M

I heard a tear yesterday.

It was the sound of a child being ripped from the eternal embrace of a loving mother.

Then it was the sound of a single, salty drop weighing heavily to the floor.

Absorbed.

Invisible.

Suicide from the clock tower

Blissful morning turned to unacquainted mourning. Bright sunlight peering around the historic bell towers and dreaming spires soon to be quashed by a blanked of eerie silence; eerie yet respectful, yet voyeuristic, yet nothing. The silence only punctuated by two sounds; the sound of life exiting from a height and sirens. The harsh rupture of one seemed to mute the latter. That or the shock surrounding my bones sought to protect my human mind from the realisation of reality. Shock comforted me like a mother comforts a child for a fraction of a second and an eternity all at once. Then shock loosened its maternal grip; plunging me into the blood-bath surrounding his head that his forest green jumper attempted to mop up from the previously sun-kissed ground – now cold.

It’s like I'm the only person that can see the chalk outline on the floor. It’s like I'm the only passer-by to feel a ghost in the tower haunting my every working day. I trace around it with a wide berth and shed a tear. I stand a meter from the site. I take a view point and sob further. Crying uncontrollably is saved for buses and other public areas. The foetal position is reserved for my bed with the light on.

More erotica?

She awoke to his far from flaccid manhood pressed intensely into her femininely arched back. It was like a burning poker iron against almost-branded frail flesh. The realisation of this startled her; not even due to the hot-headed desire that it had riled in the chasm of her loins and her soul but purely the fact that she had broken her one golden rule – no spending the night.

Her reckless abandon of the rule book, her lace underwear and her emotional guards had left her naked and exposed on numerous levels. This thought however had darted from her mind as he wrapped his toned arms around her svelte waist and his lips pressed heavily onto her collar bone. With one telling gasp she lowered her guard further and twisted her body to fit the mould that he had created for her.

Should she open her eyes to meet his gaze? Her one glance could be all too telling but she could feel his harsh scrutiny challenging her to bare her soul. She decided against confronting his eyes and buried her face into his chest taking in the residue of last night’s pleasure with her rose-blushed lips. If she worked her way down his body she believed that she could further avoid the taunting curiosity of his stare that mocked her newly-uncovered emotional weaknesses.

He allowed her to think that she was escaping him. That he would consent to her using her lips as a weapon as she evasively edged downwards. Her rigid nipples were one fleeting moment away from grazing the tops of his thighs and her mouth consuming his body. She paused. Poised. Too long. He ripped her from her safe-place and up to meet his face. She instinctively hid herself away again, this time in his kiss. Forcefully she pushed her body against his. Her breasts beating to the rhythm of her pulse against his chest. Her hands exploring his hair wildly as she wrapped her legs around him; engulfing his penis in her desire.

It was too late. She’d fallen. He knew he had her.

The year of the Snake...

The year of the snake. So far, so bad. It's turning out to be anything but snake-like. What I wouldn't give for that late 1990's soda stream of dodgy men with their questionable morals and fashion sense.

Gone are the days when a man was a man and - controversial I know - I blame us women. We've pushed the men into the uniformity of metrosexuality and now I'm starting to wonder if we've pushed them too far. Sometimes it seems that their genitals have been tucked so far between their legs under the pretense of forming the infamous, banterous "mangina" that we may have caused them to evolve into men with inverted ball bag/ vaginas. It may even be a pandemic.

The last thing that I want to be doing when waiting to be fed dinner-date style is to be hanging around for the one - supposedly with the balls in the relationship - to preen themselves to within an inch of their life as my life is slowly passing me by.

If I ever see another male metrosexual sobbing into his popcorn at the latest chick-flick I think I might have to start crying myself. That would obviously be if I had the option given that I had my tear ducts removed years ago. They're now safely stowed in a jam jar on a shelf next to my ice-cold heart and apparently all of the testicles of all of the men in the land (or at least the men in my locale)!

I am actually contemplating a loan service whereby I loan out my big balls. I'm going to pass them around and allow one male at a time to strap them on. I'm then going to individually invite all of these boys to "man up!" Maybe this will be the start of something beautiful... It would certainly be a public service. I wonder if there's Government funding available for this.

