Sister got a Onesie

She resisted for the longest time.
She scorned.
She condescended "WHY would anyone want something like THAT?"


Then, ............. she got one.

And now, she is a Onesie-Junkie.




On the upside, seems She ain't alone.

Turns out loads of us got Onesies this Christmas - so Facebook informs me.

So?  What is it like Inside the Onesie?

It is like ..... getting an all-over, full body hug.  Is it a returning to the womb thing?  I dunno.  Don't care.


There are no words.  Truly, it rocks.

Which is ironic as it is, to the core, the single most UN-rock & roll thing. Ever.

Again, who cares.

So soft. So cozy. Nothing squeezes anything.  You don't need to suck anything in. There are no spaces for drafts to get in. And, no spaces for the warmth to get out.

To power up the Goo-Goo-Ga-Ga effect, go Hood.

TOP TIP:
avoid opening the door to unsuspecting visitors.  Wiping the WTF!?! of their face, is a Herculean task.  Be kind, don't make them work that hard.  It's Christmas.

How do I know I've got it bad for the Onesie?

Well, because, daily, I look at my watch and wonder "Is it too early to go Onesie?".

The answer, sadly, is usually 'yes'.

Because, sadly, it is usually around 3:30pm.

I have established that 3:30pm is too early to Onesie.

Once you have Gone Onesie, it is like you are calling time on the day.  It is like a fuzzy, snuggly full stop on your day.

'This is me, out', it says to the World.

Who loves Onesies?

Know who loves Onesies? EVERYONE. Everyone who has experienced a Onesie. If you are a girl (big or little).
Boys (big or little) do not love a Onesie.
How do I know?



Husbands look sad when the Onesies turn up.  Husbands and Onesies will never be friends.

Onesie Admin

As a new Onesie Wearer, I have some questions & observations.  I have discussed these matters with others but, it is always worth canvassing for more opinions.

*  Does One sleep in One's Onesie?

*  Unzipping One's Onesie to 'spend a penny' (as my Nanny used to refer to it) is deeply traumatising, yes?  All cold on the top half, right?
Which brings me to the question, what does One wear (if anything) under One's Onesie? Which brings me back, full circle, to the trauma of a chilly pee.

*  One needs to be careful when performing the above-mentioned penny-spending to ensure all sleeves, dangly pompoms etc are accounted for ............. so as to ensure no inadvertent & accidental dipping of any of those things into the .......................... I give up ................ lavatory.

In short, DON'T PEE ON YOUR POMPOMS!!!!

And finally

*  Am I going to know when it is time to let the Onesie go?
I am at odd with the Non-Onesie-Friendly Climate here in Dubai.
I am now a font of information on the region's meteorological activity.
I watch for signs that might drive the Onesie away.

Stay, Onesie, stay.  Don't leave me.

Goodbyes suck. All of them

(an extract from a post back in October)

I've just done a Goodbye.
I didn't love it.

Goodbyes.

That is what I want to talk about.

Good byes are the hidden Expat Tax. And it weighs heavy on us all.

There are the most commonly thought of Goodbyes -
* the agonisingly sad driving away from home, airport-bound.

* the stomach-churning Let's All Be Brave & Practical Until the Very Last Second and Pretend This Isn't Really Happening.

OR the hideous farewells actually AT the airport.  The Stomach-Churn will follow you here.  You cannot escape the Stomach Churn.

Both scenarios.  Horrific.  The guilt.  The good ol' fashioned waaaaaa-hahhaahahaaaaaaaaa sadness.  The suppression of the I Wanna Drop Everything and Run All The Way Home reflex.


There is another kind of Expat Goodbye too.  Which also hurts.  And doesn't require you to go anywhere.

The one where people leave YOU.

No no no.  WE leave!  WE do the leaving! Goddammit. ..................................WE do NOT get left!

This Goodbye happens when other Expats leave, to either stop being Expats or, to go be Expats somewhere else.

Making strong connections with other people can be really hard anyway, but, when you are an Expat can be really extra-hard.
Our world is very transient.

When you live away from family & friends, people that have known you through the bad haircuts, teenage dramas or relationship euphoria and hiccups, when you DO make what feels like a real connection, it can be quite intense.

