Monday, 28 February 2011

Block block block.

The last few days I've had writers block. A writers block of sorts. I've wanted to keep up with my posts, but I've not known what to write. Therefore writers block. So I've just thought of something random and gone with it. Written until I'm a little frustrated with myself and so just clicked publish post. But I've not been satisfied with them, or with myself. I'm still trying to figure out the purpose of this blob and still trying to get a feel for what my writing style is. It's a learning curve and a process. Be patient with me please while I try to show myself the same patience.


Monday is a long day. A very long day. Not entirely unpleasant, but just full on. Here's the break down. (If anyone's interested. Is anyone interested?) Two lectures, a seminar, one group meeting to do planning and half a group meeting to make sure we're all on the same page, a trip to the travel agent, a very sweaty gym workout, (not sure I needed to share the sweaty part...), a little stint in the library, a dinner, a clean up after Mr.K the patient that can't do all that much with one hand, a mini photo shoot in the kitchen and a crème brûlée. The crème brûlée was definitely the high light. Throw in a few deep breaths and some keep calm and just graduate and welcome to my day. 
Feel free to remind me of this day at any point in the future when I'm complaining about being busy. Well actually, I say that today was a busy a day, but I'd wager that I'll look back at this day, maybe when I'm in the throws of dissertation writing, or planning for an observation in my NQT year and beg to be taken back to this 'busy' day. 

PS. Check out Mr.K's sweet new, neat scar. 

Sunday, 27 February 2011

Repeat as often as necessary

More and more often I keep having to take a deep breath and tell myself this. Inhale. Keep calm and just graduate. Exhale. Keep calm and just graduate. Inhale. Keep calm and just graduate. Exhale. Sometimes it helps. But most of the time school work gets very overwhelming very fast. Mostly because it's just nonstop. Day after day after day after day after day. Maybe it would be a bit of a help if I used more than just five days of the week to do school work. Having no weekend would make me crabby though. Crabby and insane. And Mr.K would not like that very much. 

So I just have to take a deep breath, say a quick prayer and get on with it. Turn on my laptop (and exert seriously mental effort not to quickly log onto facebook), get out my lecture notes, get out my books and just get my head down and work. Either that or face hours of procrastination, looking for something, anything to distract me from doing my work. I've got really good at that. I would almost consider it to be a talent. I wonder if there's a career in procrastination?

Sometimes I just need to get a bit o' perspective. This time next year I'll be close to finishing my degree. My days as a student are numbered. This time next year. I'll be freaking out about stepping out into the big, wide world and I'll be applying for jobs in my very first teaching post. (In all seriousness, who will take me seriously?! I have nightmares of going to interviews and being laughed out of the school for being too young and having delusions of being an adult.) This time next year I'll be close to having a proper job. Nay a career! (And I'll be rejoicing in the salary!)

But until then, I'll just keep calm and graduate. 

Thursday, 24 February 2011

A load of baloney.

So, there's this guy that I know. He's a med student. Any normal person's natural assumption would be that med student = intelligent. And you'd be right. He is very intelligent. But, declared by his own self, at least 90% of the things that he says are rubbish. Let's throw in some synonyms. Rubbish, nonsense, baloney, mumbo jumbo, prattle, poppycock, absurdity.

When I think about it, I think I could probably declare that I speak a high percentage of poppycock too. And so does everyone. And the truth of this statement was perfectly exemplified just a short five minutes later. It started with a question: Would you rather be blind or deaf? A legitimate question. Neither rubbish, poppycock, nor nonsense. But that question was then followed by would you rather be deaf and without legs or blind and dumb? Again, a fair question. I'd say so anyway. But then came, would you rather be completely hairless all over your body or extremely hairy, think werewolf hairy, all over your body? Toughy. But complete rubbish. I think the conversation ended there, but it reminded me of other questions I've either been asked or asked myself. For your reading and mental pleasure are the following... Would you rather have stumps instead of hands or lobster claws instead of hands? If you were bald would you rather be straight up bald or would you live to grass and flowers growing from the top of your head instead? Four arms or four legs? I could go on, but actually it's getting a little bit embarrassing. I can't believe I'm associating myself with such frivolity!

