Bedtime Story (9/9/2015)

Every now and then, a story almost writes itself.  This week at work in my "day job," some of the children asked me to make up a story on the spot, using the toys they were playing with as props.  The result was very similar to what you see here...

Three Wishes For William

William couldn't sleep.  He wasn't tired enough.  He stared at the ceiling and sighed, loudly.  He was bored.

He'd tried getting up to play with his toys, but he knew his mum and dad would hear him and tell him to go to sleep.  He'd tried reading a book, but he'd read them all so many times, they weren't exciting anymore.

"Why can't I have an adventure?"  William groaned.  "Why can't something amazing happen?"

He climbed out of bed and stared out of the window.  Outside in the garden, there was a very large rock that William liked to sit on, climb on or play games on.  But something about it didn't look right, tonight.  The rock was glowing.

William waited until he heard his mum and dad go to bed, then he crept down the stairs and outside into the night.  Tip-toeing through the cool grass, he hurried to the rock and bent down for a closer look.  The rock was nearly as big as he was, when he bent down and William knew he could use it to hide behind, in case anyone looked out of their windows and saw him out of bed.  The thought made him smile.

William placed his hands on the rock and gasped.  It wasn't cold, like rocks normally were.  It was hot.

Suddenly, the rock began to shake and to William's surprise, a tiny door opened in the side of it and a funny looking little man came out.

"What are you doing with my house?"  The little man cried.  He had a beard and a pointy hat and he looked very strange indeed.

William's eyes were so wide, they looked as though they might pop out of his head.  "I didn't know this was your house," he protested.  "I thought it was just an ordinary rock!"

The little man stroked his beard.  "Well, it was," he confessed.  "I only moved in, today.  A little sprinkling of magic and it's turned into a cosy home."  He shook his head.  "But I won't be staying long.  Not if you're going to come out here in the middle of the night, waking me up!"

William gasped.  "Oh, please don't leave," he begged.  "Nothing exciting ever happens to me and I really am sorry for waking you."

The little man sat down in the grass and crossed his legs.  "Hmm.  Well, I'm supposed to grant a wish to the first person who finds me," he said.  "But I'm very sleepy and you've made me grumpy, too.  So I don't think I will!"

William blinked back at him.  "A wish?!"  He exclaimed.  "Oh, please let me have one!  Please!"

The little man frowned up at William.  "What's your name, anyway?"

"I'm William," William replied.

"I'm Tobias," the little man said.  "And I suppose I ought to let you have your wish, really.  But then I'm moving house first thing in the morning!"

William sighed.  He didn't want Tobias to go; he wanted to get to know him and learn what other magic he could do!  But at least he was going to get a wish.  He started wracking his brains.  What should he wish for?  To fly to the moon?  To gain super-powers?!  William's mind whirred with all the possibilities.  But just as he was thinking, a terrible howling noise startled him and he scrambled to his feet.

"Is... Is that a...?"  William stammered.

Tobias stood up, tutting crossly.  "Oh, honestly," he grumbled.  "I told you to find somewhere to hide!"  He shook his fist at the creature.

"But... It's a..."  William's face was pale.

"Oh, really," Tobias sighed.  "It's as if you've never seen a dinosaur before!  Don't look so scared,  he's only a baby.  And he doesn't eat meat, so you're quite safe!"

William gaped at the dinosaur.  "But... What's he doing here?  Dinosaurs are extinct!"

The dinosaur came through the garden hedge and flopped onto the grass, sobbing to itself.  With a shaky hand, William stroked its trembling body.  "There, there..."

Tobias folded his arms again.  "He's followed me here," he told William.  "He's part of the reason I moved house in the first place."  He sat back down in the grass.  "You see, I was living in a tree, when a little girl discovered me.  I had to grant her a wish and she wished to go back in time and visit the dinosaurs.  But then, when it was time to come home, she stole this baby dinosaur and brought it back with her!"  He shook his head.  "Well, as you can imagine, I was furious.  I told her I was leaving right away and I told the dinosaur to find somewhere safe to hide."  He rubbed the baby dinosaur's head.  "But you followed me, didn't you?"

William frowned.  "Why can't you just send him home?"

Tobias shrugged, sadly.  "I can't undo wishes," he said.  "I can only grant them in the first place.  If someone changes their mind, or something goes wrong, I can't do anything to fix it.  That's why we say 'be careful what you wish for.'"

The baby dinosaur cried even more and his tears began to form a puddle in the grass.

"He can't stay here," William said.  "What will my mum and dad say if they wake up in the morning and there's a dinosaur in the back garden?!"

Tobias scratched his head.  "The only way to send him home is for someone to wish for it."  He glanced at the poor, crying dinosaur.  "He misses his family," Tobias sighed.  "He doesn't want to be here."

William swallowed.  He knew he could wish for the dinosaur to go home to be with his family, but... He only had one wish and he really wanted to use it for himself!  Nothing exciting ever happened to him and Tobias was already determined not to stick around...  He hung his head, unable to look at the poor dinosaur.  "I ought to go to bed," he whispered.  "Can I tell you my wish in the morning?"

Tobias nodded.  "I suppose so," he said.  "But don't get up late.  I'm leaving, remember!"