I've touched on this Friend thing before - in The Rugby Post & also, in The Happiness Vampires

Friends, the good 'uns, become an immediate practical source of support when you do not have your family immediately at hand.

Sometimes that support comes in the very simple form of just a Proper Belly Laugh.

Maybe handing you a cold one, that makes you contemplate a certain algebraic equation.  Remember what we were talking about earlier?

Or letting you roll in their Money-Pit.

Goodbyes suck. All of them.
Whether you are the Leaver or the Leave-ee.

A Christmas Miracle - Day 16

Here we are, Sweeties, on the final approach.

Not much longer now.

Christmas Day, minus 8 days.

Current status:
mad panic!!

Why?

Well, in a few days time, we are throwing a party for 50+ people at home :)

Looking forward to it massively, though One feels tremendous responsibility when undertaking the Fostering of the Festive Feeling, for Folk Far from Home.

We all have to work a little extra hard at getting all Joy To The World & Frosty The Snowman.

Stands to reason when, daily, we must battle decidedly unMerry elements - blue skies, temperatures in the 20's (Celcius) and all this goddamn sunshine.

However, by hook or by crook, I am getting my Noel on and I'm taking every man jack of you down with me.

Also, we have, like, 3 glasses.  The Maths are against Us.

******************************************************************

I do.  I, seriously, LOVE Christmas.
There's so much to love.

But today, I only want to talk about ..........

The Tree

Doesn't everyone
have a Christmas
Sea Monkey?

The Tree is plastic.  There. I said it.

Built and decorated complete with Family Tension.

The Tension is de rigeur & as much part of Christmas as eating mincepies in the morning throughout December & running out of sticky tape on Christmas Eve with a mountain of presents STILL to wrap.

Also, there is only tension because He, The Big Boy of The House, does it all wrong.
He is a Christmas luddite.
Who, WHO, puts the tinsel on first?
FIRST???!!!

I mean I ask you.

Christmas friggin' Caveman.

Finally, we agreed.
translation: I did it

In any event, I love plastic and, spare me the gushings about the smell, blah blah blah.

As a kid, the tree was always plastic, so Arôme Arbre de Noel Plastique is a very exciting, happy one for me.

Further, no pathetic tree corpse will be lying outside our house in early January.  Discarded.

We don't need you now, get out.
No one wants your smell in January.
In January, Tree, you stink.

How do you people live with yourselves?!

Come the Resurrection of Christmas Trees Past, I tell you, I am in the clear.

*
*
*
*
*
*

Also, there's something else.
If we have a real one, the dogs would wee on it.

So you see? The Christmas miracle has come early.  Day 16 and Tree has NOT been soiled.  Yet.

This, Friends, is a PB for Ollie (The Stripy One).

Our very own Christmas Miracle.

Hell Mum & Guitaring the Air

These past 7 days I have:

Stabbed myself in the eye, with a stick.  Sniffing hay.


Then,
* spent 36 hours approximately 80% blind, thanks to that super-attractive gauze eye patch (with excessive taping)

* I was up for one of those Governor eye patches. But, no.
Stupid girls who stupidly stab themselves in their stupid eye don't get cool patches.




Been the Mother from Hell - with an exceptionally fine performance, just these past 24 hours.
* Lost my shit, over yet ANOTHER un-flushed toilet full of the same (see above).

* AND, very nearly blew Tooth Fairy duties. Again.

A fortnight ago is when I DID screw up.
Gave Kid some convoluted cockamaimy story about the amount of stress & pressure in the modern TF's Life but, y'know, bear with her.
She will DEFINITELY be coming.
He just looked at me.
"Yeah, OK, Mummy." Not bothered.



Driven 79 gazillion miles - despite being grounded for 2 days, thanks to the Ugly EyePatch/Being Blind thing (school runs, after-school activities, horse stuff, errands).

6 days - no SmartPhone
Remember Phone Dramas of September?
No Whatsapp.  No email.  No readily available diary (seriously, I cannot be expected to remember all this stuff with just my aging brain, One's hard-drive is not what it used to be)

What did I have, y'say?
why, SMS. That was it. SMS

Felt I was living in a cave, without the technology of a carrier pigeon.


