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

31.01.13- Results, Red Wine and Revealing All

Yesterday was a very interesting day. However I couldn't write about it last night because I went out for a quiet drink with my younger sister and can't remember getting home. All I remember is trying to make porridge, giving up and crying in my bed rolling around because I was going to be sick and didn't want to ruin my sink or bin. Facebook tells me I've left another classy status in my state of intoxication but fortunately no private messages, which means times must definitely be changing.
The only problem now is that I don't know whether my body has performed some sort of Christ-miracle and dodged a hangover or whether I'm still drunk. I suppose all will become clear in my 2-hour poetry lecture.

I am no stranger to "a quiet one at the pub"

So. My 3 main points that made yesterday so interesting:

1) I achieved 72 and a First for my first set of marks. 
2) My sister and I managed to go for a drink and enjoy each other's company completely and nobody died and nobody said to the other "GET OUT OF MY LIFE". In fact, we bonded at the end of the night by snorting and dribbling all over a kebab shop table.
3) I got naked in front of the camera.

Getting naked in front of the camera...what's that I hear you say? Slut? Tasteless? Should be ashamed?

Adam and Eve would have been well
up for the project

And no it wasn't for money nor Playboy.
It was part of an art project by a talented photographer called Sophie which got people daring to bare all and reveal honestly what they feel about their bodies in a study on the media and its impact on the way we view ourselves. I think this is a fantastic idea. So many women (and men of course) have issues with their bodies. I read a statistic the other day that 90% of young women have something they want to change about their bodies. 90%. To think that most of us face the mirror in the sense of a sort of battle against ourselves is quite a saddening thought and certainly not one I'm unfamiliar with. The response to this project has been massive and the shots so far all unique and amazing. You simply pick an object you would like to use to hide whichever parts you don't want to show. I chose my blue electric guitar (my books were a bit small and I didn't want my boobs sneaking into the picture to say hello) to reflect my creative, feminine side. Others chose drum sets, make-up or just themselves. In every case, the image was hugely powerful and it was amazing to see the real people, not the characters we pass every day bundled up in work uniforms or well-worn jeans.
I did this as a challenge to myself whilst I start out my CBT therapy again. CBT I know will push me to my limits and beyond in confronting my issues with my own body. By showing my body-- my source of trouble and my daily enemy in the mirror-- I am saying a big "fuck you" to the mental critical voice that stemmed from school bullying and the years of battling an eating disorder as a result. Usually I choose not to talk about it, but the problem with this is that it is a disorder that lives in secret. By talking about it, you are defying it. To do something as intense as CBT to change the way you view your body, you need that sort of strength.
And do you know what? I was pleased with the result. I didn't look at the finished photograph and think "Christ, I look awful and I need to change this or that about myself." Nor did I look at it and think, "COVER UP, SLUT." The shoot itself was nothing I needed to be nervous about. Sophie was so lovely and great at putting people at ease. All I had to do was undress as she left the room, position myself as I wanted, wait for her to come back and take a few shots then dress again as she left. In fact, the shoot was even quicker than planned as she was immediately happy with the second shot, which was great. Mainly because my student house is cold and my nipples may have started talking to me if we had taken a long time.
So that was definitely the highlight of yesterday Yes, I am known for stripping off in every party I go to and going for a jog up the street in my underwear/on a spacehopper, but I think that sort of nudity is more alcohol-induced and doesn't count. Though it is liberating and you should definitely try it (however the liberation ends once you fall off the spacehopper in your knickers).

I can be a massive dork when I'm not
meowing at the neighbourhood cats

And onto other things. My first set of marks. 72 was a massive relief as it maintains the grades I am aiming for. So far I'm averaging to come out with a first-class honours degree if all goes to plan and the exam marks follow suit. Being a ridiculous perfectionist I will settle for nothing less; I worked too hard and cried too many tears of stress and smashed too much china to have anything else written on my degree certificate. And once I have my heart set on something, I will sacrifice men and cats to get it.
So naturally I went out and got drunk. And once again made that silly mistake of doing so after a training session (your night becomes so much cheaper, but working out to get a cheaper night is a really trampy thing to do). It was one of those workouts where you're so buzzing with happiness that the sweat actually drips off your earlobes and onto the floor. I just made myself sound so sexy. If you then imagine me six hours later snorting and dribbling on the kebab shop table, you're probably going to make a little mess in your pants.

