After the Rat Race

2010-01-06T18:35:00.001+01:00

Please come and visit me in my new home

www.bringbackthejoy.blogspot.com

A fly by

2009-06-23T21:50:00.003+01:00

So, I've been surfing the net to pass the time while waiting for my washing cycle to finish (woah life is so glam). Can't believe that people are still checking and I'm so incredibly flattered. So here I am on a fly by and I thought I'd update you all on the next chapter of the story.

Life is funny isn't it? The twists and turns, the ups and downs, the roundabouts. Life outside the ratrace can be tough - very tough. I survived a couple of years of it, scraping by and just about paying my mortgage. My quality of life wasn't what I wanted and stress levels were soaring. And so I had to reach a compromise with myself and now I work for a housing association as the executive assistant to the CEO. A PA? Who would have thunk it?

But hey, guess what? I enjoy it. The people are great, the work is good, social housing is a worthy cause for me. And also, guess what? I'm nine to five. Who'd have thunk that? But what the hell is so wrong with that? Why did I have such a problem? The peace of mind I get from knowing I can pay my way is just huge. The commute is easy peasy and the people are really really great.

And again guess what?

I'm writing a book...

I've done the outline - 10,000 words and I'm about to start on my first draft proper. I'm lacking confidence but if I say it out loud on this blog, well it means that I absolutely HAVE to do it, no?

Back soon

Unbeaten

2007-01-07T18:21:00.000+01:00

The TV counted down the New Year and everyone was poised, bubbly in one hand, party popper in the other, ready to celebrate. I stood behind the bar in a pub with people I hardly knew.

Ten... Nine... Eight...

I looked on, caught in my private world while others around me beckoned the New Year in with joyous voices. As every second passed my heart felt somehow lighter. No. That's the wrong word. Can a heart feel heavy and light at the same time? Is there a word to describe that?

I looked back over an incredibly painful year for my family and me, where the fine line between life and death was brought under scrutiny more than once and where the very fabric of our family changed forever. A year of freefall for all of us.

Seven... Six... Five...

I thought of my mum and my dad, of my sister and brothers, the complex and various rifts now formed between us, the broken trust, the devastation that mental illness can reek. Six individuals, now, rather than one family.

Four… Three…

Someone, another bar staff possibly, put their arm around me and pulled me to them. I pulled away gently. I wanted to welcome 2007 on my own and to make sure that 2006 was truly behind us. How can one year change things so greatly?

Two… One!

I closed my eyes. We had survived. Some of us only just, but we had survived. Time to rebuild, now. Time to put things back together. Not the way they were; that's not possible. But we can still find a new way, a healthier way perhaps.

I opened my eyes, picked up my glass and joined the party.

No place like home

2006-08-17T11:47:00.000+01:00

So, it has been a while hasn't it? I've been on a sort of unofficial blog holiday, working on my flat (again), dealing with family crises (again), and writing massive essays (again). But here I am, sat at my decrepit laptop, wearing decorating clothes and steadfastly refusing to sand the walls down in my bedroom.

So what's new?

Nothing and everything.

But this is just a little post to say hello. I'll write more when I'm no longer covered in PVA glue, sleeping on my sofa and living off dodgy take aways.

Where have I been?

2006-06-03T09:09:00.000+01:00

Yes. I know. I've been MIA for a while. But there's been a good reason and I think you'll like it. You see, I've been helping the guys at Head London with their latest world cup venture, The England Allstars. I'm going to be writing for them throughout the world cup and you can read what I have to say here.

So please come over and take a look. It's where all the action is going to be. There are animated highlights, brilliant ringtones that my mate Mary did, and you can even get the latest from Benny and Bjorn, Sven's balls. You may even get to see some of the animations on ITV 4!

I'm excited. I hope you are too!

Up up and away

2006-05-17T17:29:00.000+01:00

I looked at the rock face and followed the ropes all the way to the top. 25m high.

"How hard can this really be?" I thought in an attempt to surpress my fear of heights with mindless positivity.

I harnessed up, made sure the others had my ropes properly belayed, and found my first footing.

"It's like climbing a ladder" shouted Boyo, the welsh instructor. "Easy, you see" [Insert welsh accent here].

Up I went, one foothold after another.

"Good job I bit my nails", I thought as the rocks ripped my fingers to shit.

Up I went some more, focussing entirely on the rock face in front of me.

"This is actually fun", I thought with some considerable surprise.

"You're doing really well, Laura. A natural!" [Insert welsh accent here, too]

Up, up and up I went, skimming up those rocks like a... well, like a rock skimming thing.

"Now you just need to touch the crab and you can come back down" [And here]

I touched the crab (I think, not really sure what a crab is you see) and then prepared to descend.

But I made a mistake. I looked down.

Never, EVER look down.

Procrastination

2006-04-07T12:15:00.000+01:00

Extract of a phone conversation with my sister

Sis: "So. What are you up to today?"

Laura: "Well, so far I've cleaned two thirds of my flat."

Sis: "I see. So you've got an essay to write then?"

Busted!

All Quiet on the Blogging Front

2006-04-05T10:26:00.000+01:00

Oh, dear reader. How do I miss thee. Let me count the ways.

