Grey day

I stole a peek out the window at uni late this afternoon at the grim, 

grim sky overhead and it hurt me. 

The sky is hurting my feelings. 

So desperately grey and so...loomy.

So very loomy.

Like the clouds are so thick that you could throw a few small objects up at them and they would bounce right back down.

And probably hit you square in the kisser.

But the grey, loomy clouds didn't matter today, 

because by the time I was really paying attention to them, 

my French presentation was done.

Don-don-donnnne.

That means I can free up the entire section of brain-space that was dedicated to learning my presentation and I can start to fill it up with something else.

Maybe I could fill it with some camera information and finally learn what the heck aperture and an f-stop is?

Or maybe some delicious wintery soup recipes.

Mmm, that's a definite possibility.

Or maybe I could just leave it empty.

Just for a little while anyway.

Opposites attract?

Sometimes I think that Ross & I are strangely similar.

But more often than that I'm astounded at how astronomically different we are.

But different in a good way.

Different in a 'we complete each other' (s'cuse the cheese) kind of way.

Like he's good at talking to people and I'm good at reading people.

I drink a lot with my meal and he hardly drinks anything, so by the time I'm done with my drink, he happily hands over the rest of his.

You know, the little things?

And there are loads of little things like this, 

but there is one difference that drives me crazy.

I (by my own observation) am quite tactful and sensitive.

Ross can be, but mostly he doesn't think before he speaks.

He never upsets people, 

I just mean that he often makes situations really awkward by saying the wrong thing.

And here's the thing that I really hate.

When he's putting his foot right in it, if I can, I'll give his hand a squeeze or his shin a gentle kick.

You know, just your standard "your making this person really embarrassed, please stop speaking NOW" signal.

But Ross, in his marvellously untactful way, 

will very loudly say;

"OW! Becky what are you kicking me for?"

Or "babe, why are you squeezing my hand?"

Which definitely makes everything so.much.more.awkward.

Kind of like when you point out to someone that they're blushing and it does nothing more than make them go more red.

Pointless and embarrassing.

Anyways, I'm not really sure where I'm going with this....

But does anyone else's other half do this?

(Also, I apologise for just saying 'my other half'...

...I'm cringing at myself.)

Summer should get a speeding ticket

Summer has passed by so quickly this year.

Maybe it just feels especially quick because the actual pure moments of summer 

(read: nice weather),

have been pretty limited this year.

A blessed week here and there, the odd weekend and a glorious few sunny, warm days.

Summer has felt more like a weekend this year than an entire season.

June is the Friday, July the Saturday and August is the Sunday.

Right now we're at the horrible time when you wake up in the middle of the night on Sunday/Monday and check to see what time it is and with a sinking heart you realise that you have to get up and go to work in a few hours.

(I hate it when that happens. 

My favourite is when you wake up and check the time and you have like, six hours to go!)

It's that limbo period of time where you know that the weekend is over, but you just have a little bit of time before the work begins.

Although, to completely contradict myself, these first two days of September have been really lovely.

Bright sunshine, bright blue skies and everyone with brightened moods.

Maybe if we have a nice September that would be the equivalent of having a bank holiday Monday.

And everyone loves a bank holiday.

Shine on September.

Imagine all the people

There was one day last week where it didn't rain at all.

Tuesday.

It was actually quite a nice day, with blue skies, a little bit of warmth and a little bit of wind.

(The weather kind, not the...other kind.)

So first and foremost being English, I knew that I had to make the most of a nice day, because even in 'summer' the aforementioned conditions are never guaranteed,

and secondary to that being a nanny, I knew that if we spent the day away from the house the day would go by that much faster.

So I packed up a little picnic, bundled the two munchkins into the car and took them to Kirkstall Abbey. 

Fast forward the car journey and the picnic

(although as a picnic related side note, what is the appropriate way to react when a child spits out a completely masticated cheese sandwich and just lets it ooze out of his mouth and down his chin? Gross)

and freeze frame at this moment...

