24.02.13- Cat Lady Days, Swans Celebrations & Guns Don't Kill People, Shiraz Does

Today was a 5-0 win for the Swans. If you're from Swansea, this is something to feel very proud of, even if football gets your pulse racing in about the same way that pouring yourself a bowl of Alpen does. I'm not a massive football fan (boys, get off the floor and stop crying, you're only being paid £349027587587457523573 a week after all), but it's hard not to feel part of the atmosphere and proud of our Pretty Shitty City's Wembley victory.

Nathan Dyer: he shoots, he scores.
And he doesn't look like this.

Though I still think I prefer watching the sort of swans that swim in the lake of Singleton Park and eat small children.
Other than that, I've had a significantly 'cat lady' sort of day. As in I did things that old ladies do (ie, go food shopping at Sainsbury's and spend over an hour comparing the size of peppers and making agonizing decisions between whether to buy Wiltshire or Yorkshire ham at the counter; wash and hang up my clothes to dry; clean the kitchen; go for a cup of tea with a good friend). The only non-cat-lady thing I did was go to the gym. And I said hello to the dog this morning.

You have to get it right when faced with the life-changing
choice over Anchor or Kerrygold

I have done shockingly little work for my seminar tomorrow. Dylan Thomas isn't half demanding every week. But I want to go to the lecture because my lecturer fascinates me. Ahem.
On Thursday I did a poetry reading at The Howl at Mozart's, which is always one of my favourite ways to spend a Thursday. As usual, I planned on a glass or two to relax me beforehand.
As usual I downed so much wine I can't remember getting home and was nearly sick in my wastepaper bin and apparently ate dry porridge oats. I'm not entirely sure what this was supposed to achieve, or how this was in any way appetizing, but I guess it's healthier than waking up with a face full of kebab and cheese.

According to WebMD, your symptoms clearly mean you either
have syphilis, a broken arm or are dead.

I decided to do my usual routine: 2 of my more serious, darker poems followed by a pisstake comedy one; in this case, the anti-Valentine's one that I planned to read the week before on the 14th but missed due to an illness commonly referred to as a cold, but whom many on Facebook seem to think is bovine tuberculosis/the certain onset of death. There is nothing that bores me more intensely than getting updates every 5 minutes on people's symptoms or photographs of themselves with drippy red eyes.
If you're that ill, go to bed.
My first two poems were 'Craig Y Nos' and 'Bones', found on my poetry blog www.goodnightindigo.blogspot.com if you want to read them and allow me to ruin your evening with a cheeky bit of misery and pain and all that.
The third, the comedy pisstake one which I wrote in about 5 minutes and is atrociously written but used to lighten the mood a bit went like this:

An arrow has nuzzled me deep in my chest

in the red space between the white rib and the breast,

and Cupid is crouched in the lilac moon

waving Prince Charming from out of the gloom.

When he came here to find me he didn’t wear white

nor ride a dark steed through the moors of the night,

but pulled up beside me and offered a ride

in his Fiat 500 and I jumped inside.

His manners were shifty, his hair like spaghetti,

a knight from the depths of the mystical Sketty,

his eyes were like flames and bright with desire,

while kids set neighbourhood cars on fire.

Our mouths opened up like the slow blooming rose,

my lips on his and my nose to his nose,

it could have been perfect, true love’s first kiss

if he hadn’t suggested we go and get pissed

and took me to Uplands to drink and watch bands,

nod heads to the music and sit holding hands.

Prince Charming was silent, I let out a sigh

when I noticed his hand creeping up past my thigh,

and we went for a meal where the venue was tense

with roses and cards and the air of pretence,

a man on one knee asked his girl to be wed,

most likely on two later on in the bed.

The fourteenth of February, pressure is on,

right shade of underwear, right choice of song,

right choice of menu, right venue to dine,

remortgage the house to pay for the wine.

But I took up my glass and drained it like Coke,

waited for Charming to finish his pork

and told him the meal was a real delight

but I thought he and I should call it a night.

So I took up my presents, my cards and my jacket,

my blooms from the garage and cigarette packet,

and left my Prince Charming crumpled and hurt,

weeping alone in the depths of dessert.

It’s not that I’m shallow or hate the word love,

despise the word soulmate or powers above,

but Valentine’s love is a rose in its ways,

plastic or thorny and dead in a day.

I told you it was atrocious, but it did get a few laughs and one old bloke said it was "well cool" so if I've made people happy then I'm happy too no matter how much of an idiot I make myself look in public. I just had to write something silly which reflects my hatred of the idea of all the falseness and commercialism of Valentine's Day; if you love someone, surprise them with flowers on a day when they don't expect it, not because Tesco is hammering it into your head that you have to buy these £20 roses on the 14th or you're a shit partner.

A simple "I love you", a heartfelt spontaneous message of love is so much more meaningful when it's genuine and not because you have an obligation to write it in a card. When I love someone, I let them know far more often than one designated day of the year over a plate of overpriced steak.
Urgh, am I getting sentimental? Quick, fetch me a cat before I puke a rainbow.
Anyway, as I was reading this, who was there in the audience? No, not my father. Not my ex. No, not David Hasselhoff.
It was my poetry tutor.
As in the poetry tutor who made me my Masters offer. I have been having anxious visions of seeing "Inbox (1)" on my student email account and a message of regret that my offer has been withdrawn due to crimes against poetry.

This is how my Friday mornings post-Mozart's feel

So naturally I drank some more. And then some more. I didn't even stay late.
Roisin kindly helped me home. Thank you, Roisin.
Friday was spent with a hangover so I avoided everyone and sat in my creative writing seminar convinced that either the Grim Reaper, a Dementor or Darth Vader (same thing) was punching me in the skull and playing football with my queasy stomach. I had a head like a cracking egg in an omelette of pain and an oesophagus of burning hell-flame.
And had work to look forward to.
Remember, kids: guns don't kill people, shiraz does.