Old habits die hard

My sister and I drank until the Bryn Y Mor doors became a challenge worthy of Takeshi's Castle. I can be very feminist and horrible to men when I'm drunk and if I don't want your attention, all politeness goes out of the window. I do remember telling one window-cleaning bloke with a scar from Townhill to "piss off, we don't like you" which was probably rude, but it worked. I can chat myself up, go away (unless I really fancy you, in which case please let me sit on your lap).
Oh God, headache starting to kick in so I'll have to stop writing. I feel like Lord Voldemort is giving me a few swift kicks to the skull with a pair of togs. I have no idea why Lord Voldemort would be wearing togs but if he did, I'm sure it would be sinister.

After a few glasses of wine, I'm all about R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

29.01.13- William Shakespeare, Work and Wonderful Welsh Weather

My 3 main thoughts in a day otherwise slightly mundane:

1) Getting to Uni feeling like you've been pissed on by St David does not make you enthusiastic for lectures.
2) People who sit at a computer next to mine when there are millions of computers available are invading my personal bubble and need to be ejected from their seats immediately.
3) Watching people peruse onions and reduced bread rolls all evening is incredibly therapeutic.

Going along Mumbles Road this morning

This morning was one of those timetable slots that fills every student with horror. The dreaded 9am lecture. And once again Swansea was pissing down and the walk to Uni at 8.30am was definitely a risk to my life because I definitely nearly blew away into the sea.

"Hey baby, heard you like them ruff."

So I arrived at Uni looking like I'd fallen into a toilet. Most other people did too so I suppose that made it okay, but the lecture on Shakespeare was utterly pointless and I huffed most of the way through it. I hate "introductory" lectures. Just cut the crap and teach me what I need to know to get a first-class honours degree please. I do not care what the names of his plays were, nor do I give two shits about what Shakespeare's face looked like when magnified on a giant screen. Cool, he's bald, he wears a ruff, he's witty, I'd tap that if I were Elizabethan, etc, etc.
I came away from the lecture feeling I'd learned nothing of value except that I am definitely reserving the name "Cuthbert Burbage" for one of my future cats.
Then I had an "I-Need-To-Sort-My-Life-Out" session in the library which involved browsing graduate employers, jobs, entering some of the major poetry competitions which are closing this month and having a go at applying for some extra role to do alongside work as a weekly columnist for some arts website. But to do that I think you need to be funny.

Invade my personal bubble
 and I will invade your face

I was incredibly annoyed however when a girl sat next to me and ruined my special moment of solitude with my cup of Costa tea whilst rocking out to Yann Tiersen's piano music on my earphones. It not only killed the moment but made me feel like my breathing air was being violated so I left shortly after.
Actually I left because I needed to go food shopping before work but it's more dramatic if I pretend it had nothing to do with that.
The couple of hours before my shift were spent reading up on Dylan Thomas, chatting with my mum and trying to discourage my little brother from showing me his bare backside and talking extensively about his bowel habits. Needless to say, my brother's meal of curry later looked extremely unappealing and I went to work for the evening.
I'd been dreading the shift all day. I just feel so tired. I wanted to curl up with a cup of tea in bed and contemplate volunteering for the Cats' Protection Agency whilst listening to Dido or something really shit. But you know what?
Work was the best part of my day. Genuinely. And it's not like I was that busy. An hour of cleaning and scanning trolley-loads then 3 hours of daydreaming and occasionally chatting to a customer or serving them cigarettes or lottery. I contemplated life and watched people examine tomatoes and buy really unnecessary things like cheese with holes in it and a 20-pack of yum-yums.
And my pulse rate slowed. My breathing steadied. The nausea eased off. The worry and confusion I've been feeling all week due to the scariness of the future and the odd need of wanting to settle and stop being a drunken lunatic so much of the time (whaat...settle?! Me?) and the endless wait for exam results just dissipated in the beep of scanners and stacking of Pringles.
I've come home feeling calm and more clear-headed.
So kids. If you're feeling pissed off, don't do drugs. Don't touch cocaine. Don't glug cheap vodka (that shit makes you go blind anyway). Go to a supermarket and ask the checkout girl if you can come and stand behind the counter. Go, be free, and stack tins of ravioli.
You will still feel the escapism you chase with drink and drugs, only you'll be doing something useful, you won't become an alcoholic, your liver won't fail, you won't be shaking for another line of coke and your nose won't rot and fall off and you won't die.
Hooray for supermarkets and stroking cats.

