A ponder

I was in Smiths yesterday and behind the tills they had loads of Christmas cards up, you know, like you would at home.

Who sends them? I certainly don't send cards to shops and I am Ms Christmas!

Who?

That is all.

Errrrrmm...

I am well known for being blonde. Despite having a three A Levels and a 2.1 degree in Linguistics I routinely produce incredibly stupid remakes and even stupider actions.

This one seems to take the biscuit:

Last week S and I had a roast chicken. I decided to keep the bones and make a homemade chicken stock a la the domestic goddess I strive to be.

So I did, I painstakingly chopped various vegetables and then boiled them up with the chicken bones, I carefully seasoned with salt and pepper then with rosemary, parsley and thyme. I lovingly skimmed the mixture then left it to simmer, checking every 15 minutes or so, reskimming it every half hour.
Finally, after four hours, it was ready, it was clear in colour with a slight amber tint, just like Jamie Oliver said it would be.

I carefully carried the pan to the side, got out my sieve and drained the mix. Down the sink.

Dumbfounded I stared at my sieve full of bones and soggy vegetables, blinking back the tears while my delicious stock happily made its way through the drain.

What a swell party this is!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPKYR4FaKck

I want to hate this advert - I really do. I want to loathe it and make witty comments about them choking on their duck rolls and chocolate coated strawberries.

But I can't. I just can't.

It's like hating the class dunce: he's probably trying his heart out and he'd never be cruel or unkind to anyone. Simply, it's not his fault he's thick as soup. When you get Coleen Nolan and Jason Donovan - two people who haven't been famous for over 100 years - representing your brand singing "What a swell party this is" very badly, you can hardly be accused of any meanness.

Donovan sounds like he's never actually held a note in his life and Nolan has surely only been selected as the jolly, big-bosomed, yo-yoing replacement for the hapless Kerry Katona.

Iceland seems to have made a virtue out of being cheap and cheerful - or cheap and nasty if you take into account their inexpensive frozen fodder (I'm sorry, £5 for an entire platter of prawns!!) - and that's exactly what this advert is: The thick kid in the class.

All the high tech, popular kids would look down at it, the I-phone advert would sneer at it; the American Airlines advert would look down its nose at it; and Peter Jones would kick it as he skated past on his stupid shopping trolly.

But it's so hopeless I can't find it in my heart to hate it.

The funky name tag

My rock star name (first pet and current car): Flipflip None

My gangsta name (favourite chocolate bar and favourite cookie): Caramel Chocolate Chip

My detective name (favourite color and favourite animal): Pink Tiger [Detective deshmective, that's a rad name all around]

My Star Wars name (first three letters of first name and first two letters of surname then the word 'of' then a medication you are on): Livke of Vitamin C [I'm not technically 'on' Vitamin C, but it's the only thing I take with any regularity]

My superhero name (2nd favourite colour and favourite drink with 'The' in front): The Green Water [yeah, the bad guys would be totally intimidated by someone named The Green Water?]

My Racing Car Driver name (first names of your grandfathers): Leslie Gordon [That is an AWESOME racing car driver name]

My stripper name [I've always needed one of those] (name of your favourite perfume/cologne and your favourite sweets): Miss Sixty Starburst

My witness-protection name (mother's and father's middle names): Ann [my dad is middlenameless, come to think of it, Ann is a pretty great witness protection name.]

For the love of boobies*

Recently I was talking to friends about moral issues (oh yes people, it is going to be one of those posts – but it is a VERY important one so shut up and read on!), I shared one of my most thought provoking issues. It is an issue I battle with constantly, having known of it for a long time but being unable to commit to fighting it fully. I was fired up about it and my friends caught fire as well, fairly quickly.

What followed was a months-long delving into some of the saddest stories you'll ever hear.

In third-world countries, where advertising code standards are loosely or not-at-all observed, formula companies exploit the ignorance and desperation of women. Doctors and nurses are paid commissions to hand out samples of baby formula and press new mothers to use it in place of breast milk. They tell them that formula is better for their babies than their breast milk could ever be, that, if they loved their babies, they would buy the expensive formula packs. The women either buy completely into the wretched idea that formula is superior to what their bodies produce, or they use the samples just long enough that their own breast milk dries up. And then they're stuck, dependent on expensive powdered formula.

We found pictures of babies who starved to death because their mothers couldn't afford enough of the pricey formula and diluted it. Other babies became sick after being fed formula mixed with bad water, or drinking from unsterilized bottles. One woman who had twins was told her body would only produce enough breast milk for one baby, so she fed the other formula. The breastfed baby thrived; the formula-fed baby starved.

Admittedly I'm fairly easy to rile, but there are few things in my life that have sickened or angered me more than this. The ONE THING these mamas can do for their babies is being taken from them.

The scariest statistic: The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 1.3 million babies who die annually because of nutrition and health issues would NOT die if their mothers exclusively breastfed them to the age of 6 months and continued to breastfeed thereafter.

Dead babies, people. Dead babies can't be ignored.

So I have joined the boycott of one of the leading offenders, Nestlé. As much as I love Shreddies and Toffee Crisps, I love women and babies more. It would be fabby fantastic if you joined me - it's not asking much to pass over the Buxton water (yep, Nestlé own them) and get the Evian or the Malvern instead, is it?

Although I give you all plenty of credit to understand this without me saying it, I will clarify that this isn't a hate-on-all-formula campaign we're waging. Formula has its place. It is the best substitute for breast milk that exists, and when used safely, cleanly, and as directed, it does not kill babies. Babies are killed by disease and malnutrition. Babies are killed when women who can't afford formula and/or do not have access to clean water are convinced by greedy, shameless people not to trust their own bodies.

And that is something I cannot and will not endorse.

*Also, the title is one that I suggested if we were to start a petition. But apparently that would not be appropriate so I have used it here instead, to lighten the tone a bit.

In which I am shot down

Do you ever have days when life seems just a little bit cold and rubbish? Like everything is sort of grey rather than technicolour?

Yesterday was one of those days.

Me: Today was really hopeless, you know when there is no silver-lining?

S: I have those days too.

Me: (staring intently at the DFS advert which is currently on the tv) We should live more like the DFS advert people. Look, they are all happy on their sofas. See! They are drinking wine on theirs, and those two are playing cards in a jovial manner!

S: They are also fake sweetheart.

Me: They are not. They are real people!

Ten minutes later I am watching tv while pondering why I don't own the Gavin and Stacey Christmas special on dvd when a Michael Buble video comes on.

Me: S!! (Pointing enthusiastically at the tv) We should do things like this more! It would be so fun!

S: Dancing on cars while confetti falls down all around us with a load of other people?

Me: Yes! This is good! This is what we need to aim for. Crazy fun!

S: No.

Pondering teeth

I HATE that toothpaste advert that tells me that 40% of my teeth are actually between my teeth.

I also hate the toothpaste advert that tells me that 45% of my teeth are below my gums.

Which is true?

Surely both can't be. That would mean that I can only see 15% of my teeth which frankly is just stupid.

Which is it toothpaste people!?! Which is it?! WHICH IS IT!!!

My way makes more sense

Me: (Singing to Alexandra Burke’s song 'Bad Boys') 'The bad boys are always catching fly-ys'.

S: What are you singing?

Me: Bad Boys by that X Factor girl.

S: No, I get the song, the lyric?

Me: (Singing) 'The bad boys are always catching fly-ys'

S: It's 'my eye'. The bad boys are always catching her eye. Not flies.

Me: Na-uh! It's flies.

S: Why would the bad boys be catching flies baby?

Me: Because they are bad boys of course – you know, frogs. And frogs eat flies. And then when she kisses them then they will turn into princes aka good boys.

S: Seriously?