One of the biggest oversights I made when signing up to this three-year Masters was exactly quite how much actual work was involved. I visualised myself at the end, graduating as a qualified counsellor. However, I didn't quite visualise the countless words I would have to write in order to get there. Denial? Quite probably.

I'm missing my friends, my life, the money I used to make from full-time employment. My hobbies are taking a back seat. No more football because Sundays are set aside for reading and coursework (allegedly). Less blogging, because when you have to write a 5500 word essay, you just can't afford to use valuable words up on a blog.

The pressure is on now, with three weeks to go before I have to hand in a big project that I haven't quite got round to starting yet. Things may be quiet around here for a while.

But I'll be back. I always am.

The Black Cloud Cometh

2006-03-17T11:40:00.000+01:00

I awoke to some distressing news this morning and I'm hoping to find solace here in the blogosphere. I'm not really sure where to begin. I've been rocked to my very core. That something so utterly painful and distressing should reappear when I thought it had gone for good. I guess it was too much to hope for.

What is this horror? You may well ask. I'm loathe to be the bearer of such bad news. But it must be said. I can keep it to myself no more. Morrissey, you see, is releasing a new album.

I know, I know. I share your pain and distress. Like you I'd hoped those ear-bleeding days were no more, that the era of lyrics like "Born old, sadly wise, Resigned (well, we were), To ending our lives" and "Anonymous call, a poison pen, A brick in the small of the back again, I still don’t belong" had passed into history.

But no! He's back. Rapture! And I heard the first single this morning. Another joyous refrain: "You have killed me, you have killed me. I forgive you, I forgive you."

Anyone got any Prozac? It's going to be a long old summer!

Fart Trap

2006-03-01T19:15:00.000+01:00

Have you ever been caught in someone else's fart trap? Yesterday, at the pharmacy counter in my local Sainsbury's, it happened to me. There I was queueing up, waiting to pick up a prescription, minding my own business. The woman ahead of me was being served. I kept a respectful distance mindful of the fact that the pharmacist had just shouted "is it a contraceptive you're looking for" to her at the top of her voice. Poor woman. She'd turned bright red.

Anyway, once the woman had been given her (gasp) contraceptives, she moved away and I took her place at the counter. The pharmacist had disappeared into the back and I took the opportunity to dig around inside my bag for my purse. That's when I smelt it... the contraceptive woman's fart that she'd left behind. The aroma intensified around me in an acrid invisible cloud. I spotted the pharmacist coming back to serve me.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

There was nothing I could do. I was trapped in another woman's fart with no way out.

Brief Encounter

2006-02-19T20:07:00.000+01:00

He sat down and looked into my eyes.

"Let me ask you a question. You have to answer honestly, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Do you find me attractive?"

Well this wasn't exactly what I expected, I thought.

"Erm, not really," I ventured hesitantly.

"Ah. That's okay. I respect your honesty. Now ask me a question."

"Oh, er, well, let me think," I floundered. "What is your best attribute, and what is your worst?."

He took a moment and then gave me his deadly serious answer.

"Well, I'm really good in bed. Really good. I can go all night."

I was speechless.

"But I guess my worst attribute," he continued, "is that don't really know how to chat women up."

No shit Sherlock, I thought. I'm never going Speed Dating again.

The Modern Valentine

2006-02-15T23:44:00.000+01:00

Valentine's evening. The moon was out in full. It looked beautiful rising above the heath as we stood breathless under the warm glow of a park lamp. The heat from our bodies warmed the space between us and my cheeks flushed as words struggled to escape from my constricted throat. I looked at him, my eyes a window to my inner turmoil. He held my gaze level with his, betraying nothing but the steely strength that burned within him. I wanted to give him what he demanded of me, what was his right, but my courage was failing and I was sure that I would let him down in the end.

"NUMBER 61," he shouted at me, breaking through my reverie. "DROP DOWN AND GIVE ME TEN!"

I'd been day dreaming again.

British Military Fitness may not be every single girl's alternative for a Valentine's day treat for herself. Society dictates that if you're single, you should be at home with a fine bottle of wine, some good company and a few choice DVDs or out on the pull with the girls, having a laugh and basically getting a bit mucky.

Bored!

So there I was with the other hardy single folk of South East London. We remarked on our dwindled numbers and joked about how those regulars that were Missing In Action were probably getting stuck into an altogether different type of exercise at home. And then we ran. We ran some more. We raced each other, did sit ups, burpees, press ups, squat thrusts, used all the muscles in our bodies, all under the watchful eye of members of Her Majesty's infantry.

It was great! God knows why, but it was!

Quick Question

2006-02-13T23:17:00.000+01:00

Why do (some) men do their flies up AFTER they come out of the pub toilets? Clearly that must mean that they haven't washed their hands as they wouldn't stand at the sinks with their willies hanging out, would they?

Doesn't bear thinking about.

Thirty Whatever

2006-02-08T11:25:00.000+01:00

I celebrated my 30th birthday a couple of weeks ago in a nice French bar/brasserie near Covent Garden. I was wearing a new dress, new boots and a big smile. Friends from the four hundred and fifty two corners of my life joined me and I had a great time... apparently.

I say "apparently" because from approximately 11pm I have very little recollection of the evening, although I suppose I did relatively well to remember up until then. I blame the white wine. White wine, you see, is the work of the devil, of Beelzebub himself. It is what I consider to be a "threshold drink" and by that I mean that the threshold between being sober and being utterly shitfaced is very, very small indeed.

