They's and them's and all those kinds of people.

They say there is a story inside all of us. I don't know who 'they' are but they do always say such a lot.

Anyway, in this case, I think 'they' are right.

I've always wanted to write a story about a boy and a girl. Not terribly original, I'm sure it's the story the majority of people would write. However, I did think mine would a) be special and b) have a happy ending (not of the Thai massage kind).

I think it's still begging to be written. Not sure if it should be in a manual form so others could learn about it, or if it should be the normal story kind. Only instead of a happy ever after, this time the Prince doesn't show up.

So here it is: Chapter 1:

Boy meets girl. High expectations. Much love.

Chapter 2:
Life goes on. It is what is is.

Ah it clearly needs working on. But it's a start and I'm sure you can appreciate the depths it's got going on in it. No?

Chapter 3:

The end?

Words

Words tumble around my head, wanting to be put somewhere, wanting to be shouted out, to run riot over my tongue, my mouth.

Words that aren't nice, that some people would be shocked to hear me say. Words that have no business being in a pg rated movie of my life.

I shan't give credence to these words. They aren't really me.

But you, you are nothing short of a waste of my time, my energy and my mind. You, who have done nothing but be selfish with your lack of response, your lack of consideration and your ability to wound. You are not worthy of the words that would want to scream forth from my mouth.

*insert bad language*.

it's all about the trips down Memory lane for me this week...

Well a year ago exactly, I was in Thailand. And by golly of gosh, do I wish I was back there. Not because I wish to be away from my family and friends but because, it's raining and work is sucking at the moment - I'm hoping both these things will pass soon. Actually, thinking on that. Maybe it's not Thailand I wish I was in, but Australia to give MissJ & AwesomeM some hugs after the most crappy week they've had, or Cape Town to give my Catty a big fat hug after the crappy week she's had. Seems it's the week of crappyness all around the world.

Am I going to blame the changing seasons, no I'm not. I'm going to instead not blame a single thing suffice to say, I wish I was with people who might need me. I might want to rage at the fact that I'm a rubbish saver and therefore can't find my way to my folk for weeks like that. But again, I won't.

So yes, a year ago I was in Thailand, where the sun was warming my bones and the Barcadi was warming my blood and I was warming to a good many sunsets, meeting new 'family', sinking my toes into sand as soft as silk and amazed by the scenery and the colours of that country. And pushing the boundaries of that I'd set myself. The ones where I keep things the same as it's safer that way.

In the year that has passed, I've pushed myself towards things I might (and have) failed at. Before, I just wouldn't have, because of that fear of failure. Rejection is a shitty thing. But I've proved, that in the face of much rejection, you CAN still put on your pretty shoes and dance the night away. You can create a carriage out of a pumpkin and you can still wear a smile. :D

I do that. So although I might have failed in some things - I've accomplished something very new: confidence to try it no matter what.

Uncle Peter

I'm going to have people thinking I'm a morbid old thing. But honestly, no I'm not. I'm just in a moment of remembering people.
My dad told me today it has been 10 years since Uncle Peter passed on. I can barely believe it's been a decade. I was then flicking through Facebook and I've come across a post his grandson has made (Uncle Peter's) and I laughed so much I cried. And I'm so glad no one escaped the 'farting finger' trick.
Now I say Uncle Peter - he was my dad's best friend. Not blood relation but they always referred to each other as brothers. Quick confession: when I was tiny, I did wonder why my dad had two brothers called Peter..
Uncle Peter was the funniest man alive - besides my dad, and when you got the two of them together, nothing was sacred or safe. I am of the belief half my wrinkles and creases on my face are from laughing with them.
And spin a story?! They could have you believing the sky was pink with blue clouds and the moon was an elephant. (see blog called Exploding heads for reference)

The tricks they pulled on myself, H, K and S were legendary and my childhood is littered with antidotes.

What do I remember of Uncle Peter besides the obvious. Him teaching me how to run an excellent 3 legged race, him and my dad doing all my lines with me when I was in a play. Until I was sick of the damned play, but still they carried on until I knew every line. Reading Winnie the Pooh out loud - although I'm sure he knew it off by heart as well as Jabberwocky. Dancing on the dining room table with my mom while shooting tequila's and Baileys and proclaiming "Make me another! It's like ICE CREAM!"

