‘how much my injury claim might be worth’.

You do not ‘value’ my opinion, this email will probably not ‘make me laugh’ and I'm not sure I want to add you as one of my friends.

Email was once a breakthrough. Now we wonder how we ever lived without it. I have more to say on this subject, but I have to answer a facebook message from someone I almost know.

Needs a tumble drier.

I have moved in with a boy. Or more accurately, he has moved in with me.

He told his mother. She said to me, “You don’t know what you are letting yourself in for.” Encouraging this was not.

My flat is a small city flat with habitat cushions and candles which claim to smell of ‘fresh linen.’

He turned up with a broken computer held together by dirt (cables lost en-route), one suit,  some questionable household furnishings, his car – the ‘silver shadow,’ (which, I am told,  is named after Minder’s trainers) and a bathroom bin which reportedly cost him £6.

4 weeks in and my boyfriend thinks I am a nag.

I think that on the scale of womankind I am not a nag. He agrees with this. He does however still think that I am a nag.

Ok, so I do occasionally feel a little bit panicky about where we can dry the towels. Over the doors is messy. On the floor is horrific. I cannot live in a damp smelling abode. It really is a quandary.

I am a firm believer in getting a grip. If you are a regular reader you will know that I have been known to throw pans away to avoid washing them. However, the other night I found myself teaching him how to make a bed.

Please understand that he is quite capable and more than willing to make the bed.

It’s just that, well, it’s just not as nicely made as when I make it. Let me explain; he leaves the pillows underneath the duvet. The blanket is not folded perfectly in half along the mattress. The pointless scatter cushions are not scattered in exactly the right way. Half way through the lesson he asked me ‘And how important is this exactly?’ I concluded ‘not at all’, but just in case he is now fully trained in hospital corners.

I’m not all bad. When I returned home from work to find that he had shaved his beard all over the bath pristinely bleached just hours before by the cleaner – how I laughed.

When the removal man asked him for a ‘dust-sheet’ in which to wrap my old TV, he simply stripped the 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton one straight off my bed and handed it over. Only a nag would complain about that.

But it’s fine. We have agreed a place for towels, at least for now. And if the towels don’t smell of fresh linen, at least the candles do.

Later, I apologise in bed for caring at all about the location of towels. ‘No worries’ he says, closes his eyes, and promptly snores in my face. I of course wake him up, because I am awful.