William trudged back through the garden, not daring to glance behind him.  He could still hear the dinosaur crying and the sound made him want to cry, too.  Once he was inside, William dashed upstairs and jumped into his bed, with his covers over his head.  But he couldn't sleep.  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the dinosaur and he felt more and more guilty.  The minutes ticked past and turned into hours.  The sky started to get a little lighter.  William tossed and turned.  He felt horrible.

Finally, as the sun began to rise, William could stand it no longer.  He ran back into the garden.  The baby dinosaur had fallen asleep beside the rock and was snoring, gently.  He watched it for a moment and knew he'd made the right decision.  William banged his hand against the rock.  "Tobias!  Wake up!"

The tiny door opened and Tobias came out looking grumpier than ever.  "Twice, you've woken me up!"  He cried.  "When I said don't be late, I didn't mean come whilst I was still asleep!"

William ignored him.  "I know what I want to wish for," he said, breathlessly.  "I want you to send the dinosaur home."

The dinosaur's eyes popped open and William thought he saw it smile.

Tobias stroked his beard.  "Really?  You know you only get one wish, don't you?"

William nodded.  "I can't let this poor baby stay here all alone."

Tobias smiled.  "Then I forgive you for waking me up."  He waved a hand and spoke some words that William didn't understand and, in a flash of light, the dinosaur disappeared.

William felt glad, yet a little sad at the same time.  He nodded his head at Tobias.  "It was good to meet you," he said.  "I'm sorry I woke you up."  He turned and began walking back to the house.

"Hang on a minute!"  Tobias called.  "Come back!"

William glanced over his shoulder.  

Tobias looked him up and down.  "Maybe I misjudged you," he said.  "You did a very kind thing, letting that baby go home to his family, even though it meant giving up your wish."  He grinned.  "Perhaps I'll stick around after all.  If that's okay with you?"

William's eyes widened and a huge smile spread across his face.  "I would love that!"

Tobias nodded.  "Good," he said.  "Then go to bed and get some sleep.  I've got all kinds of magic to show you when you wake up."  He yawned and stretched.  "I think you and I are going to be good friends, William.  And I think we're going to have a lot of fun!"

"Me too," William beamed.  "Thank you!"

He hurried back into the house and climbed back into bed.  He still couldn't sleep - he was too excited!  Something told him that he was about to have all kinds of amazing adventures.  And he would never be bored again.

THE END

Cor, Look At The Sense of Humour On HIM!

Why not begin with an image that makes me giggle?!

Go on any dating site and you'll find hundreds of people all saying the same thing in their profile information: they're looking for someone with a good sense of humour.

I was no different, either of the times I signed up for online dating.  In fact "someone who makes me laugh" is amongst the very first things I say when asked what I'm looking for in a partner.  Life can be hard and laughter is not only a nice bonus from time to time, but as far as I'm concerned, it's pretty bloody crucial.  In my family, we laugh at the bad as well as the good; I suppose it's a coping mechanism, really, but it works for us.

Laughter makes us forget our own personal troubles, or at least minimises the pain they're causing us at that particular moment.  Laughter relaxes us and is medically proven to have health benefits - when we laugh, we feel good.  It's no wonder that so many of us refer to ourselves as looking for someone with a good sense of humour to share our lives with - who would want a partner you can't laugh with?

Of course, laughter isn't just healthy or fun.  It's also sexy.  Let's be honest; if someone makes you laugh, they often become more attractive in your eyes as a result.  Why?  Well, I'm not about to get all science-y on your ass, but I'm fairly sure that it probably has something to do with a rush of endorphins, or the general sense of being more relaxed around someone we can have a good giggle with.  Plus, funny people often seem confident, entertaining and interesting to talk to or hang out with - all attractive qualities.

Going right back to my childhood, a lot - and I mean a lot - of my celebrity crushes have been on stand up comedians or comic actors.  Two of my earliest crushes were (and you can mock if you like) the late great Robin Williams, because he made me laugh in some of my favourite films, and Chris Barrie (he of the gif at the top of this page), because he played my favourite character in one of my favourite sitcoms (Red Dwarf).  Years later, once I was in my teens, my most-fancied male member of the cast of Friends usually rotated depending on which of them I felt had had the funniest lines in recent episodes.

I went through a BIG Chandler phase.

Fast forward a few more years and I got really into stand-up comedy.  It began with a Sunday morning radio show on 6Music, hosted by the comedian Russell Howard.  I had seen Russell on TV and thought he was strangely cute (I am Mistress of The Back-Handed Compliment, clearly), but listening to him on the radio week after week led to me developing something of a crush.  I travelled to see him perform in a comedy club in Bristol and I absolutely fell in love.  Not with Russell Howard himself, but with stand-up.

There's something genuinely fantastic about live, stand-up comedy.  The way you can walk into a comedy club after a hellish journey through terrible traffic, take off your coat, settle into your seat and be helpless with laughter minutes later never ceases to amaze me.  Your shoulders feel lighter almost as soon as the first big belly laugh happens.  Stand-up, done well, feels intimate, no matter how big the venue.  You're listening to a person tell you about their life.  You're being allowed access to someone's thoughts and opinions.  You feel as though you're collectively sharing views, even though you haven't said a word - and that's because a good comedian can capture those little moments that we all share and make you feel somehow included in their world as they spin anecdotes, or go off on a rant.  Of course, the more uplifted, happy and relaxed you feel in that environment, the more you want to go.  I wanted to go a lot.  The more I went, the more I began to have my favourites, of the many performers I saw.