Let's make things a little more serious. It is the opinion of some, namely my good friend Sally, that women talk less rubbish then men. Proportionally. Controversial I know. But listen to this. Women talk more then men. I think that we can agree on that as fact. Let's say the quality of speech is equal. Meaning that the amount of rubbish spoken is the same. And women speak more. So, therefore women speak less rubbish then men. Proportionally. Now this has gotten too serious. Enough.

I'll lighten the mood with a joke... What's orange and sounds like a parrot? A carrot!

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Waka Waka

Let me be honest. In all of my life I have not wiggled, shaked or jiggled as much as I have today. And I'm actually quite a wiggly shaky kind of girl, so the previous statement is really saying something. Why? One word answer. Zumba. Actually, it feels more appropriate to write it like this: ZUMBA. Oh yeah, that's right. The massive yellow writing with an orange highlight is completely appropriate. Because I absolutely loved Zumba. And again, allow me to be honest, my hips don't lie. I'm practically Shakira. Seriously, waka waka eh eh.  Well, if you a picture a young Shakira that's just eaten Beyonce. (I'm a big fan.) It's my hips, they're waka waka ehehing for zumba class. I am most definitely going back next week. Zumba. I just want to say it a few more times. Zumba. Zumba. ZUMBA.

On a less jiggly note, tonight I am home alone. Homage alonage. Mr.K is in the hospital. Would it be harsh of me to end this post right there and say no more about his hospital visit? Probably. Technically he's fine. And when I say fine, I mean he's not ill. But tomorrow he has an operation on his arm. Or maybe it's classed as reconstructive surgery. Not sure. Basically, when he was younger he was in a car crash and he shattered both bones in his left four arm. So that it would heal properly he had to have metal plates put into his arm. As his arm healed the tendons that bend his thumb got mixed up with the scar tissues, which means that he can't bend his thumb. (Which does nothing for his fifa abilities.) So tomorrow they're going to try to fix it. Maybe I can show him some of my Zumba moves after his surgery to cheer him up....

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Thinking of a title takes too much time.

And I am too busy to think of a title today. 
In fact, I am too busy to even write a blog post today. 
Trying to think of something that is even remotely funny, witty, insightful or possibly all of the above is just out of the question. 
And don't even make me think about how much time it takes for me to scroll through my albums of pictures to find the one that I actually want to use. 
And then there is the whole part about semi obsessively checking back on my blog to see if a kind soul or two has commented (rarely happens). 
I am serious. 
So serious that you should check out the massive stack of Come Dine With Me's that I have recorded (at least 33) that I haven't watched yet. 
Because I honestly love Come Dine With Me. 
But really I don't even have time to write about how truly unbelievable it is. 
 I need to dedicate my waking hours to boring, BORING, BORING research and ethics readings and other school junk. 
(Don't tell the lecturers that I called it junk. They will give me bad grades.) 
And who can afford to get a bad grade and to have to rewrite an essay? 
Because I'm far too busy. 
I definitely don't have to time to waste. 
Like by watching clips on youtube. 
(Even though I am still completely flabbergasted by this.) 
It makes me laugh it is so incredible.
 But don't you even think that I have time to be laughing now. 
I am so busy and it is no laughing matter. 
And let's try to avoid thinking about the fact when I was tidying at the weekend I forgot to do the spare the bedroom. 
Let's especially not think about it because it's cold in there and it is full of random stuff that has to be manoeuvred if you want to clean properly. 
And then there are all the unavoidables and unmissables. 
Brushing teeth, reading scriptures, showering, dropping Ross off at work, making approximately 17 glasses of orange squash, calling & hanging up on Ross at least once, making an edible dinner (actually, I like cooking, my dinners are always edible, it's when Ross cooks that we start to have problems) and lastly, writing my blog. 
Which I am far too busy to write today. 
(I'm serious.) 

Monday, 21 February 2011

Aged beyond comprehension.

I'm not that old. Statistically I'm probably less than a quarter of the way through my life. Which is somewhat of a comfort I suppose. Because really, who likes the thought of dying. In the immortal wisdom of Mr. Robbie Williams, "I'm not scared of dying, I just don't want to." But dying is not what I want to write about. Not today anyway.

