I miss

being a bride.

courtesy of Slice of Pie Designs

I do.

I mean, being a wife is awesome and all (and my pie making skills have vastly improved - I felt I needed to develop at least one wifely duty thing and it was pie making or ironing... no contest really is there?) but there is something so massively special about being a bride.

courtesy of lovely friends

courtesy of Slice of Pie Designs

Something exciting and brilliant and sparkley and youthful and amazing. I loved the dress, the veil (my god... I love that veil), the swooshing (of the dress naturally) and the glowing.

The dress, oh the dress

It would probably be wrong to get divorced and then do it all again wouldn't it?

Oh, sod it, and a drunken dancing one....

I kept the curtains firmly closed

As previously documented our flat overlooks a river, the river is a city river on the edge of town and thus, on occasion, attracts some super fun individuals.

There was the guy that went swimming for an hour, being chased around the murky water by two firemen in diving gear; the couple that have the same argument every Thursday night at 1am on the way home from the pub - it gets to the point where you want to shout out the window, 'No, he did say that last week. But you are right, it was just as unreasonable then'.

But this one was the best. On Sunday morning, around 6am, I was peacefully slumbering when suddenly there was a shout from outside:

Man 1: Don't worry mate, honestly, it'll be fine.

Man 2: I'm not sure. Something could go wrong.

Man 1: It won't. Honestly, just stay calm and focus. Just think, in four hours, we'll be on the ferry and gone.

Man 2: Right... ok.

Man 1: Oh, and remember, your name is Sharon!

And that is why I am considering moving.

An emotive subject

We were watching TV. I was doodling about on the internet. Suddenly I thought:

Me: Aren't genes weird?

Steve: (suddenly animated) Yes! I mean in the old days it was simple, you had straight leg and boot. Nowadays there are whole shops dedicated to jeans. All of them with no boot cut jeans! Where are they all? I liked the boot cut! They look good with both trainers and going out shoes! And don't get me started on skinny jeans! They look ridiculous on boys. I just don't get it. I mean, it is weird isn't it?

Me:...... ummmm I was taking about genes. Like who you look like. DNA.

Steve: Right.... yes. Weird.

So....

This is my lunch today.

It is red pepper pesto cottage and salad.

Looks a bit like dog sick doesn't it?

Part of your world

This is my mermaid bag.

Isn't she beautiful? I got her a million years ago and only bring her out occasionally as she is a bit of a sequin malter. Tis v sad.

I wore her to a BBQ last Saturday and out for lunch with my family on Sunday. Everyone loved her. Why wouldn't they? She is marvy.

Anyway, last night, being good little bunnies we are, Steve went for a run.

When he returned he held out his hand, in it were lots and lots of green sequins and glitter pieces. It seems that, over four days later, he found a little sequined path through town, all the way from the train station to our flat. With several clusters of them outside various bars.

It is like the gingerbread crumbs story for the Sex and the City generation.

ps Happy Birthday Lola! I am very jealous of the evening zoo trip! x

What's my M&Sing name?!

So a curious thing has happened to my ipod, my dear little pink ipod with the sparkly England flag on the back.


It still plays fine (especially with Steve’s shiney new headphones that he doesn’t realise I’ve stolen) but it seems to have developed a mind of its own.

For example, right now, it thinks it is 2.38am.

Mine is just like this, but more glittery, more bashed up and with better music

It has also taken to playing songs in whatever order it pleases. So, if I have it on shuffle, it will always now play the first two songs of every album. Then the third and fourth. Why? I don’t know. It used to just play songs as it should on shuffle; just nice and randomly.

It has also decided to swap all the album covers so they no longer match the song or artist. Super funsies right?

And yesterday, to top it all off, it increased the volume by itself and then froze while still managing to play the song so I couldn’t turn it down or off.

Not awful generally I suppose but I am sure that the other patrons of M&S weren’t that happy to see me wandering through to store, in smart office dress, headphones in with Ja Rule and JLo’s ‘I’m Real’ blaring out.
And it was the rude version.

The road less travelled

I like travelling, always have. I love the packing, I love the anticipation, I love the journey to the car/station/airport and I love the waiting around for the traffic/plane/train. I love it all.

However, there is one thing I don't love, the other travellers.

Now sometimes, they cause no problem, they sit, quietly minding their own business, you see, I am not a chatty traveller. Crazy I know, I seem so chatty in real life and here. But part of me recognises that, as I take my seat, the person next to me is hoping I don't start any conversation. I know this, because that's typically what I think when I'm already seated and I see them coming down the aisle towards me.

"Oh, great," I'll think. "Here comes Chatty Chatterton. Don't sit next to me!"

At least, I hope they don't want to talk, because that avails me from feeling guilty about turning on my ipod and leafing through my magazine.

You see, socially, I'm LAZY.

I have enough friends, I think. What I need in my life is someone who fits in their seat and lets me comfortably scooch past them each time I have to pee or get something from the buffet car (generally wine or a bacon butty).

Of course, this rarely happens. Generally I have a talker, someone so desperate to share their facinating stories that I have to listen to them all the way from Wales to Bournemouth.

My Nana lives in South Wales. I live in the North East of England. On ocassion I need to travel between the two. On a train it takes a little over six hours, six long hours. Two hours to Manchester and then four to my destination... four hours on one train.

On one of these journeys I comfortablised (is that a word?) in my seat and took up my usual defense mechanism - pretending to cough manically to put off potential seat sharers.

And then I saw her. She caught my eye from half way down the aisle and indicated through a variety of hand gestures that if there was a seat next to me she would take it. I was panicked. I mean, it was too late to move and there were no more potential seat takers!