I'm giggling like a loon typing this up and I keep stopping while remembering and then wiping a sneaky tear from my eye.

Uncle Peter - 10 years but still so dearly missed and loved.

Bleurgh

I attended all girls schools from the age of 6 to 16 and so I think I'm kind of versed in the art of Bitchy. And can pretty much hold my own.
However, nothing on this planet can prepare anyone for working in an office which has the majority of staff as female.
Bitchy you can just about deal with - downright all out trying to pull people down is just nothing I'm used to.

If I hark back to my school days, there were cat fights and dog fights and lots of barbed comments, but the universal code was that you stood up for your school 'colleagues' outside of the playground and you didn't try your damnest to tittletale.

I can remember a headmistress trying to get me to name the trouble makers in my Maths class. The teacher was at her wits end. The Principal called us in one by one, sweet talked us by saying how brilliant we were and that it wasnt' telling tales. Not one girl in that class 'dobbed' anyone in. And believe me, there were girls in that class, I would rather cross the street than to speak with.

It appears this does not happen in the adult world - it's all 'she said this', 'she did that'.

And 'she' is pretty well damn annoyed.

6 years

I've wanted to write about this particular day for a while. But somehow it never felt quite right. As a family, we've spoken about it quite a bit and been absolutely hysterical in some places. But it's not fair to just write about the one day but the days leading up to it.
It's no secret that my maternal Nana holds a very special part of heart. As I've blogged before, she was many things to many people, but to me she was everything I've always wanted to be (the neurotic bits aside).
As I get older, I realise the woman that she was. However, I still feel she is ever so close to me (even though it's been 6 years since she passed away). So I'll write about that week. I feel it needs to be done. And since I type quicker than I write, the blog shall be my medium and not my diary for once. Please, if you carry on reading, note that this is not a morbid writing nor a poking fun at one.
We got the call that she had... I don't want to say die but she did.. on the Monday. I come from a mother who puts the Drama into Queen and had always scoffed a bit at this. However, for the first time, I did a 'Mom' and as I took that call, my knees buckled, my legs gave way and I sank to the floor in a swoon that a Bronte sister would have been proud of. I knew the day was coming but it was still a shock. And then it passed and all of a sudden, I went into a very capable adult robot mode. I zoomed to my mother, I gave her solace and then I went to work. Within 48 hours I had secured and paid for our flights to South Africa. I took control. I organised lifts to and from Heathrow. I packed and made my son aware that for 6 days I would not see him (bearing in mind, I had never been away from him for more than 24 hours before) and we were off a few days later. We arrived in Cape Town and the sunshine blew me away. But we weren't there for a holiday, we were there for a funeral. Now this is a strange feeling. You're with family you've not seen for a long time so you have that reconnection but you also have the sadness that someone is missing, the common denominator  of who you all are.
This is the bit where it all gets a bit surreal. As we were going through Nana's boxes that night, I can honestly say I have never laughed as much as I did then. We remembered her in every way. But instead of crying, we laughed.
The day of the funeral arrives. Now my Nana was a lady - she wore all white, she wasn't a traditional granny that everyone had - I lost count of how many times people assumed she was my mother and we are a family of all woman (CG is the first boy child in many a generation) so it would only be right that her funeral went as it did. She certainly had a hand in it. The hearse arrives.. it's a white BMW - not your normal hearse I can hear you say. The people doing it (undertakers?) hadn't been to that church before so they did not know about the almost vertical steps leading down to it. They had only brought a trolley and two men. In come the women of the family, we carried her down those stairs - my one aunt who is 6ft, me who is 5'1 and my other aunt who is in between and my mother who is now the Matriarch directing us all as she has done her whole life. You can imagine how we were giggling.
The church fills and I can only stress how good it was that we were in the front. As, like children, we giggled the whole way through. My mother actually snorted as she remembered Nana falling down the altar stairs of that very church. I did the eulogy (which currently resides on myspace I think) and that's when the tears started. Of course, this is also when all the old friends of my Nana who had shook my hand on entry to the church realised who I was. *After the service "Oh you're A, gosh you're grown up" I had thought it was obvious who I was.
I wanted to put this down because thinking of that day obviously makes me sad but also makes me realise; what an awesomely special family I am in.
I could go on about when we were at the cemetery, my aunts and mother were quite calm and it was me who sobbed like a baby and nearly fell in the grave. This was because, having conceded to wearing black, I refused to don black shoes and instead wore the prettiest, flimsiest high heeled sandals I owned - shoes that my Nana would have LOVED. These were my downfall as they sank into the sand and nearly caused me to topple headfirst onto my nana and granny.
The rest of the day was spent in the company of family and friends, having a braai put on by the very special Carol who could not have done more for us. We laughed and cried and remembered her taking the dog for a walk - bull terrier Bruce - he was boisterous, she was wearing white, he chased a cat, she slid behind him in the dust bowl that was our local park. None of us were there for that incident, but we can all picture it.
6 years down the line, I still miss her dreadfully - I can hear her say my name, I can also hear her say 'ooof' when she stumbled or did something funny - I've never met anyone else who says that. I can remember sitting on her kitchen floor watching her make all my favourite meals. And the one memory of her I have, that no one else does, is of being 10 years old and sitting in a traffic jam with her. We played silly games the whole 90 minutes (or longer). And I don't think she had played silly games like that with anyone. Of her taking me to see snow - slush on the side of a road. Was just one little lump of snow/ice but we travelled two hours to see it, and how we laughed. Me buying her yellow flowers (hideous things I think now I'm an adult) which she must have hated yet displayed quite proudly.
Okay, now this is getting quite morbid. but as it comes up to the anniversary of when she finally left us (honestly though, due to the dementia she actually left us long before that), I just felt I needed to do this.