I danced... apparently, I danced some more... apparently, and then we got a taxi home... apparently.

Dance Off

2006-01-28T14:58:00.000+01:00

It appears I have taken my love of dancing (and quite possibly tequila) to a new level. Last weekend, at Miss Colourful's hen night, I engaged in a dance off with one of the other girls. Two stubborn dancers, two tequilas and an open dance floor is a somewhat explosive combination and before we knew it we were both surrounded by a circle of girls, taking it in turns to demonstrate a bigger and better move before giving the other some "attitude" and waiting to see what she could deliver.

Encouraged by the baying crowd we strutted our stuff one at a time, daring the other to come up with more outrageous sequences, and before I knew it I was attempting to breakdance... in public. My adversary performed a rather complex seventies manoeuvre and I engaged in some low gravity gyrating pole dancing affair before we finally called a truce and headed for the bar.

I know I've danced lots in my time, but I've never woken up with bruised feet before.

The Aftermath

2006-01-23T11:12:00.000+01:00

Dirty dishes everywhere, no clean crockery? Check!

Sweet wrappers and half drunk cups of tea strewn across the desk? Check!

Fridge full of junk food? Check!

No clean clothes? Check!

No floor space in either living room or bedroom? Check!

Overflowing bin under desk? Check!

Two essays, typed, referenced and ready to hand in? Check!

Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlement. She's on her way back!

4000 word essay

2006-01-04T22:31:00.000+01:00

Tap tap tappety tap. Tappy tap tappety tappety tap.

*Checks wordcount*

362 Words

"Hmmmmm"

Tappety tap tap tappy tap tap tappety tap.

*Scratches head*

Delete - Delete - Delete

Tappy tap tappety tap tap. Tap tap tappety tappety tap. Tap tap, tap tap tappety tappy tap. Tap tappety tap. Tap tap tappy tappety tap.

*Checks wordcount*

389 words

This could take some time

The Madonna Drink

2005-12-21T12:42:00.000+01:00

I've noticed a new character trait. It's mainly induced by alcohol to be fair, but it's there nonetheless. Thinking about it, it's not alcohol in general. It's "that drink", the one which takes me from being "a bit tipsy" to "a little drunk". In short, it's the drink that makes me believe I can dance like Madonna.

It's a little embarrassing really.

Code Red - Do Not Approach

2005-12-01T09:00:00.000+01:00

Following last night's gleeful post about being warm at last in my bedroom I would like to report a lack of water, of any temperature, from the hot taps this morning. "Pissed off" doesn't come close to covering it. I seems that I am not allowed all my comforts at once. And if you think I'm having a cold shower in this weather, not fucking likely!!!

*insert tirade of swear words here*

Sweet dreams!

2005-12-01T00:01:00.000+01:00

Can you "launch" a radiator? What I mean is, can you break a bottle of Champagne over a newly installed radiator and christen it? If so, I'll christen mine Red Hot Radiator and I'll drink Champagne to celebrate her arrival in my bedroom. If I could afford Champagne. Which I can't. Would lager work instead?

I'm in a state of heightened excitement; perhaps you can tell. John the Builder has just left leaving in his wake a warm bedroom. Yes, you heard correctly!!! When I go to bed tonight I won't have a cold nose, I won't have nipples that can be seen from Mars and when I wake up tomorrow morning I won't see my breath as a plume of vapour above my bed.

Good night. I'm off to the Land of Nod... without my fleece!

A friend in need

2005-11-26T22:44:00.000+01:00

Changing your life isn't easy. Leaving a high-pay, high-pace lifestyle to work in the charity sector and to go back and re-train requires some painful adjustments. The financial implications are severe and the isolation of being a student when most of your friends still work full-time in and around The City can sometimes leave you very low. Having said all this, I wouldn't have done anything differently.

Every downside has its upside. I may earn pittance compared to my previous salary but I get home every evening knowing that I've made a very real difference to the lives of some very distressed people. That feeling is worth more than any pay cheque. My course is demanding and so the isolation is important to focus on my studying. Even the demise of my last relationship has played a huge role; I might never have decided to go back to university and do something that was so wholly and utterly for me if I hadn't been forced to put the peices back together.

The thing is, I'm lucky. I have the most incredible support any person could ask for. Recent discovery of dry rot meant that all my savings had to be diverted from my kitchen to replacing my bay windows. My lovely dad stepped forward and plugged the financial holes, which was amazing of him considering he's paying for my fees until I'm at last eligable for a Career Development Loan.

The disaster left me thoroughly fed up. Cooking off a camping stove in a kitchen comprised of an Ikea table and a set of B&Q shelves is a thoroughly miserable exprience, especially during the cold months when all you want to do is come home, put a pizza in the oven and curl up with a good book. The misery is heightened when you know it may be that way for three years.

But everything changed on Thursday. Babs and Hope surprised me with something so spectacular I still can't quite believe that it happened. They took me to a wine bar only to break the news over a bottle of champagne that eighteen of my friends have clubbed together to buy me a cooker for my thirtieth birthday. I cried like a baby. So did Babs and Hope.

So now, every time I stick a pizza in the oven, or cook up a roast, I'll be reminded of how much support I have and how important my friends are to me! I'm not quite sure how I can ever repay them. I guess I can start by having them over for dinner! Thanks everyone!