Air guitar'd & rocked out in bar with some of the funnest people we know.

Want to see more Air Guitaring? Click the link

Looked up, thinking to Self, "Whoooah, this place is really going off", only to see that everyone else was sitting nicely, eating supper, chatting amongst friends, playing

pool/darts etc.








Mortified.
For about 5 seconds.
Fortified. By my beverage.
Got back to having all the fun.

***************************************

It's been a funny ol' week.

A New Headbanger in Town - a rant

Perhaps the Title is a touch misleading.

This is, what I hope to be, the first of the 'Things that Make You Bang Your Head (repeatedly) on The Table' series.

But, that doesn't exactly trip off the tongue so 'HeadBanger' it shall be.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

So, today, whilst driving the Kid to school I hear, on the radio, that a Kardashian (I neither know nor care which one. In fact, I already feel sullied by even knowing how to spell it) is in town.

For those of you who don't know who (or what) a Kardashian is, I am proud of you.

I am not even put a link here, cos I don't what you to find out.  Trust me, you will be the better for polluting your head with that tripe.

If, you, like me, know who they are, kinda, by accident or media osmosis - then, well, what to do? These things happen.

But, if .................. IF ......................, you are one of those that:
* think they are just FABULOUS,
* give a flying toss (this is not the word I would chose to use here, but my parents read my blog so, 'toss' it will have to be) who they are married to / not married to anymore
* remotely interested in whatever bollocks thing they have to say about bollocksing anything
or even,
* like looking at them (I prefer to avert my gaze from such pointless vacuous-ness)

..... then, you should leave, leave now.

Go on.  Out you go.
This place is not for you.
............................................
GO!

********

People like these and those that elevate them to so-called Celebrity Status, make me despair for the world.

They contribute NOTHING.

They do NOTHING.

The World is not better for their presence.

NO, it really isn't.

Not unless you think that,

skintight or see-thru Anythings, 

the eternal quest for huge hair, shiny faces & pumped up lips (& the rest), or 

flashing your Taataas in a frankly, heartbreakingly pitiful music video for an even more pitiful Goodness Aren't I Controversial 'song' 

could be the answer to even an ickle bit of the issues facing the World Today.

I despair.

I do.

(uh oh, I am picking up steam now)

THESE are the kind of people that seem to dominate our headlines?

That people (some people) talk about, queue & jostle to get a glimpse of at some event or other and WORSE, that people (some people) ... *gulp* .... aspire to.

If I had a daughter, I would be out of my mind with worry that these are the sorts of celebrities they may feel under pressure to emulate.

Obviously, everyone values different things to different levels of importance.

And, I am ok with that.

But, oh, come ON.  Them?

Puhleeeeease.

In case you were wondering, the people I personally aspire to & respect hugely are:

*    those with Wit & use it creatively & positively,
*    those that Help those that need helping - doesn't matter Who, How or Where.  The ones that give.

*   the Creative - the ones that make actually make stuff (music, pictures, words, buildings, environments) that educate or help people FEEL something (good or bad, but tapping into a human emotion).

That kind of thing.

Of course, not everyone can have a real Feed The Soul sort of job.  It isn't even about the job you choose, or have no choice over.  You can, in my opinion, do any of those things regardless of what you are doing to pay the bills.

It is about the sort of person you choose to be!!  

Imagine having the amount of cash & publicity available that those OTHER kind of people have and not use it for anything other than promoting their newest perfume or whatever latest self-indulgent claptrap they are blithering on about.

Pffffft.

Thank you for that.  Rant over & out.

Highway to Hell, with gusto

The only people who don't sing in the car .............................

..................................... are people not in a car.

(Stay with it, the funny really kicks in around 1.51 mins)

................................................................

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh boy!!! I rock it like no-one has ever rocked it.  In my car.

And, I can do all the styles.

In my car.

One minute, Show Tunes ('I Have a Dream' is the latest in-car fav.  One doesn't like to toot One's own horn but ....., at times, I can move mySELF to tears) then, straight segue into a random 80's/90's hit.


The Country scene is not neglected either.  I am sorry to admit, publicly.

Those John Denver & Dr Hook songs. Are in my head. Still.  My parents put them there.

They won't go away. They won't get out of my head.