20.01.13- Small Hours, Poetic Progress & the Woman In Black

It's been a week since my last entry, which is both due to being busy and being a lazy good-for-nothing worm who has an unhealthy fetish with her onesie and being asleep.
In all fairness, I didn't get home from work until 11 last night and had to be in again today at a ridiculous hour of the morning so I'm allowed to be writing this with a hot water bottle in bed before 6pm. If I smoked, I would also be languidly dragging on a Silk Cut because that might make me look arty but I don't smoke, so I'm not.
And I'm far too tight to start wasting my money on something that tastes like sucking a robot's bowel.
So...what has the 22-year-old cat lady with no cats done with her week?
I did receive a card on Valentine's Day which wasn't from my mother or the goldfish, so that was a surprise but I did not get the reams and reams of them whooshing through the chimney like Hogwarts letters as I anticipated, so I do not feel any more irresistible.

Sadly this did not happen on Valentine's Day

I'm going to blame this on our lack of chimney.

To summarise my week (because I know dem bitchez likes a good summary):

Laura's (2 month late) birthday cake. Better
late than never. Unless it's the onset of flu.

• I am starting my job on a different department in work next Tuesday. It means getting to work at 6am, which means I am going to develop the temperament of an ogre on the Pill. It means not spending hours talking to my favourite old people. I feel glad to be doing something different after nearly 4 years of making small talk over frozen chicken and asparagus spears, but at the same time my soul has broken a bit at the thought of not spending all day discussing cats and irrational dislike of Katherine Jenkins with my regulars.
• I actually had a whole weekend off work last week which was beautiful and I spent it baking cakes. I love creating pretty things out of icing and sugary fondant. Which is ironic, being diabetic.
• I had the last of my January exam marks back. A full set of Firsts. This feels very nice, like getting out of jail. 
• My presentation skills are about as sophisticated and eloquent as Maggie Simpson's. (Yes, I did that presentation on sex for the Dylan Thomas module. Yes, talking about what castration, penises and what I drew from the word "stiff" made me feel like a massive pervert. But then Thomas was the one writing about having a tug into the lavatory).
• Had a phonecall today to tell me I've come 2nd in a poetry competition but I'm apparently not allowed to say which one yet until they've told all the winners. But I'm excited to be getting another poem published and doing a reading at the Dylan Thomas Centre in June (NOBODY say anything if I smuggle in a hipflask).
• Woman In Black on Monday was the worst thing I have seen in the theatre. Ever.

Another one of my creations:
Pontypandy's own shagmobile

I'm really happy to have made a bit of progress with my writing with the competition results. I've been becoming increasingly disheartened with all the work I've been putting in to write and I'd lost a bit of faith in my writing, especially when it's difficult enough now to find a job with enough hours to support me after I graduate. But making little achievements like this makes me realise that it's worth it to keep going with the hard work and to have faith with creative pursuits after rejection letters.
On Monday I went to see The Woman In Black at the Grand Theatre. I was lucky enough to get free tickets, as my lovely best friend/pet Will works there and often gets us concession tickets (thank you, Will). At over £20 I'd have expected them to live up what was advertised as "THE SCARIEST THEATRE EXPERIENCE OF YOUR LIFE."
I've had scarier letters from the library.

Plot: man meets a boring old man, meets another boring few people played by same boring old man, borrows an invisible dog, a smoke machine goes off, lights go off, screaming sound effect every now and then and some twat wandering around in a black bedsheet in the background. Genius. Raw, powerful, moving stuff.
Length: 2 hours, or time you could have spent doing something more entertaining, like mowing your lawn over and over. It doesn't matter if you only have a patio.
Value for Money: I was lucky about getting in for free, but I would rather have had a free leaflet about flu vaccinations.
Professional verdict: Pants.

Costume design for 'The Woman In Black'.
Though in black.

I saw Stephen King's Misery being performed there by a much smaller company during the summer and THAT on the other hand, was excellent. That was even better than the film. Even now, my hand edges towards turning the light back on if I so much as imagine the actress playing Annie Wilkes coming in, mad-eyed and cardiganed, screeching "YOU WANT YOUR NOVRIL? HUH? YOU WANT EXTRA PILLS FOR CHRISTMAS?"

Annie Wilkes: the ultimate Undateable

And don't even get me started on the foot-chopping-and-cauterizing scene. I wanted to hide in the toilets and cry and have my Mammy find me and take me out for a Panda Pop.
Woman In Black however was terrible. Stay in and watch Noddy instead. You can experience the same level of fear, but without the irritation of the general public.
I'm not just being an intolerant arse when I say that about people. Actually, I am, but there were some real tools sat near us during the show. I know at things like that you'll always get the inevitable talker who doesn't know when to still their jaw, or the noisy eater who appears to be trying to play the national anthem out of rustling a packet of sherbet lemons, but the people sat within our proximity just took this to a whole other level. And I've dealt with some irritating members of the public in my time.
For future reference, women sat in front of us, please take note:

1. I don't want to know about your personal life when the plot is about as coherent as a Korean microwave manual.
2. If your friend does not want a Malteser, do not keep forcing said bag of Maltesers on your friend. She does not want one and you are being irritating.
3. You do not need to pass your entire shed-sized handbag along to offer said Malteser.
4. If you know you have the bladder strength of a moth doing deadlifts, do not sit in the middle so that you have to stand up and yell "EXCUSE ME" and shuffle about blocking everybody's view several hundred times. Sit on the end.
5. Okay, so the sound effect made you scream. I understand this is hilarious to you, but please stop snorting and laughing after 15 minutes, we're over it.

"HOLD ON, I DEFINITELY HAVE
JELLY TOTS IN HERE SOMEWHERE,
BY THE WAY DID YOU SEE EASTENDERS?"

I should probably stop writing now as I need to put some clothes on (oo-er....actually I'm in my pyjamas, I'm not an exhibitionist cat lady yet. That comes with the confidence of age or when I can truly horrify people for fun when I look like a pile of Dove soap sagging in a burlap sack and I can be dead certain only my cats want me). I am off to meet the sibling for a drink (the 19-year-old one, not the 4-year-old one. The NSPCC would come at me with pitchforks).

Until next time, kitty-lovers.