And I saw a lot of people in small clubs just 7 or 8 years ago, who are hugely well known, today.  Sarah Millican, Greg Davies, Josh Widdicombe and Jon Richardson, to name but a few.  Aah, Jon Richardson.  I admit it; that was a crush on a comedian that made me ever so slightly insane for a while.

I must have seen Jon at least a dozen times.  He originally co-hosted the aforementioned 6Music show that unwittingly kick-started my love affair with stand-up, before Russell Howard left and Jon took over completely.  Back in those days, I had so many texts read out on his show, that for a long time, complete strangers on the internet would refer to me as "THE Emma from Cornwall."  Jon himself occasionally waited to say hello after gigs and, given that I was single and so was he, I was was even so bold as to slip him my number in a card, once.  A decision which I now realise was probably ridiculously stupid, seeing as he was on his way to television stardom and I was just a very average-looking fan.  Like I said, I'd gone slightly mad, at that point.  I mistook polite friendliness for genuine interest and I'm saying this openly, because when I take the piss out of obsessive fans who tattoo band-members' names on themselves, or who threaten to kill themselves if One Direction don't return following their planned split, I'm doing so with knowledge of what it feels like to have that one thing (or person) in your life that you pour all of your energy into, regardless of whether you get anything back, purely because that one thing (or person) is the only thing that makes you feel good.  And I also know how it feels to come out the other side and realise you're attaching meaning to something that doesn't mean anything at all and that maybe your actual life needs looking at, before you start thinking that that that one thing (or person) is all that matters.  Thank God the worst I ever did was slip him my number.  Imagine if I'd had "Jon" tattooed in a heart somewhere about my person?!  It doesn't bear thinking about.  Take it from me; if you have an urge to do something that stupid to "honour" a celebrity crush, then please just give your wallet and bank cards to a responsible adult until you've realised how silly that idea is.  Because it is.  "This too, shall pass" and all that.

Undoubtedly the worst I've ever looked.  

I suppose what I'm saying here, in my time-honoured rambly way, is that I attached a deeper meaning to this particular crush because, in a weird and possibly vain-sounding way, he reminded me of myself.  I was painfully shy; he was saying he was, too. I was going through a rather neurotic phase; he was known for being neurotic.  But whilst these things got me down, there was this very handsome bloke, standing up on stage and getting people to laugh about them.  It seemed like such a positive way of dealing with what I'd always seen as my faults, that I guess I felt that Jon spoke for me as much as for himself and that created this bizarre sensation that maybe he'd "get" me in a way that others hadn't.  Like I said earlier, good stand-up feels intimate and there are few things more intimate than feeling like a stranger is talking with your mouth.

So, I, as a comedy fan, was perhaps "not done cooking," as my friend Lizzie and I like to say.   I was still lacking life experience and a certain level of maturity; I didn't have the same confidence in myself that I have now (and, ironically, that would crash completely before I ever would have it to this current, occasionally shaky degree).  What I'm trying to say is that comedy came into my life at a time when I needed it.  I was a bit low; not living the life I wanted to live and unsure of what to do about it.  I coped by laughing about it and in comedy clubs, I found a place full of people, many of whom were doing the exact same thing.  Laughing at the things that torture us is a common coping technique and not only were many of the people I went to gigs with back then battling their own demons, but many of the comics we saw on stage were, too.  

The link between comedy and tragedy is well known; we need only look at the fate of one of my first loves, the brilliant Robin Williams.  Yet, in a strange way, I think that link between laughter and sadness only served to strengthen my love of comedy and indeed, my propensity to form crushes on comedians (because Jon Richardson may have been a big crush, but he was really just one in a long line...).

I'm sensitive and I've had my own issues to deal with over the years.  Recognising sensitivity, or a tendency towards self-doubt in others is something of a skill of mine.  I tend to gravitate towards people who understand what it's like to brood or overthink something; people whose minds are always ticking over.  I've known a few people who've tried their hands at stand-up and they've always been the people whose brains seem wired similarly to mine.

Then there's the fact that I enjoy letting other people take centre stage if they have that kind of personality where they feel the need to be "the funny one," yet I equally like making my own friends laugh.  And, of course, I look to seek out people who will be on board with my rather black-humour when it comes to taking the piss out of something horrible.  We all deal with things differently, but that's definitely one of my major coping mechanisms and when I recognise it in another person, for some reason it attracts me to them.  I think I've also got a very caring nature and something of a need to be needed, if that makes sense.  If someone has got a sensitive side and they do hide behind their smile, I not only know what that feels like, but I want to support them, because I know how vital it is to feel cared for when you're in a dark place.  Add to that the fact that I genuinely do feel as though life is too strange, too silly and and too painful to be taken seriously all of the time and you've kind of got why "good sense of humour" is something that will always be near the top of my list of attributes I look for in a partner - and why it's important to so many others, too.

Yes, if you can make me laugh - whether it's by making a sarcastic aside, being quick with a pun (God, I love a good pun) or by doing something silly just to get a reaction - then we're off to a good start.  I'll feel relaxed, I'll be smiling and let's face it, we all get a confidence boost when someone laughs at our silly jokes, so you'll be feeling good, too.

It'll be no surprise to anyone reading this that it's a comedian who currently tops my "celebrity crush" list.  In case you're interested, it's this one:

If he had to click his fingers every time I had a mildly dirty thought about him, his hand would eventually fall off.