***Note to self: work on Dragons Den pitch ASAP***

This little rant all came about for various reasons. One of which being my self-inflicted single self being surrounded by the usual litter of love-sick puppies come Valentine's Day (occupational hazard). All of which were clambering last minute all over each other for something that sparkles so their respective other halves didn't send them to the doghouse later that evening. That and possibly the vain attempt that they would be dry humping more than their bitches' legs if she had enough to drink with the slap up commercial meal or the M&S two can dine in. Who says romance is dead? I DO!

I guess that all of this cynicism wasn't helped by my poorer than usual luck with men at the time. Obviously I'm using the term 'men' in the biological sense and as that was what was registered on their birth certificates as their specified genders. However, I prefer to use this term very loosely or disregard it altogether in the favour of a slightly more accurate replacement...

"Total F-ing pansies!"

The Common Room

You know when you have one of those simple yet amazingly perfect ideas? One where the plan just comes together and falls into place? One where you get all your nearest, dearest and crudest all into one room? Well do that; add wine and food but also throw in the old chestnut of ‘absences making the heart grow fonder’. That was the cocktail of choice for my last Friday night.

I thought I’d name this blog entry as above for two reasons:

1.   The reminiscent sentiment of it all…the hours of fun spent in the Netherthorpe Common Room with these girls and…

2.   You’ll see for yourselves later (oh dear).

I thought I’d put on my best Oxford pretence and invite the Northerners around for an evening of culture and fine dining. As they all know me well, they also knew that sentiment was a load of crap! I like food and I love wine but the only way that this evening would have the word “fine” attached to it would be in the form of the sentence, “Day-um, he’s fine”  ***insert dodgy ghetto accent here***.

Before the gaggle of girlies had arrived I’d set the table (twice), planned a starter of Italian nibbles and began to sweat the onions for the risotto di pesce. The girl with the scarf longer than her skirt was providing the tiramisu dessert (in keeping with the Italian theme that was more of an accident than an actual set theme – story of my faux Italian life). Then they arrived.

The use of the letter ‘H’ and the word ‘the’ was left at t’door. My accent was back and I was not afraid to use it! 

For some reason we had two bottles of non-alcoholic beverages (Shloer) on the table, I think this is some sort of northern humour although I'm not sure; it has been five years since I became southern.

Some of these girls I had not seen for months yet we still slipped into our comfort zone of gossiping and bitching as if it was second nature (it may even be first nature for a few of us). By the second bottle of wine we had all certainly forgotten that we were in our twenties. We been cast back a decade luckily minus the skin issues and social awkwardness. It felt like ‘ome ***Southern translation - home***. And let's face it if you can't be yourself at 'ome then where can you be?

This then meant that we almost instantly went on to discuss 13 lbs babies, vaginas ripped to shreds for all the wrong reason and any other topic of conversation that would have gotten your standard come dine with me session marked down for ruining the "ambience". Luckily for these girls, nothing could kill the mood other than their respective boyfriends (but that's another story).

I was fully caught up on any northern dealings that had failed to make local Oxford news or even a simple Facebook status. The common room-ers were also caught up on any rumours involving Oxford folk too and we had been debriefed on each girl's current relationship statuses. Even the ones left off of Facebook because no-one wants to admit "it's [really that] complicated" to 500+ so called friends and random people. My personal issue with Facebook is that they only allow you to have one other name linked to yours and there isn't the option -'Such-and-such is "just friends" with...' I mean what do the Mormons do? Maybe I should feed this back to Mark Zuckerberg...

Unfortunately for all of the gang - bar myself - whilst we had been so engrossed in certain peoples' lives, their latest city breaks, ugly babies and doomed marriages it had been snowing -a lot! Sian's stinking pumps were - needless to say - the least practical piece of footwear on offer for what was about to follow.

We all said our goodbyes. I may have shed a tear (obviously a delayed reaction to the earlier onion sweating) and managed to blag myself one third of slutty-skirt's outfit (no, not her skirt or scarf, just a lovely little ring piece). It was at this stage that I went upstairs to bed; emotionally exhausted, throat killing from the gossip and sides hurting from the giggles. 