13.02.13- Forgiving Dickens, Dodgy Verses & A Difficult Goodbye

I was going to write yesterday but I felt so sad most of the day I just couldn't bring myself to write anything. Plus working in a freezing cold supermarket with a cold just makes you want to resort to Beechams and bed and a hot mug of tea.
As does being a crazy cat lady.

The sight became so familiar it was both sickening
and endearing

I'm not saying the day was all bad. Yesterday the first lot of exam results came out; these ones being the results from what I found to be the hardest exam of my time in Uni so far. The module, Romanticism, Realism & Revolution, had me working until the early hours most nights in the library. It wasn't pleasant being able to see 02:00 as the time in the corner of the screen whilst being in front of a library computer researching articles and analysing poetry (I may have forgiven Mr Dickens but Wordsworth, you will always be a dick), but you do almost get used to it. It was surprisingly full at that time during exam period, and there was something oddly comforting in having other people around all knocking back coffees and going through the same as you. You get used to the smell of pizza that people were ordering late at night (luckily no one ordered kebab. I still don't get the appeal of kebabs. Why would you want to eat something that sweats and gets shaved and even once prepared just looks like a disembowelled guinea pig? Mate, no amount of mayonnaise is going to save you). And you get used to the sight of foreign people doing spontaneous meditation in between striking their heads with their palms and hyperventilating (I'm totally with them on that, meditation is great; I just didn't have the guts to do it in the library because it mostly just makes me fall asleep and someone might have shaved my eyebrows or set me on fire).

Kebabs: about as appetizing as the
afterbirth of a cow

Before going to collect my results my heart was heavy and I queued in the office, mumbling under my breath, "Pleeease, baby Jesus, please let me get the results I worked so hard for or I'm going to reverse my car into the fence of the Rec car park and howl."



Section A= 72.
Section B= 75.
Average for exam paper= 73.
Natalie's relief= better than relieving your bladder after 3 gallons of Strongbow.

 I breathed a little "thank you" to Baby Jesus (at 2013 years of age, I should probably stop referring to him as "baby", he's getting on a bit now) and made my way back to the car to drive home and get ready for work. It felt nice knowing that my effort had paid off. Just one more set of exam results to collect hopefully at some point this week. I hope they keep me on track for a First.
Today I've been preparing for that presentation on "Sex and the Body" in Dylan Thomas' poetry that I have to give to the class on Monday. Reading it, I wondered, "Am I too prudish for this?" He's a dirty boy. When Dylan wants you to hold his rod, he's not asking you to go angling. Everything becomes phallic. Everything is "stiff". The waves become sexual climaxes. His waves are "blowing" sea-salt in their throats. One critic even substituted the "whack" of "little boys' limbs" for "wank", but I think that's taking it a step too far and he is clearly just being a massive pervert.
Am I too prudish?
...no.
I'm pretty pleased with the amount of work I've done today. And I'm very pleased with how effective Beechams is; one minute I was shivering and rolling around like a bear in labour claiming to be inches from death, yet two Beechams and a two-hour nap later, I was up, dressed and ready to spend hours on my presentation research. I also visited my mum and little brother today.
My brother didn't bother with "hello", just glanced at my bag and asked, "sweeties?" It is always nice to feel appreciated for your company. My mum was full of interesting questions, today's being: "Nat, if I ever get whiskers when I'm old you will pluck them won't you? I don't want to be one of those bearded old ladies."
Mum, when you are old, I promise I will keep the Veet facial strips at hand. Unless you want Gillette  "the best a man can get."

Don't worry Mum; the facial hair situation won't come to this when you're old

Today I also had the unfortunate experience of browsing Valentine's cards. I do so every year with a sick sort of fascination. They are definitely getting worse every year. Today's horrors included:

No.

• A card emblazoned with the claim: "You are my Mr Lover Lover".
• A card which included a badge saying "My Sexy Valentine". Why would you wear that? No you don't look sexy, you just look like the office twat.
• The inevitable "horny devil" card.
• "I'm bananas for you" with a picture of an ape with its tongue hanging out. Why?
• "Hot stuff." With a picture of a chili pepper.
• Several nightmarish rhyming verses which made such a poetic impression on me I can't recall a single one.
• And, lastly, and most horrifyingly, a card with "I'm your biggest fan." And a picture of a fan. 

If you're going to send me any cards this year (hi, Mum) please make sure there is no picture of a fan on the front with "I'm your biggest fan" or we'll never speak again.

The reason yesterday was such a sad day was because I had a phonecall early in the morning from the charity I was volunteering for with the elderly. One of the people I worked with, a lovely old lady whom I've mentioned before had passed away suddenly in hospital yesterday. I'd had such a great bond with her and the news upset me a lot. I know with things like this the role involves keeping a professional distance, but that didn't mean it was any easier. I've not only lost one of my lovely clients but also a good friend. I'm devastated that I couldn't give her the letter I wanted to give her before she went to hospital or have our final visit before I finished my volunteering before exams. It is comforting to know she is at peace, but I wish I'd got to say goodbye.
I will always be thankful for the positive attitude to life she showed me, the things she taught me and every minute I spent with her. She told me that my visits always brightened her day and that she always looked forward to seeing me at our regular time. I hope that in some way, I did help to make a difference in those final few months of her life. 
I'll definitely be going back to volunteer once Uni is finally over. I will never forget the time I spent with her. 
I consider myself very lucky to ever have had the chance to get to know her.

10.02.13-Gym-going Grannies, the Power of Putty and Maggie Smith's Resemblance to a Used Carrier Bag

I've been in a terribly serious mood all day, dreading lectures because I have officially become sick of education. There was a time when University meant excitedly looking through prospectuses, declaring my undying passion for literature and eagerly buying new stationery and reading things in advance. Those days are officially gone.