 Amy folding her arms and looking borderline grumpy.

At first I mistook this for her physically showing me that she was sick of me taking her picture,

but it was actually her five year old way of trying to work out something completely ridiculous to her in her own mind.

"Becky, why does this place not have a roof?

Where has it gone?"

Keen to nail down my role as an annoying, cryptic adult, I naturally answered her question with a question.

"What do you think happened to it?"

She's silent for a few minutes and then offers me two options.

1). The Queen of the witches used to live here and when she moved out she took it with it her.

(Why had I not thought of that? It seems so obvious now...)

Or 2). Some robbers and burglars stole it.

(Actually, she said some robbers and burgers stole it, 

which makes for quite an interesting mental picture, 

but I'm pretty sure she meant burglars.)

Couple this small display of her imagination filling in the gaps,
with her falling over a baby squirrel in her bedroom
and a thousand other examples of her being completely content to play in the recesses of her own mind and you have to admit, this kid has quite the imagination.

But wait, don't all kids?

I was a kid once, where has my imagination gone?

Actually, has it even gone anywhere? Or has it just changed?

Because when I made dinner last night, I didn't follow a recipe or any instructions.

I just took some ingredients, made up a method and served up some stuffed peppers. Bam.

It takes imagination to do that right?

And when I get dressed everyday I think of how the colours, patterns and textures of what I want to wear will look together as an outfit.

That takes imagination too, right?

And for crying out loud, I'm going to be a teacher.

Surely pretty much everything about that requires imagination?

Hmm, I think that a lot of people believe that you grow out of your imagination.
Like you leave school and suddenly see the world as adult, in all its realistic glory, so you gently fold away your imagination and put it in the loft with the rest of your old school books. 

But really, how boring would that be?

Now please excuse me, I have to go and brush my unicorns silky purple mane.

R is for Rebecca

I'm not sure if they did it on purpose, but I think that my parents gave me a very sensible name.

A transitional name, perhaps.

One that can change with age.

Rebecca.

Shortened to Becky as a child.

Everyone still calls me Becky - I'm in touch with my youth y'know.

But to think of myself as a Granny one day, Becky doesn't seem to fit.

I always imagine being old and people not calling me Becky anymore.

No, when I'm old and grey people will call me by my birth certificate name.

Rebecca.

A few days ago, I was pushing the boy I nanny for in a swing and casually chatting with the woman stood next to me who was also pushing a little one in a swing and before I even knew what I was saying, I told the woman that my name was Rebecca.

I didn't even consciously make the decision to introduce myself as Rebecca, but it happened.

And then a very scary thought washed over me, that still makes me shudder to recall.

I'm becoming a grown up.

I pay bills, own a car, cook my own dinner, wash my own clothes and do a plethora of other grown up activities.

When did this happen?

Because I swear in my head I'm still only 15 years old.

Summer?

British summers are famous for being...

how can I put it...

poor, disappointing, pants, rubbish, crap...

Choose any of the above, they are all adequate and accurate descriptions.

But even more certain than our let down summers are the conversations that surround them.

Us Brits can quite often be an awkward nation, so when we get stuck during a conversation, we talk about the weather.

"It's meant to be a heatwave this summer."

"Yeah, I hear it's going to be the hottest since records began."

"Finally, a proper BBQ summer."

Then inevitably the heatwave never comes, the BBQ's never happen and the temperatures aren't even worth recording.

So then we turn into a nation of moaners.

"What happened to this heatwave that we were meant to have?"

"There's absolutely no chance of having a BBQ. It'd definitely rain. Or at least be cloudy."

And once the moaning starts, it never stops. 

Even if we have nice weather. 

In fact, especially if we have nice weather!

One optimistic soul will say...

"Nice weather we're having at the minute."

"Ohhh, no it's too hot."

"No, this is sticky weather, it's not nice heat."

"But it's not hot like abroad hot, this is muggy."