Meanwhile in Hollingwood....Muhahahahaha!

This little lot were pushing a little car up a big hill in tiny, smelly shoes. 

The moral of this story is:

If you're going to be bitches then karma will bite you in the ass later that evening. Unless you're bitching in your own home. Then you just get a free item of jewellery! 

If you aren't on the list then you’re not coming in…

The Bucket List

I need (as Grandma always said you don't get what you want, you get what you need)…

1.  To read Psalm 46 all the way through at my Grandma’s funeral
2.  To go to the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem
3. To see the Northern Lights
4.  To walk the Great Wall of China
5. To create a photographic alphabet. All in pictures, shapes and forms
6.  To tour Barcelona with little sis
7.  To write a novel
8.  To finish my Masters
9.  To start another degree
10. To ride an elephant
11.  To have a spiral staircase in my home
12.   To have a library in my home

Deepest Sympathies…

For the extended absence I do apologise.

As some of you may or may not know, my Grandmother recently passed away. It was prior to this and during that I took leave of my writing, my senses and my capability to function within society without breaking down or making inappropriate jokes.

One of the hardest things any human will ever have to do is lose a loved one and I am no exception to this rule. The fact that this has been ten years in the making still doesn't mean that I was prepared in any sense of the word. I may even go so far as to say it took me totally by surprise.

When someone can fight tooth and nail like my Grandma did then one can be forgiven for assuming that this person is invincible. Cancer, countless infections, a second hip in need of replacing, a fall, bleeds on the brain and a brain tumour…this was all throughout the last decade and then as a cumulative in her final weeks.

I can only hope that I have an ounce of the strength and courage that she showed. This pivotal and character defining moment has brought clarity to certain aspects of my life which is ironic in this foggy patch. Life is precious and I have probably superficially existed for far too long now. It is time to start living a little more, taking a few risks (maybe just calculated ones for now) and jumping in with both feet!

I've decided to compile a bucket list. The curious adventures of the travelling suitcase need to get curiouser and curiouser…

Crazy Bears and other mental animals

The look that we had gone for was all about effortless chic so we clearly started the prep days before. Effortless is apparently not so easy to achieve. It takes time.

T minus 2 days to lift off - the gluing of the eye lashes and the booking of appointments. Break for burgers and banter. It's exhausting work being pretty. Luckily we had all decided on paying someone to help the process along - winning!

So to those of you who didn't think it could be done. MAC made it happen. With just hours to go before our grand entrance (somewhere between Jodie Marsh and Amy Childs) we were looking almost respectable. I say almost as we'd only had our make-up expertly applied and there's nothing to be done when it comes to hiding the mischievous smirk across my lips and the evil glint in Bradders' eyes. As for J-dog, she's usually found with a combination of the two and propping up the bar. There's then the sudden role reversal half way through the night whereby the bar ends up holding J-dog vertical.

 Dresses on and obligatory photo-shoot out of the way it was time to get the party started! BMW drop off and a trek through a field in heels. Passing the sheep and the pigs; it was party time. The festivities had kicked off earlier in the afternoon so we had decided to arrive somewhere between 'fashionably late' and 'just plain rude'.

With the burlesque dancers there from the get-go, there was already ample bosom on show. I felt that this gave me good cause to top up the bubbles already salsa dancing around my head. This process usually helps me when I'm bumping and grinding in fields, maxi-dressed to the maximum and part-taking in mid-afternoon revelry. It may have been this combination of drink and consequential events that led me to fall in love with Elvis and at the same time, be left questioning my sexuality. Awkward to say the least and not too dissimilar from the typical musings of a 1960's teen.

I'd seen more nipple tassels and vajazzles than the stockroom of the Essex Ann Summers. Bradders and I were probably enjoying it a little too much and J-dog was somewhere tending to Needy. Luckily it was at this point that a cheeky hip gyration from fake Elvis snapped us back to reality and restored us to our former heterosexual-selves. My sharking attempts had, up until this point, been distracted due to the femme fatales parading their retro glamour and non-existent underwear.

