Karoons

What you should know about the last 2 days in London (or how my life should be ... all the time)

1. Lucy and I ate chocolate cake for breakfast 2 days in a row. Even Lauren, who usually favours desserts made of potpourrie had it one morning. It was THAT good. I probably should mention that Lauren baked it – whilst me and Lucy were sleeping in. Just so you know she is my friend and you cannot have her.

 

2. Lauren actually did eat potpourrie last night when we went to Quaglino’s for dinner. Okay, okay, it was lavender ice-cream but it tasted like potpourrie. Posh desserts are wasted on me.

 

3. Like all good girlies will do this week we went to see Sex and the City. Not since the Take That concert I have seen such a high proportion of twenty-something women in one place. There was actual whooping when the film began. Who needs organised religion when you can worship at the altar of Carrie Bradshaw’s wardrobe?

 

4. I yet again proved I have a faulty girl gene by still not getting the whole Big thing. He is neither clever nor interesting. He’s not funny and massive salary aside, is a generally a bit of a fuck-wit loser. Anyone agree? Hello anyone?

 

5. Over lunch today I discovered that Annemarie thinks Carrie Bradshaw has a personality disorder. I should not be surprised, she thinks everyone has a personality disorder. She is a psychologist.

 

6. Anyone else think 3 points about Sex and the City in a 10 point list is enough? Yep me too.

 

7. Our old Bulgarian friend Slavey Slavey has not changed at all in the ten years since we last saw him. The American accent may be a bit stronger but he still tells the tallest tales. He still supports Chelsea. What’s wrong with him?

 

8. I surely earned Karma fashion points today by not purchasing a pair of shoes that I really, really, really wanted. These!

http://www.dune.co.uk/catalogue/style.asp?r=43&g=48&s=75&y=S08LLE00COF103H

Practical yet funky in a 1920s brogue kind of a way. Right? Meh. I don't care if you hate them because I heart them. However, they brought me the wrong colour and a size 39 instead of a 38. I took it as a sign that there is a pair of shoes even more fabulous waiting for me out there somewhere in shoe universe. 

 

9. I still think London is where I want to be and it is ever so slightly depressing getting off the train in Hull. Also, I miss my friends. Do you think I can convince them that Hull is the new London?

 

 

10. On the walk home from the station I passed a man with an eye-patch. Just for a moment I thought it would brilliant to go out with a one-eyed pirate. Okay – have sex with a one eyed pirate. Is there something wrong with me? At least that's Liam Theroux's costume decided next we go to a fancy dress party.

11. I am finishing off the girly weekend by typing this on my bed in my vest top and pants a la Carrie Bradshaw, internal monologue and all.  Bugger, I mentioned Sex and the City again. And I'm up to 11 points. I'm a complete and utter failure.

(Yes these numbers and paragraphs are all wonky but I have been trying to fix it for ages and it is 1.59am and I want to go to sleep. And yes the link doesn't work either but I first tried to embed a real life picture but it wouldn't work [even though it did in Word] and then when I just tried to link to the page the last part wouldn't turn blue so it linked to nothing. So this is what you get. It works if you copy and paste. Did I mention I'm really bad with computers?)

Sometimes things sneak up on you

I found out recently that my father has emigrated to France. Apparently he’s lived there a while and though it’s made no difference at all to my daily life, the relief I’ve felt has surprised me. The amount of subconscious looking over my shoulder I had been doing has become apparent and somehow, now he is nowhere near, Hull is not quite as unpalatable as I thought.

Writing ‘my father’ doesn’t come easily. I never called him ‘father’ when we were in each other’s lives; he was always ‘Dad’.  But Dad seems too congenial, too friendly. Dad sounds like someone who would carry you on his shoulders and protect you from the wolves at the door. For a long time he was the wolf at the door. Often the wolf on the wrong side of the door.

I’ve moved back to Hull to start a new job and inevitably the meeting of new people means being asked personal questions. If asked, I’ve become aware that I speak of him in the past tense, as if he’s dead. It has never been a conscious decision but each time I utter a ‘was’ or a ‘did’ there follows guilt for the invisible lie that has passed my lips. I tell myself that it’s easier than explaining the whole story and in many ways that’s true. But far truer is that allowing people to assume he’s dead is easier than opening myself up to criticism.