"It's too humid. My clothes are sticking to me. It's making me sweaty."

Well, I say make the most of this kinda sunny weather we're having right now, because before you know, it'll be snowing and we'll complaining about the cold.

One Day

Midnight of last night saw me quietly crying into the darkness.

Just a few sneaky tears that silently rolled down my face whilst I laid in bed trying to get to sleep.

Nothing too dramatic.

And I was only crying because I'd just finished the book that I was reading.

It's called 'One Day'.

You've probably heard of it.

I always hate getting to the end of a book.

Most of the time I just want the stories to carry on forever.

So when I get to the end I always take a bit of a dive into melancholy.

And it didn't help that this book didn't have the happy ending that I'd really been hoping for.

Not really anyway.

So, as I laid quietly crying and listening to the stuffy breathing of Ross as he laid next to me, deeply asleep, I reached out for his hand, woke him up a little bit and made him make me a promise.

A promise that realistically he can never keep and one that he probably has no recollection of even making this morning, because he was pretty out of it, but nonetheless a promise was made.

And then I let him roll over and go back to sleep, whilst still lightly clutching his hand.

Then melancholy took a swift upturn to deep gratitude.

Gratitude for being alive, for having Ross, for us both being healthy, for our life circumstances and our future prospects and for just generally being happy with how things are going. 

I'd had the book One Day recommended to me by quite a few different people.

Three at least.

So I had high expectations for it.

To be honest, when I first started reading it I was a little bit let down.

As soon as the characters are introduced I straight away thought that I knew how the book would play out.

I thought that I had the ending pinned down pretty accurately, so I very nearly stopped reading.

I didn't.

And I'm glad I didn't, because it was the ending, which didn't turn out to be a cliched Disney happy ever after, that really got to me.

And any book that I get to the end of that makes me feel true and deep gratitude for life and more specifically a life with love, for me is worth it.

Shine/Life metaphor

The shine in the these photos is pretty obvious.

Obvious but beautiful.

I love how in the second photo the sun literally looks how a 7 year old would draw the sun.

A big yellow ball with glorious rays shining from it.

Perfect.

And on a cheesy note, I love how these photos can be a metaphor for life. 

Even through the thickness of the trees the sun is still shining.

Pretty brightly and beautifully I might add. 

History of Hair

Due to what I'm calling the blogger disaster of May 2011, which I pray never happens again, this post is actually one that I already wrote. 

And published.

But in blogger's moment of pure insanity, said post disappeared into the vast expanse that is the internet.

So here we go for take two.

Today I am lamenting.

Just a second, let me check what that word actually means.

That's right, today I am lamenting the loss of long gone long hair.

Let me just tell you the history of my hair. 

Don't worry, it's short. (The pun is very much intended here.)

Ever since I've had hair, which apparently was a good while after my first birthday (I looked like a boy in a dress for the first year of my existence) my Mom has kept my hair short.

Please observe...

Toddler Becky, short hair.

No front teeth Becky, short hair.

Becky in a school play, short hair.

So then when I got to being about 15 years old, I decided that enough was enough and I was going to grow my hair.

This hair growing rebellion was honestly about as rebellious as I ever got.

My Mom & Dad consider themselves to be very lucky.

Anyway, so I grew my hair.

Please observe....

Rebecca Northcott Photography

3Poppies Photography
I'm pretty sure that my wedding hair was my favourite hair ever, ever.

I'm convinced that my friend and bridesmaid Sophie has some kind of voodoo magic in her fingers because she made it look wonderful.

At least I think so.

My long hair years were happy years.

But then in a moment of insanity after a very hot week in Rome I decided to have my hair cut. 

So in one swift snip, the hairdresser cut off inches of my hair and probably sold the lot to a wig maker.

Please observe...

 

See how sad I am?
I don't think that I've even smiled since I had my hair cut.
Well now, that is both an exaggeration and a lie.
But I look sad in this photo as least and I have short hair here, so...