Josh Widdicombe is very funny, is a similar age to me (so makes references to things from my youth, making me feel that "ooh, I can identify with you" thing that is also SO attractive), has proved on The Last Leg that he has a strong moral compass and is generally very bloody cute.  It's a testament to how cute that it took me about fifteen minutes to type that last sentence, because I kept being transfixed by the gif above it.  Click that sexy finger, Josh.  Aaaand that's the weirdest sentence I've ever written.

I doubt there'll ever come a day when comedy isn't something that means a lot to me.  Whether it's switching on a sitcom guaranteed to make me laugh, or booking tickets to go and see a favourite stand-up live, it's unlikely I'll ever lose my love of comedy in any form.  After all, we all need a good giggle now and then.  And as long as a sense of humour is so vital to me, I'll just carry on fancying the pants off guys who can make me laugh, too.

wibble.

Bedtime Story (2/9/2015)

I can only apologise for my "skills" as an illustrator...

This week, I found a spider in my bathroom.  Anyone who knows me will be aware that spiders are on my list of things I am liable to freak out over.  It's a very common phobia, but one that I really don't want to pass on to any future children I may have, so I decided to write a story in which a spider is the unlikely hero!

Harrison's New House

All of Harrison's toys were sitting in boxes.  His room looked bare and strange - almost too big to be the same place he used to play in.  He sat on the floor and took one final look at his surroundings.  It didn't feel real yet.  Moving to a new house wasn't something Harrison had ever done before.

"Come on, Harri," his mum smiled, as she poked her head through his bedroom door.  "Your sister's in the car already.  It's nearly time to go."

A friendly looking removal man stepped into the room.  "These are the last boxes," he confirmed.  "The van's almost full!"

Harrison rose to his feet.  "Will I like my new room as much as this one, mum?"

His mum ushered him through the door and squeezed his shoulders.  "You'll love it," she promised.  "And we can paint it any colour you like."

Harrison trudged down the stairs, not wanting to look back at his bedroom, in case it made him cry.  He didn't really want to be moving to a new house, or going to a new school in a different town.

"My brother and I were allowed to decorate our own rooms when we were kids," the removal man told him, trying to cheer him up.  "I painted mine blue and I stuck these amazing glow-in-the-dark stars all over the place, so it was like going to sleep in outer space!"

"That sounds cool," Harrison said, digging his hands into his pockets as he stepped through the front door.

"My brother had a mini beast mural on his wall," the removal man went on.  "He painted snails and beetles and spiders on it!"

Harrison shuddered.  "I hate spiders."

His mum headed to the car waiting in the driveway.  She opened the back door and motioned for him to climb in beside his sister, but Harrison couldn't make his feet move.  He turned back to the house.  The house he'd grown up in.  The house he'd held birthday parties in.  The house he loved and didn't want to leave.  He shook his head.  "I don't want to go," he whimpered, before rushing back inside and up the stairs.  Upon reaching his room, Harrison dropped to the floor and sat with his back to the door, pushing as hard as he could against the wood, so that nobody would be able to open it.

Within a minute, he heard his mum knocking.  "Harrison, please come out," she pleaded.  "The new house is lovely and there's a big park really close by, remember?  You had so much fun playing there when we went to visit..."

Harrison squeezed his eyes shut.  He clamped his hands over his ears.  This was his home.  And he wasn't leaving.

"Harrison," his mum went on.  "Sweetheart, come on; Milly's in the car, waiting for you!  I know it's a bit scary, moving to a new house and starting at a new school, but she'll be doing the same.  She'll look after you and so will I."

Harrison unblocked his ears and opened his eyes.  He stuck his lower lip out and folded his arms.  "I want to stay here," he protested.

He heard his mum sigh on the other side of the door.  She didn't say anything, so Harrison decided maybe he'd persuaded her.  Perhaps that was all it was going to take!  After all, they couldn't exactly move without him, could they?!  But then, all too soon, Harrison heard her voice again.  "Harrison, I'll let you stay in there for five more minutes, but then it's time to go.  And I mean it."  Her voice was firmer, this time.

Harrison groaned as he gazed around the bare walls of his room.  "I'll stay in here forever if I have to," he mumbled to himself.  He looked around, taking everything in; the little marks by the door where his mum had measured him every year on his birthday.  The bit of paint missing on the back wall, where his dinosaur poster used to be.  The big spider right by the window...

Hang on... SPIDER?!

Harrison's eyes widened and his heart sped up in his chest.  He inched closer to the door, scrunching himself up as small as he could.  Normally, when he saw a spider, he'd ask his dad to get rid of it.  But he wasn't around anymore and mum was cross.  Harrison thought about bolting out of the door, but if he did that, he'd have to get in the car and they'd move to the new house!  He stared at the spider.  "Fine," he whispered, through gritted teeth.  "We'll have to share the room for now."

He watched it for a while.  Its body looked black and it had eight legs that were too long and too crawly for Harrison's liking.  The spider was moving, too.  It was spinning a web from the top of the window, to the corner of the ceiling.

Harrison shuddered at the sight of all those legs moving at once.  He didn't like it.  He wanted to run away.  But he couldn't.  So instead, Harrison took a long, deep breath and, rather unsteadily, he rose to his feet.  He tiptoed across the room and stood as close as he felt brave enough to stand.