Thank you, Dubai radio, for the inexhaustible supply of songs that no one has heard for decades, & yet, I seem to have retain every word.


There are times I ponder whether my hard drive is clogged up with the retained lyrics for countless songs which:
a) date me
b) drain me of ANY remaining Cool points I may have once accrued

c) prevent me from retaining any more current, more useful information like 'buy milk' or  The Offside Rule.



But, ladies & gents, I DO perform with gusto.

In my car.


It is not unheard of for me to miss my turning, so heavily invested in my performance, am I.

****

The key to my successful In-Car Singing career?

Oh, that's easy.

It hinges on NO ONE ELSE being there.

Simples.

But, in recent times, I am experimenting & going in a different direction.

I have gone from being a solo act to actually, signing on a partner.  I have gone the opposite way from Beyonce. An avant garde move, I feel.

She started her solo career AFTER she was in a group.

Not such a cliched path for me.

Oh no.

And so, on occasion, relinquish my solo status and have become part of a Duo.  Yes.  The Boy now makes In-Car guest appearances.

It isn't always my usual set (y'know Sesame Street covers, that sort of thing) but, gratifyingly, sometimes we meet on mutual musical territory & let me tell you, you haven't lived till you have seen our:

Highway To Hell
(Boy: Air Guitar & vocals,
Roo: Steering Wheel Drums & vocals)

Show Us Your Thing

Everyone has a Thing.

Or 2. Or 3.

You know, a Thing.

Maybe you can't quite remember how it started but now, it has become something that you compulsively have to do (or definitely NOT do).

I am going to have to give you a f'instance, innit?

But, before I do, remember, you asked, and you must not judge me.

Also, when you DO judge me, as I know you will, bear in mind that you have a Thing too and we are going to find it.

Your little sneaky, hidey-away, Barely Even Knew It Was There, Thing.

Right, I am going to man-up and start us off:

The One About New Magazines or Newspapers

I am a bit better now but it really bothers me, when I've got a freshly purchased mag or paper & I'm not the first one to open/read it.

I know when this started.
1990.  First Year at Uni.

This newsagent is more upmarket to that one back in the 90's

Lemon Sherbets - 20p would get you the
small pile outside the bag.
These people must be millionaires.

Living in Halls (of Residence), every Sunday morning, a few of us would drag ourselves to the newsagents (on Roehampton Lane, SW15, London. In case you know it) for our post-fry-up, Student Hangover Survival pack (which still totally works, btw) of Ribena, Frazzles and 20p worth of Lemon Sherbets.

Whose mouth is watering?

Also, 2 newspapers.

The News of The World (I hang my head in shame now)

&

The Times on Sunday.

We felt that these 2 publications would provide us with all the information we might require, with the broadsheet somehow cancelling out the filthy shame of the NoTW.  Even then, you felt a bit grubby after reading it.

Anyway, back to The Thing.

The words "ooooo, can I have a quick look at your paper?".

I hate those words.

Although I never said as much. Just handed it over. Seems I had no spine in the early 90's.

"NO!, fellow Inspiral Carpet-humming, 50 denier be-tighted, DM-shod, Have My Own Kettle now so can Make Tea in my room using Marvel milk powder*", I wished I could scream "get your own paper!!!".

*one felt dead sophisticated to invite another lever-arch folder toting, "What time is your next lecture?" student back to One's room to offer them a tea, or oh my days!, a COFFEE.

I hauled my arse to the shop.  You didn't.

The anticipation of opening a virgin newspaper (I wonder. Is it possible that Dad & I are the only people to never take the one from the top, always take the 2nd? We might share a Thing) is bliss.

The smell.  The crisp pages. You know it is pure because they are still a little pinned together from the paper-cutting process (or something).  The static between the pages of the magazine supplement.

The second someone else opens it, all that fresh, 'you are my first' loveliness it is lost forever.

A tad dramatic perhaps but this is my Thing so I get to be a bit potty about it.

AND they always return all untidy. Pages all akimbo. Awful.  Violated. Soiled.

I tried to pretend nothing had changed when the paper came back to me. We tried. We went through the motions. Paper & I. But, we both knew it was over.