I think that the thing that I miss most of all about my long hair is that if I styled it properly and made an effort with it, it completed my outfit.

I definitely think that great hair can be the cherry on top of a great outfit.

(Did I just tip my toe into the world of fashion blogging? Weird.)

So now I'm going to stop wallowing about my hair and just wish and will it to grow long really quickly.

In the mean time, does anyone know how to make short hair look fabulous, because seeing as I'm stuck with it, I might as well make it look good.

(Almost) 30 photos

Some of my honeypies are doing this 30 photos thing on the book of faces, and I've decided that I'm going to join in. 


In a side note, a used chilli in the dinner I made tonight and even remembered to wash my hands after so I didn't make anyway where sting if I touched it with my red hot fingers. I just rubbed my eye. Turns out I should have washed my hands twice. It burns.

♥ someone you spend a lot of time with

I feel like this is a boring choice, but I'm sorry,

 I live with the boy, so of course course course I spend a lot of time with him.

♥ a picture of you

I've never had some many pictures taken of me in one day, 

so thee ol' wedding day seemed an obvious choice.

♥ a random picture of you and your sig. other

This photo just always makes me laugh.

♥ an old picture of you

I knew how to rock the double denim ten years ago. 

Ohhhh yeah.

♥ a picture of your siblings

Obvs my Dad isn't a sibling, but just roll with it, k?

♥ a picture that you've never posted before

I can't think why I've never posted this before.

It is pure GOLD!

♥ a picture of someone you miss

Grays, France is a long way away.

I look forward to your sweet return this summer.

♥ a picture of people you know now and then

These sugarplums will always be my home girls. Fact.

♥ a picture of your favourite place

This place means that I can be with my loved forever.

That's right. For.Ever.

♥ a person you can tell everything to

Chlo. My best friend. She is a complete rockstar/clean freak and I love her.

♥ a picture of your everyday life

Just messing around with the hubs. Standard.

♥ a picture from a place you love

Haworth. Possibly one of the quaintest most picturesque places in all of England.

♥ a picture that reminds you of great times

Montpellier, Janurary 2011. 

Teaching in a French primary school. 

Priceless.

♥ a picture of one of your favourite foods

Baklava. I crave this sweet, syrupy, nutty goodness all, the, time.

♥ a picture from the best day of your life

Obvious choice. Cute, cheesy, gag whatever.

♥ a picture that always makes you laugh

It's just hilarious creepy. Ross might kill me for this.

♥ a photo from a great night

A trip to the fair in my first year in Leeds. 

♥ a picture of the people who are closest to you

Obscure angle, but housies for life. I love these girls.

Also, I'm taller than all of them. Even when they wear heels. Story of my life.

♥ a picture of your parents when they were your age

I don't have one of both of them on my laptop.

Nice hair Mom. (Ha!)

♥ a picture from last summer

Oversized sunnies at the Colosseum. Perfecto. 

♥ a picture of you on your favourite vacation

I loved the Caribbean. 

And I love how deliciously brown it made me.

And I love how cute my two younger brothers look in this picture. 

♥ a picture of your closest friend

Obvious choice.

Ok, so I didn't quite do all thirty. Ross is giving me evils because he wants the laptop, and I didn't have photos for some of them, so I just cut them out. 

True Brit

In Britain there's an unspoken rule about how to conduct yourself if the weather is sunny and it's over 15 degrees. Regular footwear is exchanged for flip flops or sandals. You wear shorts. Or a skirt or dress. Obviously it depends on your gender. Either way, anything other than trousers. You must have a pair of sunglasses somewhere on your person. If your a young teenage boy, or sometimes even if your a middle aged man, you walk around in public places with no tshirt on. (I'm not much of a fan of this one) You eat outside at every opportunity and have a BBQ. 