Far cheaper than therapy

Final Semester, Frantic Overthinking & Fat, Fat Families

So today was the first day of my final semester of my final year at University.
Final year of education.
I have been in education since I started school nearly 20 years ago. This makes me feel an odd mix of exhaustion, pride, sadness and relief. Nearly twenty years. That's hell of a lot of biros. That's even more PE excuse letters (for the amount of times I was excused for "time of the month" from swimming lessons, you could swear I was having a fucking haemorrhage not a period).

How I will probably be discovered in the library
during a Masters course

It also brings with it a massive sense of panic. I can't relax. I've tried running, I've smashed gym workouts and while the endorphins help, they aren't enough to get rid of the tension. My thoughts have been going haywire for weeks, my appetite is still struggling and I keep getting panic attacks at really inappropriate moments (traffic lights aren't ideal, neither are public toilets. Leaving a public toilet looking sweaty is a bit awkward, especially if you have just entered and left the cubicle alone). I am one of these people who is afraid of change and the unknown. I've been accepted on my MA course, yet would I do this full or part time, if at all? I've come to the decision to do a gap year and move home and work full-time for a breather before I have a breakdown in the library by next year and am found in the poetry section naked, screaming and covered in egg.
But I'm still scared. I don't want to move home, but I need to save money and work. Will I even enjoy full-time employment? Should I just go straight onto the Masters course after all?
Not to mention absolute chaos and confusion on the romantic front. Everything is confusing.
I wish I was a cat and only gave a shit about sleeping, eating and licking my own arse.
My first lecture back was the Dylan Thomas module. It looks challenging. Very challenging. But that's what I love about him. I love that his poems are so bloody complex and have to be read and reread over and over. I love the ambiguity of his Romantic versus Modernist style. I love the sexiness of his syllable stresses (...okay, too far). The lectures look hard, but so much fun. We have to do a presentation on his work and get the chance to read out our own poems inspired by him which is a great idea to push students to think creatively.
We got offered a variety of topics including the Cold War, language, radio and film and sex and the body. When sex and the body was offered, I stuck up my hand to claim it as my topic for presentation far too enthusiastically and instantly felt a bit embarrassed when I found no one else was keen to claim it. I might as well have just strolled into lecture in a pair of nipple tassels proclaiming, "Hi my name is Natalie and I'm a massive fucking pervert."

One possible buffet combination

After lecture, I went to my good friend Craig's "All You Can Eat" birthday celebration at Taybarn's. Ironically, I ate sod all. My stomach is still twisted in a giant knot. But I have to say I loved the company and had a great night and met some really lovely people. I also witnessed one of our group conquer 9 consecutive meals. He looked proud.
I looked disgusted.
That's the thing with these "all you can eat" places. They're so horrifyingly grotesque and mesmerising if you want to people-watch (being that self-confessed pervert, I watch people a lot. I draw the line at public gym showers however so you can't arrest me). Here are a few scenes typical of buffet-type environments. Go to Taybarn's and play Bingo with this list if you wish. You will probably discover:

That time I nearly rivaled my "salsa"
 pregnancy with a vodka & Diet Coke baby

* Families with a collective weight of 3 tonnes.
* Children with chips lodged in ears/noses/etc.
* Fairly old couples who look more enamoured by their fourth helping of chicken curry than the aging bore across the table with whom they are stuck with in stale matrimony.
* Unacceptable food combinations (eg. Yorkshire pudding, hot dog sausage and custard).
* An abundance of "food pregnancies".
* A sea of french fries littering the ketchup-splodged shores of a high-chair.
* Obese people filling carrier bags of burgers.

It all combines into a beautiful image to rival a glowing pink sunset over the shores of a Caribbean sea. I personally can't understand the concept of eating until the point of wanting to burst and watching strangers glut themselves until they turn a faint tinge of olive-green always makes me feel a bit queasy. Surely if you go for a meal you should be enjoying it, not inhaling it.
Then again, I'm sure my affinity for cold tinned carrots, massive jars of beetroot and ketchup-covered Sunday dinners aren't to many people's tastes either. Not to mention my secret crushes on James Blunt and James Corden.

I'd be Smithy's takeaway anyday

He's beautiful, it's true. Oh, shut up, he is.

Ah well. Each to their own.
Until next time. Need some kitten porn.

PS- I haven't even thought much about cats today as my thoughts have been elsewhere, but I did buy a cat card and looked at a picture of a Persian earlier.