Welcome to third year

 Lectures are now constructed of singing 4-minute songs in my head to count down until I can go home, I attend seminars as frequently as Gandalf buys Gilette blades and Shakespeare is starting to feel like that irritating relative everyone has who turns up all the time uninvited and drinks all your tea. I've been worried again about a lot of decision-making and again imagining all the people I know judging me for what I know they will see as some silly choices. I therefore stayed in bed until nearly 1pm (it was too cold to move anyway apart from to get some fruit for breakfast and a cup of tea, and even going downstairs to do that came with the massive death risk of being torn up alive by penguins) and then dragged my lazy arse to the gym to get some training done. I was also very angry about the pouring rain as I'd really wanted to go for a long run, not have to go to the gym and be surrounded by human beings.
However, gyms are great places to people-watch. Any gym you go to, you will see one of the following:

Just some of the fitties at your local gym

• A group of women gossiping whilst walking on the treadmill for an hour and blocking everybody else from going on there. Why are you paying gym membership? Go for a walk, it's cheaper and I don't have to listen about how "Andrea's put on a couple of pounds, must be comfortable with that new bloke of hers." I don't care.
• A woman in normal clothes, chewing gum really annoyingly whilst also walking and looking smug. Stop chewing, you look like a farm animal trying to walk along a conveyor belt and you're making me really paranoid about choking.
• A group of blokes taking it in turns to lift weights whilst the others stand and observe. It's almost PDA, stop looking at the way your mate's damp vest cleaves to his nipple.
• Mr Muscle pulling faces like a cat having a rectal thermometer reading and roaring when lifting weights. 
• Skeletal girl with hair over face looking like she's about to slip down the side of a gym mat and be lost forever.
• Old person squatting once, doing a sit-up and going home.
• Teenage girls checking in on Facebook whilst mainly standing around tying their hair back over and over again and looking in mirrors.
• Intimidating anti-social gym freak who knows exactly which machines to go on, at what levels, and for how long. The building could be bombed and they will continue until the last rep.

"Right, that's enough now,
definitely earned a bacon butty."

I probably annoy people too. I get pissed off at everyone for being there the same time as me and talk to nobody whilst secretly listening to Busted and loving it. I'm probably known as that 'anti-social cow who thinks no one can hear her shit music but doesn't realise how much the volume leaks out'.

I did feel better afterwards though. In fact my shorts were really difficult to remove because they were so sweaty my clothes actually slapped against the tiles when I took them off.

Frustration vented a little, I was able to make a start on analysing some Dylan Thomas for tomorrow's seminar but the fact that I hated every minute and gave up after one poem says a lot for how fed up I am of my degree. I can't be bothered to analyse anymore. Dylan boy, why couldn't you write something easy, like the lyrics to Abba's "Dancing Queen"? (By the way, I hate Abba and Mamma Mia made me feel physically sick, especially when I found out I'd been dragged along to a special 'sing-along' screening and all the middle-aged women started whooping and yowling along to it all. And none of my bastard friends would leave with me so I had to sit there and suffer). I have always loved Dylan Thomas, but the realisation that I can't even find fun in today's critical reading of the poem as a lament over having a flaccid willy was not enough to hold my attention. So I did my online food shopping instead, which was far less taxing and I got excited about the promise of having Marmite back in my cupboard.

Mamma Mia. Should come with a 'black box' label
warning for risk of suicide-inducing thoughts

The failed poetry analysing session got my rage climbing again. Yesterday when I got home from work, my Mum excitedly showed me something which I would apparently find "very useful" when I'm feeling highly-strung.

It was "Fart Putty".

If you have never experienced Fart Putty, it is a lump of brightly-coloured goo in a plastic pot which you poke with your fingers and it makes a noise like flatulence. 

"Nat, Nat! Ssh! Listen to this one!" My mum pressed her fingers into the pot and made the sound then burst into fits of laughter, then did it again. And again. And again. All the time this was happening, my brother had taken his pants off and was trying to pee on my leg. This is one of the reasons I had to move out to study, as revision sessions in this house can often be unproductive.

The new Diazepam

"Do you want to take it home with you in case you're stressed?" I politely declined my mother's kind offer and went home to change out of my Sainsbury's uniform and have a hot bubble bath.

Tonight however, I'm feeling so much calmer and happy. The best cure for being angsty and a bit lonely is not always exercise, or baths, or putty or even angry music (Linkin Park are often turned to in times of inexplicable angst. Chester Bennington is pissed off all the time and was definitely the sort of child who would have screamed and self-harmed with a plastic fork during his childhood if Mum had run out of potato smilies). 

The company of your best friends is always the best way to get grinning and override the critical voice in your head. It doesn't like laughter. And my friends make me laugh. A lot.

Which brings us to 'pub philosophy'. Everyone has come up with fantastic philosophies over a pint of beer (or in the case of myself and James, refillable Pepsi. Oh, the novelty). Today's observations included:

1) It's okay to get turned on by Helen Mirren as The Queen.

2) Flamethrowers can be dangerous.

3) Maggie Smith looks like a carrier bag from the back of the cupboard from when carrier bags were first invented. Or a crumpled rubber glove.

4) Anne Hathaway's face is triangular and 80% sad mouth.

5) Rain is a valid excuse to miss a lecture in case of risk of pneumonia and reduced immunity which may impair studies.

6) Men are strange and both Will and Matt want to go out wearing an elf suit and a hard hat so they can be 'Elf and Safety'.

7) Horse meat scandals are so overrated and everybody has probably eaten cat nugget at China China anyway.

Maggie Smith: for ease of carrying groceries

So today has very much been a day of observing. No, it's not made me any clearer on anything important, but it's nice to know that it costs 5p to purchase Maggie Smith's face to carry your shopping under the Welsh government.

Happy Chinese New Year by the way. It is the Year of the Snake apparently, so it's no excuse to put up decorations of cats. I also don't think it was very well-advertised this year, and I am disappointed that I didn't have enough notice to dress up as a prawn cracker.

08.02.13- Mates, Memory Blanks & Midday Drinkers

I'm in the mood to write again. Hooray.