A lot of foreign people can spot a Brit a mile off. In a warm (even only a slightly warm) foreign country, the Brits will be the ones wearing shorts and sunglasses and the locals will be the ones still wearing coats and lots of layers. Maybe some people think that this isn't a good stereotype, but another thing about us Brits is that we're realistic. The weather in Britain is at best occasionally pleasant. Rain and cloudy skies are the bread and butter of British weather. 


So like today, when the sun is shining gloriously, the breeze is perfect and it's actually warm, we make the most of it. Every time. We're happy about, we smile at stranger and we even appreciate it so much that we blog about it. Maybe the last part is just me, but whatever.


Just as a side note, isn't the place I had my wedding reception (the place in the picture) absolutely beautiful? I think so.

Boring but pleasant post

This last half an hour has been perfect. The kind that reminds you to live, rather than just exist. It hasn't been anything spectacular, it's just been lovely. 


We arrived in Grimsby to the mellow sunshine and gentle heat of an English spring day, so we sat out in Momma & Poppa K's front garden, on their little wooden bench and just enjoyed the fresh air. There's something about the air when you're near the sea. It's different. It feels like it fills your lungs just that little bit more. 


So whilst we were doing nothing other than just sit, Momma K told Ross to go and get a fork to turn over some soil in the garden. It was more than obvious that she meant a garden fork, but Ross being the joker that he ever tries to be waltzed out with an eating fork and starting hacking away at the soil. That kind of obvious funny really makes me laugh. So then Momma K turns the hose onto Ross, which just made me laugh even more. 


And now I'm still sat, enjoying the sun and the air, Ross is cleaning the car and periodically air guitaring, we're listening to The Eagles - Hotel California and just generally absolutely LOVING life. 

A (waste of time) theory

Ok guys, humour me. Just for a little bit. I'm conducting a little experiment you see. My experiment is based on a theory that I heard on Radio 1 a few days ago, and seeing as though it was true in my case, I decided to investigate further. 

The theory goes a little something like this... Generally, (I like to generalise) in a relationship, one member (member?) of the couple will do the majority of the driving. Again generalising, I'd expect that it's the man. Am I right? That's not the theory by the way. So, we've established that someone in the relationship normally does the driving. Now, according to the theory, said member of the relationship will sleep on the drivers side of the bed. Do you follow me? Imagine your bed is a car (you can even imagine that your driving to Tesco if you'd like), does the driver sleep on the same side of the bed as the steering wheel would be?

Mr.K does. And he's the driver. 

Need I say more? The theory is proven.

Actually, I'd be kind of interested in seeing if it's right for anyone else. Do your sleeping/driving arrangement prove my theory? 

Mr.K caught me right while I was in the middle of explaining the theory to my Mom & Pops. Nice

Rome

Maybe when I was about fourteen years old, give or take a year, I was walking with my best friend Hannah whilst she delivered her papers and we made a plan. Our plan was this: next summer go on holiday to Italy, specifically Rome, stay in a tent, see all of the famous sights and enjoy the warm Italian sun. Just the two of us. No family, no adults, no supervision. But guess what. Our parents said no straight away. They said there was absolutely no way we were going abroad for a week by ourselves and staying in a tent. At the time I felt so hard done to, but in hindsight, I can appreciate how ridiculous of a request it was. But ever since then I've really, really wanted to go to Rome.


So when the Mr. & I got engaged, there was no way I was letting him convince me that we were going anywhere other than Rome for our honeymoon. 


The tragic thing was that when we got there my camera battery was dead. Pft. Completely and utterly lifeless. And the even more tragic thing was that I'd forgotten the charger. And the most tragic thing was that I made Mr.K come with me whilst I spent a big chunk of a day finding a shop that would sell a charger. We never found one. (We did find the most amazing gelateria mid search) So all of our honeymoon pictures are taken on a camera phone, which at the time I resented massively, but now I'm grateful we have any pictures at all. 


So, for your viewing pleasure, Mr. & Mrs. K hit up Rome, July 2010.

P.S Can you tell that I couldn't think of anything to write today?