Statistical Nightmare

2005-11-24T12:49:00.000+01:00

It's been, in all honesty, a miserable couple of weeks. The cold weather seems to curl itself round me in the night and I don't think I've thawed for days. The double glazing installation is going a bit tits up and won't be finished for another couple of weeks and the radiator for my bedroom still hasn't arrived. I'm sick of getting dressed and undressed by the gas fire in the living room and waking up in a building site every morning.

But, you see, these are things that I was prepared to deal with. I knew that by changing my life I'd be broke for a couple of years and that work in the flat would take a lot longer as a result. The course I'm doing has been a major upside bringing balance to these difficulties. I love it. Training to be a counsellor is such a great experience, a journey into the unknown. Mondays at college make my week worthwhile, make the cold bearable and make the endless beans on toast palatable.

But this week's day at college brought with it a rude awakening in the form of statistics. Three and a half hours of statistics, to be precise. It's difficult to describe my relationship with mathematics except to say that I was the kid that was taken out of class for "special" help and suffered panic attacks at the thought of long division. Fifteen years on, things haven't changed. As the lecture went on I found myself feeling more and more agitated. Terms like "Standard Deviation" and "Mode" circled round my head only to slip through my fingertips and flutter away when I felt I was getting a grip. All the old feelings came back. The frustration, the inadequacy, the blind panic.

Even the guys at Amazon think I need all the help I can get. I ordered a copy of Statistics for Dummies the other day. They sent me two!

Now is the winter of my discontent

2005-11-17T10:26:00.000+01:00

Winter is upon us. I know this because my flat is absolutely freezing. Ducking out of the rat race without actually completing the necessary renovations was in many ways a tad foolish. Sarah Beany would have a few words to say about it as my planning and hard work has resulted in a camping stove to cook from and one radiator to warm three rooms.

When I first bought this place my family came to visit and before I could say DIY SOS they'd pulled up the carpet and torn down all the wallpaper in my bedroom. Sadly, they never put anything in their place and, well, neither have I. Two years on and my bedroom is still bleaker than Bleak House and colder than a witch's tit. There is no radiator, the floor boards allow the cold air to seep up from through the air bricks and the secondary glazing installed by the twat who lived here before leaves alot to be desired in terms of craftmanship (staple gunned) and functionality (cold air whistling through in a somewhat ghostly manner). The radiator was pulled out about 8 months ago and won't be replaced until the week after next.

The long and short of it is that it's absolutely freezing. Will I ever feel my toes again?

Walk like a panther

2005-11-15T11:36:00.000+01:00

It was cold, wet, muddy, dark, windy and thoroughly miserable, which makes sense because I was on an astroturf pitch in the North of England at 6.30 on a November evening. Brrrrrrr!

I'd been asked up to Chesterfield by some family friends to coach their daughter's under-11 football team for a weekend and here we were about to start our training session. Helen was introducing me to some of her team mates until she was abruptly interrupted by Kelly, a tiny, blonde wisp of a girl.

"NO, Helen. You've got to use the code names!" She turned to me. "I'm Sponge Bob, Helen's Square Pants, that's Mole, Patrick, Plats, Eric and Titch."

"I see. Shall we start?"

Sponge Bob looked shocked.

"But we can't start until YOU have a code name!"

They put their heads together, whispering amongst themselves in what appeared to be a very serious manner indeed. Eventually Sponge Bob broke out of the circle and led her friends over to me.

"Why have you got the word "Panther" on your training top?" she demanded.

"Because that's the name of my football team in London," I replied.

"Well, your code name is now "Panther". Everyone has to call you Panther from now on!" she declared.

It was all very cute indeed.

The next morning was a different story. It was match day and the pitch was lined with dedicated parents in wellies sipping tea out of thermos flasks and huddling together for warmth.

The match kicked off and I shouted over to Helen to push up a little, which she did. A few minutes later I shouted "great header!" to Kelly. She ignored me completely.

Ten minutes into the match and Kelly had the ball at her feet near where I was standing.

"Run with it, Kelly! Go for goal!"

Sadly, the ball went out and Kelly glared at me, hands on hips.

"Panther!" she hissed. "My name is SPONGE BOB!" and she turned on her heel, running off to chase the ball.

Seconds later she had the ball again and her shot sent it inches over the cross bar. I swallowed my pride:

"UNLUCKY SPONGE BOB!" I yelled across the pitch. "NEXT TIME TRY NOT TO LEAN BACK!"

"THANKS PANTHER!" She beamed and I turned to put on an extra layer. 20 parents were looking at me, their faces riddled with kind amusement.

"Well, if you can't beat em, join em," I declared and Sponge Bob's mum winked at me.

They won seven - nil!

Bedside manner

2005-11-09T19:01:00.000+01:00

I stood there half naked, wearing a robe that showed a little more than I was comfortable with. He walked over.

"Follow me," he murmured. I obeyed and a shiver ran down my spine.

He led me through a door into a bare room. A bed stood at its centre.

"Lie down", he ordered.

I hesitated and then did as he said. He put his hands round my waist, the robe falling to reveal my underwear. He rolled me over and looked into my eyes.

"Don't move." His voice was cold, detached as he retreated out of sight leaving me there alone and exposed.