To add further food for thought to the most bizarre day to date in my sexual history calender, we added Boy George into the equation. A gay transvestite was enough to place the metaphorical cherry on top of my day. It's a good job that I didn't get to meet B.G. I think I may have tried it on with him after all the free drinks in VIP. Mother was disappointed that I didn't get to ask him if he remembered her attending a concert of his in 1982 though.

As previously mentioned, VIP was the place to be. We may or may not have blagged a few cheeky golden wristbands at some point during the haze of that infamous Sunday and then proceeded in taking full advantage of the situation. J-dog had obviously changed position throughout the duration of the afternoon. Commoners bar to VIP bar to being propped up by Needy. We all knew that he would one day come in useful.

As the day descended into further chaos and debauchery the sun began to set and my inner rock star made an appearance. Possibly after Jodie Marsh left, my inner rock chick wanted to smack her down with an air guitar. The Courtney Love in me decided against a cat fight with a tattooed bodybuilder and opted for wrestling with small children instead.

As the giant party poppers were deployed and the streamers lay scattered on the ground like numerous pairs of last nights knickers I made it my S.A.S. mission to grab as many of the shiny strips of foil as possible. A must as my bedroom wouldn't quite be the same without said foil strips festooning the window frame.

It was around this point that we thought it best to leave. Head out on a high whilst there was still the opportunity to return next year. There was also the fact that Needy was now struggling to prop up J-dog any longer. Bradders and I had made the executive decision to continue our night back in Oxford in a few well know establishments where it was acceptable to behave in accordance with the quantities of alcohol that we had consumed throughout the day. J-dog was to be put to bed (only to fall out of it again) with six bottles of water courtesy of The Crazy Bear.

So to the taxi rank. One stationary taxi. "Are you pre-booked?"
"No."
"Cool, can you take us to town?"
"No, I'm here to pick someone up."
Awesome. So glad we cleared that up.

J-dog wasn't too happy with all this confusion. She decided the best way to settle this would be to hoist her French Connection maxi-number around her waist, grind on the passenger door of the taxi wearing my finest M&S Bridget Jones' and compliment the driver on his 'sexy bald head'. She does have a way with words that girl, along with some very seductive circular hip movements.

We eventually found a taxi willing to accommodate the four of us and the six bottles of water. Despite J-dog's protests and desires to continue the party, we made a slight detour to her doorstep. Needy carried her and a number of the bottles of water to her door. Juggling the aforementioned items and a clutch bag he managed to let tipsy J-dog go for the slightest of seconds yet long enough for her to face plant into the door. The perfect end to the perfect night for the happy couple.

As for Bradders and I, further cocktails were needed after the standard sobriety that comes with tending to the lightweight of the group. Luckily we all survived the evening and are looking forward to next year's summer party. I'm not sure that The Crazy Bear feels the same though...

Come Wine With Me...

I've always enjoyed the civilised cultural stimulation that a traditional dinner party provides however, most of the 'S-Town Massive' are probably more than aware of the lack of civilisation surrounding the usual suspects during a typical Champagne Friday. Lord of the Flies ensues...

Early last week one of the Wine Cafe regulars presented us with the prospect of their infamous ragu as an offering to the self proclaimed gods of wisdom and computers. The god-like contribution of sofa space was provided by one said god and the Tupperware transported ragu was cycled across Summertown by a mere mortal yet obvious culinary wizard.

As the plans began to take shape and the troops fell into line, my housemate and hostess for the evening was expertly carrying out the single most important task of the evening (after taking the M&S desserts out of their packaging and placing them into the fridge) Fyvie was letting the wine breathe. Good move from the hostess! Even away from the comforts of her own home, housewife Fyvie knew her role and her place at the boyf's - the kitchen!

The men arrived home from work and sat down in order to continue working. The lady of the house and the culinary wizard were holed up in the kitchen now with the tricky task of boiling the pasta. There was obviously the added pressure of my Italian taste buds for them to worry about. Finely tuned to the rhythm of 'al dente'.

