Dad

My dad had a stroke this morning. He collapsed at home, unable to speak or move the left side of his body. Truly, it was one of the scariest things I've ever seen. The doctors told us it was a "large" stroke but it's a good sign that he can now move his left leg. He can talk, although his speech is severely impaired.

Whilst he was on the stretcher, he took off his oxygen mask, grabbed my hand and kissed it. I quickly put his mask back on but it was a gesture that said so much about my father: a tough man who always shows his love.

We all adore him, and are so terribly worried.

NaBloWriMo

I've decided to attempt NaBloWriMo and write a blog post every day in November, because I obviously don't have enough going on in my life at the moment. To date, my life has been littered with things I have started and then quit: novels, writing projects, relationships, kick-boxing classes, driving lessons and the feeblest of attempts to learn Norwegian, so I'm not expecting this to be any different.

But I've decided to go with a theme: 30 Things That Annoy, Confuse or Disturb Me. How hard can that be?

The Non-Date Date

Okay, let's just imagine for a moment that it was a date-date, and for one of us it might have actually been a date-date, and if it was then I would definitely not recommend calling me thirty minutes before the time we had arranged to meet to tell me you are already at our meeting place. Because I will still be sans slap and drying my hair but will feel compelled to say "I'll be there in ten minutes" and then feel annoyed with myself for being so agreeable whilst putting makeup on with one hand and shoving stuff into my bag with t'other. Because wasn't it being so agreeable that got me into this mess in the first place? A mess that includes dressing to go out on a Saturday night like I did not make an effort. Tricksy. It's programmed into my girly working-class DNA to always get dressed up for a night out. I fought it as much as I could but I still did my hair and makeup. I do my hair and makeup before going anywhere but it still felt like I was trying to be attractive. And why would a woman want to feel attractive merely for herself? IT MUST BE A SIGN. And that's exactly how I felt when I met Library Bloke and he stared at the teeny tiny fraction of leg showing between my boots and dress. He looked again and I squirmed and made nonsensical conversation: a great gabble of words to distract from the awkwardness of the situation.

When I told my dad about the pub Library Bloke and I we were going to, he made a face, and I should know by now that means it's a bit rough. As we sipped our pints of real ale and made stilted conversation, there was suddenly a loud shattering sound as a big hole appeared in one of the windows. It looked like something had been thrown through it but then everyone noticed the blood surrounding the hole in the window as if someone outside had punched their fist through it and then run away. There was lots of excited chatter before the glass was cleaned up and everyone resumed drinking. At least it gave us something else to talk about because I was really struggling with Library Bloke's favourite subject: philosophy. He has a doctorate in philosophy and I've read 'Sophie's World' so, yeah, one of was exposed as an intellectual lightweight.

Thank god for the band! The very loud band that made all conversation impossible. It wasn't my kind of music (blues rock) so I sipped my drink and looked around the room and realised Library Bloke wasn't the weirdest bloke in the place, there was actually an old man with a plaited beard wearing double denim. After the band finished a song, Library Bloke would do that thing I hate men doing (and I've only ever seen men do it): shouting stuff to the band, like "Great song!" or "Play [insert name of song by obscure blues guitarist]!" Everyone would stare at us and I would inwardly cringe. I started to wish I could get really pished but I was working the next day and that was also my excuse for leaving early. As we parted, he kissed me on the cheek and invited me to dinner at his house the following weekend and I made an excuse. In the two weeks since our non-date date, he has asked a couple of times if I want to go for a drink with him and I have made excuses. Colleagues tell me I should just be brutally honest but I think he's a nice man and I enjoy having a chat and joke with him at work but don't want to go out with him again.

What. Do. I. Do?

Excessive Exclamation Mark Post!

I have a job!!!

It's only taken eight months of applying for jobs and attending interviews to finally get a temporary position in my chosen industry. There were two positions available and one of my new colleagues told me there were four hundred applicants. After he told me this, I started to worry that they would expect me to be be really amazing and know how to do everything. Instead of it being a boost to my confidence, I worry I will underwhelm and live down to expectations.