A little introspective for a Monday

I've been thinking, crazy I know but it happens on occasion, about pornography. I read an article recently on it and how it affects our moral compass. And this is what I took from it:

Persons who view pornography are often able to justify it with the argument that it hurts no one but themselves. Kind of like smoking, right? They may understand it's a dangerous, harmful thing for them, but feel that it's a victimless crime. (Obviously that argument wouldn't work as well for anyone who has a partner and/or has children. Families can be injured by addiction to pornography; intimacy can be affected. So let's go with it JUST being people who have no partners or children to hurt with their viewing of pornography.)

But there are victims. We all are the victims, women in particular. Supporting the porn industry facilitates the objectification of women and the demoralising of sex. By continuing to pump money into the pockets of porn-makers, consumers send the message that it's ok for women to be objects, to be degraded, to be used. That it's ok for physical intimacy to be cheapened and dirtied and exploited in a billion-dollar industry.

And that's not ok.

It has made me think about how I am doing this myself. Not with porn (in case you were wondering). But I'm not perfect. I watch and read plenty of things that degrade morality.

And even beyond issues of morality ... what other dangerous and wrong ideals am I perpetuating and supporting with my pound? What am I telling the world when I buy magazines full of digitally-altered 'perfect' women? When I listen to misogynistic hip-hop? When I click on blogs and websites with hateful content? When I shop at supermarkets that I know use huge farms where animals are abused? When I buy products made by companies whose international marketing practices are unethical? (I will quit Shreddies, I will. Swear.)

It's got me thinking, is all. As a consumer, I vote my conscience with my money, and I might not be doing a very good job of it.

As an aside, I attempted to find an image to go with this post. Which probably questions my morality even more.....

I am marrying this man

An advert for a new film entitled 'The Red Barron' came on the tv. Suddenly S, who was calmly supping a beer until this point, was enraged:

"Why would anyone go and see that film? I mean honestly, they have made the hero a German who bombs the hell out of us in the war! It's insane. The entire German nation, they tried to kill us in the war, they wear leather pants all day and not just for fun and they eat Bratwurst... like the worst brat."

He pauses.

"Do we have any cookies?"

Time to proof...

I type fast.

It is what I do and pretty integral to my job. So is it my fault that occasionally words get misspelled?

OK, so when my company was recognised for excellence by being awarded a Beacon Award, can you really blame me that the initial PR draft declared that we had won a Bacon Award? I mean, who wouldn't want one of those?

Or that today I nearly sent something out stating that we had raised lots of money for this year's Remembrance Day Poopy Appeal?

So not my fault. Blame my fingers.

My obsession continues to grow...

Last night I had a dream. A beautiful, beautiful dream.

I was in the TARDIS with the Doctor (in his Tennent form - YEEEEUM), Captain Jack and David Beckham.

Suddenly we realise that we are under Dalek attack.

Luckily I have a magic machine that allows me to knit a special wool that makes things invisible (obviously) so, quick as a flash, I knit the four of us large jumpers. Captain Jack (who has been hitting on me, it has to be said), says that his is too itchy. I say mine is way too hot and I insist we take them off. Unsure what to do next, David Beckham starts to panic.



So then I just make a massive pile of the wool and we hide behind it.

This doesn't work either as the Daleks just wheel themselves round the pile and see us.

At this point we are really despairing so I quickly knit some more and then shove the wool over the Daleks' eye stalks, making them blind. We all cheer and then walk calmly back to the TARDIS safely.

I suggest we celebrate and the others agree. We fly off and I question where we are going. They won't tell me.



Suddenly we land, we are at my house. They drop me off and thank me for my help. I am confused. What about the celebration, I ask.

They look awkwardly at each other, the Doctor replies,

'Well you're nice and all Liv but we're really more into different kinds of celebration.'

I suddenly notice that they are all holding hands. They wave and then disappear into the night sky.

I walk into my flat and watch a rerun of Only Fools and Horses.

I wake up.

Seriously, how low must my self esteem be to be rejected by three men in my own dream?

Doctor Livy

I have had a BRILLIANT idea regarding my last post - I marry David Tennant, he is rich thus removing the wedding expense issue and I LURVE him.

Perfect.

Now how do you think he will feel about speaking in his Doctor Who voice forever more....

Super cool Livy

OK so I have been really lame haven't I? It has been nearly THREE WEEKS since I posted. B-A-D. And you don't deserve it, I know.

So, to make amends, how was your Halloween? Good? Mine too. I was a bat. Of the flying variety in case you needed clarification.

The big things on my mind right now:

1) WEDDINGS - which, it turns out, are complex, expensive and a massive headache so I will not bore you but if anyone has a perfect not-too-olde-world-not-too-modern-must-have-the-wow-factor-and-has-enough-accommodation-for-all-guests-and-won't-make-me-live-on-only-soup-and-beans-for-the-year venue then I am ALL EARS. Alternatively, if anyone has a few thousand pounds that they don't want then it would be much appreciated.

No?

The second thing is DOCTOR WHO - yes, I am a loser but I don't care what you think because I love it. I am totally crushing on David Tennant but only when he is English (is that racist? I just don't fancy his Scottish voice, and before you ask, yes I can and do fancy voices, Alan Rickman - oh my hot old man!) wait, where was I? Doctor Who. The next nearly last one with his deliciousness as the Doctor is being shown this Sunday evening at 7pm (perfect, X Factor is at 8pm).

To say I am excited would be a massive understatement. I am like a drug addict who knows that I will soon get my next fix. I am salivating with the thought and keep re-remembering that it is only four days away and then smiling and clapping. I am getting many strange looks in my office today believe me.

Still, the heart wants what it wants.... and I want the Doctor. Now.

A letter to myself

Dear Livy-turning-17,

Hi. I see you there, in your purple wrap round skirt with the metal belt and the white vest top, getting ready to go out with Paul. Don't spike your hair up. Really, don't - ok, you already did. No problem, Paul is going to tease you about it enough tonight that you'll never do your hair like that again. You're excited for this date; it's with one of the many boys you always secretly liked who never seemed interested. A friend of the popular people. Tonight will be kind of a rush. He'll give you a Sugar Ray CD as a birthday present and you'll watch a film and share popcorn awkwardly, and he'll hold your hand, and you'll joke around and tease each other like flirting friends do.

Only... by the end of the night you'll be over it. He'll say goodbye and give you a hug and by then - in that four hour time period - you'll have realised that he's just a boy. Vulnerable and crude and not worthy of your swooning daydreams. He'll say, "We should do this again sometime", and you'll say "Nah." Don't say you won't. You will. You'll become pretty well-known for that in the next couple of years, by the way - shutting boys down with characteristic bluntness. I know, you never thought you'd be capable of it, but you are.

Speaking of boys, remember when your friend Sarah was seeing that guy and you went with her to watch him playing football at the park? You dilly-dallied around the swings, hidden behind a bush, watching and kind of wishing that tall dark haired one would take his top off. Well, I've got news for you. You will see him shirtless many times in the years to come. His arms and chest and smile will become as familiar to you as your own. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Wait and see.

Let that get you through the rest of your youth. You worry too much about school dynamics; you wish too much to be more popular than you are. You're sometimes embarrassed that you are clever and know the answers. You feel all misunderstood and broody. You're kind of a geek that way, and lots of other ways too. Speaking of which, you're going to wish that you'd plucked your eyebrows and used a lighter shade of concealer. Your future self will really stress about that, which proves that you'll never really grow out of your geekiness and determination to make a big deal out of things that don't matter.

You have big dreams. University and then a law qualification and a big city - New York, ideally. You'll even obsessively watch 'Friends' and 'Sex and the City', and you'll love them and imagine the sophisticated life you'll have in that amazing city someday. Such a cliché dream for a school girl, but you want it all the same.

Not going to happen, but you should keep dreaming. Just keep your options open. Remember that there are lots of 'right' choices, lots of ways to realise your potential, and that some things matter more than money and prestige and style.