Apparently Jesus was supposed to be joining us at some point. It was to be a Prix Fixe supper of some sort before the second coming but he was lost in computer god's bedroom; in the no-man's land of socks and underwear. A shame really as I was counting on his little water into wine trick later in the night. This was mainly due to the fact that I had only contributed one bottle of Tesco's most reasonably priced Montepulciano and I wanted more. He may have also come in handy when it came to redeeming the garlic bread. Cremation was on the cards and the jury was out as to whether the "emergency butter" had really done much to hide the evidence.

After we finished the meal, in true 'Come Dine With Me' fashion, I skulked off to a side room to give my foodie feedback and marks out of ten. I didn't have the film crew to make eyes at so I settled for an arms length iPhone action shot. The culinary wizard was clearly a ragu winner!

As the wine continued to breathe and flow in a very uneven quantities the conversation descended into chaos. A.M was about to get "shanked" by her daughter for various unknown reasons and we were all looking forward to the naked men at the life drawing class the next day. The closest I would be to getting any action any time soon...

Bloggers block, cock block and sun block...

As you may or may not have noticed I had shuffled off this mortal, blogging, coil for what felt like a lifetime. I've been a busy little worker bee during the daylight hours and an omnipresent social butterfly in the dark, leaving little time for sleep or sunlight. This is obviously fine by me as sleep is over-rated and caffeine is reasonably priced in numerous local beverage serving establishments.

The brimming diary and seductive schedule of mine meant that my mind was metaphorically salivating at the thought of sharing such chaos and humor with you all (especially you my random reader in Qatar). I could not wait to put finger to keyboard (a modern twist on an old classic there). However, much to my dismay, it appears that starting a blog seems to have coincided with some comedy enema that I was unaware that I was scheduled for. I'm all out of funny. My thought process seemed to be lacking its usual penchant for innuendo despite the weeks antics.

I guess the knowledge that the previously posted about Mother is an avid subscriber to this blog means that it is somewhat "cock blocked" and censored like newly published picture of naked Prince Harry. The pressure that I've created for myself here has left me sweating like Caroline Flack at a One Direction gig.

Hopefully the varied forms of blockage that I am currently suffering will clear up soon. Until then...

My Best Friend's Wedding...

This was almost a very different, gardening related blog post - 'My Best Friend's weeding' - luckily I had noticed the error of my ways in time. This was good news for all as I know sweet F.A. about gardening. The closest I've ever been to flowers was an 'I'm sorry you found out I'd cheated on your sorry ass bouquet' once. We don't even have grass at my up north home because the dogs piss all over it and turn it yellow (we have the perfect ratio of pebbles to decking apparently). In my southern garden we have a mattress, some bricks and a video copy of some of Leo's best work - Titanic. Anyway, I digress...

My oldest, not-so-nearest and dearest friend has now spent one whole week enjoying the delights of wedded bliss (those of you who know me well will have visualised the grimace on my face as I enunciated ‘wedded bliss’). However, you would have been hasty to do so.

I had initially woken up and gone through the generic morning routine. Urinate, stroke some spaniels and eat two boxes of cereal from my variety pack lovingly bought for me by Mother. I then got down to the good stuff – war paint on and hair done. Steps’ version of ‘Tragedy’ conveniently humming in the background. White noise from the usual suspects of music channels. Anyway, I was looking hot to trot and good to go. Hadn’t thought it through though as I now couldn’t get my cheap ASOS dress over my massive head complete with sponge attachments – FAIL!

The packing of the handbag: The etiquette for such events (weddings, not weedings) dictates a clutch as your base product. However, I opted for GIANT postal envelope/ potential laptop carrier. I think it worked. Contents-wise I went for the usual make-up top-ups, phone and keys. It was at this point that I hesitated. I’m not sure that you’re supposed to want to pack a sick bag for a wedding, especially not your oldest friend’s, it’s more of a long-haul trip kind of staple. It’s a good job Mother was on hand to loan me a brand new packet of tissues! This meant that I could blend in and gently pat the space where my tear ducts once were at the appropriate moments.

I had intended to attend this wedding/ weeding with two initial goals:

1. To provide moral support for my old buddy, old pal

AND

2. To pick up the Groom’s single guy friends.

Apparently weddings are the new couples hang out. I unfortunately was yet to receive this memo! I thought you were supposed to politely decline the offer of a plus one in the hope of bagging yourself the Best Man. How times have changed!