A few days ago I was speaking with Chlo. I said how when I was younger and I imagined being the age that I am now, that I would feel so adult and grown up. But I don't. Most of the time I still feel like a sixteen year old girl. (Question to all: Will I always feel this way? Or will my mental age eventually catch up with my body?) I said that I imagined that that I would have everything figured out. I suppose in some ways I do. I mean, I have a husband. And my degree leads me into into a definite career in education. So that's two things ticked off on the big check list of life. But still, I feel far too younger to be living what resembles a grown up life. 

Chlo agreed. It was her birthday a few days ago. She turned 21 and she had a bit of a freak out, because when she was younger she never really thought of herself as ever being anything older than 21. Not to say that she imagined that she wouldn't live past 21, but that she never imagined what her life would be like. 21 is were it stopped. 

And speaking of the future, it's something that is always so far away. In the future. I never think that the present, what I'm living in right now, is a version of the future that my previous self had thought up. In fact it boddles my mind. That's right, boddles. 

Saturday, 19 February 2011

I'll Tell You What I Want....

What I really, really want.....

.....Are more days like today.

A cheeky lie in the morning with a big bowl of cereal. Time with friends, especially time spent in the Spice Girls exhibition sand then eating burgers. Taking lots of photos and drinking chocolate fudge brownie milkshakes. 

Friday, 18 February 2011

A few little notes

Dear Mr.K, 
You are the subject of practically all of my pictures (see below) and you don't even mind or complain. You took me to a spa today and then bought me some chocolate afterwards. You are the best husband ever. 
I love you, wifey. Xxx

Dear Spa Lady, 
You gave me a back massage today and it was quite simply wonderful. You have magical hands. 
Lots of love, a happy (and relaxed) customer.

Dear Gourmet Burger Kitchen, 
We have never eaten from your menu before. But boy oh boy did we love it! I promise that we will come back again soon and enjoy some more of your burgery delights. 
Lots of love, a perfectly full consumer.

Dear Momma, 
I haven't spoken to you in a few days. But I did see you on Monday and that was good. I'm going to go to the Spice Girls exhibition at the museum in the morning just in case you were wondering. Try not to miss me too much. I will call you tomorrow. Or maybe you can leave me a voicemail where you are being a little bit crazy and doing voices. It makes me laugh when you do that.
Lots and lots of love, your favourite daughter. Xxxxx
PS. I like your yellow balloon face.

Dear Chlo, 
Mr.K & I had a lovely and wonderful time with you and Jar on Wednesday. The Eton Mess that you made was prefect. And I like reading  your new blog and checking out what you've been wearing. You are my best friend and I love you.
Lots of love, one of your bridesmaids.

Dear Everyone Involved, 
Thank you for reading my blob. It makes me happy to know that people read what I write. Even if no-one did I would still do it anyway. But please keep coming back and leave me comments. I would like to know what you think.
Lots of love, Beady.

Thursday, 17 February 2011

My mind and my bloody hands.

I, dear readers, am one of those people that doesn't deal too well with being alone. But let me make this clear, I don't mind shopping alone or sitting by myself in the library. This is not the kind of alone of which I make reference to. I'm talking about the home alone kind of alone. 

My mind goes crazy. I convince myself I can hear noises, that someone is lurking outside my window, that someone is in the house. The usual kind of things I suppose. 

I remember a time when I was maybe about 13 years old. It was night time. My two younger brothers were already asleep in bed and my Mom was out of the house for some reason. I wish I could remember the reason. Anyway, wherever Mom was, Dad had to go and pick her up. Which meant that I was going to be left in the house alone. Not counting my brothers, but they were asleep already, so they didn't count. After about 10 minutes of being alone in the house I started to hear this really loud banging. It was coming from outside of the house but I could tell that it was close. I was terrified. There was no pattern to the banging, but it was happening often and did I mention already that I was terrified? The banging didn't stop and so by the time that Mom & Dad got home, which was only about 10 minutes later I was crying under my quilt. I thought that someone was breaking into the house. It turned out that it was only the gate. It hadn't been shut properly and the wind was making it bang against the fence. Very loudly.