The spider wasn't actually just black.  It was black and brown.  It had two little pincers at the front, as well as eight legs.  As Harrison watched it spinning its web, he found himself transfixed.  The thread was so fine and delicate.  The web was strangely beautiful.

"How can something so lovely come from something so scary?"  Harrison whispered.

But the longer he stared at the spider, watching it work, the less frightening it seemed to become.  Harrison started to see it as an impressive creature, building a lovely new home all by itself.  "You've chosen a good place to live," Harrison told it.  "This was my room.  And it's lovely."  He smiled, as he looked out of the window.  "In the mornings, the sun comes up and it shines right through the window.  It leaves this big, square patch of yellow light on the wall, just over there," he said, pointing.  "And the streetlamp outside means that it's never too dark in here at night, so you don't have to get scared."

The spider didn't answer of course.  It just went on, spinning its web.  And the longer it worked, the more fascinated Harrison became.  By the time the web was complete, Harrison had even given the spider a name - Bob.  In fact, Harrison was enjoying watching Bob so much, that he didn't even hear his mum opening the door and coming into the room.  Bob scuttled into the centre of the web and hung there, perfectly still.  And Harrison stood perfectly still too, just watching him.

"Harrison," his mum said softly, as she came to stand beside him.  "We really do have to go."  She followed his gaze and bristled when she saw the spider.  "Shall I get rid of that for you?"

Harrison quickly shook his head.  "No, that's Bob," he told her.  "And he's only little, really."  He swallowed hard.  "He's going to live here, now.  It's his room."

"I thought you hated spiders?"  His mum asked.

"Not anymore," Harrison replied.  "I want Bob to look after my room for me."

His mother nodded.  "Well...  You have a new room to look after, now."

Harrison looked up at her.  "Spiders can go anywhere, can't they?"  He asked.

"I suppose so," his mother replied.  "They can just leave one place and spin a new web somewhere else."

Harrison sighed.  "And they don't get sad about it," he said.  "They just build a new home and start all over again."

His mum squeezed his shoulder.  "Just like us."

Harrison smiled.  "I'm going to paint my new room blue," he told her, as they started to walk out of the room and down the stairs.  "And I'm going to get glow-in-the-dark stars, just like that man said he had when he was a kid."

His mum grinned as she opened the front door of the house.  "Like I said, you can do anything you like with your new room," she promised.

"Great," Harrison replied.  As he climbed into the car, he looked up at the house and smiled at his bedroom window.  Bob would be happy there, he was certain.  And if the new family who moved in decided they didn't like spiders, Bob could just crawl away and build a brand new web somewhere else.  Harrison would miss Bob, in a funny way.  Which gave him an idea...

Harrison's mum started the engine and began the drive to the new house.  The children were quiet in the back.  At least they were, until Harrison made an announcement:

"Mum, you know you said I can do anything I like with my new room?  Well... I want a pet tarantula!"

THE END

My (current) Top Six Reasons For Rantiness

Admit it.  We all have days like this.

I try to be a nice person.  I try to consider the feelings of others and I try to be kind towards people.  But I'm part Mediterranean and I have a feisty side.  There's a part of me that resembles a coiled spring (and no, I'm not just referring to my unmanageably curly hair), just waiting to burst forth into a gigantic rant.  When that happens, it's not always a pretty sight.  So, in order to prevent any poor, unfortunate souls from coming into contact with "Ranty Emma," I figured I'd provide regular readers to my blog with a helpful list of things that awaken the beast within.  We all have days where everything winds us up and we all have our own little lists of things that niggle us, even though we often realise we're getting annoyed or upset over something pretty trivial.  I know that sometimes, I should just count to ten and take Elsa's advice and just let it go.  But sometimes, despite our best intentions, something silly will push us over the edge.  With that little nugget of honesty in mind, here are six things that really get my goat...

1. Victim-blaming/homophobia/sexism/racism and all the other big "isms" in life.

You said it.

Let's get the most serious bit out of the way first, shall we?  If you cut yourself, what colour do you bleed?  Unless you're part android, or you've snuck here on a rocket from Mars, I'm going to assume that the answer to that question is "red."

Now, I'm not suggesting you go slicing into people of different races, genders or sexuality, but here's the thing:  They bleed the same colour as you do.

Not only that, but they have hopes and dreams, just like you do.  They have fears, just like you do.  They feel changes in temperature, hunger, tiredness, sadness, love, joy and loss, just like you do.  I bet if you took a person of any religion, any nationality and any sexuality, if they stub their toe, they're going to make that same howling noise, followed by rage through gritted teeth as you do.  Don't deny it; we've all been there.

People are just that.  People.  Not a label that you've given them.  Not deserving of bad things, because they've "brought it on themselves."  Just people.  Living, breathing, fallible humans, just trying to make the most of their relatively brief stint on this massive chunk of rock, spinning around in space.  Just.  Like.  You.

If you seriously want to waste the finite amount of time we have in the world, casting hate on a person for no reason beyond the colour of their skin, the gender or sexuality they identify as, the religion they belong to, or the country they're from, then you need to take a very long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and ask whether you might be better off doing something - literally anything - else with your life.  And stay the hell away from me, until you do.

Now that the serious bit is over with, we can ready ourselves for the trivial stuff...