We extend sympathy to those whose fathers ran out on them. No contact no, no financial support, no nothing. We understand the actions of those who have had to cut off wayward grown up children. Those lost to drugs or those trying to fleece them out of their pensions.  How do people react to children cutting off their parents? They think them selfish and spoilt. Ungrateful for all the sacrifices their parents made for them.  I don’t have any contact with my father because I choose not to.

The decision not to see him anymore is the hardest one I have ever had to make. So hard it took me two years.  Those years should have been spent discovering the joys of independence, drink and boys.  Doing all the things that people do when they are 16,17,18.  But if we get down to the basic facts, I cut off my father when he was ill. Mentally ill. When he didn’t have anyone else to support him, when he was going further and further into a black hole. Probably, on some level, I will always feel like I wasn’t good enough, or strong enough, or self-sacrificing enough.

I am censored here. Censored because this story isn’t only mine. It belongs to others too and they may not want it told. All I can say is that my father’s illness, if that what it was, caused him to do many despicable, horrible things. He was offered helping hand after helping hand over many years, every one of which he refused. He was given a thousand chances, all of which he threw back into hopeful faces.

I was close to being pulled into that black hole with him and in the end the decision I made came down to this - him or me.  I chose me.

 

 

 

 

 

This brightened up my Friday

In phonics we were looking at the suffix 'er'. I hold up the word 'long'.


Me: Can we sound out this word?

Small children:  l----o-----ng ..... LONG!

Me: So what would it be if we put 'er' on the end?

Small girl:  Lingerie?

Jed

I am an auntie!

My little sister Ria gave birth to Jed at 1pm yesterday. I've seen a photo and he is just the most gorgeous baby boy ever born. I'm going across to see them tomorrow so prepare yourself for a photo fest on here. Let the broodiness commence.

You'll be pleased to know that I've managed to make a tit out of myself over him already. I am a teacher, which means I have a lot of stuff to cart around. I don't drive which means I cart everything in a wheelie suitcase and spend my commute looking like an air hostess - only with less make up and much shorter legs. Yesterday, for reasons I will spare you, I ended up leaving school later than anticipated, which meant that several innocent passengers were subjected to the sight of me and my case racing like the clappers to the bus stop. I'm not a natural athlete and have a unique running style that sends Liam Theroux into hysterical laughter on a regular basis - well not that regular - I only run if the corner shop is about to close and I've run out of malteasers.

But I made it just in time and dragged my panting, suitcase-laden body onto the bus only to be severely reprimanded by the bus driver. He shoved my ticket in front of my nose and shouted at me because the date had been partly ripped of by the ticket machine that morning. He only let me on because I had a used return ticket for every day of the last 2 months. I knew there was a reason I never clean out my purse.

Head down, red-faced I made my way to the nearest seat and in an attempt to stop feeling self-conscious I checked my mobile phone. You know, like you do when your friend leaves you sitting alone in a bar to go and check her makeup in the loos. Makes you look busy and important and provides an invisible force field that sleazy men cannot cross. This time I found Ria had texted a picture of Jed - the first ever glimpse of my nephew. And of course, like any respectable new auntie, I burst into tears and bawled my eyes out until I was a red-eyed mess. Everyone on the bus must of thought I was Queen Wuss of Wussiville for crying over cruel and unnecessary treatment by a bus driver. Nobody offered me tissue.

Well Jed may not have actually been there but I start as I mean to go on. I hearby dedicate myself to being as conspicuous and embarrassing as possible in his presence. Just wait till he gets his first girlfriend and I tell her all about him being born looking like a cone head.

Dance like nobody is watching.

This is just adorable. A woman dancing with her 4 year old self.

The return of Dr B

A while ago, when I lived in Hull (you know, the last time) I wrote about my encounters with Dr B. He was a locum at my Doctor's surgery who asked wildly inappropriate questions, usually along the lines of "Have you been kissing many boys?", as I begged for antibiotics for a recurrent throat infection. I think it was a bumbled attempt at being amusing. I could have probably made a fortune suing him, but there was something strangely charming about him. And he was old. Really old.

Well guess what? He's back! In all his unpolitically correct glory.

Yesterday I visited the doctors for a repeat prescription of my pill and some eczema cream. There, slumped in one of those chairs that cartoon villains favour, was Dr B. Looking about 501 years old. First question put to me in his thick Indian accent? "How many mucky boyfriends do you have now?"

Genius. Pure genius.