He returned a moment later. I closed my eyes and held my breath.

"That's all Miss Jerram." He clasped his hands together jovially. "If you'd like to go to Suite Three, Dr Doodah will look over your xray results with you. Sorry about the chill. The heating's down again. Toodle oo"

I shuffled down the corrider clasping the hospital robe behind me lest the whole world should see my bottom.

ADS: Attention Deflection Syndrome

2005-10-30T23:39:00.000+01:00

Today I was supposed to read five, yes FIVE, papers for tomorrow's day at college. The word "supposed" is key to that statement. Instead, I suffered from Attention Deflection Syndrome, that well-known ailment many students mysteriously suffer from when faced with any kind of course work.

I woke up at 9.30 feeling very well rested and made a lovely breakfast of toast and marmite accompanied by a bolstering cup of tea. I pulled on some comfy slob-out clothes, put some Chopin on the stereo and lay down on the sofa to read "The Counsellor and the GP, the Gulf and the Isthmus". (What's an Isthmus?)

Well actually, that's a lie. I did all of the above apart from the reading bit and watched all of Sunday AM (my eyes bled a little when The Proclaimers did a live bit. Should've gone to specsavers), quite a bit of the Heaven and Earth Show, a little Futurama and, to my psychological detriment, rather more of Hollyoaks than is strictly good for me, i.e. one nano-second. (I was heartened to see that they were handling Date Rape with such incredible insight and sensitivity.)

I turned off the telly, having had more than enough of that welsh twat from T4, with every intention of beginning my reading. Then suddenly I became inexplicably taken with the idea of spring cleaning the kitchen, which I did with much attention and not a little gusto (I even cleaned under the microwave plate). I had a break for lunch before starting on the bathroom and finished up by dusting down and having a little hoover around the living room.

Then I had a bath.

Then I did my laundry.

Then I had a snooze.

Then I cooked dinner.

Then I did my recycling.

Then I watched Bleak House (pretty good) followed by the end of Lost (frankly rediculous).

Then I cleaned my bedroom and took the rubbish out.

Then I watched Top Gear (mildly amusing).

Then I had another snooze.

Then I had a glass of wine.

Then I painted my nails listening to Maria Callas.

Now I'm going to bed.

My intellect may not be vastly improved, but at least my house is immaculate! And my nails look quite nice too!

Panic Stations

2005-10-16T21:14:00.000+01:00

It was all very embarrassing really. One minute I was asking the school receptionist for a plaster and the next I was being driven to hospital by my boss's girlfriend, all for a cut on my shin the size of my little finger nail.

Let me rewind.

It's taking me a little while to get used to my new Vespa, The Blue Meanie. Not the riding of it, no! It's the parking of it. Yes, it seems I can ride it around London without mishap, but when it comes to parking the thing up it all goes a bit tits up!

To be fair it's a heavy old peice of kit, deceptively so, and there's a special knack to getting the thing on to its stand. But before you even attempt that, you need to get the bastard onto the pavement first.

First off I cut the engine and tried to push the thing up the curb manually, but for the life of me I couldn't do it. So I tried it with the engine on. Just the tiniest bit of throttle while I stood beside it guiding it up and I figured it would be fine. Perhaps predictably, that didn't turn out to me my most sensible decision. The Blue Meanie flew up out of my hands, whacked a lamp post and then came crashing down to the pavement via my shin.

It didn't hurt. In fact I didn't even realise it was bleeding until I bent down to tie up my shoelace on my way into the school. Okay, so it may have looked a lot worse than it was... there are a fair old few veins in the human leg and my little Vespa appeared to have punctured one of them and so I can understand why maybe the receptionist panicked a little and called over the school tanoy system for the school's Designated First Aider. And I guess to be fair to the school's "Designated First Aider" she would usually be dealing with primary school kids who cry at the tiniest of scratches, but I did really start to get irritated when the Designated First Aider shook her head an annouced that this was a job for Brenda. The receptionish gasped, I sighed and the Designated First Aider held my leg in the air.

At this point I should remind you that the cut was pretty small. Deep, maybe, but really very small and so imagine my surprise when Brenda finally appeared brandishing The Largest Bandage in the World, more or less the size of your average table mat.

"Of course, you'll have to get a proper nurse to look at this," she said as she enveloped me in medical gauze and tape.

"Well, I could always pop into the hospital on the way home", I replied with every intention of not doing that at all.

"But how would you get there?" asked the white-faced receptionist.

"On my scooter."

"Oh, well we couldn't possibly let you do that," said the Designated First Aider.

"No," said the receptionist.

"You might pass out," said Brenda.

"The bus?" I ventured hopefully.

They tutted and sighed, shaking their heads in unison.

At that point my fellow sports coach peeked her head round the door to see what all the fuss was about.

"She's gashed her leg,"

"Blood everywhere. Look!"

Now, I'm convinced that if my colleague had actually seen my leg, she would have persuaded them that it was okay and that I could just whack on a plaster and get on with the coaching. Instead all she could see were three panic stricken women brandishing a bloody trainer and so she obviously thought the whole thing was much worse than it was. She called our boss to see if he could give me a lift to the hospital and she announced he would be there in 15 minutes.

Half an hour later, imagine my mortification when my boss's girlfriend, who I've never met before, pulls up, tells me that Boss is in a meeting and that he called her to ask if she'd drive me to hospital.