You may think this is pretty bad but, Sweetie, it gets worse.

Although, as they say things have to get worse before they can get better.

It was on this day that I compelled myself to make a change.  To have a little word with myself and vow to no longer allow myself to be That Person.

It was a Sunday morning.

And I found myself in the Halls of Residence laundry room (I don't really recall going there that much during the normal course of events) ...........

........... standing at the ironing board, iron in hand (again, think that must have been 1 of the 6 times during the 4 years at Uni that I ever stood there)  .........

...... effing-well IRONING my paper!!

Dear God.


It was like the fog cleared and I stared at the iron in my hand.

Holy SH*T! Girl, you are at a crossroads.  Which path do you want to go down? Choose wisely because, there is no going back if you chose to continue down the one signposted 'Bonkers Lady who Irons Newspaper'.

Phew.  I chose good.

I feel I dodged a big ol' cuckoo bullet.

UPDATE
I am MUCH better now but, bear with me if I hold on a little longer than seems right as I hand you my paper, I am still a Work In Progress.

So, there you have it.

***********************

Go on, your turn. Show us your Thing.

You know you want to.

They Aren't Ours to Keep

Right, you are either going to be one of Them That Get It or, Them That Don't.

I think of all my posts, this will be the one that will either speak to your heart OR,
have you scratching your head thinking "what is WRONG with these people?".

That's ok.  You Head-Scratchers can toddle off for a sec - but, do come back later, normal service will resume soon enough.

**************************************************************************

OK, so now we are alone ..... let's talk.

Let's talk about saying goodbye to our non-human friends or family members.

Unsurprisingly (given my childhood ie Wherever I Am ...&, not really coincidentally, subsequent life-style choice ie Write About Your Passion ), I have had much experience (sadly) in loss of this nature - starting from childhood, right the way up to last year.

My Folks get it
And they gave it to me.

2012.  The hideous year in which we lost 4 family members (3 dogs - old age, congenital health issues and ghastly accident & 1 cat - suspected shot, by someone I hex, daily).

I have said in the past that I believe very strongly in giving children the opportunity to grow and live with pets (doesn't matter what species).

This is Ollie.
He gets read to.
He pretends he is interested.
He seldom is.
He is a polite dog.

There are a myriad of joys, blessings and lessons that children can get from having a pet.

Yes yes yes, the kids get all the benefits & the old folks get all the poo-clearing & the bills.

Deal with it.  You the grown-ups. 

Gloria.
Our Gloria.
Only knew life in a cage.
Spent last 5 months of her life with us.
Left us, finally knowing
the deep joy of sofas & cuddles

Thiiiiiiiink of the liiiiiiiiittle chil'ren.



One of the least obvious, but VERY valuable, is the opportunity to address death & loss, in a safe way.
Hopefully, before they have to encounter it within the Human Family or Friend sphere.

 Things live.  We love them.  They love us. Inevitably, though, sad times come.  Doesn't diminish the good times.  In some ways it makes them more special.

These were tough things to explain to the Household 6 year Boy.  But, we did.

He was (& still is, at times) sad but he knows what happened.

***

Through my degree (Education & Biology) and then, subsequent research on helping adults (& children) with Pet Bereavement, I learnt a number of important things.

The most important, I think, is to use the words.  YOU gotta be brave.  No one digs using the 'D' word but, this is an opportunity to help your kid, so time to man up.

Say 'died'.  Not 'went to sleep' - potentially, trying to avoid 'the word' can give kids the fear of falling asleep, bed, having an injection themselves etc etc.

Enough.

Talking to Children about death of a pet - here, there's all sorts of stuff out there for you to have a look if you want to.

***

I don't want this whole thing to be about The Kids because when you are a Grown-Up, losing a pet (Species Irrelevant) hurts like HELL too.

There is no skirting around the issue.  No getting away from it.

It isn't simply the loss of the physical  presence of a much-loved furry/feathery/scaly buddy- sometimes we mourn too for the severing of the connection with a former life.

• Perhaps your cat predated your spouse.
• Perhaps your budgie was a pet that you shared with a room-mate that has now moved away.

Now that creature is no longer physically present, you feel your connection with a previous life is also finally ended.