2. People who don't respond to messages.

So.  You have an idea for a get-together with a friend you've not seen in a while.  You fire off a text message, suggesting said get-together and asking if they fancy it.  And then you wait for a response.  And you wait.  And you wait.  And... You wait.

I get it.  People lead busy lives.  Our loved ones don't just sit around, waiting for their phones to bleep with a message from us.  But you know what?  I just sent a text and it took less than thirty seconds.  It really doesn't take that long to reply to someone.

Sometimes, we get a message and then go into an area without signal, meaning we can't reply straight away.  That's fine.  We just have to remember to respond when we can.  Sometimes, people are busy doing something where they can't respond to a text right away and that's fine, too.  I work in a profession in which we have to sign our mobile phones into the office on arrival and we can't look at them again until our lunch break.  So, if someone texts me at around 9:30am when I'm at work, they're not going to get a response until any time between 12:15 and 1:30, depending on when I go on my break.  But they will get a response, because once I check my phone and I see that there's a message, I reply to it.  Why?  Because it's kind of rude not to.

Sure, some messages don't require a response.  If you send someone a joke and they text back "LOL," that's kind of a conversational cul-de-sac.  And I'll be honest; if I'm in bed and you text me at gone midnight, you'd better be in dire trouble, because otherwise, you're not getting a reply, but you will be getting some passive aggressive muttering from an overtired woman who was trying to bloody sleep.

Look, just do me a favour:  if I send you a text that has a question in it, send me an answer.  If not right away then, you know, at some point in the week after I've actually sent the damn thing.  Otherwise, I end up feeling like I'm being clingy; unsure whether to ask the question again, or whether I've done something to offend you, or whether you've just forgotten to reply and I should send another text just to "nudge" you.  Or maybe you've died.  Don't make me think you've died, people.  It's much easier to click "reply."

3. Incorrect grammar (I know, I know.  I'm very anal)...

Thank you, Ross.

Recently, someone sent me an message, which said "lots of love" at the end.  I thought it was a really nice way to end a message (and hey, at least they replied), but then I looked at it again and it actually said "lot's of love" and my brain exploded into tiny pieces, which splattered all over my laptop screen.

Look, I know I'm very anal about this.  I realise many people think incorrect use of grammar is a really pointless thing to get annoyed about.  And no, I would never dream of criticising any of my friends or family members for using the wrong form of "your" or anything like that.  I will, instead, silently weep for the future of the English language.

Let's be really honest about it: however anal you may think I am, "their," "there" and "they're" all mean different things.  So do "your" and "you're."  Words are beautiful tools with which we convey meaning to others and if you're wilfully writing things that don't actually make sense, I think that's quite sad.  You might be thinking "oh for goodness sake, you know what I meant."  But that's the point; I know, so why don't you?  Unless you have a medical reason (dyslexia or similar), everyone should be capable of picking this stuff up.

I genuinely don't get why so many people are just going about their daily lives, apparently clueless as to what words mean, or where apostrophes go.  I was taught this stuff in school.  By the age of thirteen, I knew that an apostrophe is used to either join two words together, or to denote belonging.  I knew not to use it for plurals (like "cat's" or "lot's").  I knew that "you're" meant "you are" and that "your" essentially meant something that belongs to you.  I admit that "their" and "there" took a little longer to sink in, but I'd gotten the hang of that by the time I sat my GCSEs.  

And for the love of everything I hold dear, do not get me started on "should of" instead of "should have."  That makes literally no sense whatsoever and is just lazy.  I see that written down and I essentially have this reaction:

Don't turn me into Phoebe, folks.  You won't like me when I'm Phoebe.

4. Ironically, getting irate (or over-dramatic) over something stupid.

Why yes, I have recently saved a load of Friends gifs, what makes you ask?

One of the things that makes me ranty is getting ranty over something stupid.  Yes, I know.  I'm an enigma, wrapped up in a riddle.  Or something.

But seriously, I hate wasting my precious rage over something undeserving of it.  I hate feeling irate because someone I don't even know has written a tweet, saying "Your right, Clare! I should of bought those shoes when we saw them.  There all sold out, now! I really liked them, to."  And I loathe the fact that just writing such a grammatically incorrect sentence to evidence my point has made me feel bizarrely dirty.

I want to save my anger for the big things in life.  For the times when I switch on the news and see that people who truly aren't fit for work are being judged to be so and are having vital benefits cut.  Or when dozens of immigrants are found to have drowned, trying to escape a life of war and poverty and you still get idiots moaning "well, we don't want them coming over here, do we?" rather than showing any decency or compassion.  Or when I read literally anything in The Daily Mail.

Yet, whilst I do feel angry at those big, important things, the silly little niggles still get to me.  The lack of a "thank you" when I hold a door open for someone shouldn't make me want to yell "YOU'RE WELCOME" in a passive-aggressive manner, but it does.  And that bothers me.

What's more, other people's overreactions bother me, too.  Recently, when I saw a teenage girl tweet that "my life is not worth living if One Direction split up, tbh," I was furious.  Partly because "tbh" is on my list of abbreviations I detest and partly because ARE YOU SERIOUS?!  IF I GOT OVER TAKE THAT - WHO WERE A DECENT BLOODY BAND - YOU CAN GET OVER WAND ERECTION.

I know I shouldn't be bothered by other people's dramatic reactions, stupidity, rudeness or complete inability to spell.  But for some reason I am.  That is a failing on my part.  And I hate it.