Anyway, Ms Liv, all those things you're wishing for will come. You're going to grow up, and soon. By this time next year you'll be two inches taller, and have a figure. You'll finally have had kisses you can look back on without wanting to die. You will date. You'll move to Manchester, which isn't the same as NYC but you'll like it. You'll try new things and grow up in more ways than you can imagine.

Eventually, you're going to change your mind about pretty much everything you think you know, politics and people and religion and music and philosophy and parenthood and more. You'll barely recognize yourself in about eight years' time, but don't worry. You'll still be a geek.

Love 25-year-old you

P.S. You WILL grow into your nose. Have faith.

P.S.S. You'll never grow into your gangly gorilla arms. Get used to them.

I have something to say...

Are you listening?

I HATE Munch, the annoying cow from the Munch Bunch adverts. She is a stupid, fugly idiot. Honestly with her cheerful demeanour and ridiculous giggles, I really want her to DIE. The bit where she infers that the kids have grown like three inches in a matter of seconds because they ate some yoghurt? Really?

And I'm done.

I may not even invite him

So we have begun what I foresee to be the very long process of wedding planning.... as you can imagine, my wedding has been planned since I was 6 years old and got my first pink note book so therefore, I am not particularly worried... we just implement my well thought out plans, perhaps leaving out the Jason Donovan performance at the reception (although I bet he is a steal at the moment) and Bob's your uncle!

Unfortunately S has decided to weigh in with ideas - I mean whose wedding does he think it is! So I have had to implement some quite strict rules, namely that I will assign him tasks.

Task number one was for him to decide a theme for the table names.

He pauses.

He thinks.

Then....

'Dead relatives!'

Things I've done that you might not have

1. Faked 52 orgasms on stage.

2. Run three miles immediately after eating three steaks and half a cake.

3. Gone on a date with a man who only talked about his favourite meats.

4. Gone on a date with a man who said he 'couldn't wait to watch me sleeping'. And not in a cute way.

5. Gone on a date with a man who had an alarm on his watch that went off 5 minutes before Neighbours was on.

6. Made S leave the cinema in the middle of 'War of the Worlds' as I was convinced the man sitting next to us was a suicide bomber.

7. Chased Anneka Rice through a field only to find out she was actually just a stable girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to Anneka Rice.

8. Asked for a school and a fish at a French railway station.

9. Gone out in the snow wearing a mini skirt, crop top and open toe sandals.

10. Dressed all in black and gone out in the middle of the night to draw pink icing smiley faces on windows.

11. Stood through the sunroof of a limo while driving through San Fransisco.

12. Successfully navigated down a mountain side on skis in a blizzard.

13. Successfully translated between a German family and a French cashier at a Paris metro ticket booth.

14. Received a love note from a grown man who sat behind S and me at the cinema and tried to get S to switch seats with him, before passing me said note. (He apparently sees S as no serious threat. Funny.)

Random thoughts from people 20-35 years old

Honestly, I nearly wet myself when reading these. My friend J sent me then (wait, that sounds like a boy which J would not appreciate, she is a girl whose name begins with 'J' and rhymes with 'mulia').

I can't stress how much I agree with all of these.

- More often than not, when someone is telling me a story all I can think about is that I can't wait for them to finish so that I can tell my own story that's not only better, but also more directly involves me.

- Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realise you're wrong.

- Have you ever been walking down the street and realised that you're going in the complete opposite direction of where you are supposed to be going? But instead of just turning a 180 and walking back in the direction from which you came, you have to first do something like check your watch or phone or make a grand arm gesture and mutter to yourself to ensure that no one in the surrounding area thinks you're crazy by randomly switching directions on the sidewalk.

- I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

- Is it just me, or are 80% of the people in the "people you may know" feature on Facebook
people that I do know, but I deliberately choose not to be friends with?

- There is a great need for sarcasm font.

- Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realise I had no idea what the f*** was going on when I first saw it.

- I think everyone has a movie that they love so much, it actually becomes stressful to watch it with other people. I'll end up wasting 90 minutes shiftily glancing around to confirm that everyone's laughing at the right parts, then making sure I laugh just a little bit harder (and a millisecond earlier) to prove that I'm still the only one who really, really gets it.

- I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

- LOL has gone from meaning, "laugh out loud" to "I have nothing else to say".

- I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

- Whenever someone says "I'm not book smart, but I'm street smart", all I hear is "I'm not real smart, but I'm imaginary smart".

- How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear what they said?

- Every time I have to spell a word over the phone using 'as in' examples, I will undoubtedly draw a blank and sound like a complete idiot. Today I had to spell my boss's last name to an attorney and said "Yes that's G as in...(10 second lapse)..ummm...Goonies". (As an interesting side note, you should try having a 'v' in your name...)

- While driving yesterday I saw a banana peel in the road and instinctively swerved to avoid it...thanks Mario Kart.

- Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Trousers ? Trousers never get dirty; you can wear them forever.

- I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired. - Bad decisions make good stories.

- Whenever I'm Facebook stalking someone and I find out that their profile is public, I feel like a kid on Christmas morning that just got the red bike that I always wanted. 546 pictures? Don't mind if I do!

- Why is it that during an ice-breaker, when the whole room has to go around and say their name and where they are from, I get so incredibly nervous? Like I know my name, I know where I'm from, this shouldn't be a problem ...

- You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you've made up your mind that you just aren't doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

- Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after DVDs? I don't want to have to restart my collection.

- I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.

- "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this ever.

- I hate being the one with the remote in a room full of people watching TV. There's so much pressure. 'I love this show, but will they judge me if I keep it on? I bet everyone is wishing we weren't watching this. It's only a matter of time before they all get up and leave the room. Will we still be friends after this?'

- I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Dammit!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What'd you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

- I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

- I like all of the music in my iTunes, except when it's on shuffle, then I like about one in every fifteen songs in my iTunes.

- I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

- Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, hitting the G-spot, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet my ass everyone can find and push the Snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time every time...

- I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

- The other night I ordered take away and when I looked in the bag, saw they had included four sets of plastic cutlery. In other words, someone at the restaurant packed my order, took a second to think about it, and then estimated that there must be at least four people eating to require such a large amount of food. Too bad I was eating by myself. There's nothing like being made to feel like a fat b******d before dinner (the worst thing is, is that when ordering an obscene amount of food from a takeaway, I will even pretend to speak to other people in the background or wonder outloud to myself, for example: 'What did she want... oh yes, and a chicken chow mein'.)

In which I have some exciting news

Yes my lovelies, last week, after precisely four years, forty one weeks and one day, my delicious boy Mr S asked me the second most delightful question a girl can hear (after 'Would you like me to buy you those shoes and bag my dear?). Yes, he asked if I would marry him.

After the obligatory pause (it's good to keep him on his toes), I of course replied with the affirmative.

And so I find myself with a beautiful diamond ring on my left hand. After telling family and friends (my Nana's exact words: 'What carat gold is it?' 'It's not gold Nana.' 'Oh Livy... it's not silver...!' 'No, it's platinum.' 'Thank God.') and being asked a million times when the wedding would take place, we developed an automatic response that we are just going to enjoy being engaged until Christmas and that we were in no rush, two maybe even three years.

Unfortunately, I got distracted in Smiths on Friday and ended up buying six bridal magazines and a pink organiser.

So yes faithful readers, Bridezilla has been unleashed. Now is eight bridesmaids excessive....?

The differences between us

S is a lot taller than me. An entire foot in fact. He is also stronger than me. This means that when S accidentally hits me (not in a wife beater way... more in an accidental nudge with his elbow or a bag or his foot you know? Clumsy boy things) it REALLY hurts!

Usually S claims that it can't have hurt at all and then proceeds to call me a wuss.

The other day the tables were turned when I accidentally pinched his arm. He transformed into a complete baby and moaned for ages. I pointed out that ten minutes previously he had accidentally hit my head with a chair (he was lifting it over the table, he didn't just do it for the sake of it, I don't think....) and that, by anyone's standards a head is much more important than an arm.