*OUCH*

Sometimes, the loss of a pet reminds us as to what an emotional rock their presence in our lives has been.

• Maybe that dog joined your household as a pup in a different country, moved around the world with you been a constant in a life full of upheavals.
• Maybe your horse, acquired, finally, as an adult, returned you on a daily basis to that Pony-Mad Little Girl from *ahem* decades ago.
  (a phase that everyone, btw, reassured your parents you would grow out of!)

OR .....

It does not have to be anything like any of those things.

Perhaps you just really REALLY miss your friend.

Because a Friend is what these things are, to us, The Ones That Get It.

And, as much as it hurts when they leave us, I, for one, am so glad that I Got It.

And finally,

The Rainbow Bridge*

A long time ago I read something which I found very helpful.

A concept to meditate on (in between all the gulping sobs, snot-catching and eye-dabbing) which I, personally have found very calming.

(Note: I paraphase and have added my own take on it all)

Simply, these entities are not ours to keep.

They have their own journeys to follow, their own paths to follow.
As do we.

We are blessed to have been able to travel along together, for a while, but ultimately, our respective roads will branch.
This is true for all of us, regardless of hairiness, scaliness or number of legs.

They are not ours to keep.  That bit, in particular, feels right.

So, when the time comes, we must let them go & wish them well. 

*Bloody poem wrecks me.  You have been warned 

Goodbyes - the hidden Expat Tax

Did you know?

Expats, certainly ones living here, are soulless, money-grabbing, selfish capitalists who only wish to accumulate more of the filthy lucre. At any cost.

We booze and swill hundreds of ££ or $$$'s down our ever-open, ever-stretched gullets like so many young magpies.

Gorging. Gorging. Gorging.

Having invaded, and driven out the smaller weaker of our kind, from their palm-tree shaped nests (swimming pool included), we roar with evil laughter whilst rolling naked in our money-pits (we all have them), twirling our evil moustaches.

Apparently.

All of us.

I don't think so.

Can I just say, before we move on, that I am not convinced that I drink/get drunk here, any more than I did in either of the other countries I have lived in.

In fact, I think there is a good chance I do it less.

Now, this is NOT because I am oppressed, by virtue of my weaker inferior sex nor in fact ... as everybody outside the MiddleEast seems to think* ... because I am not allowed to.
*Ditto driving.  Ditto eating pork.

Here, let me explain.

I like to call it:

The GeMTHH (GetMeTheHellHome) Quotient 

It looks like this:



Essentially, we need to establish if A is greater than the value of G

A = Amount of Alcohol-induced Fun likely OR Alcohol-Required to Induce Fun
G = Getting Home Afterwards Aggravation / Urgency

Thus, in Dubai, I often drive.

In HongKong, you step outside (unless it is raining), *BOOM* there's a cab & before you know it, you are getting yourself the Hell home.

It is less easy, in my experience, here in Dubai. Unless, I guess you are doing your Mr Creosote obscene amount of consumption in a hotel.

I just like to get home, when I want to go home.

I don't wish to order a taxi at a specified time BEFORE I've even begun to have all the Fun .......... nor do I wish to, when I have decided to call 'time' on the Fun to wait for what could be anything from
"10 minutes away" to
"30 minutes coming" to after all that,
"not coming now. No taxis."
(assuming they even answer the phone at that point).

I digress.  Yet again.

I have a habit of doing that.

See? I did it again.

Taxis and drunkedness is not what I want to talk about here.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Goodbyes.

That is what I want to talk about.

Good byes are the hidden Expat Tax. And it weighs heavy on us all.

There are the most commonly thought of Goodbyes -
* the agonisingly sad driving away from home, airport-bound.

* the stomach-churning Let's All Be Brave & Practical Until the Very Last Second and Pretend This Isn't Really Happening.

OR the hideous farewells actually AT the airport.  The Stomach-Churn will follow you here.  You cannot escape the Stomach Churn.

Both scenarios.  Horrific.  The guilt.  The good ol' fashioned waaaaaa-hahhaahahaaaaaaaaa sadness.  The suppression of the I Wanna Drop Everything and Run All The Way Home reflex.


There is another kind of Expat Goodbye too.  Which also hurts.  And doesn't require you to go anywhere.