26.01.13- Scanners, Scratchcards and Slightly Hormonal Outbursts

Today is a Saturday which means a 6.15am alarm and growling over a double shot of caffeine in my work jacket. I've been there 3 and a half years and that Saturday alarm does not get any easier to deal with. Especially not when you're a hormonal woman. Which, sadly, I am.
At least this week I didn't accidentally remove half my eyebrow, which I am pleased to report is growing back well and won't have to be pencilled for very much longer.
There are 3 simple ways to tell whether you're dealing with a hormonal cat lady as opposed to a tired Nat:

1) Everything makes me cry. Have I run out of apples? Oh God. I simply must deal with this in the manner of a Trojan widow and tear off my clothes, beat my bare breasts and roll around on the floor weeping.
2) I don't care what my blood sugar reading is today. GIVE ME THE SODDING DAIRY MILK YOU WHORE.
3) Bump into my chest and I will make a noise like a shot elephant.

"Oh God, I can only find my blue sock and I felt like green ones today."

Today I woke up and had to pretend a piece of liquorice was chocolate. It didn't work and so I made myself another coffee and tried not to cry.
At 7.55am I stepped through the automatic doors of the supermarket where I work part-time. When this happens I have to leave my grumpiness outside and start smiling like Ronald McDonald on marijuana-laced chicken nuggets. It would be another 8 hours before I could claim back my inner grouch (though I did have a cheeky sigh or two on lunch break. I could have looked threatening had I not been slurping a pot of sugar-free Rowntree's jelly).
Work itself was fine. I love my customers. I love working with my colleagues. I love being in a small store where everybody knows everybody and you actually take an interest in each other's lives.
Most of all I love old people.

Old people are often more awesome than the average adolescent.

They get lonely and come to talk to the checkout people. They especially love complaining and talking about cats, which suits me down to the ground. I like complaining and I like cats. I like the way customers are genuinely appreciative if you go out of your way to help them or take an interest in them and have a laugh. Some of my best life advice has been from the elderly.
My most memorable was a quote from an old lady during one dull Sunday shift after I had a sneezing fit (by the way, I believe sneezing is one of the best things in life. Ever. Not sure about that claim that 8 sneezes feels like an orgasm however).

OLD LADY: "Oh lovey, are you coming down with something?"
ME: "Maybe, perhaps I'm going to get a cold."
OLD LADY: "Ah, that means you're lacking something. Vitamin C and sex."

The age-old cure for colds. Apparently.

So there you have it. Give up your Beechams and burn your Covonia, everyone just needs an orange juice and a shag.
Today I had no such advice unfortunately, but I was complimented a lot on my hair colour which was nice. I'm not sure how to take the comment from one old man that "you look like a bloody traffic light", but traffic lights are very useful I suppose so I'll take it as a compliment.
Every Saturday after my shift I buy myself a scratchcard. Working behind a kiosk, there are some who will spend up to £80 on the things and win nothing. I don't want to be a gambler. My name is not Jeremy Kyle plus I'm too tight anyway; those are my student funds for my coursebooks (ie, double Smirnoffs on a Thursday night).
Last week I won a tenner. A world of possibility opened up to me. I could buy a bottle of wine. I could buy a DVD. I could go to the cinema. I could buy a bouquet of flowers and surprise my Mum.
I actually spent it on a taxi and a packet of Wrigley's Extra.
This week, sadly I won nothing. This nearly made me cry. I got in my car. I started missing my ex-boyfriend of 2 and a half years and our mutual appreciation of tea and crackers in bed in our slippers last thing at night. This made me cry. The Titanic theme tune came on my iPod. I cried.

What I genuinely look like whilst watching "The Notebook"

Bloody hormones. And I've STILL had no chocolate. My Nan and my Mum made me laugh after work as usual though and I've decided to stay home tonight with my lovely dog. He has to make do instead of a cat, though he is about as graceful and feline as a breezeblock. I'm now bubble-bathed, caffeinated and over my scratchcard defeat. I do still miss people I shouldn't miss. I do still want chocolate.
People probably now think I'm strange. I don't want to be dolled up on Wind Street. I want to grab my dog, paint my nails, watch the Notebook and cry into a jar of beetroot.
But as my Nan says: "Bollocks to everyone else, do what YOU want to do."
Thanks, Nan.
Oh, God I've run out of beetroot.

25.01.13- Downpours, Diabetes and Dangerous Driving

Right, so I'm now posting the other side of Christmas. There are 3 main reasons for this:

1) I've been too busy studying.
2) I've been too busy being a drunken pest.
3) I'm a lazy cow.