He disagreed and, like a petulant child, argued that, 'It depends on what job you do.'

'What job can you do without a head?' I enquired.

There was a massive pause where I swear I could see the cogs in his head whirring. Then suddenly, triumphant,

'A headless horseman.'

What I know about relationships

You know how sometimes you go to a hen party and all the guests are instructed to write down bits of marital advice for the bride-to-be? And everyone puts down 'Don't go to bed angry' or something equally blahry and so you try to be a little bit unique and write 'Sleep naked at all times' and then you are told that's super inappropriate for a blushing bride (I'm unsure why as surely, that is the one thing you are allowed to do when married in any culture.) and so then you're back at square one and decide never to go to a hen do again?...

You don't? Huh.

Me neither.

Well, anyway, relationship advice is an interesting beast. You get different perspectives from everyone; what works beautifully for one couple would be considered straight crazy by another.

Relationship survival tactics have been on my mind lately, so if, hypothetically, you were thinking that I have a nice relationship (I do!) and, if, hypothetically, you were wondering what makes it that way, wonder no more. Listed below are the things I'm fairly sure of at this point (five years this December....). To be honest though, I'd check with me again at ten years, I'll let you know if anything has changed - besides S's age, of course (I myself will be sticking at 25...).

• Say 'I love you' at least once EVERY DAY. We've never missed a day, including nights when we're lying in bed after a fight and it's not at all fun to say.
  
• Don't yell, ever. Yelling is for rollercoasters and building sites.


• Don't keep score. (S will tell you - and I agree - that this one is hard for me. I'm working on it.)


• You need to laugh. If you are with someone who doesn't make you laugh, you should at least watch funny YouTube videos together.


• Sex is really important. Really.


• Talk about more than just what happened at work and where to go for dinner. Have conversations, ones that are stimulating and interesting. Disagree. Solve world issues. It's good for you.


• Don't force yourselves to have common interests. It's okay if he loves football and boobies and you don't and you're into celebrity gossip and role play and he's not... for instance....


• This one could be a blog post unto itself because I feel so passionately about it: jealousy has no place in a relationships. I don't care what Cosmo says about 'a healthy amount of jealousy' - there's NO SUCH THING. I used to have some issues with S's past girlfriends (including one very embarrassing incident when I took a photo of her in a bar while pretending to text. At eye level. With a loud clicking noise. And a flash.) but I got over them. Listen, either you trust each other or you don't. If you don't, get help.


• Don't threaten to split up with each other all the time. Frequent talks of throwing in the towel are not conducive to a happy partnership. And lets remember if you say it all the time then it will lose its impetus when you actually want to get the hell out!


• R-E-S-P-E-C-T (find out what it means to me... sorry but, God what a fab song!). Supposedly your partner is the most important person in the world, right? Words like 'stupid', 'fat', 'lazy', and anything else vulgar or demeaning don't belong here (even if they are - not you S, my other boyfriend.)


• I don't buy it when I hear that relationships are 'work'. If playing nice and making compromises is work, you're a politician, not someone in a relationship.


• Don't make it harder than it needs to be.


• Hang out in your underwear.


• Eat. All the fricking time.


• Neither of you is the boss. My guess is you both wear trousers, except maybe on Sundays and when you're feeling fancy. You can joke about being the trouser-wearer (I do), but really when it comes right down to it, you don't get to tell the other person what to do. EVER.
  
• Then again, don't be afraid to ask nicely for what you need. People sometimes need reminders. (A kitten please S).


• Don't refer to your partner as 'your other half'. It is ridiculous and cheesy and what, are you not whole without them? Let me tell you peeps - I am always whole!


• You will never be able to change someone else. Give it up before you get an ulcer.

Oh and it's true, don't go to bed angry. Not because it makes you cranky the next day or because you would feel bad if they died in the night (hello, I've just woken up next to a dead person, I've got bigger issues thanks..) but because neither of you would actually sleep because you both need to stay awake to ensure that when the other one tries to apologise you can pretend to be asleep, thus appearing blase and nonchalant. You see?

Did I miss anything?

WAG material

On Sunday, S and I were happily shopping (M&S had a homewear sale on - AWESOME.... God how old am I when I think that getting a griddle pan, a bundle of towels and a spice rack at 30% off is good? I best buy a hoodie to bring me back again). I digress, where was I? Ah yes, shopping. So we were in M&S for the second time that day, at the cash desk and the woman behind the counter begins to talk to S:

Nice M&S Lady: I'm sorry; you were here earlier weren't you?

S: That's right; apparently we can't live without a spice rack. (On a side note, the spice rack is immense - it even has paprika, the best spice ever).

Nice M&S Lady: It's just, after you were here last time, my colleagues over there (indicates to some very giggley, blushing middle aged women) said that they would love your autograph. To be honest we can't believe you shop here!

That's right, the Boaz Myhill resemblance strikes again, remember this?

So I can pass for a WAG... an excellent thing when you think that Cheryl Cole, Victoria Beckham and Louise Redknapp have fallen into this category at some point or another. An exceedingly bad thing when you realise that it also covers Nancy Dell'Olio, Ulrika Johnson, Danielle Lloyd, Chantelle Houghton and Chanelle Hayes....

A summary

OK, firstly apologies sweet readers. I have been absent for far too long, in my defense I have been away. I was going to tell you before I went but I was worried that the more shady members of you may burgle my flat.

So how to sum up what you have missed... I think I will employ the ever popular bullet point method:

• I went to see my Nana in Wales, this was awesome for many reasons, firstly she made me lamb chops and REAL gravy, secondly my pseudo Welsh accent got to immense proportions, we're talking full on Gavin and Stacy - completely epic, I even said, 'Where to she be?'. Thirdly we visited Cardiff Bay where they film Torchwood and Doctor Who (and have other cool stuff, we're not total losers...) and discovered an entire wall covered in flowers and letters, all in memory of Ianto Jones... yes, a freaking character from a TV show. Honestly, it was quite sad, people had written from all over the world, saying how beautiful his and Jack's love was and other slightly crazy stuff. The Council had even put a disclaimer notice up, informing people that Ianto is not a real person that was killed by aliens.
• I got a fake tan, I figured it would be done in one of those little booths a la Friends, but no. It was done by a woman, a real life woman. I had to stand there in only a black paper thong while she sprayed me and asked if I wanted her to make my thighs look slimmer. Also she was a skank. She had massive fake nails and told me I should lower the knickers so 'the lines wouldn't show over my jeans'. Now I don't know how low she has her jeans but put it this way, any lower and you would have been able to see my tuppence....
• We demolished a shed at S's Dad's house. I say we... I was in more of an advisory and drinking role.

And the most exciting news of all..... we have moved offices at work and....... I HAVE A WINDOW!

Tootles x

I'm gonna get me some sparkely pants!

My lovely friend has a brand spanking new blog which showcases her beautiful talents. Go and look at it!

http://sewdarnpretty.wordpress.com/

If you are anything like me then you will be incredibly jealous from the get-go for two reasons:

1) She is BYOOTIFUL (she definitely deserves the caps), she has the figure I always wanted but never had.

and

2) She is super creative and uber talented. I mean making your own clothes? Skilled.

But it is all ok as I am going to see her in September and hopefully by then she will have made me something fab (I'm hoping for jewelled knickers).

6 Quirks of Me

1. I love plucking my eyebrows. Very therapeutic and painful. Yum.

2. I don't like to let the microwave time run out more than once. If I'm reheating something, I will stand by the microwave until the timer gets down to 00:01, take the food out to stir it, then hit 'Add minute' to start the microwave again. If I'm reheating more than one dish, I do the same thing . . . and I challenge myself to go do something else - turn the TV off, for instance - and still make it back in time to beat the beep.

3. My greatest fears are beavers. Seriously, they petrify me. I saw a stuffed one in The Manchester Museum while I was a uni and I swear to you it was hours before my heart rate returned to normal.