I spent four speeches and three courses sandwiched between two couples and their corresponding little angels. It’s a good job there was a sweet table and a bar to keep me entertained in the awkward silences punctuating the template of conversation set out for couples to ask singletons over dinner.

In other news, I’m almost certain that  Bood’s will be relieved to know that I hadn’t reached such a point of inebriation whereby I thought it would be acceptable to use her wish tree as a means to an end with the cynical thoughts crossing my mind as I tucked into my profiteroles. No-one else seemed to be wishing for a fire and a truck-load of oiled up, half naked rescuers. The general theme appeared to be well wishes to the happy couple – I decided to stick with it like the typical sheep that I am in these kinds of social situations and other unfamiliar territories. So, like a lamb to the slaughter - using its best joined up writing – I wrote something soppy. The sort of sentimental mush that I hear newly-weds enjoy. The sort of drivel that the guys at Hallmark get paid for.

The night ended in the usual manner whenever Boo Doo is concerned – a freaking dance off! I was relieved and back in my comfort zone. A dance off is always good news for me as I’m related to Mick Jagger, I therefore have the moves like him. And as I always like to go out on a high this meant that the perfect execution of the sprinkler, the lawnmower and the bricklayer in quick succession was my cue to leave.

On a serious note, I love my Bood’s to bits and could not be happier with her and hubby being such happy little marriage bunnies. All the bestest to my bestest. As for me, lonely spaniel lady lifestyle looms ever closer…

So the moral of this story is yes, I’m a cynical, emotional cripple but I do love a happy ending (and not in a Thai massage kind of way). 

Date Night...

So I'm a twenty-something living and not so much loving in Oxford. Moved here almost five years ago. It was far enough away from home to call it a rebellion and opposite, adjacent to the 'Big Smoke' yet not overly smokey. Perfect! It was home enough to make me want to kick off my heels and put on some slippers, for a time at least.

However, I'm currently experiencing a crisis of identity in the minimal smoke. As we all well know, 'home is where the heart is'. Not having a heart makes it difficult to settle.

I've just taken one of my regularly scheduled trips up north. I have to take these trips when I get a little homesick. If I time them just right then I stay long enough to realise why I love the independence that Oxford provides without murdering a family member or doing any lasting damage to any of my relationships with said family members.

I spent my Saturday night up north "dating" my parents. That's right guys, 23 and tagging along to the 'rental's date-night. It was worrying at first as I'm not 100% familiar with the social precedent set out for such scenarios. I wasn't even sure that there was precedent - LexisNexis definitely couldn't provide me with any (law joke - sorry). I mean, they did pay for the tickets and I did shovel about £5's worth of pick 'n' mix into my tardis of a Candy-King cup. Did this mean that they would drive me home and expect me to invite them into their own home for "coffee"???

As most girls know these days if a man foots a bill like that on a first date he is quite clearly going to try and invite himself in for "coffee". There's that all too familiar awkward moment as you look down free yourself of the seat belt in the man's penis extension on four wheels and you look up to find lips puckered and eyes closed. All I could do through the credit roll was hope that my Dad was not one of "those guys".

To my relief as we rolled up outside home in the Spaniel Wagon no-one seemed to be trying it on.

Maybe date-night with the parents is the future? I don't have to worry about going dutch and I don't have to shave my legs. The only thing that I have to worry about it the fact that I may end up a lonely old spaniel women (I'm not a massive cat fan) in the future...

Disclaimer

The curious adventures of the travelling suitcase…

The irony is that the title for this blog was selected long before writing commenced. It was one of those drunken good ideas that stuck around long after the next day sobriety just like herpes or a two day hangover.

I have since then “committed” myself to a fixed abode (that’s as much commitment as you’ll ever get out of my single-self). The title however is still a clear reflection of my emotional incapability – for which men are completely to blame.

In this blog expect to hear tales of pathological liars, Mummy’s boys and nail varnish.

Also, a little note to my Mother:

DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER

This blog contains scenes of a sexual nature and traces of nuts.

(If you do continue reading…sorry Mum)