I have colleagues!

Lovely, strange, lovely, lovely, strange colleagues. After being out of work for so long it is such a shock to be interacting with people again, but they are lovely. And strange. One particularly strange colleague asked me if I wanted to see a band with him on Saturday night and I was so surprised and flustered that I agreed and then immediately regretted it. When I told my other colleagues, they laughed and teased me about it.

I am going out on Saturday night with a weird bloke!

Oh, gawd. I was pretending that I hadn't agreed and hoped he had forgotten about it, and then when he confirmed where we were meeting he looked so happy that I completely bottled out of making an excuse.

It is not a date!

Even though he told me it is "definitely over with my wife" and complimented me on my perfume, IT IS NOT A DATE.

Eeek!

I have just finished my second week of work and my brain is quite scrambled. It's difficult enough trying to cope with full-time work again without also managing the relationships that come with it.

!!!

Please Lush Leave Me Alone

I may have offended one of the girls working in Lush when she offered to "explain" how the solid shampoo bars worked.

"It's okay," I said. "I'll work it out for myself."

I'm not normally so curt but had only been in the shop a couple of minutes and she was the third shop assistant to offer to "explain" the products that I was quite contentedly sniffing.

"It's company policy," she said with a trembling smile. "We have to ask everyone."

I've been shopping in Lush for years. I love their products: the look, feel and smell of them. But I know the entire range and like to browse without being continually asked if I need help or having someone rub a massage bar on my arms.* It highlights the slightly schizophrenic attitude to Customer Service in this country, where having a shop assistant acknowledge your presence with brief eye-contact or a thin-lipped smile can often seem like a staggering achievement, but where at other times they act like an over-eager new friend, gushing and simpering, until two words begin screaming through your mind: ONLINE SHOPPING, ONLINE SHOPPING, ONLINE SHOPPING.

*This happened during my last visit and troubled me for a number of reasons:

1) I know how to use a massage bar.
2) It happened so quickly that before I could even contemplate running away, my arms were being smeared and rubbed by a complete stranger.
3) Call me a repressed Brit or just call me normal, but if you don't know me, please don't touch me.
4) If you are going to offer this...um...service, then please be of the opposite sex. And attractive.
5) I had to go home with oily glittery arms.

Book Meme

I haven't done a meme in ages. This one involves answering a series of questions with the titles of books you've read this year.

Describe yourself: She's Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
How do you feel? Restless (William Boyd)
Describe where you currently live: The Spare Room (Helen Garner)
If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Northern Lights (Philip Pullman)
Your favourite form of transportation? The Driver's Seat (Muriel Spark)
Your best friend is: The Little Stranger (Sarah Waters)
You and your friends are: The Kindly Ones (Jonathan Littell)
What's the weather like? Southwesterly Wind (Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza)
You fear: The Patience Of The Spider (Andrea Camilleri)
What is the best advice you have to give? Things Fall Apart (Chinua Achebe)
Thought for the day: When Will There Be Good News? (Kate Atkinson)
How would you like to die? On Cats (Doris Lessing)
Your soul's present condition? Dead Until Dark (Charlaine Harris)

Meme via normblog

It All Starts To Make Sense...

I am currently fascinated/repulsed by this site.

Who Ate All The Pies?

My mum and dad are not talking. Mum is dealing with this by baking pies. Pies, pies, pies. Oh, and a few more pies. Dad is dealing with it by boycotting the pies, refusing to eat even a tiny mouthful. Which led me to ponder how big or important an argument it would take for me to refuse to eat a delicious home-made pie? It think it would have to involve murder or kitten abuse for me to feel outraged enough to not eat the pies; arguing about where to go on holiday does not seem a justifiable reason. Admittedly, it does take a lot to ruin my appetite. I could probably keep eating through a nuclear holocaust. If I survived, dazed and confused, I would still be clutching a tube of Pringles and a big bag of Maltesers.