4. I am the hungriest after I eat. Because I am a total and complete addict, the pleasure waves that roll through my brain while I'm eating something tasty just make me crave more. I have a much easier time not eating at all than trying to hold myself to one serving of something I like, which means, basically, that I have to diet hungry.

5. Speaking of eating, I prefer to eat all baked goods in their unbaked form. Seriously, I've never met a dough or batter I didn't like. Cookie dough, cake batter, brownie batter, bread dough, biscuit dough, scone dough, pancake batter, muffin batter and so on.

6. I love to sing along with songs I know, turn the volume all the way down in the middle of the song, continue singing for thirty seconds or so, and then turn the volume back up to see if I'm still in time.

I'm awesome. I know x

Sides

On the downside, I had to quit one of my favourite websites today.

On the plus side? I randomly remembered how my friends and I used to say LYMI (love you mean it) to each other. LYMI!

On the downside, I am super, super tired.

On the plus side? Tomorrow is Saturday and I can sleep in!

On the downside, I have lots of silly, busy work to do.

On the plus side? I've had chicken goujons for dinner TWICE this week.

On the downside, autumn is coming. I will have to start getting out my jumpers.

On the plus side? Autumn is coming! This means the fair, Halloween, Bonfire Night and nearly Christmas!

On the downside, I cut all my long nails off for no reason.

On the plus side? Now I can paint them bright colours without it looking like I have scary talons!

On the downside, there is bugger all on TV tonight.

On the plus side? S is taking me out to dinner at a yummy restaurant instead. I'm having the carbonara.

On the downside, yesterday was hard.

On the plus side? Yesterday is over.

YAHUMMY

Bonjour!!

I am feeling unusually cheerful today, it may have something to do with it being nearly home time... perhaps. Although when I get home I do have to finish tidying out my spare room which I foolishly began last night, honestly, S and I have three large plastic boxes full of wires. Literally. Where have they come from? Do we need these wires? Who knows! I also found 6 copies of the Guinness Book of Records, parts of an extra large hula hoop and a pregnant Barbie doll.

Casa di Livy = Full of crap.

I thought I'd do a brief recap of the weekend. We both had Friday off and went home to la casa di mis madres to cut the MASSIVE hedges. They were heeeeouge. And unfortunately very full of brambles and holly. In the process of this we broke two separate hedge cutters, fixed one and then found the other wasn't broken to start with. We were rewarded for our seven hours of gardening with both cheese and chocolate fondue AND champagne.

Unfortunately, due to the champagne I decided to confuse the two fondues and foolishly dipped a marshmallow into the cheese. Disturbingly, it was quite nice. What is up with that?

The rest of the weekend, using the excuse that seven hours of hedge cutting is the equivalent of running a marathon, I ate LOTS. Here is a summary:

• Tomato soup with lots of white bread, buttered on both side - how decadent?
• BBQ (comprising of coleslaw, chicken, cheesey nachos, minuscule piece of lettuce, bread roll, potato salad and around 497 sausages)
• Chips
• Noodles with cheese
• More bread
• Pasta with peas, bacon and double cream
• Garlic bread
• Toffee Crisp
• Exactly three wine gums (strawberry, orange and lime - three fruit portions right there)

I was going to be good again and eat super healthily again but now they have started doing chips in the canteen at work and unfortunately some chicken goujons need eating tonight.

I may be 40 stone when you next see me but you'll still love me right? Right....?

It's BRILLIANT!

I have just been told about a woman who has called her twins (first is girl, second is boy):

TreCole Alivyiah and Tridger Kaegrin

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Is it just me who sees the girl's name as treacle? As in the gooey stuff you get in a tart? Can you imagine going through life being called TreCole and Tridger?

It's like a giant hug

Last night, inspired by the musical episode of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps and bored with my current hairstyle, I stupidly mused outloud that maybe I should grow an afro since I already have massive, unruly hair and that 'fros are quite cool on girls.

S looked at me and said,

'I think afros look best if you have a small head, so on you not so much.'

The final holiday post

Aren't I good? I said tomorrow and I stuck to it. This is a definite step towards meeting work deadlines.

This is the final holiday post, after this you will just have to listen (do you listen to blogs? That's a silly question) to me wittering on about my very exciting life (highlights this week include a broken computer and a possible hedge cutting disaster).

So on our lovely holiday we met a delightful young bar man named Reynaldo. He was about 18 and spoke very little English but insisted on making me very strong cocktails (the effects were even more disastrous than when I used wine as a vodka mixer). The conversation on the first night went like this:

Reynaldo: You nice couple. How many lovings you make?

Me: Ummmmm... what?

Reynaldo: Lovings. You make lots for long time?

S (looking proud): Well... I wouldn't say exceptionally long but...

Me (glaring at S): We have been together for five years.. is that what you mean?

Reynaldo: Yes. I go now. You go too. Make lots of babies tonight.

As you can see the bond was instant.

On the last night, we propped up the bar, getting wearier and wearier as Reynaldo made me his 'special cocktail' (not like that you filthy minded readers). Suddenly he did what can only be described as giant thrusting motions to S while pointing at my cocktail.

'This make her love you', he excitedly exclaimed.

S smiled politely. 'I best have another too then', he said. (Which in hindsight seems quite insulting towards me...)

'No no', replies Reynaldo, 'No more for you or you no can do boom boom.'

And we left.

The second holiday post

I made you wait a whole week just so you'd be extra excited, did it work? Well I for one AM super excited, whether it is because it is nearly home time, nearly Friday (my favourite day of the year) or the fact that today I have eaten 400g of raw peas (approximately 11 fruit portions) and 27 strawberry chewits (which I am going to count as another 11 fruit portions) today I'm not sure but I sure am loving it.

Anyway, back to the holiday. I learnt a lot of valuable lessons on this holiday. I thought I would summarise a few for you:

• Do not read emotional books on the beach. When reading one particular book where they described in horrid detail, the beating of a 4 year old girl, I started sobbing. The poor pool boys were very concerned, 'Que pasa Senorita? Why you cry?'.
• Never sunbathe while holding a book aloft to block the sun. If you do then please remember that your underarms hardly ever see the sun and therefore will burn easily. If you ignore all of this and do burn under your arms, DO NOT shave them immediately after.
• Do not let a man with a camera take a picture of you sunbathing. Ever.
• Do not attempt to put perfume on under a ceiling fan unless you want to nearly choke to death and get stingy eyes.
• Do not believe S when he tells you that insect repellent makes you invisible to mosquitoes and deliberately stand in the most mosquitoy place you can find. They will sting you.
• Do not order the local 151 Rum, so called because it is 151% proof - 82% pure alcohol, think you are hard when you feel no effect after one shot so order another then fall off your bar stool.

Did you like my advice? I think it is sound in all situations, not just on holiday.

Things I did on holiday:

• Swam with dolphins, she was a 9 year old girl dolphin called Amy (a very human name for a dolphin I feel). As a part of the swim we had to kiss her. She tasted of fish. Not cherry chapstick as Katy Perry claimed. The bitch.
• Told people at the bar that S had kissed a nine year old girl when swimming, neglecting to mention that it was, in fact, a dolphin.
• Begged S for forgiveness.
• Learnt that the ice hockey team in Toronto is called the Toronto Mapleleaves.
• Learnt that Canada is still in the British Commonwealth. I learnt this because a random Canadian-Brazilian man said he was my brother. I was excited for a while until I found out that it was just a stinky Commonwealth link. I was visioning free holidays.
• Finished the Heat magazine book, detailing the most exclusive and exciting events in the magazine's history. Disappointed to find that he didn't mention that I won a dvd player in the Heat crossword in 2001.
• Spent £10 on a tube of Pringles and a copy of the Daily Mail so S could find out how the England U21s did in some sort of final, only to find that the paper was 6 days old.