And it's not something that I've grown out of. In our flat, the entrance and the hallway has no natural light. So when all of the doors that come off of the hallway are closed it is pitch black. And if I'm in the house by myself I hate it. I walk through and think that there is somebody crouching by the door or hiding in the corner. 

So, now knowing my sentiments of being alone you can imagine how I reacted to what happened last night. Mr.K & I had had a lovely evening, with excellent food and excellent company. And then he gone to play football and I had come home. So I was alone. With lots of lights on in the flat to make me feel better. I was going about my get ready for bed routine. Put on pjs, brush my teeth, use mouthwash, floss, take off make-up, wash face, tone face, moisturise face, get into bed. I was up to the wash face part. So I was obviously leaning over the sink, with my eyes closed and rubbing water all over my face. But when I stood up and opened my eyes, I saw that my face was covered with blood. So were my hands and the sink. I was seriously freaked out. Until I realised that it was just because I'd started to have a nose bleed while I was washing my face. But for the split second that stood up and all I saw was blood I was a wreck. A bloody wreck. 

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Putters & Leavers.

In life there are putters and there are leavers. Everyone falls into one of these categories. You are either one or the other.

I'm a putter. Aka, a bit of a perfectionist.  All of my belongings have places. And my belongings can be easily found because they're always in their place. Unless Mr.K has used it. Because if he has, that means that he's left it somewhere else. Mr.K is a leaver. 

Let me give an example. In my kitchen cupboard sits a pretty little pot. It's a pale egg shell blue. The sole purpose of this pot is to hold keys. The key for the letterbox. The key for the cupboard with the electricity meter. The key for the gate. The key that we got when we moved in that we've never used because we still don't know what it opens. My house keys and my car keys. In fact, here's a picture. Please note, I've only listed my house keys and my car key. That's because I'm a putter. I get home and the first thing I do is go to the cupboard and put my keys in the pot. 

Ask me if Mr.K uses the pot. Go on, ask me. Simple answer, no. That's because he's a leaver. He'll come home from work and empty his pockets and leave the contents wherever he's standing. And normally, the contents of his pockets don't end up getting left in one place. His mobile might be left of the sofa, his wallet the dining table. His keys on top of the microwave and his loose change somewhere in the bedroom. Mr.K is a leaver.

Don't be fooled into thinking that I'm complaining about his leaver status. Yes, I would love it if he came home and put his keys in the pot. Heck, I would even love it if he just left all of his stuff in one place. Because when we go out and he can't remember where he's left all of his stuff it takes time. Serious time. But honestly, I'm not complaining. Because if we were both putters, if we were both perfectionist putters we'd probably kill one another. We would argue about the positioning of the cushions on the sofa or the way that the fridge is organised and we would become so irate that one of us would kill the other. And I'm glad that we're not both leavers. Because if we were both leavers we might just die. We would forget where we've put our keys and we would spend so long searching for them that death would eventually occur because we've forgotten to eat. 

You have to have a putter and a leaver. Balance. If you take out your imaginary observation notes you will see that all around you there are putters and there are leavers. By now you will have probably figured out which one you are. And by now you will have probably figured out that your husband or best friend or whoever is the opposite. 

But don't worry. Putter or leaver does not have to be a permanent label. You can learn and you can compromise and you can adjust. Over time. Putters can learn to not care so much about things like key pots and they can learn that its ok to leave things in places occasionally. That's right putters. Take a deep breath and repeat after me. It's ok to leave things in places. Occasionally. And leaver, you can learn too. You can learn to leave (or put...depends on how far your willing to go) your keys or your phone or your purse in the same place everyday. That's right. In the same place everyday. Imagine how much time you could save by doing that. The mind boddles.

I'm Becky and I'm a putter. Mr.K is my husband and he's a leaver. But we love each other anyway. 

*Inspiration for this post take from Jon Richardson Live at the Apollo.

Monday, 14 February 2011

Valentines Day

It's raining. 
Which I think is the perfect metaphor for most English people's opinion on Valentines Day. 