My mother would be alarmed if I did not eat the pies. I'm eating them for her. And I'm eating my dad's share, too.

A Big Sandwich of Wrong

Since moving back home, I have introduced an exciting new foodstuff into our household: peanut butter. Yes, this actually used to be a peanut butter free place. I was quite surprised when my small jar of salt-free, sugar-free organic yummy scrummy peanut butter disappeared within a couple of days. It turns out my mother and brother have been converted and we now go through a large jar a week.

Last week, my mother, aka Madame Tarina, made a sandwich and sat down next to me to eat it. I could see a whole spring onion flapping out from between the bread. "Is that a spring onion sandwich?" I asked, slightly horrified.

"It's a spring onion, peanut butter and marmite sandwich," she replied, munching away happily. She offered me half but I declined. Even though I have pledged to pack as many different experiences into my life as possible, I just couldn't do it.

Urgh.

Blasts From The Past

A couple of weeks ago I was watching a documentary on Channel Four called 'Wild Things' about a commune that was started in London in the 1970s, where the adults decided to raise their children collectively and allow them to be 'wild and free'. Rather than be given their father's surname, the children were all given a new surname: Wild. The people in the commune and the idea spread to other parts of the country and the documentary went in search of some of these now grown-up children who share no biological bond but have the same last name. About half way through the programme, I was quite surprised to hear the name of a boy I went to school with: he has an unusual first name and the surname Wild. They showed a photo of him and I immediately recognised him as a boy I had a slight crush on at the age of 16/17 and who occasionally hung around with my group of friends. I had no idea at the time that he grew up in a commune, never even imagined there could be such places in boring old Leeds. It made me wish I had got to know him a bit better but mostly it challenged my assumption that everyone I grew up with was living in a 'typical' or 'normal' family such as my own.

Then about a week ago, a Facebook friend mentioned that she was going to be on the Fourth Plinth and asked everyone to watch and cheer her on. The Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square is an area normally reserved for statues of kings and generals. The sculptor, Antony Gormley has asked people across the UK to occupy this empty space as a way of creating 'a living monument'. Every hour, 24 hours a day, for 100 days without a break, different people will occupy the Plinth. They must be alone and can do anything they want as long as it is legal (there goes my plan to sit up there with a huge spliff). Participants are picked randomly from a draw, there are 2400 places and there have been over 29,000 applicants. The project has received quite a lot of attention and a fair bit of criticism as yet another form of reality TV. Anyway, you can watch my friend here. It was strange watching someone I remember from my 'A' level History class as being a bookish type, now all blonde and glam and singing in such a public place.

My final blast from the past took place last Friday at the funeral of the husband of one of my mum's closest friends. Mum had told me a couple of years ago that my ex-boyfriend, Bald Man, was now going out with her friend's sister but I had never given it much thought, especially as living in Australia there was no chance of us bumping into each other. But he was the first person I saw at the funeral and so many awkward memories flashed through my mind. The over-riding memory was our Date From Hell when we were in a pub and I started having an allergic reaction to some medication I was taking at the time. I rushed to the toilet and when I came out was slurring my words with half my face all droopy and weird and I had to go to hospital. Anyway, the funeral was very sad but between bouts of crying there were other memories that flashed into my head, like Bald Man and I in bed together. And even though my mind screamed 'NO, NOT NOW MEMORY PLEASE', they were hard to stop.

Anyway, at least two out of three of my blasts from the past were interesting/enjoyable. Now I'm back living where I grew up there is always the fear of bumping into former classmates, people I dated or worked with. The most simple trip to the supermarket, library or gym has the potential for awkward impromptu meetings, and I wonder what it would be like to live in a really small town where everyone knows your bidness. I also wonder what it would be like to enjoy it, the comfort and security of being surrounded by people you know and grew up with. It's never going to be something I feel: I will always prefer the anonymity of big cities and new countries.