5. Other people's bad driving.

On the way to Minehead, there's a road leading to a roundabout.  Approaching this roundabout, the road splits into two lanes, which are clearly marked with arrows.  The left hand lane has an arrow pointing to the left.  The right hand lane has an arrow pointing straight ahead.  The sign beside the roundabout echoes these directions, saying "GET IN LANE" and visibly demonstrating which lane to use, depending on which exit you need.  There are only two lanes and, aside from going all the way around the roundabout and heading back in the direction you came from, there are only two exits - left or straight ahead.  It's all marked out for you, so using said roundabout genuinely couldn't be easier.

And yet, back in May, as I pulled into the right hand lane to go straight ahead, the driver of the car I had been following, for some reason stayed in the left hand lane and also went straight ahead.  This obviously led to a very near-miss, in which I almost collided with the side of his car upon leaving the roundabout, because he was in the wrong lane and travelling at the same speed as I was.  I beeped him.  He, presumably because his penis was only two inches long and half an inch thick, proceeded to slam on his brakes (causing yet another near-miss), yell obscenities out of his window at me, speed off well above the limit for that road, before slamming on his brakes again and yelling at me some more, then travelling at well below the speed limit for a while, in an effort to intimidate or annoy me.  All this, because I had beeped him for being in the wrong lane.  Or, to put it another way, all this, because he did something wrong.  He eventually sped up again and drove the windy little roads towards Minehead, crossing over onto the wrong side of the road every time he went around a bend.

I could fill a book with the names I called him.  It's fair to say that I turned the interior of my car a rich shade of blue as I cursed him over and over for his appalling lack of driving skills and his general propensity to be a dickhead.  I looked a bit like this:

The friend I was with, meanwhile, pleaded with me at length to "just let it go."

If only I could.

The thing is, being an asshole behind the wheel of a car isn't just stupid, it's dangerous.  Had I not slammed on my brakes and avoided smashing into the side of that guy's car (because HE was in the wrong lane), I could have injured the small child he had sitting in the back.  I could have written off his car.  I could have given my passenger whiplash.

Taking a bend on the wrong side of the road runs the risk of a head-on collision.  Not bothering to check which lane you should be in at a roundabout runs the risk of a crash (or a spike in my blood pressure; neither is worth it, to be honest).  

For reasons I've never been able to fully understand, some people get into a car and immediately think: "Well, I'm encased in metal.  I'm basically Robocop."  And that, to them, gives them the right to do whatever the hell they like, be it pulling out of junctions right in front of you, veering from lane to lane without indicating, or stamping on their brakes for literally no apparent reason, causing you to do the same in order to prevent yourself from going into the back of them.  These people are idiots and since they're unlikely to ever stop being idiots, we should just all collectively decide to hide their car keys, for the good of humanity.

6. Not being listened to.

 I like to think that I'm a good listener.  If someone's having a hard time, I will always act as a shoulder for them and, if they want me to, I'll try to give some advice (if they don't want me to, then I'll just listen - I'm flexible like that).

The thing that really grinds my gears is not being listened to.  Not only if I feel very sad about things and just need a friendly ear, but in any aspect of life.  Feeling as though your opinion isn't important to those around you just makes you feel minimised.  And, as you've probably guessed from this blog (and others), I'm someone whose mind is almost constantly buzzing about something or other.  I usually have an opinion on things.  I usually have got creative ideas to share when people are putting together a project.  So when people start discussing something around me and tell me I can be involved, I feel rather put-out if I make a simple suggestion, only to have it immediately vetoed, or if I share an opinion and have it slammed or ignored.  Or worse, if I'm not once even asked what I think of something.

That's the thing with opinions - we've all got one and we all deserve to be listened to, providing we're not spouting ignorant hate (see number 1 on this list...).  Whilst I know it can be irritating for someone to have an opinion on everything and to want to voice it, I'm not averse to letting everyone have their say.  So, when I'm in any situation where I feel like my say hasn't even been considered, that makes me annoyed.  What's the point in having a person there with you, if you're not prepared to ask them what they think, or what they want to do in the situation?  Sure, there are people in the world who really are just happy to go along with what everyone else wants to do, but we should still ask them for their view.  And I'm not some contrary little madam who disagrees with the general consensus just for the sake of it.  Often, I'll find myself in agreement with those around me, anyway.  It's just nice to be made to feel as though my thoughts matter.

And if you treat me like they don't, well...

Again, thank you, Ross.

Of course, despite saying all of this, the fact remains that I'm British (albeit with a touch of Mediterranean fire).  Most of the time, even when things really annoy me, I'll do that thing of insisting that I'm okay and it's nothing, whilst mumbling under my breath, rather than actually addressing the problem.  I don't see the point in starting a row for no reason and I tend to blame myself for my own ranty-reactions, too.  I guess what I'm saying is, I'll have a rant now and then and I'll get cross over something that seems trivial, but for the most part, I'll suck it up and deal with it in my own way (currently, by watching videos of Josh Widdicombe doing stand up comedy and wondering where my sudden "thing" for guys with curly, blond hair has come from).

But always remember that underneath my three quarters of British reserve is one quarter of Greek Cypriot feistiness, just waiting to be triggered.  I might be smiling, but I could also be having a furious row with you in my head.  I might be silent, but that could just mean I'm simmering on a low boil.  And for the love of God, if I tell you I'm fine, run.