Hilarious awareness poster. I'm not
sure who grows 2 heads with mood changes

My mind has been clouded with confusion the last couple of days and I've pushed out the running and gym training to try and clear it, but all that has resulted is an absolutely exhausted body, muscles tighter than Fern Britton's gastric band and blood sugars dropping so low today I actually had the lowest blood sugar reading I've ever had. When I tested this morning, they were 1. As a result I can now remember nothing of my morning except waking and falling back to sleep a couple of times before finally getting dressed, but I must have gone downstairs and shoved something sugary in my gob because they were 4 by the time I woke up, which is still a bit low but not enough to go gambling with consciousness.
On the plus side, I hadn't dribbled, which is always a good thing. I don't know why, but if I sleep in the afternoon my salivary glands have a party. I think they might be solar-powered.
So this was a great start to the day; my morning was deleted.
Therefore I missed my lecture today, which I don't actually mind too much as it was a creative writing workshop. And it was poetry. And critique is often brutal, so I've at least saved my poor poems and my self-confidence from being torn to shreds for at least another week.
This afternoon I went to meet my lovely friend Jaime and her fiance who I work with and they brought their gorgeous little 18-month-old boy Carwyn. He is so cute I am almost considering trading in my cats for babies, but I think running around impregnating myself with anyone and anything might be deemed what can only be described as "slutty." Jaime, Iwan and Carwyn however have a wonderful little family unit and work so well together. That's definitely the sort of sweet little family I would love to have eventually if ever I decide to break free from my cat lady life.
We spent a couple of hours drinking tea in Costa (vital to cat lady existence, and the only time I can say I have spent the afternoon teabagging, harharhar) and then took Carwyn to Toys R Us. I wasn't complaining. I am 22 and Toys R Us still makes me want to run up the aisles screaming, "DAAAADDY, CAN I HAVE THIS ONE?"

My sort of wheels

I didn't do that today, though. Not even when I saw one of those amazing little mini jeeps you get to sit in and cruise around the garden like you're the shit, squinting at the neighbours with a popgun in your hand.
Jaime and Iwan have reminded me today of how much I used to love Lego as a child. They're quite proud to admit that Lego is their "thing", the same as perhaps kittens and poetry are my thing (...Christ I need to get out more). You could give a kid Knex. You can give a kid Duplo. Plasticine. Moon Sand (actually, don't bother; it's crap unless you love sweeping up purple mess from the table and making underwater shapes as discernible as wonky turds). But nothing beats the hours you can pass building Lego houses and castles and fortresses. Nothing beats the pride when you click that final brick into place. You feel like God having created all that Heaven and Earth stuff and letting out a proud "yessssss" under your breath.
Unfortunately I also remember that nothing beats the agony of having your Lego castle demolished by your sister's arse.

A smashed Lego tower during childhood may lead to
psychological trauma and depression in later life

After waving them goodbye, I collided with an ex-love in HMV. Nothing beats the awkward, what-do-I-do-with-my-arms hug between two people who have seen each other naked.
Needless to say, the cloudy feeling in my head came back like one of Dot Cotton's cigarettes.
The evening was spent with my good friend James at the pub. Being Swansea, I was harrassed 3 times on the way along St Helen's Road by drunken perverts, the first of whom claimed to need 20p for a bus (funny, everyone seems to be 20p short for a bus these days). He looked like Worzel Gummidge and smelled like a can of Special Brew. The other two just followed me closely, called me "love" over and over and made sexual comments.
They're lucky my hormones aren't running high and that my hands were cold otherwise I might have twisted their testicles like brass doorknobs.

No matter how loud you play the LOTR
soundtrack on your iPod, he'll never be Bilbo

Swansea isn't just limited to drunk old scruffs however. Though there are a lot of them. Sometimes I secretly let the Lord of the Rings soundtrack carry on playing on my shuffle playlist when I'm walking home through Sandfields so that I can pretend that I am going to witness hobbits ambling about on their way to the Green Dragon rather than the reality of seeing alcoholics and junkies stumbling into a B&B at lunchtime. There are also the wonderful Swansea youths. This evening, James and I saw a group of about 15 all aged at about 14 years old running past singing The Proclaimers' "500 Miles". The pink-haired girl at the back of the group squealed, ran and screamed "OH MY GOD GUUUYS I'M SOOOO DRUNK."
I'm glad I was a freak who stayed in to read The Hobbit and eat Frazzles.
I should probably go to bed now, I've just had to dose up on sugar for the 6th time today and I have a wonderful early start at Sainsbury's tomorrow. My old people are waiting for me to serve them their cans of prunes and Murray Mints with a smile.
God, I can't wait to talk cats with them.

05.02.13- Ranting, Respect and Rubbing One's Feet on the Human Doormat

An Urbandictionary.com definition of 'Cat Lady':

2.	cat lady
	A old woman who usually lives secluded from society with her hundreds of cats. Because she is forced to use all of her social security money of her cats, she eats only cat food and drinks only milk. She usually feels the need to name every single one of her cats with funny names and possesses the uncanny ability to recognize which cat is which no matter how similar they may look to one another.

What it seems to have missed is the cat lady must have been driven to being secluded from society from people who have done her wrong. What made the Crazy Cat Lady give up on humans and find solace in felines?
There are some days when I feel I may know the answer. And just for the record, I don't smell of cat pee. Yet.

"Look, Mr Snookums. Don't let the bastards grind you down."

Some blame the Cat Lady's kitten-dominated existence on a certain number of failed relationships (see Fig.1). While I have a fair few relationships that certainly found me wanting to spend my evenings in the RSPCA cattery rather than a restaurant booth, men aren't the main reason that sometimes I just feel like cutting off and spending time on my own a little more. Humans make my head ache. And there are so many of them who are just so bloody selfish. It disheartens me. I know that my last post was about looking for the positive, but some days can just get too full of cynicism and frustration and you end up thinking, "Why? Why the hell am I even basing my decisions and finding it hard to sleep because I'm worried that people won't like my life choices?"