Well, depending. If you have a love, then you might get some lovely flowers and a card, maybe chocolates, maybe a nice little date. For those of you who are interested, (is anyone interested? Hello?) Mr.K and I have to postpone Valentines Day until Friday, when we're going for a spa day. So if you have a love it's a excuse to be openly affectionate without feeling bad/silly.
If you have a like then it could be potentially tricky. 
And if your single, as far as my experience goes, you fall into one of two categories. 
1). You don't mind Valentines Day. You look forward to more loving times with hope and a twinkle in your eye. 
Or 2). Your a hater. 'Valentines Day is a ridiculous excuse of a holiday that is a little too  over enthusiastically over marketed by the high street and is yet another reminder of my sorry, loveless life.' 
I think the fact that some people hate Valentines Day is quite ironic. Haters hating on the day we celebrate love. Ironic. 

I have good memories of Valentines Day. As a kid it mostly centred around getting a card from a 'secret admirer', which in hindsight was probably written by Mum. Although one year, I remember getting a genuine Valentine. It had a little cryptic message inside that said; "you'll have to be a bright spark to work out who this is from", with a picture of a lightbulb drawn next to it. It had me puzzled for days. Until I worked out it was from a boy who's surname was Watts. Then I thought it was really clever and kicked myself for not working it out sooner. 

Mr.K & I don't have such a good history with Valentines Days. For the first, he was in hospital after his car crash. The next two we spent apart, with him serving his mission in France. The fourth one I don't remember. And the fifth one is today. Next year I'm going to make a real song and dance about Valentines Day and even decorate the flat with love hearts and cupids. 

Happy Valentines Day
 to all involved. 

Friday, 11 February 2011

I have this friend...

This is a genuine story of a friend. Not one of those stories that you start by saying "well see, I have this friend....." when you blatantly mean "I'm going to tell you something about myself, but it's a bit awkward/embarrassing, so I'm going to pretend that it's a friend's situation, even though we both know this story is all about me." 

Infact, this isn't even a story. It's just a post. It's a genuine post about my friend. My friend is Katie and she makes me laugh. Katie has beautiful crazy curly hair that is a beautiful shade of ginger and that may or may not have been enhanced by Henna. But who cares about things like that? (The Henna I mean) Katie has a beautiful singing voice, can give a really good massage and is a bit adventurous with spices in the kitchen. She's everything that you could want in a friend really. Oh, and she's a dreamer. 

But one of the best thing about Katie is that she is funny. And I mean the kind of funny that makes you belly laugh for so long that you get stomach cramps. And the kind of funny that is just instinctual. A natural part of who she is. But we'll get onto that. 

I met Katie for the first time on the day that I moved into my first student house. Back in the olden days of September 2006. I remember admiring her beautiful hair and thinking that she was wearing false eyelashes. (See the picture below.) She wasn't. But her eyelashes are so long and curly that everyday looks like a false eyelash day for her. We officially became housemates and friends (of the best variety) exactly a week later. 

One of the first things that astounded me about Katie was her will power. For the first three months of our friendship Katie didn't eat chocolate. And I don't mean she didn't eat chocolate bars, she didn't drink hot chocolate, eat chocolate cake, eat chocolate ice cream. Nothing even chocolate flavoured passed her lips. She was as stubborn as an ox. The no chocolate thing was a new years resolution. So she then went normal and started eating chocolate again. But I think now she might have given up again. Don't ask me why. Katie's odd decision making is all part of her charm. 

I remember one time having a discussion with Katie about something. I don't even remember what exactly the conversation was about. Actually I do. Mr.K was trying to convince a group of us that a banana is infact a herb and not a fruit. Katie agreed with Mr.K. And how did she know? She could remember exactly where she first learnt it. "I read it in a newspaper in 1997." It's saying things like that that make us love Katie. And oh, believe me, there have been lots of similar quotes and occasions. So many infact that they are now fondly called Cakeyisms. 

Here are a few...
There's not enough perspiration in the air.

(When going round the table on Thanksgiving saying what we're thankful for.) 
"I'm grateful for my parents, especially my mum and dad."

(After admiting she thought Coling Firth is hot in Girl with a Pearl Earring.)  

"But then again, I find Barack Obama vaguely attractive..."

