Exciting times today my virtual chums.
I’ve had a couple of competitions running over the last few weeks, one to win a fabulous 3D mobile phone, and another to win a book of sex tips. And no, they don’t come as a package, although that could be fun too.
*mind wanders*
Anyhoo, today I am announcing the winners of both competitions, so hold on to the edge of your seats… View Post
I had a bit of a quandary this morning. Part of me wanted to spark some sort of timely political debate, and ask you what you felt about the government’s decision to downgrade vocational course like fish husbandry(?), but then I thought ‘Nah, who cares about that, I’m what’s important here.’
So instead I want to ask for your help – help of a literary nature.
I’m putting together a feature for a regional magazine, and I’m looking for towns, cities and landmarks that are featured in well-known novels. They have to be in the south-west, in Bristol, Bath, Wiltshire, Somerset, Gloucestershire, Dorset, Devon or South Wales.
I know you’re a clever lot, so I thought you might have some good ideas for me. I also thought it might be interesting for you to read other people’s suggestions. Selfless I am…
Thank you!
I should clarify – this is how she describes herself, not me passing judgment.
For a while now I’ve been following, in a completely non pervy way, the sexual exploits of Betty Herbert, whose blog has recently become a book – The 52 Seductions. I was absolutely delighted then when Betty agreed to be a guest on my blog, talking about her writing experiences.
She has also very generously offered to give away a signed copy of her book to one lucky reader, so if you fancy learning a few new moves, just leave a thoughtful comment on this post over the next week, and a winner will be picked at random. Over to Betty…
…
I am possibly the world’s most unlikely sex blogger.
Setting aside the fact that, when I started writing The 52 Seductions, I hadn’t had sex for four months, there were other issues that didn’t weigh in my favour. For example, I would cross the road to avoid anything vaguely sexy in books or on TV. And, frankly, I found adults who were ‘into’ sex more than a little bit creepy. View Post
I cried at work this morning.
It was a bit embarrassing, but strangely liberating at the same time.
I started crying in the car, in that way where the tears just spill out over your face without you being able to help it. By the time I got into work I had stopped, but was still in the precariously balanced state between crying and not crying, where the mere mention of kittens would be enough to push you over the edge.
I went into the kitchen to wash my cup, and to chisel off the dried up cookie residue, left over from my biscuit dunking activities the day before. I was holding it under the tap when a colleague came in. “Are you alright?” she asked.
Big mistake. View Post
This morning I’m going to be on the radio.
Admittedly it has taken me a while to make this second step after my radio debut on BBC Kent in October last year, but it is a step nonetheless, particularly as this is a proper grown up radio station that people I know might actually be listening to.*
I’m very excited, but a teeny bit scared. Just a little bit.
“Just be yourself,” advises Bee.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
I have a tendency to let words come out of my mouth before I’ve really thought about whether they should or not, which is manageable in small groups, where you can just cough a bit or pretend you said it as a joke or run out of the room, but not so easy on live national radio.
“And I’m going to be in a different studio,” I continue, “so I won’t be able to see the other people’s reactions. I won’t be able to tell if they’re looking horrified or smirking or anything.”
“It’ll be fine,” says Bee, clearly not interested in investing too much time in my concerns. I wait, expecting her to add a final word of comfort, along the lines of ‘at least it’s radio, so you won’t have to worry about your thin hair’, but no, nothing.
She’d be right though. No one will be able to see when I turn bright pink with excitement either, which is always a plus. I’m going to try and think of it a bit like I do this blog. I write the words, but there’s no one actually looking at me, so that’s alright isn’t it? Like when you play hide and seek and cover your eyes so no one can see you.
I should probably stop writing about it and actually get ready. I know it’s radio, but turning up in pyjamas probably isn’t terribly professional, not really The Done Thing.
Wish me luck!
*No offence to Radio Kent, it’s just that I don’t actually live in Kent. Or know anybody in Kent. In fact I’m not sure I’ve even ever been to Kent.
When I told Hardly-new-at-all-anymore Boyfriend that we were going to write a review comparing different brands of pizza, he could barely contain his excitement.
Pizza is his Best Thing. I think he likes cheesy bites more than he likes me. He is also pretty keen on complaining. He may well be the only person ever to have phoned the feedback number on the Dominos leaflet. Belle too is a big fan. In her top ten meals, pizza features twice – ‘packet pizza’ at number two, and ‘delivered pizza’ at number one.
We’ve also got a bit of a fascination for comparing things. My sister has mocked us for it in the past, particularly after her last visit, where we spent a considerable amount of time comparing the ingredients in chocolate chip brioche rolls from both Waitrose and Aldi, and calculating which had the better cake to chocolate ratio.
As I’m sure you can see, this task was perfect for us.
Our challenge was the ultimate in pizza comparisons – Dominos versus Pizza Hut. It was going to be an interesting experiment. Boyfriend is a dedicated Pizza Hut man, and was relishing the opportunity to slate Dominos. The girls and I however come from a small town with no Pizza Hut, so Dominos has always been our delivered pizza of choice.