Bedtime Story (26/8/2015)

I sort of wish I was turning 30 again...

It's my birthday in just over a fortnight (and my dad's two days later) and as such, birthdays have been on my mind, recently.  Only Christmas can beat the excitement of a birthday when you're little, so I hope this story captures that birthday count-down and brings a smile to people's faces...

Becky's Birthday

On Monday morning, Becky woke up with a spring in her step and a smile on her face.  Her birthday was just around the corner - so close, she could almost touch it.  "How many more sleeps?"  She asked, as she bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"It's your birthday on Friday," her mum replied.  "That means four more sleeps."

Becky frowned.  "That's loads," she groaned.

"Well, you'll just have to fill your days with fun things until your birthday comes," her mum told her.  "That'll make the days pass much quicker."

So, Becky ate her breakfast and then rushed outside.  She made mud pies for her imaginary friends and climbed to the highest branch of the apple tree at the end of the garden.  After lunch, she drew lots of little pictures for all of her friends and stuck them into envelopes to be given out as party invitations.  Then, she went to the shops with her mum and bought balloons, streamers and bunting to decorate their house with, when the day of her birthday party finally arrived.  Once Becky had eaten her dinner, she practised playing musical statues all by herself, so that she'd be really good at it when the time came to play it for real.

By the time Becky went to bed that night, she was very tired indeed.  She asked for just two bedtime stories, instead of her usual three and she only spent half an hour playing with her teddy bears once the light had gone out, before she finally closed her eyes and drifted off.

On Tuesday morning, Becky woke up bright and early and skipped down the stairs.  Her dad hadn't left for work yet and she jumped into his lap as he finished his breakfast.  "How many more sleeps until my birthday?"  Becky cried.

Her dad smiled.  "Three more," he told her.  

"That's still a long time," Becky groaned.

"Well, you know what to do," her dad replied.  "Keep yourself busy so that the time passes by faster!"

So, Becky wolfed down a piece of toast, then spent her morning trying on all of her best party dresses, so she could choose one for the party.  She practised tying her hair in plaits all by herself and then raided her mum's make up bag and even had a go at putting on lipstick.  After lunch, she bounced on her trampoline in the garden, seeing how high she could jump, until she was all out of breath.  Once her dad got home from work and they'd had some dinner, Becky showed him a fantastic new dance routine she'd taught herself for the party.

When Becky got into bed that night, she was shattered.  She only asked for two stories instead of three and she didn't manage to stay awake long enough to play with her teddy bears once the light had gone out.

On Wednesday, Becky jumped out of bed and hurried downstairs for breakfast.  "How many more sleeps?"  She asked, as she munched on a piece of toast.

"Only two more," her mum smiled.

"That's not too many," Becky grinned.  "But I need to stay busy just in case the time goes slow!"

She swallowed her last mouthful of toast and then ran back upstairs to rearrange her dolls' house.  She raided her mum's sewing box and, with the help of some sticky tape, scraps of fabric and lots of glitter, she made party dresses for all of her dolls.  After lunch, Becky's mum took her to the park and she rode on the roundabout until she was dizzy, then had lots of tries on the monkey bars until she could almost go all the way along without letting go.  After dinner that evening, Becky played a long game of Twister with her mum and dad.

By the time Becky got into bed, she was so tired that she fell asleep during her second bedtime story.

On Thursday, Becky walked slowly down the stairs, rubbing her eyes.  "There's only one more sleep, isn't there?"  She asked her mum.

"Just one more left," her mum nodded.

"I just need to stay busy for one more day," Becky said.

Her mum smiled.  "Are you sure you don't want to save your energy for the party tomorrow?"

Becky shook her head.  "No, otherwise today might go really slowly!"

So, after breakfast, Becky built a den in the garden.  Afterwards, she made perfume using petals from flowers and water from the outside tap, so that her den would smell beautiful.  Once they'd had lunch, her mum took her swimming and Becky went down the flume thirteen times.  She ran all the way home and then helped her mum to wrap presents for a game of Pass The Parcel.  After dinner, Becky helped to hang bunting in the lounge and she blew up balloons until she was out of breath.

Becky was so tired that night, that she fell asleep before her mum was even halfway through the first bedtime story.

On Friday, Becky's mum and dad waited for her to run down the stairs.  They waited and they waited.

Finally, they crept up the stairs and into Becky's room.  Her eyes were tightly closed and she was snoring!

"Becky?"  Her dad whispered.  "There are no more sleeps left.  It's your birthday!"

Becky blinked and rubbed her eyes.  She let out a tremendous yawn.  "How many more sleeps did you say?"

Her mum laughed.  "No more sleeps!"

Becky threw back her bed covers and flung her arms around her parents' necks.  "Happy birthday to me!"

The day was filled with presents and cake and the most fabulous party Becky had ever been to.  She danced, she played games and she smiled all day long.

That night when Becky crawled into her bed, her mum smiled and kissed her forehead.  "Did you have a lovely birthday, Becky?"  She asked.  

Becky let out a long yawn as she nodded her head.  "How many sleeps until my next one?"

Her mum laughed.  "Three hundred and sixty four!"

Becky smiled.  "Oh good," she said.  "That gives me time to rest until then."

And with that, Becky closed her eyes and went straight to sleep.

THE END