Happy new year and all that. Having got over the bitter disappointment of Father Christmas not bringing me a cat (selfish fat bastard, and he still helped himself to my mince pies) and surviving the exam period without my scheduled annual January breakdown (this time last year I'd signed my withdrawal form for Uni and was going to drop out of education, work and life), it's time to get writing.
So. Today.
Today I woke up with my blood sugar levels more than 5 times what they should be for the 5th day in a row. Once this has gone on long enough, this starts to happen:

1) My head hurts and I feel sick.
2) I want to fall asleep. Anywhere. Anytime. Everywhere.
3) I want to drive an axe through everyone's skull for existing.

Me this morning

So I scowled in my cowprint dressing gown and went back to sleep for an hour before testing again. Read the meter. "20.8".
Jesus arsebiscuits and christ in a tin.
I stabbed myself with more insulin before going back to sleep again with my book on top of me (sadly the only thing that gets on top of this cat lady lately) before going for a cup of tea with my Dad. Some people tell me I look like my Dad. I do not look like my Dad.
He is bald and has a goatee.
Running was out of the question today. I'm up to 10 miles but past that my blood sugars go haywire and last time I reached 10 miles I ended up retching near a bin so got a bus home from Mumbles. I liked to think of myself as being a "lad" swaggering on in my running gear.
In actual fact I felt like a dirty fraud. I don't think it will be acceptable for me to jump on a bus during the Llanelli Half Marathon. It might disappoint people.

"HI BOYS"

So it's been irritatingly restricted on the training front at the moment. I mainly seem to stick to the gym at the moment due to the fact it is freezing and I get so cold. I once went to bed in the afternoon in Spain because I was shivering. I'm the sort of person who goes to get my soya milk from the fridge and finds that my tits have turned to glaciers. Therefore running along the beach will definitely mean death.
All this training has also given me the leg muscles of He-Man (I noticed as I vainly flexed my calves in the mirror the other day). I am almost disappointed by the lack of penis.

So today's blood sugar reading really pissed me off as it meant inevitable laziness and sleeping. I don't have much energy at the moment but a lot going round in my head. Without running and the endorphins to calm me down, I am proud of myself for not hurting anybody yet, nor eating a cat.
After seeing my Dad and hearing all about his holiday to Jamaica (jammy git), I went to see my Nan and Grandad. I love them. At this point it was pissing down and icy cold and almost...ALMOST...made me want a cuddle. But I have no man I particularly want to cuddle right now plus I'm not in a cuddling mood, I'm in a smack-your-bitch-up mood so boys please don't mention Valentine's Day because the cards already appearing in the windows are already making me want to spew (this may be because it is inevitable that I'm only going to get a card from Mummy this year. Or the dog. Funnily enough, they have similar handwriting).
I showed them the penis birthday cake I made for my housemate yesterday. My Nan said it was "fabulous". My mum also said yesterday that it was "lovely", but then she was off her face on anaesthetic from having her wisdom tooth out and I was trying to force her to eat custard so I don't think she was quite all there at the time.

"Lovely" according to Mum. 

The rain got worse and worse today. I know we're in Wales. I was born here. I should be used to rain. But this was no ordinary rain.
This was apocalyptic rain of Satan.
As we speak, Killay and Brynmill are currently in the grip of hell (Brynmill is usually hell at about 3am on a Wednesday post-Wind Street, but that's usually vomit-and-stolen-traffic-cone related).
Driving back from seeing my hilarious bezzie bum James and slagging off life over refillable Diet Cokes at the Harvester (refillable. REFILLABLE. The novelty never wears off. You can stroll to the drinks machine feeling like a fucking monarch AS MANY TIMES AS YOU LIKE), I dropped him home and then decided to avoid the unlit road to Cockett (my windscreen wipers were breaking, thus in the downpours I had all the visibility of Stevie Wonder at a disco) by going through Dunvant.

"Welcome to Brynmill"

Big mistake.
The rain hammered harder. The window became more difficult to see through. I couldn't see the giant pools of water in front of me. I swear half my car was going to be entirely engulfed as I splashed straight through what can only be described as Gowerton's own Atlantis. And all the while all I could think was: "I am not going to fucking die listening to Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance'."
I finally got to Killay only for the road to be closed off anyway due to floods and had to take a detour. Brynmill was also closed off. This is half-scary, half cool, like being able to imagine you live in Spongebob's pineapple under the sea but knowing that humans cannot breathe underwater.
I got in, shaken, Lady Gaga still thumping in my head. In true cat lady style, bed has never looked so appealing.
All that's missing is a cat.
Until next time, meow and all that.