We bravely faced the challenge… View Post
Don’t worry, I’m not about to ask for cash.
This Tuesday, 29 November, is officially Pay a Blogger Day. I say officially… someone has decided it would be a nice idea and so they’ve done it. I don’t think there is anything much more formal than that involved.
I don’t know how I feel about it.
Obviously I’m not averse to making the odd pound or two, but I think I would rather it be slightly more indirectly than simply waving an upturned cap and looking expectantly at you, my reader. View Post
If you asked any of my close friends or family to describe me in three words, it would be a pretty safe bet ‘trendy’, ‘glamorous’ and ‘fashion-savvy’ would not be among them.
If you look at my profile picture though, you could be forgiven for imagining that I go about everyday beautifully coiffed, with foot-high hair and an inch of make-up. I do not. I’m afraid to say I do not look like this in real life. In fact, I often have to take off my glasses and tilt my head, pretending to talk into a phone, to even convince people the photo is me at all.
Still, it does mean that I’m often approached by fashion and beauty companies, who mistakenly believe I am super hot and stylish, and want me to try out their stuff.
One such company is Mint Velvet, a rather sophisticated range of elegant, luxurious knitwear, dresses and other outfits in lovely muted tones – all definitely things proper grown up ladies would wear.
Really?? I wanted to say. Are you sure you mean me? You do know I like to wear spots with floral prints, and firmly believe that blue and green really should be seen?
I didn’t though. I kept quiet, and pretended to be the sensible, naturally stylish woman I feel I really could be. Underneath the layers of rainbow coloured cardigans and peacock feather hair accessories. Besides, I thought it would be a good challenge for me, to see if I could incorporate some decent clothes into my dubious, charity shop based wardrobe. The idea behind the range after all is that it is meant to be flexible, and fit in with the ever changing needs of modern women. So this is my diary of how I got on… View Post
In my head, on the page, my story is real.
I am in the story, I can feel the characters’ breath on my neck. I sigh when they sigh, I see what they see. It is a work of genius. I sit upright. I’m smiling.
Read out loud to the group though my words become clumsy and uninspiring. Moments of intense pain sound hollow and cliché. The more I read the more foolish I feel for the smile I had on my face, the enthusiasm I had when I offered to read. My voice stumbles, I can’t catch my breath, I twist the ring on my left hand frantically.
When I’m done, people say kind things. But then they would wouldn’t they? I interpret the silences as awkward pauses, where no one can thing of anything good to say, so they decide not to say anything at all. I slump back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest and vow not to volunteer for the next reading. View Post
Well, given that it turns out the hand sniffing was a bit weird, I thought I’d quickly change the subject to something that shows me a in slightly better light. Let’s just pretend the last post never happened yeah?
So, moving swiftly on…
Last Friday, I had a rather lovely day out, and I went up to London to have a look at the Littlewoods Christmas collection.
Normally I hate shopping – that moment where you catch a glimpse of yourself from behind in a brightly lit changing room is never great for your self-esteem – but it turns out that when I have a professional photographer on hand, and someone to do my hair and make up, it’s really not so bad. Who’d have thought?
Fuelled by a delicious cake selection and glass or two of mulled wine, I threw myself into the occasion, trying on everything I could get my hands on. Here is me working what I like to think of as my high-class hooker look:
I actually loved everything about this outfit, particularly the coat. It’s not something I would ever normally wear, but there’s something about it, when you put it on, you just feel lovely, like a friendly bear is giving you a big hug. View Post
Last night Bee and I went for dinner at Gourmet Burger Kitchen. Bee does love a good chain.
The restaurant was entirely glass fronted, so we chose a table in the window, where, once we had run out of things to say to each other, we could amuse ourselves watching people loitering about outside, trying to decide whether to go for a burger or Yo Sushi.
About three minutes later, we were watching a woman on her own, who was spending an unreasonable amount of time looking at the menu outside. “Maybe she’s meeting someone,” I suggested.
“Nah,” countered Bee, “because then she wouldn’t be looking at the menu would she?”
“She might,” I said, “if she was just trying to make herself look busy.”
Bee didn’t look convinced. “To be honest,” she said, “she does look like the kind of person who’d go to a burger restaurant on her own.” View Post
This weekend I went for a rummage in the 20p bin at the Amnesty bookshop, and came across a collection of poems from a writer called Grace Nichols, called Lazy Thoughts of a Lazy Woman. How could I not buy it?
My favourite so far is called Grease – poetry for women who can think of better things to do than clean kitchens.
Grease
Grease steals in like a lover
over the body of my oven.
Grease kisses the knobs
of my stove.
Grease plays with the small
hands of my spoons.
Grease caresses the skin
of my table-cloth,
Grease reassures me that life
is naturally sticky.
Grease is obviously having an affair with me.