"He asked me to give you a tenner, too, you know, for a cab ride home. By the way, I'm Eileen. Hows the leg?"

Eileen was lovely and I thanked her as I got out of the car hoping to wave her off and catch the bus home. Instead she walked me into the hospital and waited until my name was down on the list before she left me to it.

Eventually my name was called and the nurse put me onto a bed and delicately took off the massive bandage clearly expecting an injury worthy of Jaws. Instead she just looked up enquiringly at the tiny scab beginning to form wondering why the hell I would sit in a hospital casualty unit for a couple of hours when a small plaster would have sufficed.

"It's a long story," I sighed.

"I'll just pop a bit of glue on and you'll be fine."

I didn't get a taxi home. I took a bus instead and spent the tenner on a movie and some pop corn.

Born to be Wild

2005-10-11T14:49:00.000+01:00

I'd overslept and so only had time to roll out of bed and pull on the nearest clothes before I left for the motorcycle school. I was quite excited and yet slightly daunted. I'd never ridden a scooter before and didn't know how hard it would be.

While all I needed was the Certificate of Basic Training, I couldn't help thinking that five hours of instruction wasn't really enough time to learn how to drive a Vespa at speed around London. It seems crazy to me that sixteen year old boys can jump on a machine with up to125cc and zoom around to their hearts' delight with only a day's training and a couple of L plates. Still, if the DVLA thinks it's okay, who am I to disagree?

"You must be Laura," said one of the instructors as I stepped into the portakabin.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"You're the only woman coming in today."

Feeling distinctly underwhelmed at this prospect and more than a little intimidated by the big biker boys wearing leather trousers and Axl Rose neck scarves, I sat at the back of the little classroom and waited. I looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps and my heart sank. An enormous biker with a skin head, a bolt through his ear and tattoos up his neck took a seat next to me. He was wearing an all in one leather black and white biker suit (that made him look not unlike a Power Ranger) and an ugly scowl. I shrank back into my seat.

Our instructor, a dry Australian who evidently takes the whole business of biking extremely seriously, came in and talked us through some basic safety before taking us out to the bikes. I took to the whole thing pretty well, even though I say so myself and much to the surprise of my fellow classmates who seemed to be having a harder time than I was. The Power Ranger said very little, preferring to glower at people instead. After all, he was the only one on a "proper" motorbike.

We weaved in and out of cones, performed figures of eight and learned how to turn left and right without getting ourselves killed. Still the Power Ranger glowered menacingly, his skin head gleaming in the autumn sun.

"Time for the emergency stop," said our instructor. "You've got to get the sequence right unless you want to fly over the top of the handlebars. Understand? This sequence is probably the most important sequence you will learn on the bike as it will save your life and the life of the little girl who runs out in front of you. Get it? THE SEQUENCE IS EVERYTHING!!!"

I think I'd pretty much got the message.

"So, number one, release the throttle." He looked up at us expectantly. We nodded vigorously, but the power ranger just glared and glowered some more.

"Two, squeeze the right brake a little. ONLY A LITTLE. Too much and it's over you go and you'll be overtaken by your packed lunch."

I wasn't exactly brimming with confidence.

"Three, squeeze the left brake A LITTLE and then, four, squeeze both brakes together as hard as you can. For those of you with gears," he looked at the Power Ranger, "you've got a fifth part of your sequence. Putting the bike in neutral." The power ranger gave no sign of recognition and the instructor tried again.

"Mate, that's a sequence of FIVE. One, two, three, four and five." He demonstrated as he counted but received no more than a stare. He tried once more his voice heavy with irritation.

"One! Two! Three! FOUR! and Five! Got it?"

At this the Power Ranger cocked his head to one side, shifted his wait and levelled his gaze at the instructor. The class took a collective breath as he went to speak.

"So, what you're saying, mate," he growled, "is that it's a bit like salsa!"

The instructor looked at him incredulously.

"You mean salsa as in the dance?"

He nodded and grinned cheekily. Counting up to five just like the instructor, he demonstrated a little salsa move and chuckled.

"Sequences," he said. "Just like salsa!"

The whole lesson was much more fun after that.

Ciao

2005-09-28T18:06:00.000+01:00

Twelve lovely ladies, one Italian city.

We're off to Rome for a hen weekend. Back next week.

Arrivederci tutti voi gente bella

The worst bridesmaid in the world

2005-09-26T10:17:00.000+01:00

Have you ever felt so incredibly sick to the core of your stomach about something you've done even though you didn't do it on purpose?

Babs's wedding is in exactly four weeks and yesterday we decided that I should try on the incredibly expensive, 100% silk bridesmaid dress that she bought for me in Paris last month. I took it out of its protective bag, put it on, and to my utterly abject horror we saw a black stain about the size of the palm of my hand.

Babs was, understandably, gutted and I felt like I'd killed a kitten. I'm taking it to a specialist cleaner tomorrow. Fingers crossed!