Now I only have another three amusing holiday stories left - tomorrow maybe?

The first holiday post

Oh yes! The first one! I am going to attempt to put them in the order in which they happened (holi-betical order if you will). I thought about just doing one massive post but I know you don't have massive attention spans - aren't I good to you?

Oh wait, S has just pointed out to me that 'holi-betical order' is actually just 'time'. He can be quite pedantic can't he? Besides, my word is better.

So here we go:

We flew from Manchester after staying in the worst hotel EVER. Honestly, while we were at dinner they gave our room to someone else! With our stuff in it. Luckily for us it was a little old couple and not some sunhat and bikini loving kleptomaniac. Anyway, yes, after waiting three hours in the airport in which time I managed to buy 11 magazines and a pair of Gucci sunglasses (S bought a bottle of water), we finally boarded and settled in for the next nine hours.

I chose to watch 'Marley and Me' on the in flight entertainment. Mistake. Sobbing uncontrollably at 30,000 feet because a fictional dog died is not good. I got some weird looks from everyone near me. Then chose to watch 'He's Just Not That Into You'. Mistake. Laughing out loud at 30,000 feet when wearing headphones is not good. The weird looks continued.

I got out of my seat on this flight which is remarkable for me. I usually get so comfy and cosy that I just hole up, I once did an 11 hour flight to Canada without moving but this time, no, I got up once in the nine hours and even braved the disgusting little toilet with the ferocious flush (seriously, why? If you accidentally pressed it while still on the toilet then you would probably get sucked in and flung into the sky). Personal growth people.

We arrive in Dominican Republic, endure an hour long coach ride while being told that there are no driving regulations, you can drive at any age, don't need a license or insurance and you can drive after alcohol. I pull my seat belt tighter to me.

We check in to the hotel - very purty and, as a bonus, I am given a cocktail on arrival. We arrive at our room, I check out the minibar and optics straight away, Steve goes to see where are bags are. The phone rings, it is lovely little Spanish man on reception.

Me: Hola.

Reception: Hello, are your Mummy and Daddy there?

Me (please remember I haven't slept for 27 hours at this point): No, they are in England.

There is a long pause.

Reception: Are you there by yourself?

Me: Yes... why?

Reception (getting more and more confused): Are you alright by yourself?

Me (very confused and fuzzy at this point): Yes... I'm fine, I've found the minibar and am having a beer on the balcony.

There is another pause.

Reception (very slowly): How - old - are - you?

Me (equally slowly): Twen - ty - five.

See, we got off to a good start didn't we?

I am randomly...

craving a gin and lemonade with two slices of lemon in it.

I'm back!

Hello everyone! I am still alive and here! Hoorah!

If you remember correctly the last you heard from me was that I was about to go on holiday to the Dominican Republic. Well I did (with Mr S) and had a FAB time - it was truly awesome. Obviously I had no computer access over there so was unable to update the blog so I did the next best thing and wrote things down using a pen and notebook (remember those?), I will therefore, over the coming days/weeks, do a series of holiday posts. Bet you can't wait!

I meant to do this two weeks ago when we got back but unfortunately something much more exciting happened - I GOT SWINE FLU!

I know, my peeps, I nearly turned into a piglet. Crazy huh? Basically on the last day of the holiday I got a cold (interesting side point, trying to ask for Vics Vapour Rub in Spanish is HARD, doing actions to aid your speech will only prompt the pharmacist to give you Viagra and condoms), anyway, the cold got progressively worse and decided to invite his friends, Mr Sickness and Ms Tummy Bug along just for kicks.

After that things got ridiculous. I called the doctor like I was told to, who immediately declared I had swine flu, sent me a sick note for 'however long I wanted' and informed me that I was now quarantined in my flat, did I have a flu buddy? Hmmm... well, I have S...

So, fast forward two weeks of not leaving my flat, during which time I read everything we owned including cereal boxes and shampoo bottles and watched approximately 5million hours of day time TV (turns out, it does indeed get old), I am finally allowed out again! Honestly, this morning I appeared from my building in a similar fashion to those people you see in films who have been trapped underground for years, all wide eyed and blinking. So far I have only seen the inside of my office and the journey to work but at lunch I am going to go.... TO A SHOP!

Wish me luck.

Beauty and the BEAST

Last night I was kind of sad and depressed, after seeing some very hot pictures of my very hot friends on facebook, and feeling woefully un-hot by comparison.

S and I curled up on the bed to have a chat, wherein I whined until he told me I was BYOO-TE-FUL. Several times. God love him.

Our conversation evolved, as conversations are prone to do, until it reached a discussion on the waxing of body hair. S claims it CANNOT hurt that much - rest assured, I've tried to communicate the painfulness to him.

Anyway, we talked about the merits of waxing and which areas are the most painful to wax. Because I know several trainee beauticians over the years and am apparently some what of a masochist, I have been the model for many beautification projects. I loved the facials and the pedicures, but of course there is a down to every up. I also sat through the waxing of nearly all my bodily regions, and so am well versed on the topic of sticky hair-removal.

As I told S, the most painful area to have waxed, HANDS DOWN, is your underarm. I know. The waxed cloth strips came away bloody, and the skin was hideously bruised for days ... but the complete absence of armpit stubble for a month? NICE. (The fact that it took a month for the hairs to reappear should clue you in to how deeply-rooted they are, and therefore how painful the waxing was.)

S was duly impressed by my recounting of the experience.

And so, here is the natural conclusion that was drawn at the end of the night. I might not be the most byoo-te-ful, but hell, I am the most hardcore.

Feeling much better.

In which I find I have another, more practical function

This weekend S and I travelled to Scotland to attend the wedding of a school friend. We decided to set off super early so we could go to Edinburgh Zoo on the Friday (please note, the Zoo itself is fab except for two things: they have beavers and you have to walk up a MASSIVE hill to see some poxy zebras, which lets remember, are just horses with stripes - so not worth it), we did get to see koalas and a polar bear and a teeny tiny baby penguin. As an added bonus I also got to spend 20 minutes queuing for the toilets behind a Russian school group.

On the Saturday we made our way to the wedding venue. A castle. And not one of those we'll-call-it-a-castle-but-its-actually-just-a-big-house type castle. No, an actual, could have been in Cinderella, fricking castle! The wedding was gorgeous, the bride looked stunning and it went very well (the wedding that is, I ended up falling asleep in the toilet and then falling in a bath but that's another story.)

One last thing, S and I have been together for nearly five years now and were therefore continuously asked when it would be our big day and then, when we paused with no answer, I was routinely patted on the shoulder and told not to worry. This grates after a while let me tell you.

Anyway, from then on S tried to avoid all public displays of affection (a common thing with him anyway I might add). I resigned myself to being the unloved until... in the middle of the service S tentatively touched my hand and gently stroked my palm with the back of his thumb.

All is not lost, I thought!

Later I quietly mentioned that it was very sweet of him to stroke my hand when they were saying their vows.

He pauses. He looks confused.

I continue, 'During the service, you stoked the palm of my hand really romantically.'

He stays confused and then suddenly it dawns on him, 'What? No, I had an itch and didn't want to scratch it myself.'

A human scratching post. Bloody fab.

Why?

Against my better judgment, and with blatant disregard for the summer reading rules I set myself, I attempted The Kite Runner last week.

I read the first couple chapters over the weekend, then went to bed early (9:30!) with the book, planning to read for a half hour or so before the Sandman came.

And now I rue the day all my friends and all my co-workers told me what a good book it was. I rue the day I ignored my instincts. (Those sentences should be said in the "I pity the fool" voice.)

By the time Hassan and his crippled father were trudging away from their home with all their earthly possessions, I wanted (seriously) to track down every copy of the book in existence, and BURN THEM ALL.

I despise Amir with a fire that scalds my soul every time I think about him, and I put down the book indefinitely, choosing instead to write my own ending - one in which that evil, guilty little 12-year-old boy is burned at the stake.