(Whilst ordering DVD's of Amazon.) 

Katie: "£13 postage and packaging?? Thats a joke!"
Chloe: "Why don't you just pick them up from Asda instead?"
Katie: "Yeah, but will Amazon deliver to Asda?"

(In reference to not getting the cervical cancer immunisation) 

"To be honest, I think I'm just going to risk it..."

"If you go on myspace you can actually myspace Robert Pattinson!"
"Not that i've done it or anything...."

"I wish I was half Latino..."

(After we drove past a phone box which had been smashed) 

"I makes me sad to see smashed glass on the floor."

"Does anybody else find it really weird when people write educational books and then dedicate them to their wives?"

"Every time I hear a low flying plane I think *gasp* The Second Coming!"

"My Grandad's got like a seventh sense."

Katie, I love you.
 Thank you for being in my life. 

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

The start of a love story

It was about the time that this photo was taken. No, actually this is too early. 

This photo is more like the right kind of time frame. Apparently the time when I had no neck...but a half decent tan. It was about the time when I could still get on the bus for 40p with my student card and the time when the most that I had to worry about was what I was going to wear to the dance that weekend and how much petrol money I should give to the driver. It was about the time that I listened to Ashlee Simpson and Panic at the Disco on repeat whilst I got ready for school and Shakira - Hips Don't Lie was played constantly. It's about this time that my love story started. 

It was a Friday night and I was in Huddersfield at a dance with my friends. I was wearing dark jeans and a red chunky knit cardigan with a vintage style sparkling broach. I'd been dancing all night and generally been a silly teenage girl, obsessed with having perfectly glossed lips, having my equally perfectly glossed friends around me and whilst taking overly posed pictures of myself from an obscure above angle. I still cling to the fact that it's most flattering to have photos taken from above. But I digress. 

The dance had finished and everyone was milling around in the hall, everyone suddenly very aware of themselves now that the lights had been turned on. I don't recall exactly what I was doing right then, but I could hazard a guess that it involved my perfectly glossed friends and a group of boys. In fact I'm pretty sure that it did. That was standard procedure really. Then, a rather tall boy in a green stripy hoody came over, took my hand and said "Sorry, but will you just come over here for a second. You look exactly like my friend and I want to stand you next to her to show just how similar you look." So I went over to his group of friends. He pointed to a blonde haired girl. A girl that I looked absolutely nothing like. I looked at the boy, a little confused and feeling slightly nervous. He flashed a cheeky smile and said "well, actually, you don't look anything like her. You're much prettier. I just used that as an excuse to get you away from your friends so that I could talk to you." Smooth. Real smooth. He than proceeded to ask for my name, which I gave and then asked if I have a number to go with that name. I did. So I gave it to him. 

He told me his name that night, but I think for the next few days I just referred to him as the boy in the stripy green hoody. Original, I know. It didn't stick. But he still has the stripy green hoody. 

Tuesday, 8 February 2011

Alliteration and a waterslide

Today, I wish that we all got from place to place like this. Minus publicly picking your pants out of your posterior. (Count those p's and put them in your pocket.)

Monday, 7 February 2011

Monty P

While I was in Montpellier, (pronounced Monpullier) Monty P as I now fondly call it, I called the little flat I lived in home. I'd say things like "I'll just make some pasta when I get home" or "I've left my tram pass at home." But now when I say I'm home, I mean home. My cosy little apartment, full of my own things with Mr.K in Leeds, England. It's substantially colder here. And windier. Much, much windier. But I'll stay here anyway and still happily call it home.

My month in Montpellier was a blast. A blast of French language, French culture, sunshine, making new friends, taking photos, hugs and bisous from the cuties in my class, 3 chocolat chauds, 2 crepes and 2 nutella covered waffles, skyping (skyping was my miracle when I was missing Mr.K a lot), visiting Lyon and seeing Grays and Boome, teaching French children English songs, laughing at them when they sing Katy Perry and Pink then laughing even more when they accidentally sing 'raise your ass' instead of 'raise your glass'. I had lots of good times in Monty P. 

Now, on to the photos. Some of the photos. 

Warning: This piece of information will blow your mind.
This is painted! That's right, painted!