The one where people leave YOU.

No no no.  WE leave!  WE do the leaving! Goddammit. ..................................WE do NOT get left!

This Goodbye happens when other Expats leave, to either stop being Expats or, to go be Expats somewhere else.

Making strong connections with other people can be really hard anyway, but, when you are an Expat can be really extra-hard.
Our world is very transient.

When you live away from family & friends, people that have known you through the bad haircuts, teenage dramas or relationship euphoria and hiccups, when you DO make what feels like a real connection, it can be quite intense.

I've touched on this Friend thing before - in The Rugby Post & also, in The Happiness Vampires

Friends, the good 'uns, become an immediate practical source of support when you do not have your family immediately at hand.

Sometimes that support comes in the very simple form of just a Proper Belly Laugh.

Maybe handing you a cold one, that makes you contemplate a certain algebraic equation.  Remember what we were talking about earlier?

Or letting you roll in their Money-Pit.

Goodbyes suck. All of them.
Whether you are the Leaver or the Leave-ee.

Invisible Colin or "Has Halloween come early?"

(Those of you who are my FaceBook Friends, you must have been expecting this post.)

So, last night, it was revealed to me that, apparently, someone called 

 Invisible Colin 

lives with us too.

The conversation was brief.

This was on account of reduced stamina, due to:

a) trying NOT to have the screaming ab-dabs

b) maintaining a heart-rate somewhere below 280 bpm &

c)  trying to relax my constricted throat, affording me a voice option other than 'strangled squeak', whilst attempting to 'discuss' Invisible Colin.

Things we quickly established were that:
*  Invisible Colin is, in fact, a girl (obviously)
*  Invisible Colin, by happy coincidence likes all the same food as us.  Primarily the "healthy foods" with ice-cream and chocolates thrown in.
*  Invisible Colin, looks like me but "without all those spots" (I hate Colin a little right now.  Freckle-free cow)

And finally,
*  Invisible Colin enjoys a game of rugby.

Right.

Now.

THIS is where I should have left it.

Shouldn't have asked.

Should.

Not.

Have.

Asked.

"Where does Invisible Colin sleep?", I asked.

Why did I ask?

WHY???

Solemnly, The Kid pointed to the ceiling.  Deadpan face "Up there."

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ........?", said Mummy.

Daddy, behind The Kid, was silently chortling & pointing at my face.



The thing is, for years now, my love-hate (I LOVE watching them, but then, they scared the bejesus out of me & I HATE that) relationship with spooky movies and supernatural ghost-hunter reality TV shows have generated issues.

I have examples:
I won't stay in 'old' places.
If I do, I must be accompanied at all times.

This isn't either of those holiday places.
If I turned up somewhere like this, I wouldn't even get out of the car

I didn't sleep for 5 days during a particularly spooky family 'holiday' to a cottage in Pembrokeshire, Wales, which, as it transpired my Mother-in-Law ALSO felt exceedingly uncomfortable in.  So I feel justified.



We talk of it still.

Trousers and Trousers Senior roll their eyes. Still.


During another such trip, to an old Rectory in a spectacularly beautifully part of Wales, the rest of the family found a gravestone in the garden.

THE GARDEN, people!!!!

Together, all agreed that it was best, for all concerned, to withhold this information from me.

They were probably right.

We don't go on those kind of holidays anymore.

*********************************************************************************

All joking aside, I am not unduly concerned re this (hopefully) Imaginary Friend.

Research is showing that actually the appearance of an (please God) IMAGINARY Friend is actually a very positive thing.

What Would Your Imaginary Friend Say About You?







What Wiki has to say about Invisible Colin

It has been theorized that children with imaginary companions may develop language skills and retain knowledge faster than children without them, which may be because these children get more linguistic practice than their peers as a result of carrying out "conversations" with their imaginary friends.^[5]

Kutner (n.d.) reported that 65% of seven year old children report they have had an imaginary companion at some point in their lives. He further reported:

Imaginary companions are an integral part of many children's lives. They provide comfort in times of stress, companionship when they're lonely, someone to boss around when they feel powerless, and someone to blame for the broken lamp in the living room. Most important, an imaginary companion is a tool young children use to help them make sense of the adult world.^[6]

Taylor, Carlson & Gerow (c2001: p. 190) hold that:

despite some results suggesting that children with imaginary companions might be superior in intelligence, it is not true that all intelligent children create them.^[7]

Some psychologists^[who?] have suggested that older children retain but stop speaking about imaginary friends due to adult expectations and peer pressure^{[citation needed]}.