I don't even like him enough to finish the book about him, and I don't care how many times his best friend Hassan forgives him for STANDING BY AND DOING NOTHING while Hassan was brutally raped, and then TELLING NO ONE, and then FRAMING him for STEALING so that Hassan and his father would get sent away and life would be more comfortable for AMIR.

I can't forgive him. And Hassan, who forgave his friend (who behaved like his worst enemy) at least seventy times? Seriously, I lost a piece of my heart for Hassan. It broke off and bounced around my ribcage for a while, shredding what was left of my aortic pump, and at some point during the night (which consisted of about 5 hours of sleep and 3 hours of crying and tossing and yelling into my pillow) it fell out of me and went away.

Did I spoil the book for you? I'm so sorry. But since I can't fulfil my dream of burning every copy, I'm just going to do what I can to ensure that anyone who hasn't read this book WON'T, that you'll all treat your own aortas with more respect, and not have to learn the hard truth about yourself that I learned.

I really and truly can't forgive Amir. Seriously, I can't. This does not bode well for my future as an unconditionally loving parent.

I do feel somewhat better now that my friend has told me the rest of the story, and I know that later in the book he gets the crap beat out of him.

I'm so excited

Two weeks today I am going on holiday to Dominican Republic.

As some of you may know, this is the first foreign holiday that S and I have been on just the two of us, we've always been with friends previously or in the UK, for example the infamous holiday to London which we went on one week before I moved there.

On this note I broached the subject of what on earth we were going to do, just the two of us, for 10 days in an all inclusive resort.

"Play 'Ring of Fire'!" was the answer I got.

Yes, that's right people. My boyfriend of five years wants to play a drinking game on our first alone holiday. A drinking game where you have to tell deep, dark truths before downing a concoction of left over alcohol.

I feel so special.

So then we come to the organising of all the arrangements. It is all going swimmingly - passports are located and, more importantly, in date, sun lotion is bought, currency ordered.

And then I get a call from my doctor's surgery.

They have heard that I am going to Dominican Republic (from where?! I mean, I know I am a truly exciting person but gossip at the doctor's about me? Really?), they are concerned that I haven't got my jabs yet.

I have several long conversations with the incredibly dim nurse in which we establish that I only need a Hepatitis A booster. What about Malaria? she asks. I have heard it's nasty. I say. This is NOT appreciated.

So now I have to take tablets of which the common side effects include: severe itching, hallucinations, blurred vision, depression, sickness and heart palpitations. Oh and if I take more than one in a 48 hour period then I die within two and a half hours.

Fab.

25

Yes, on Sunday I turned 25 years old or as my sister put it, half way to 50.

It was fab. Let me point out to you that I LOVE birthdays. Not just mine (although it is blatantly the best) but everyone's. It is just a great excuse to make a fuss and celebrate and have fun.
I am big on cards and presents and food and drink, banners and badges, all of it.

I mean, what is not to love?

The only thing that gets me is that other people don't like your birthday. I'm not talking about friends or family, they always can be relied on to muster up some excitement, no, I mean the people that don't know you.

Now, I am sure that sounds very weird. Why would they care? But I was thinking on Sunday as I walked through town, all those people wandering about like it was a normal day... then I went on facebook and saw all the status updates: so-and-so slept in till noon today, so-and-so has been shopping. ON MY BIRTHDAY!

I best hurry up and do something spectacular so it becomes an international day of Livy loving.

Pssssst!

It's my birthday tomorrow!

S???

Hola lovely blog readers, how are you on this fine Tuesday? (Just so you know, Tuesdays are always fine as it is magazine day - new issues of Closer, Heat and Now, SWEEEEET!)

I had a lovely Bank Holiday weekend - did you?

I drank champagne, saw friends and, on Sunday, enjoyed Hull City's stay upableness in the Premier League. I tell you, it was muchos stressful. Even Mr Fat Man (who now winks at me following the previous incident) was jigging about with the tension - still it will probably be good for him.

All of this would have been fine if they still sold Yorkshire Wraps in the stadium concourse... but alas these delicious snacks of roast beef and gravy wrapped in a Yorkshire pudding mix wrap are no more. I should know, I spent 15 minutes at the head of an angry queue of football fans trying in vain to explain to the foreign sales person what they were and that no, I did not want a chicken tikka pie instead.

Anyway, while we lost the match (against Manchester United's youth team....) we did manage to remain in the Premier League thanks to some poor Newcastle United player's own goal. Bless him, I am considering sending him a thank you card.

After the game we went to a special party at the Stadium which was wonderful for two major reasons:

1) It was a free bar with a special wine station - literally a table lined with full wine glasses. And, as many of you know, tell Livy it is free and she will try and consume as much as humanely possible. Thank goodness the important people left within the first hour. All this free wine made me (yes, it forced me) to leave my mobli in the taxi on the way home and then pay for its own taxi journey back to me. At least the mobli got a taste of independence and drunken Hull, ensuring that it will never dare leave me again.

2) A lovely drunk lady told me that I must be honoured to go out with S. I looked puzzled (I mean, he's nice and all but honoured? I think not) and made one of those nondescript noises that means you hope the person will expand (not literally of course although I would LOVE it if there was a specialist noise that you could make that would literally expand the person you were talking to). Anyhoo, she went on to say that he was a hero, so talented and gorgeous and an inspiration to the people of Hull. It was at this point that I realised that she had mistaken him for the Hull City goalie, Boaz Myhill.

The weekend was cemented as one of the best ever when we popped to Maccy D's yesterday afternoon and ordered one cheeseburger and one hamburger and were given instead three cheeseburgers and one hamburger. Oh wonderful goodness. See, it is times like this that I realise that there is a God.

Trying to be a skinny minny

I am going to get buff. I am; it's my goal, it's what I live for.

Well, no, it's not what I live for. But it is my goal. I decided that as S studied fitness and other such crap when he was younger that he would become my trainer. We started a while ago but only last week in earnest. He basically forced me on pain of death to do more squats than I wanted to do (I wanted to do one, he wanted me to do thirty-six; we compromised with twenty-two).

The thing is, all anyone has to do is call me a wuss - in this case, S said "stop crying like a wuss" - and I'll immediately do everything in my power to look manly. So I, who have not done anywhere near squats in over two years, did twenty-two. Oh, and after the squats, my personal trainer went off to play football and left me to my own devices. Loser.

Anyhoo, my legs hurt INSTANTLY, and they have ever since. I woke up this morning and knew immediately that I'd be lucky to walk all the way from the bedroom to the kitchen. I made it to the kitchen, crouched to get a new bin bag out from under the sink, and had to yell for S to come pull me out of the crouch position.

I made it to work. Someone asked me to 'nip upstairs and pick up a folder', I quietly calculated the number of stairs I'd have to navigate to do this. Twenty up and twenty down, OK, I can do that, but no more. It will take all the willpower and manpower (womanpower, whatever) and everything else I have to do those stairs, but I can do it. Forty stairs. The end.

Unfortunately I then needed to return the file. I cringed, which hurt my bum, so I uncringed. I cried a little. Come on. Forty stairs again. I visualized S's face and imagined his mouth forming the words "don't be such a wuss".

I did it. And I didn't even limp. And I'm going back to do more squats tomorrow.

Who's a wuss now?

Livy K's Summer Reading Rules

One of my favourite things come summer is reading. To be fair it is also one of my favourite things in winter and spring and autumn.

Anyway, I digress. In summer, when we go on holiday I read a lot, you will always find me under a tree or umbrella, reading a book in a massive sun hat. Yes I am that loser.

Last year in Mexico I finished six books in ten days. Which would have been fine if I had taken just those six book but unfortunately my Livyness will not allow me to do this. I mean, what if I had read them super quick and had finished them before the end of the holiday! Disaster! What if one day I was just not in the mood for that particular book! Exactly! Which is why I took 13 books. And my diary. And two jotters. And a name book (indeed, I am a loser on many levels).