Fig.1

Getting to bed last night, I was pulling my (cat) hair out. My good friend Roisin gave me a quote which kind of struck a chord with me though:

"The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud."
--Coco Chanel

Think for yourself. Absolutely. I'm at a stage where University is coming to an end and I feel pressure on all sides to do something useful. To be something admirable. To gain a good career, earn amazing money and get a good reputation. My dad is always suggesting to go into Law. I know English graduates are well-suited to Law careers, but I know deep down that this is absolutely not what I want. Yes, I could get a great income and establish a great reputation. But my career would be my life. And it's not a career I particularly give a shit about. What's the use in having an impressive bank balance, a flashy car and a nice house if you have to wake up every day dreading going to work? What's the point in living a life so materialistic that you lose touch with your happy, spiritual side (if you didn't know this about me, I am actually very spiritual and go to Spiritualist churches. There is something about their acceptance of all religions and of their exploration of the deeper meaning of life and appreciation of the small things that makes you feel more connected with everything and aware of your own purpose as an individual. You learn that the little acts you do matter without the stifling orthodoxy and segregation you can get with strict religion). If I lost touch with this, my life would be spent trying to fill the expectations of society, preoccupied with the endless pursuit of being the perfect career woman/mother/wife who is eternally thin/young. And my dream of being a writer would be sacrificed in order to please others. Yes, from the outside perhaps my Audi would make it seem like I had it all, but all the while I would be grieving for the dream I've always held of having books published one day.

The "starving artist" diet- apparently
more effective than WeightWatchers

No, most writers do not earn much money, hence the image of the "starving artist". Maybe I'd have to carry on working in retail alongside so that I don't take my work home with me and so that I could write in my spare time without the pressure of a demanding career. Poetry especially is near-impossible to make a living out of. Unless I did a J K Rowling I'd be working in a job unrelated to my degree and perhaps not earning mega-bucks, but if it gives me time to write a novel or a poetry collection or freelance then I'd be happy. My aim is to have a wage not massive, but just comfortable enough to have somewhere nice enough to live, have a car, support a family and go on holidays but to always have that opportunity to write open to me after I clock out of work. Seeing my name in print is something I value far more highly than seeing my name on the polished oak desk of a dismal executive office. And I'm fed up of feeling as though I'm disappointing people in choosing to do this. But it's time to make my own decisions about my own life. When I think this, the tension in my neck eases. The knot in my stomach unties a little. I must remember that people are only disappointed because they think they know what's best for me, not because I've done something personal to hurt them.
But only you can know yourself. I spent hours today in the University library researching graduate schemes. I don't want to go into accountancy or market research. My heart was sinking as I read it. I even for one fleeting moment looked at postgraduate routes into Medicine, and while I adore helping people and ideally would get a job where I can make a difference to peoples' lives (perhaps with special needs children or the elderly and vulnerable like I've had experience with in volunteering), then again my life would be consumed by a career that others want for me, not what I want for myself. I have absolutely no regrets about changing direction by doing a 3rd year at college. I was originally applying for Medicine and Biology was the bane of my life. I did not give a shit about eco-systems. I did not care about antagonistic muscles, nor chromosomes, or meiosis or how-to-make-lactose-free-milk (fuck it, buy soya). Taking up Classics instead was so much better and I did better in it by comparison. I'll never forget a Biology lecturer taking me aside, throwing my work at me, sighing and telling me, "Nat that was absolutely crap."

Medea. That's one ex you can't be
dealing with.

I want my lunch hours spent in your laboratory back, bitch.
Whereas in Classics, I was getting grades in the 90% range because I genuinely did give a shit about oiled-up Greek warriors, child-murdering mothers, mother-lovin' father-stabbin' dudes and Zeus' big fluffy beard. I actually cried reading The Aeneid but I was probably having a period.
Okay, I did enjoy Chemistry no matter how hard it was. I loved titrations. You should have seen my end-points. I neutralised that sodium hydroxide until I reached the sexiest end-point you ever did see. I just didn't love science enough to pursue a career in it. I just got so much more out of Chaucer and Marlowe and Shakespeare. I probably would have had a one-night stand with Chaucer had I been Medieval.
And after the taster courses in Medicine I'd done on weekends to please people, was I happy? No. So I went and applied to do English Literature instead. "Where's that going to get you?" I'm still asked. You know what? I don't particularly care. The skills I've learned in writing, in confidently presenting my work and the ways of thinking and analytical skills I have learned have been invaluable. I've made wonderful friends. I've had a blast going out and getting so drunk that Brynmill becomes Mordor and I've lost my own house at 2 in the morning because I've forgotten the way to Sandfields. I wouldn't have had this if I hadn't gone to University. Perhaps I'd still be the shy girl who would never be able to stand up and read out her own poetry to a roomful of strangers, or chat up a guy or look people in the eye in an interview. As Piaf said, "Je ne regrette rien."

I had a right reputation
for my end-points

And lastly, this cat lady does not want to be a doormat. If there's one thing in humans I value very very highly, it's the capacity to be a good friend in life. If you need me, I promise you I am there. If you need hugs on demand, my hugs are a bit shit because I'm a socially awkward penguin sometimes, but hell, they're there ready to be given. Want a catch-up? Cool, I'm there. And my friends are one of the most important things in my whole life. I wouldn't be able to live without them. Men come and go. My friends are solid (well they aren't liquid, harharhar, hilarious). And then there are those on the margins or the friends that drift off and suddenly you find the only time their name pops up on your phone is usually only for one of the following reasons:

• They fancy a night out but their usual group have pulled out and they're getting desperate.
• They want to moan about their love life but as soon as you make them feel better/things sort out, you are once again cast aside and ignored for eternity until their little snugglebum dumps them. Then you're expected to go and collect the pieces. Immediately. Armed with chocolate. 
• They fancy your mate.
• They want to be counselled, but otherwise don't ever bother with you again until the next crisis. And they don't actually care what you're up to these days because GOD, THEY TOTALLY JUST HAD LIKE, A TOTAL ARGUMENT WITH THAT BITCH, PLEASE SIT HERE AND LISTEN FOR THE NEXT 3 HOURS BEFORE THEY RING THE NEXT PERSON THEY HAVEN'T SEEN IN LIKE, MONTHS COS LIFE'S LIKE, SO BUSY.

Yet these are some of the people I worry about being judged by. A lot of them have rubbed their feet on the Cat Lady doormat and yesterday it just came to a head and I felt disrespected. These are the people who don't even utter a "thank you" for being their emotional crutch for getting over a broken nail. 