Suddenly she was there, squished in next to me on the double seat. Before we had even left Manchester I knew the following things about her:

1. Her cats' names (Emerson, Finkle, Grayson - he's bad - and Fisher)

2. Some problems she has with her sister (shallow and domineering) (married a Greek)
3. Concerns she has with her next door neighbour's frequency of shed use
4. How once she ate a fabulous restaurant in Edinburgh. I should go.
5. The real reason Viagra was invented (Don't ask)

After a while I decided that my neck hurt from craning to look at her as she talked, and also my head hurt from listening to her and her special stories. I kept telling myself to be compassionate and loving, but I felt like it was compassionate to have listened as long as I had, and plus I was loving my book and was keen to get back to it. So little by little I weaned myself away from her conversation. Eventually I was looking straight at the open page and just muttering "Really?" or "Wow. That's crazy!" every so often. Eventually she took the hint and left me alone. And then I felt super bad. Really super bad. So I tried to start her talking again. But she was done with me. She had nothing left to say. And that made it even worse, because now I was essentially begging for something I didn't want in the first place, and she was holding out. So I gave up and decided to snooze against the window.
After a while I started to stir and awoke to find she was telling me another story. From what I recall it was about a priest who took all of his clothes off and put on a wolf mask to wind up some Baptists. She claimed that it was a true story.

A week later, on the journey home, I firmly shoved my earphones and stared intently at my book at every station. And no-one sat next to me. They all knew; I was a woman who would not talk.

Either that or a serial killer.

The last taboo

I have been thinking recently about relationships and, in turn, marriage.




Baby Livy and Steve, August 2005


Since February I have been asked, what seems like a million times, 'How is married life treating you?' and I always reply how fabulous it is and how wonderful etc... until last week I stopped and replied with the truth:

"It is awesome but remarkably similar to before"

Now let me be clear here, that is not to say that I don't love being married, I do. I am constantly smiling when I think that Steve and I have made wonderful vows to each other, that we have stood in front of family and friends and declared our love for one another, promising to be true and support our partner through everything life throws at us.

But I already knew that I would do that for Steve and that Steve would do that for me. I knew that long before we got hitched, before we got engaged, even before we moved in. But, when you both work full time and have busy social lives and commitments outside work and the home, sometimes that love and specialness can fall by the wayside and you get into the routine, the rut, the up-at-seven-work-out-shower-go-to-work-come-home-from-work-tidy-up-do-some-more-work-that-some-how-you-didn't-get-finished-at-the-office-make-tea-bitch-about-work-sit-because-you-are-so-tired-you-can't-quite-do-anything-else-bicker-a-bit-over-who-was-meant-to-buy-a-card-for-that-birthday-party-you-are-going-to-on-Saturday-and-finally-go-to-bed.

Exhausted just reading it? I know.

There is the perception that as soon as you are married you are blissfully happy and all those premarriage arguments (who last put the bins out? etc.... you know, the niggles that aren't serious or any actual indication of your relationship) disappear.

Teenage Livy and Steve, June 2008

I am going to be brave now.

They don't.

Don't get me wrong, I love Steve and being with him makes me beyond happy but, by god, he infuriates me on occasion! And that doesn't change following a lovely ceremony and some white iced cake. And that is good, I mean, after all, marriage or even just being together for a long time doesn't change who you are. It doesn't magic away your faults or annoying habits. I will always be cross that Steve is incapable of hanging washing up correctly and Steve will always hate that I... well he won't because all my habits are perfect and wonderful. He's a lucky guy like that.

I just think that, at the moment, with all the pressures of life, the no money due to a recession, the near constant threat of redundancy, it is understandable that sometimes the shine can be taken off a relationship. It is easy to snap, easy to look at other people and their 'perfect relationships' and feel jealous and lost without really seeing what you have.

So I am saying that, this weekend, just as you are about to yell at your partner because they brought home a jar of ground pepper rather than a single red pepper (true story), just stop and remember that sometimes relationships need a little bit of effort but, if it is right, then the juice will definitely be worth the squeeze.

Grown up Livy and Steve, February 2011

It is with this in mind that I am announcing that, when Steve gets in from work tonight at 8.30pm, I will be meeting him at the door with a beer, steak burgers and a smile. And possibly some chocolate buttons.

Goldie goldie goldie, bronzie bronzie bronzie

I got a fake tan. It is lush. I am all bronzed and goddessy (except, of course, the fact that I am not six foot, lithe and amazonian).

I do not get a lot of spray tans but was feeling short, fat, dumpy and pale so it seemed a good option, I have, however, had enough to know how the system works; you go in, the nice tan lady leaves, you strip off, put on the little black paper knickers, pop some moisturiser on your elbows, ankles and knees and then the lady comes back in and sprays you silly.

Except this time she did not give me any little black paper knickers and I forgot to ask. So I stripped off and suddenly found myself standing there, naked, unsure of what to do; should I put my own knickers back on (which would have been problematical as I hadn't come in any for the purpose of not smudging the tan when it was done), should I search for the black paper pants in the many beauty boxes in the room, should I just stand there, starkers, in the booth waiting?

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and I had no choice but to stand there in the altogether. I adopted a sort of casual 'yeah-I'm-nudey' pose for good measure.

Now, I am not a prude, I have no issue being in various stages of undress in front of beauty professionals, I mean they see it every day, but this was the first time I had every been fully nude and, lets just say that it was a bit disconcerting to stand there having a total all over spray tan.

Still my tuppence is lovely and brown now. Which serves no purpose but is nice.

ps it is my Steve's birthday today and he has a horrid cold and is feeling very sorry for himself. Tis awfully sad. Still he had Percy Pigs for breakfast so it isn't all bad. x