I inexplicably have to have at least four books on the go to quench my various reading moods. For example, right now I am reading: Kitchen Table Lingo (for fun words, not too heavy), The Workhouse (for actually-my-life-doesn't-suck-that-much mood), The Stuff of Thought (to remind me of my degree and to feel intellectual), My Grammar and Me (so I can correct people all the time with the confidence that I AM RIGHT), A Stranger in the House: Women's Stories of Men Returning from the Second World War (because I like to pretend I am a history geek), Waiter Rant: Behind the Scenes of Eating Out (although I wouldn't recommend this if you feel queasy easily - wow that nearly rhymed), The Importance of Being Trivial: In Search of the Perfect Fact (because it is fab) and The Little Princess (because I am in fact, 6).

Not only this but I always have to have one super depressing book on the go (currently The Workhouse). The function of this book is specific - when I am down it is very important for me to read a book about people whose lives are even worse, a sort of perspective giving tool if you will. This can backfire. For example, once I was very stressed out, I was looking for a job, having parent issues, my fish Googley Pete died and the local shop were out of Toffee Crisps so I pulled out my most popular depressing book - Love You Mean It, The Story of Four 9/11 Widows. Unfortunately, I was in such despair that this just plunged me deeper and I found myself sitting on a bus outside Tesco's, sobbing with panda eyes and chocolate round my mouth.

It is with this in mind that I have decided on my new Summer Reading Rules:

1) Read one book at a time. All the way through. Even if it is RUBBISH. It may get better at the end with an explosion for example.
2) Do not start another book when you are currently reading one. This is silly and means that you will probably get confused between the two like when you thought Harry Potter was Jesus' son in the Da Vinci Code.
3) Read more positively - no depressing, whiney, poor me stuff. Panda eyes are never attractive.
4) Choose books carefully - because you like them, not just because everyone else says you will. Because lets face it, your brain is weirder than everyone else's.

So there you go. I have made a good start. Now which book to pick first....

Things I would write if I Twittered

"'Rodanthe' is such a stupid word."

"I still don't get Lost."

"I fancy Syler."

"Ha ha, I just said 'EndEasters!'"

"I can't stand Jeremy Clarkson - a complete twunt if ever there was one."

(obviously I'd be Twittering whilst TV-watching)

And so we debate...

One of my favourite things to do is debate. S also likes this but is wary due to my inability to see other people's point of view. Occasionally he relents, here's a sampling from the past week:

Grandparent visitation rights - S says no, I say no.

Arms-bearing should become a constitutional right? - S says no, I say no.

Is reproduction a human right? - S is undecided, I say no.

Religion in general should be banned - S says yes, I say no.

We had no right to go into Iraq - S says we did, I say we didn't.

Viability of life/human status of fetus - Hmm, lets just say that it ended with me refusing to eat the dinner S cooked me.

Legalisation of marijuana - S says yes, I say no.

Hall of Fame status for steroids-users - S says no, I say, seriously, are there people who actually care about this?

Your thoughts?

My Toffee

On Wednesday 13th May 2009, my dog died. Toffee Tuppance was 15 years old and very sick and tired. Last night we buried her. S and I went round and helped my Mum. We (well mainly S - turns out I suck at digging actual holes, metaphorical ones, on the other hand, I excel at) dug a very deep hole and buried her.

Despite my hatred of being a wuss, I sobbed. She was my puppy that we got when I was 10 and that I loved so much. And she was so tiny and alone in that huge hole.

So, I thought I would share some Toffee stories.

We got her on Friday 13th January 1995 and she was about 10 months old. I had been begging for a dog for months - literally months and whining and pleading - I had picked out one in a book I had (a fluffy, cute pomerian puppy) and I was desperate but always got a 'No' from my parents. Then one day I got home from school and they told me that we were going to the dog's home and we would 'have a look but not get a dog today'.

So, excitedly we piled in the car. When we got there, my parents decided that my sister and I would wait in the car. So we waited. And waited. And waited. And squabbled about what to call the fluffy puppy we would get.

Suddenly out of the dog's home door came my parents and in front of them this bright orange bundle, bounding towards the car. She leapt in and clambered all over us and licked our faces, going back and forth from my sister and I. She stank and was so excited to see us. My mum later told us that they had considered two dogs but chose her because, after being led out of the room, she stayed sat behind the doors waiting, wagging her tail so it thwacked on the floor in rhythm.

Her name was Trudi. We decided that this wasn't a good name and needed to change it. I don't know who suggested Toffee but it fit. She was toffee-coloured and it fitted with its initial and two syllables.

The next day I was meant to go to dance class but my mum said if I wanted, I could miss it and we could go and buy all the things we needed for her. We went to the massive pet shop in town and spent all morning choosing toys and bowls and beds. The bed in particular was an issue. We chose a green tartan soft one but couldn't decide on the size. We were worried that it wouldn't be big enough for her and ended up buying the second biggest (labelled 'Dalmatian') and fretting all the way home. I will point out that Toffee was the size of a terrier, slightly bigger than a Jack Russell.

She had a pink squeeky ball that she would bite incessantly.

She would tell tales on my sister and I when we gave up throwing the ball for her in the garden.

She would chew through the mail and bark viciously at the postman until we opened the door when she would then proceed to lick his ankles.

She once ran into a river covered in algae, thinking it was grass and then stood there, knee deep in water, whimpering until one of us waded in to carry her out.

When we bathed her she looked like a little rat.

Once my youngest brother was alone in the living room with her while I made tea in the kitchen when suddenly then was a sharp bark. My brother X then wandered through stating very matter-of-factly, 'Toffee does not like having her ears turned inside out'.

She once saw a cat in the garden and hurtled head first into the French windows trying to get it.

She would have mad 5 minutes when she would tear round the house, up and down stairs, hitting anyone or thing in her way.

She thought she was bigger than she was and, when sniffing around other dogs on a walk, would randomly snap at the biggest Labrador who could have taken her so easily.

She ate her food in a matter of seconds and then would scrounge for more.

She was intelligent and bright. My nana is slightly allergic to dogs and my mum would always remark that Toffee must know as whenever my nana was here she would follow her about. Well no, it was because my nana would constantly feed Toffee bits of food from her bag or under the table.

She cuddled lots. Snuggled up to you and licked away your tears when you were sad.

She was so full of fun and special and I will miss her a huge amount.

A Wish

A glimpse into the intricate and deeply philosophical inner workings of Livy and S . . .

The other morning, S is showering while I am applying makeup. He asks me what I would wish for, if I had three wishes.

I tell him it will take me some time, and proceed to think out loud for the next ten minutes before coming up with my list.

My wishes:
1. That my parents live comfortably and happily for a long time without ever working again unless they want to.
2. That all the rapists in the world be gathered onto a deserted island with no hope of getting off (this is my attempt at world peace: I can't wish for all the evil people to stop being evil, because lets face it, that is unrealistic. I figure chucking out the rapists will make a serious difference).
3. That S and I and everyone we love be safe, healthy and happy. Forever.
(Before I came up with this one, I wanted to be able to see my Grandpa and my Grandma again. S told me the wish leprechaun didn't have the capability to cross the boundary of death. Prior to that statement, I was not aware we were getting our wishes from a leprechaun, so I was made to retracte that wish.)

And S's wishes (contrived in a matter of seconds, the man knows what he wants):
1. To have all of Superman's powers (this is his attempt at world peace. He says he could easily and singlehandedly take care of all world conflict if he were Superman).
2. To have all of Superman's powers and not be vulnerable to Kryptonite (I try to tell him there's no such thing as Kryptonite; he replies that "there's no such thing as Superman either", and what can I say in the face of such logic?).
3. To have a billion pounds (which he will then use to get everyone out of debt, and probably have a little left over, at least enough to play football - a LOT).

What would YOU wish for?