BUT, today's a new day (I'm writing this the day after because I was too tired last night. I am such a radical). For now, for this gap year of stepping back to look at the bigger picture, I'm happy with my job. I enjoyed work last night, I love my customers, there's plenty of opportunity to move onto other departments or work my way up or eventually do a graduate scheme if I really want to get success in retail. Or perhaps I'll find I want to teach. Or just do something completely different, like a bin collector. But next year I can chat with all my regular customers, work with the colleagues I get on so well with and have stress-free writing and art and going-out-with-friends time when I clock out. And that's okay because I'll be happy, and my company is always more bearable when I've got a grin on my face. I love the friends who do appreciate me and who I am utterly grateful to for their (non-sexual, non-leg-humping) love and who are some of the most important people in my life. I am not lying when I say I'd do a Bruno Mars and catch a grenade for them.

Mr Perfect: ready to make you a
sandwich and fix your laptop

Though personally I prefer just going to see them at the pub or for a meal or something.
So, this goes to you all my lovely friends:

I BLOODY LOVE YOU. Like loads.

And as for the elusive "Mr Perfect" that any future men have to live up to in order to fulfil outsiders' expectations, he can just go and iron his boxers in Hell. 

Aretha Franklin demanded R.E.S.P.E.C.T. So do I. If you care about me, genuinely, then surely having something to smile about in the absence of a Ferrari should be more important than how many brain surgeries I can perform or how many happy divorcees I can make. All I want of my friends is to see them healthy and happy. And I know that those who don't feel the same about me aren't the people who matter.

On another note, yesterday I made cookie dough brownies with my little brother and my Pikachu onesie arrived.

Bye.

Commanding respect in a serious outfit

04.02.13- Heel Pain, Hot Drinks and How To Not Have "One Of Those Days"

So, what happens when you get out of bed the morning after almost half-marathon distance?

1) Your feet become locked in pain and you feel like one of those poor sods in the Bible who go about nagging Jesus for help.
2) Making breakfast includes a lot of agonized waddling.
3) You get a feeling in your thighs which I imagine can only feel like the sort of ache one must get from having an all-night orgy with an over-enthusiastic sumo wrestler/mountain gorilla/jeep.

Typical post-11 mile walking posture

It took until about 12 in the afternoon and a lot of Tiger Balm until I stopped walking with all the grace of Jeff Wayne with an STI.
Today could have been "One Of Those Days". As in everything going tits up. But today I was determined not to dwell on the little mishaps that kept happening and to stay focused on the good stuff. It's far too easy to shrug and say, "Oh great, what a shit day I'm having; everything is going wrong." The truth is, if you take a step back and put things in perspective then unless your foot falls off, your car explodes and your house gets taken away by a tornado and all your family get eaten by lions in the garden, then often things aren't all that bad. One way I've started to teach myself to look at things is to take a deep breath, step back and ask myself: "In two months from now, will this matter? When I'm a crazy old cat lady on her deathbed of cat litter, will I look back on this moment and say 'Oh, if only I hadn't dropped the teabag on the kitchen floor then dropped the carton of milk that dark day in 2013 my life would have been so much better'."
The little things that irritated me today and threatened to turn things into "One of Those Days":

A shit coffee does not have to mean
a totally ruined day

• An apprenticeship I applied for after my degree had an error in the application process and so told me I could go no further because I was apparently not "literate" and couldn't count, as the email told me on Friday. By the time I rang and explained that yes, being an English Literature student I can read-- and yes, having an A at Maths GCSE must mean I can count fairly well-- the position had already gone to someone else. Fuck you, I'm off to look at picture books.
• I ran to a cashpoint a few streets away because I was late meeting someone. The cashpoint decided today was a fabulous day for being broken.
• I dropped beetroot all over the floor opening a jar and turned like, everything in life purple.
• The bulb in my lamp exploded. Again.
• Cupid is proper having a giraffe.
• The pharmacy is full of awkward people who guard my blood testing strips like Gollum with the One Ring. YES I NEED THEM. YES I NEED THEM NOW. NO I'M NOT FUCKING RUNNING OVER TO THE DOCTOR'S SURGERY TO ASK HIS PERMISSION NOW GIVE THEM HERE OR I WILL BLOOD TEST YOUR FACE.
• The email was misleading and the exam results still remain shrouded in mystery.
• I reversed into my neighbour's car.
• I definitely nearly died in hail/asteroids of Hell.

BUT looking at these things, they were damn irritating at the time but fairly insignificant there written down. Cashpoint down? Boohoo, drive to Uplands, no biggie. Didn't get apprenticeship due to shitty technical error? Some things aren't meant to be. Maybe the manager was a knob anyway. Exam results still a mystery? Good, saves me howling into my pillow if I don't get a First. Hail? Hot shower, cup of tea, warm onesie.

This strategy really worked today and helped me keep my cool. Instead of giving in and saying "wow everything today is going wrong," I noted every positive thing that happened. And a lot of positive things happened. In fact, I've had a great day if I let these little mishaps go over my head (I hope by the way that lightning does not strike me and a thief runs into my room while I am writing this and steals all my possessions, as I think that today might finally be ruined and would be very cruelly ironic). 

The afternoon was spent having coffee and a catch-up with my ex-boyfriend's mum. I've only ever had one long-term relationship and one of the hardest things about breaking up after so long is not seeing their family when you've become so close. And me and his mum got on so well. I think it's really great that she's stayed such a friend to me and will still meet up to catch up. I've known his family for nearly 4 years now and I like being kept up to date on how everyone is doing. Plus I do like my hot drinks. Cat ladies always have a teacup to hand.

Dylan: Definitely would have lent
me a hipflask

Then I went to Uni and sat through a very intense lecture on Dylan Thomas' poetry. Very difficult, yes, but also very stimulating. I was feeling a bit of a sense of self-doubt before the lecture and was tempted to skip it, thinking myself not clever enough to be there. But of course, as the lecturer pointed out today, the more complex and elusive a poem, the more ways there are of interpreting it. We explored some really fascinating, complicated themes and things clicked and my mind was stimulated. I enjoyed the difficulty and the challenge. Yes, I'm worried that when it comes to the assignment I'm just going to stare at a blank sheet of paper for 3 weeks and just write: "I like this poem, Dylan Thomas really likes grass and dead things," but for now I'm just going to enjoy exploring all the different ways his poetry can be interpreted.