Back to school

2005-09-23T11:18:00.000+01:00

Monday was officially an "incredibly strange day". I went back to university for the first time in nine years. Although it has been in the pipeline for some time, the whole newness of this change in my life only became real as I sat down in the lecture theatre, lifted my bag onto my desk and took out a pad and a pen. A peculiar feeling swept over me: familiarity and unfamiliarity all at once. I've carried out that action countless times in my life but somehow it felt like a flashback rather than something that was actually taking place in real time. It was at that point that I actually felt like my life had changed. Until then it had all been an idea, a concept. Now it's real and it feels very, very strange. I wonder where I'll end up. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

My Flat. Episode I: The Inside Story

2005-09-18T21:15:00.000+01:00

I went to a blogmeet in London yesterday and without exception every single person who reads my blog asked me the same question.

"So Laura. How's your flat coming on?"

At first sobriety enabled me to hide my true feelings about my "beautiful" abode. Alas by drink number four I reacted to this question by covering my face with my hands, putting my head between my knees and hyperventilating.

You see the thing is, if I'm absolutely honest, the flat isn't quite as progressed as I would have hoped. At first glance the place doesn't look so bad. The living room is finished bar the carpet and the lampshade; the bathroom is finished bar the cabinet, the loo-roll holder and two light fittings; and the bedroom is finished bar the plastering, scraping, sanding, papering, painting and the bare floorboards with nails that rip my feet to shreds in the morning. Oh, and I've lost a couple of radiators along the way and it's getting a bit chilly.

That's the good part.

Some time ago (18 months give or take) I had to have the kitchen completely gutted, its dodgy walls knocked down and its rotten floorboards pulled up and replaced. Miss Millwall and I then set about the task of tiling the floor, a process that involved more tea, fags and sunbathing than it necessarily required and in consequence the three weekends we'd allowed ourselves to complete the task stretched into three months. We both had lovely tans though!

My dextrous and ingenious father then took the baton from Miss Millwall to help me put together a makeshift kitchen so that I could move back. He brought over a double camping stove complete with a half full Calor gas bottle. He gave me a microwave that he and Mum bought in 1989, a microwave so unbelievably enormous that it takes two people to carry it and requires its own special supersized table. Then we popped to B&Q to buy a few cuts of wood, some two-by-four, a plumbing kit and, hey presto, my Dad conjured up a sink-unit out of thin air. Brilliant.

Thus it was that I moved back in. I had no kitchen units or oven and was chopping vegetables on top of the washing machine, but I was back and it was my "home, sweet home." Naturally, I started to get excited. I knew that I was going to release some equity when I re-mortgaged and so I was looking forward to choosing my new kitchen.

That was until John the Builder delivered the cruel and shocking blow last month... both my bay windows appear to be rotten to the very core (a fact he demonstrated by ripping a chunk of wood away and crumbling it between his fingers) and my back door is about as secure as Jordan's chastity belt. These all need to be replaced by the winter (*checks calendar and panics*). Cost? £3,800.

Arse!

There goes the kitchen money. I've just given up a well paid job to go back to college. ETA of next well paid job? September 2008. ETA of kitchen? January 2009.

Arse... again!

A message from the unknown

2005-09-05T20:50:00.000+01:00

My home phone rang this evening and I ignored it because I was watching a film. I often do this. There are times I just want to have to myself and so I shut the front door and block out the outside world until I'm ready to rejoin it.

Once the film had ended I checked my messages to find the following from an unknown Scottish man in his late twenties or early thirties.

"Hi Jen. Sorry I haven't been in touch. I've been in Brighton all weekend visiting Inger. There's something I need to tell you. Love you."

He sounded regretful, downbeat, beaten and aprehensive all at once.

This message has intrigued me. What has he got to tell her that he sounds so regretful about? Perhaps he and Inger had a big fight. Perhaps Inger is an old friend of them both and he has some bad news about her. For my money, though, this particular Scotsman has been a naughty boy. I've heard that tone of voice before.

Poor Jen... whoever she is.

Little Miss Muffet

2005-09-03T10:41:00.000+01:00

I have an air raid shelter at the back of my garden. Not one of those small Anderson ones but a big reinforced concrete shelter with a blast door and room for about 6 people. It's pretty cool really. When I first bought my place I had some nice ideas for it. A dark room for photography, an office, or even a sauna. Sadly, all it is at the moment is a "place to put things in", like my bike, spare bits of wood, paints and a lawn mower. I don't like to call it a shed as I feel that would demean it. Its previous life was much more noble: a place of protection and safety as bombs fell all about it. But I guess that's what it really is at the moment. A shed.

In the last few weeks, however, it has become something more sinister than just a shed. Oh yes! It has become a "place where lots of big spiders live" and I'm just not happy about it. There are so many spiders in there that they are now spilling out into the garden. It's like a scene from Arachnaphobia, a film I watched when all around me warned me not to. I should have listened!

When I have to go the shelter I hold a rake out in front of me so I don't walk through any invisible webs (top of my list of worst ever things to happen). And when I get there I run in, grab what I'm after and run out checking my clothing for renegade arachnids.

The problem is getting worse. The other day I was sat in the garden with a friend. I couldn't concentrate on what she was saying. Over her right shoulder in the flower bed was the most ENOURMOUS spider web I have ever seen. On the one hand I was gobsmacked at the intracacy and scale of this stunning bit of architecture. From end to end it was over one and a half meters long. On the other hand I was scared shitless. A big web usually means a big spider.