Single White Female

My son said to me the other day why didn't I have a boyfriend and I couldn't give him a straight answer. How can you say 'er, your mother is most picky and pig headed and quite frankly even if she wasn't, it doesn't appear she's wanted'. So I settled for 'its not on my list of things to do'. 

I am busy, I don't really have time for another person in my life. I'm not sure potential partners would appreciate me saying 'I have a window for you on every Tuesday from 6-7' (for example). And again that's my window to be alone, to have me time. And as flippant as that is, it's got a bit of truth to it. I'd like some company to snuggle on the sofa with, to go on holiday with. I'd like that. But I've got my family to focus on, not relationship drama. And there's always relationship angst. 

CG is my number one, my parents a close second - who wants to be third? People get annoyed with that sentiment. 

And apart from the snuggling sofa bit, I'm pretty content. I don't have to explain to anyone that when I go out with my friends, it's not to 'pull' but to dance. I like nothing better of a night out that to shake my tail feathers and clink my cranberry and vodka with L. But majority of men do not see that, they assume because you've chucked on your heels and a streak of eye liner, you're off to stick your tongue down strangers throats. Not my style, I'm 30-ahem not 17. Also I'm loathe to be someone's points on a grab-a-granny night. ;) 

So yes I remain single, because that's where I want to be. There's a few out there that say it's because I'm bitter and twisty. Not so, if I was, I would not have laid my heart on the line as many times as I have. I would not be challenged by trying to understand male folk and when my son isn't in need of me to be the constant in his life (the stable parent), then I might join a tango class and find myself a Brendan Cole. <-- crap analogy but he's pretty delicious and I love a good tango. 

Winter

I think I'm finally accepting England is where I live, not where I am temporary. And I think... and here's the biggie.. that I'm getting used to cold weather. It's taken 17 winters but I'm looking out my kitchen window as the sun hits the frosty bits and thinking wow, it's pretty and not so bad. I'm not dreading the layers, the frozen toes and the blue hands/lips/knees. Of course, it's only October and I might feel differently come January, when I'll be bemoaning the cost of central heating, hating having to wear a thick hat and creating over 'hat' hair!
But for now, I'm loving getting all the warm jumpers out, cosy socks. Thinking my new boots might be helping this. They are gorgeous and were free. Well, I say free but really all I had to do for them was be ultra good at work and get shopping vouchers.
I don't want snow this year, a heavy frost is all that's on my wish list. Make it happen. Thank you.