Pediatrician Benjamin Spock believed that imaginary friends past age four indicated that something was "lacking" in the child or his environment. Some child development professionals believe that the presence of imaginary friends past early childhood signals a serious psychiatric disorder.^[8][9] Some have theorized that children who hold on to imaginary friends past school-age are stigmatized^{[citation needed]}.

Other professionals feel that imaginary friends are common among school-age children and are part of normal social-cognitive development.^[10]

Marjorie Taylor identified middle school children with imaginary friends and followed up six years later as they were completing high school. At follow-up, those who had imaginary friends in middle school displayed better coping strategies but a "low social preference for peers." She suggested that imaginary friends may directly benefit children's resiliency and positive adjustment.^[11]"

And, just to prove 'Like Mummy, Like Son' ......

Knife-Wielding Bad-Ass. Me?

Just as a matter of interest, are we, The Trousers & I would like to know, the only people who don't sleep with some sort of weapon by the bed?

I dunno.  I think that it is fairly unusual security step for most British people to take.

Or so I thought.

*********************************************************************************

Recently (yesterday) over a lovely piece of salmon, with friends, I was reflecting on the fact that, on my last night of living in my first-ever shared (student) house (in London) one of my housemates (female) revealed she always slept with a rounders* bat under her bed.

*Americans, this is like a teeny baseball bat

And another, purposely, had an empty wine bottle.  For the same specific reason.

Just as an aside, in those days (as indeed now), anything kept under my bed would not be easily, or swiftly, retrieved amongst the jumble of suitcases, lone socks, mugs & Sunday newspaper supplements "I'm getting round to reading". 

That said, the dusty tumbleweeds, under a 'Student in the 90's' bed alone, could have brought on an asthmatic attack strong enough to floor a charging elephant - so, perhaps I WAS surrounded by a grimy ring of safety.  

Perhaps I WAS, as they say in things like Lock, Stock or Snatch, "tooled up".

I'm not sure I'm really pulling off the Saaaf Laaaandahn villian thing so, I'll stop trying.

Anyway, my point is that apart from the Filth (I refer to the ACTUAL filth, as opposed to the Cops, the Fuzz, PolicePeople) it never occurred to me to weaponise myself.

And, I sort of assume the same of most people I know.

Additional Bit of Information

At this point, I need to add a small adjustment to the above-stated assumption.

When I first moved to the UK, to start Uni, in that Saaaaaaaf Lahndahhhhn, my Dad DID give me a knife. 

The Trousers, whenever he hears this statement, collapses into roaring, tear-wiping fits of laughter.

Rude.

Well, I mean,  it sounds quite serious, right?  Admit it, for a second there it gave you pause, right?  It had to have been somewhat unexpected.

Apparently, my husband does not see me as a Knife-Wielding Bad-Ass.  

That's a good thing, I think we can all agree.

The fact that it was a Swiss Army Knife (Classic - Champ, 91 mm) apparently adds to the hilarity.

Mock if you wish, but, should anyone leaving a Camden Club in the early 90's, have needed some fish de-scaling, I was ready. 

And, yes, "proper tooled-up".

Moving On

This was all decades ago but very recently, it was revealed to me that I was not the only one (female) among my acquaintances who was also weaponised in the 90's.  

She, this lovely lady, went everywhere with a fruit knife apparently.

There's more though.

During the course of the evening's discussion, in the charming setting of a Golf Club in Dubai, it was further revealed that this delightful lady & her spouse had had other security contingency plans, hidden under the bed.

I cannot recall, & stand to be corrected, whether this practice has continued since their residency commenced here in the UAE or whether it was solely reserved for life in the UK.

The details are unimportant.

I merely wish to enquire this:

Does anyone else have a baseball/rounders bat, bottle of wine, hammer, stinger, knuckle-duster, bazooka under the bed?

And:

Should I?

Probably the best I could manage!