I was definitely just admiring his towel

Plus I have that presentation on sex in a couple of weeks to prepare. I don't know if I'm too prudish to talk about hard-ons to a group of people I barely know, and I don't think I'll be able to sneak in a hipflask before speaking (Dylan would have, though).
Then it was cup-of-tea catch-up with my good friend Laura. We are planning a group holiday in July which will be lovely to look forward to as an end-of-Uni reward the week after my graduation. I'm quite fond of sangria, sun and fit blokes with suntanned arses prancing about by the pool.
I don't think I'm as deep a person as I sometimes like to think.
To end the day, I got hailed on. As in the Hail of Satan. It was freezing cold, I felt like I was the fat spotty kid in the playground who gets a million stones thrown at them and my boots were soaked through. A crazy Indian man hung out of his Fiat Punto and started panting at me. This confirmed for me that men are strange, which is why I will devote my life to felines. They will not hang out of cars and hyperventilate at me in the hail. They will not leer at me with their mates, strutting out of the chippy in their trackies. And they will not grab my bum rather rudely in bars and charmingly suggest intercourse.

The perfect gentleman does still exist in Swansea

They will keep me company, eat Felix, keep my lap warm and scratch out the eyes of intruders.
...I'm really really cold. I'm going to go and cuddle myself now.
Goodnight kitties.

03.02.13- Half-brothers, Half-marathons and Having No Other Half

Today I managed to hit over 11 miles in training, which is a great milestone in my half-marathon training. Brings a tear to my eye to think that a few years ago, running meant crying in a hedge claiming death was upon me after trying to jog for 10 minutes and rolling over into a bramble patch with severe exhaustion. I was 3 stone heavier then however, so maybe I was just emotionally overcome with desire for a bag of chips.

There is no better feeling than pretending to be a patio after a long run

I think I underestimated the distance from Sainsbury's in Swansea Marina to Verdi's in Mumbles and back. I am not going to say "meh it was nothing, I'm not proud of myself," because bugger it, I am. Yes, my blood sugar levels suffered badly after it and it's taken a lot of injecting this evening to get things settled, but now they have and I feel great. I'm not proud of myself because I think I'm fucking awesome, because I'm not, I'm mostly a bit of a tool. I'm proud that it's making people donate to a very important local charity and brings Singleton Hospital's leukaemia unit one step closer to their target of raising enough to fund a blood machine. I am so grateful to all the kind and wonderful people who have sponsored me, and if you haven't yet but have a spare quid rattling around, please help me raise more money by donating here:

https://www.charitiestrust.org/members_data/event/missholborow10k/index.html

Making a cat-friend, even in Magaluf

Or you can donate at Sainsbury's Gorseinon and come and see me on my shift (Tuesday 6-10pm, Saturday 8-4pm I'm there scanning them beans like a pro). Or just drop me a message and give it to me in person. I won't try and hump you with gratitude but you can have a hug and a kiss on the cheek if you wish (and you thought £1 couldn't buy you much these days).
My run began a little later than planned. Actually a lot later. I got up at 8am to do Uni work, started analysing Dylan Thomas' poetry then fell asleep on my books until 1pm. So it looks like I won't be getting to sleep for a while tonight. Which of course means online cat browsing so I can make a dream board for when I can finally purchase my own real life cats.
I called to see my wonderful little ginger half-brother after my run. I don't like the term "half-brother" and refuse to use it. I am using it here to show how bloody ridiculous it is. Yes, he comes from a different father than I do but I still tell people he's my brother. To say "half" suggests he is less to me. He isn't. I can't even explain how much I love that kid. I love him no less than I do my sister, who has the same father as me (she looks more like him than I do. Minus the bald head and goatee. They have the same "serious" face when they're concentrating, sort of like a meerkat contemplating car insurance quotes and looking far out into the distance).

I'm not afraid to kiss gingers

He was hyper today. As I came in, he bolted down the stairs stark naked to greet me and once again show me his backside. I have no idea why he does this. It's great to see someone so confident about their derriere, but having to reveal it to everyone in the room more than 5 times in the same hour may suggest some serious issues. I need to teach him about what is acceptable behaviour when going on dates before he turns 18 or he's going to have problems and restraining orders.

The most important men in my life

Having a dance with him and chasing around put me in a great mood. It also meant seeing my beautiful dopey labrador Marley, who is inseparable from his 4-year-old ginger homeboy. I love every minute I spend with him. I love the way that every time he tries to pronounce the letter "R" he sounds like a weird motorbike. I love it when he asks for a kiss and a cuddle out of the blue and tells me "I love you Nat" for no apparent reason (ie, the times he does it when I'm not holding a bag of Cadbury's chocolate Buttons in my hand). If you hadn't gathered already, I bloody love my Callum.
Getting home, I've decided on a relaxing evening. I was going to go to the pub for a drink. But I'm happy just to treat myself tonight and do what I fancy. Which means a cold bottle of wine, Napoleon Dynamite and my unsexiest Minnie Mouse pyjamas. I'd been feeling a bit down and lonely for a lot of January, but strangely with the shops shoving Valentine's Day in everyone's faces I'm actually feeling quite happy about being nobody's other half. I'm still young. I still have so much time to find someone and I like the excitement of never knowing who will be willing to buy me a few glasses of wine next (I swear I'm not an alcoholic, it's just that Merlot is a very quick way to my heart in the same way that men like steak and chips). And if I don't find anybody, I've always got the cats to look forward to in the future. I can watch Countryfile and never have to share my drink and smoke cigars and be covered in Persians and Siameses (is that a plural? Is it just "Siamese"? What's that song? "We are Siamese if you pleeeease..." ...oh, it must be just "Siamese" then).
Though I would like a really fit slave to rub Tiger Balm on my sore muscles after running. I'd ask Willy Wonka where he got his little bitches from, but Oompa Loompas really aren't that fit. And it would take a lot of Blossom Hill to turn them into sex gods, even by my drunken non-standards.
Until next time. Remember to sponsor me please! (Far politer than Bob Geldof's "GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING MONEY" on Live Aid).

Even I can't drink until an Oompa Loompa is fit