If that wasn't enough to tip the balance of my phsyche, a small spider interrupted our conversation by abseiling down from the branch above us. It was tiny, but that's not the point is it? Spiders grow don't they? I gingerly grabbed at the thread it was hanging from and dropped it onto the grass. (nb: I couldn't have done that if the spider had been any bigger than 2mm in diameter). Ten minutes later, another tiny spider did exactly the same thing. And then it occurred to me. Spiders have lots and lots and lots of babies (or at least according to Charlotte's Web) to increase the chance of at least a few of them surviving. So, does that mean that there lots and lots of baby spiders all abseiling down from the tree in my garden? And if so, is it morally wrong to set fire to the tree?

The One

2005-08-30T10:33:00.000+01:00

Tired and happy. I love that feeling and that's how I felt when I snuggled down on my sofa last night after a lovely weekend in Paris. Babs and I took advantage of the long weekend and my parents' hospitality to go over and shop for a bridesmaid dress.

To tell you the truth, I'm not a keen shopper. I get bored, hot and restless very quickly and am generally a huge pain the arse to be around. But when you're shopping with your best friend to find yourself a bridesmaid dress for her wedding, it quickly turns into something special.

Deep down we were both a little worried that we wouldn't find anything suitable and that by the end of the weekend we would have reached a state of blind panic grabbing desperately at a selection of hideous dresses in the hope that they "might look good on". If we couldn't find anything in Paris where life appears to be one long catwalk and there are more shops than is necessarily a sensible idea, then we were probably fucked. Outwardly though, each for the sake of the other, we were both pretty blasé about the whole thing, dismissing the pressure with parisian style shoulder shrugs.

As it turned out we found the dress we wanted about fifty metres into Galerie La Fayette, Paris' most famous department store and our first stop of the day. We both fell in love with it the minute we saw it and new immediately it was "the one". However, the Fates, it seemed, weren't going to let us have it as easy as that. The dress was the right size, but they had sold out of the colour we'd fallen for. We went to the champagne bar to steel ourselves for a trek across Paris in search of the exact model we wanted. Fortified somewhat by the bubbly (it was a special occasion after all) we headed to Printemps, another big department store next door, where it turned out they had the dress in both the wrong size and the wrong colour. Strike one!

So far we'd been visiting department stores where this particular designer had a small outlet. Next we hiked to the other side of Paris to visit the main shop itself where we were confident that they would have what we were looking for. Alas it wasn't to be. Right colour, wrong size. Strike two!

Disheartened, we asked one of the shop assistants to call around the other stores in Paris to find out if any of them had what we wanted. Our luck was in. The last big Parisian department store, Bon Marché, had the only dress in our size AND colour in the whole of Paris. They put it to one side for us and we hurried over to claim our prize!

Delighted with our find and surprized that we'd completed our mission so quickly, the rest of the weekend was spent strolling around putting the world to rights instead of in the mounting state of hysteria we'd both been secretly dreading.

Breast friends?

2005-08-25T21:09:00.000+01:00

It was one of those everyday encounters you have with someone who crosses your path from time to time in the ordinary course of things. I don't know her well. In fact I barely know her at all, but it just so happened that we were sharing ten minutes together over a cup of tea, steeped in the sort of politeness that comes only with unfamiliarity. The conversation was peppered with What Do You Do's and Oh Really's as we passed the time of day.

Gradually I became aware of a sense of discomfort within me. I'm a talker, a bit of a charmer and can usually talk my way into and out of most situations. And yet at this particular moment I was clamming up and my conversation was at once both manic and stilted. Something about this woman was making me distinctly nervous and I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

And then suddenly, there it was. I waited a moment, and there it was again. This woman kept stealing glances at my breasts whenever it was my turn to speak. She would ask me a question and then stare at my boobs while I answered it. I moved my arm casually up to play with my necklace but it didn't seem to inhibit her in any way.

It was a particularly strange experience. My gaydar hadn't even remotely flickered in her direction, and nothing else about her suggested that she preferred the company of women, and yet something about my chest was overwhelmingly fascinating to her. I even got the impression that she was aware of what she was doing and was slightly embarrassed about it herself.

I made my excuses and carried on with my day, feeling somewhat bemused.

The Good Life?

2005-08-23T09:41:00.000+01:00

If I've learned anything recently it's that the rat race is an incredibly comfortable place to be. You know how much your next pay cheque is and when you're going get it, you know where you'll be tomorrow (and the next day, and the next), your alarm goes off at the same time every morning so that you can catch the 8.10 to Charing Cross, and someone else takes care of your tax, national insurance, pension and, very often, your lunch. No wonder it took me so long to get out!

I'd like to say I haven't looked back, but that would be a lie. In fact I didn't properly get out until last month. Since January I've been working as a freelance consultant to top up my income from the charity. In terms of my career it was by far the nicest project I've been involved with. The people there made it an enjoyable experience, but deep down I knew that I wanted out of marketing altogether.

So here I am, a part-time helpline manager, a freelance writer, and a student. It sounds good and it certainly doesn't feel bad, but it's a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be. For a start, I'm broke. Really broke. Furthermore, (cue Darth Vader music) I've just spent the last two weeks filling in my tax return, an experience I'm glad I don't have to repeat for another twelve months. Above all, though, I've discovered that it's a hell of a lot harder to get a mortgage broker to take you seriously as a freelance writer than it is as a marketing manager. Tell me, do I have the words "Financially Inviable" written all over my face or something?