Naked and laid bare. AKA Mrs Sparkly's Ten Commandments Award

Amy and I.

Hello! I won an award! I won a sparkly award!

A Mrs Sparkly award to be precise!

And what did I do to earn this honour? Bugger all. Except keep churning out the same old drivel.  However, it would seem that some people don't mind it so much, like my lovely friend Amy, who nominated me for this. So you lucky devils can in part thank her for my continued bloggage.

In all seriousness though, it never fails to amaze me that people read the things that I write. It's very rarely insightful, or profound and I don't think I've ever helped anyone in any way through it. Primarily, this blog exists as a kind of diary for me, something for me to look at when I'm feeling a bit ungracious, ungrateful, or cabin fever has set in.

Once upon a time, I had a boyfriend who was a little older than me and I would get so jealous when he'd regale me with stories of all the things he'd done. I would compare my life experiences and adventures to his and feel as though I was lacking, somehow. After a while, he got a bit peeved at my whining and told me that;

a) I did plenty of fun and interesting things; and
b) I had plenty of time to continue to do fun and interesting things, so I'd be better off focusing on all the things I was going to do, instead of all the things I hadn't done.

As much as it pains me to say it, he was right.

I started out with this notebook, into which I glued all my cinema tickets, train tickets from big adventures, tags from gifts, reciepts from locations, etc. This notebook was a kind of scrapbook of my life. And it was only the beginning. As the book grew fatter, so did my wealth of life experience. So did my desire to branch out more... I don't just want to see a film, I want to be in one! Getting on a plane for an adventure is amazing, imagine how much fun it would be to jump out of one!

So I've been an extra in a film, I've done a skydive. I've grown.

Now I have folders, I keep everything. It all gets glued down onto card and then filed away in my big, sexy lever-arch folders. I annotate things. I take photos compulsively. As self-indulgent as it might seem to others, I keep these logs of my life because one day I won't be able to do this stuff anymore. Or I'll be dead. These things exist as testament to a life lived as fully as I'm able to. They exist to remind me in my darkest times that the world is a strange and beautiful place. They exist to drive me on to explore and dream and dare and try. They are my memoirs.

To cement my winning of this award, I have to answer the following questions and then nominate some other blogs, which I consider deserving.

Job done.

Describe yourself in seven words
outspoken, loyal, whimsical, cavalier, ambitious, obnoxious, sweet

What keeps you up at night?
Fear. Fear I'm going to die alone. Fear I'm going to fail. Fear I'll be poor and homeless. Fear people don't really like me. Fear no-one cares really about me. Fear that I'm repulsive. That I'm worthless.

My closest friends know just how crippled by self-doubt I am. I will analyse everything to the death. It only takes the tiniest thing to make me feel truly shitty about myself and then I will sit and catalogue every single one of my failings and use them to metaphorically beat myself bloody with. There's being sensitive and there's being me.

I'm not just saying this stuff. There have been nights where I've lain paralysed in bed, certain I'm on the road to nowhere and that in ten, twenty years time all the people I love won't even remember I existed. I'll be in some shitty council bedsit, staring out at a concrete jungle, hoping death comes soon and that I'm not lying rotting for too long before the neighbours report the smell.

I genuinely have anxiety issues about people hating me and I'm, in the dead of night, convinced that one day everyone will leave me and I'll be alone with my ugliness.

Whom would you like to be?
Despite the above, most days, I quite like being me. There isn't a whole other person I'd just like to be. But I wouldn't mind taking bits of other people and making a new, Frankenstein's monster-esque composite me. I'd like Michelle Dockery's face and figure. I'd like my friend Kylie's beautiful soul. I'd like Emilie's joie de vivre, Amy's determination, Caitlin Moran's wit, Joanne Harris's ability to weave a tale. As Amy said in her blog, I think most of all I'd like to be the best me that I can be. Maybe I should spend some time 'modelling' myself on the traits I admire in others and perhaps I'd be less likely to have a midnight meltdown. I may try it.  

What am I wearing right now?
I am wearing a mint green tea dress with a purple and blue pattern on, purple tights and no shoes (see left). I bought this dress for Florida last year. I'm always a little sad when I realise a special occasion dress has become an everyday dress, but this one will always be special, as it's a UK size ten, which was the result of some intense cheese and cake denial last spring so I wouldn't make myself sick in a bikini. 

What scares me?
Aside from thinking everyone hates me and that I'll die alone, poor and miserable in a bedsit?

Dinosaurs. Genuinely. I'm not trying to be quirky or cute, dinosaurs, or more specifically, the idea of them coming back, scares the pants off of me. 

Imagine, if you will, a small, eight year old me. I have recurring dinosaur-based dreams. In them, I wake in the night, convinced something is wrong. I go to the bedroom window and look out into the night. There is nothing. I watch until my eyelids start to droop and begin to turn, reassured, back to my bed. It's then that the Tyrannosaurus Rex rears it's head above the house opposite. I freeze in fear and then I see them. Skittering down the road to the side of the house, heading toward me are two, adult human sized dinosaurs, each with a huge, sickle-shaped claw in the midst of each foot.

Imagine then a short while later when a film called Jurassic Park is released.

It was as if Spielberg had mined the design for them from my slumbering little mind.

Still now, I treat Jurassic Park the way other people treat [REC] or The Ring. I read Jurassic Park and The Lost World, and Conan Doyle's The Lost World the same way other people read Stephen King. The fear that one day they might return terrifies me.

And I still have that dream every now and then.

Other than that, I fear ignorance. Racism, sexism, homophobia, bigotry, the mining of the natural world without replenishing its resources, anything that humans do without care or consideration for the people and the world around them. That scares me.

What are the best and worst things about blogging?
The best thing is putting down all these thoughts and ideas I have and compiling them into this space where I can get to read and then re-read them. And hearing other peoples thoughts and feelings on them. I love that. I don't think there is a worst, for me. It's a wholly personal thing, the way I blog. So if I thought it had elements that annoyed or upset me, I'd probably find another medium in which to document this stuff.

If I could change one thing about myself, what would it be?
I'd be more patient. And tolerant. I have such a short fuse for things which annoy me, particularly rudeness. I wish I had the grace to accept that sometimes, people will be unkind and that blowing up about it solves nothing.

Slankets, yes or no?
Oh hell yes. My parents got me one a few years back and at first I was deeply unimpressed. Thanks, guys, for this zebra-print monstrosity. They didn't help by screeching 'AHHHHHH - YOU LOOK LIKE CAT SLATER!' when I tried it on.

Cut to a month later and I'm reading at home. It's cold and I pull out the aforementioned monstrosity. I slip my arms in and OH MY ACTUAL GOD. WHAT IS THIS MAGIC?! IT'S A BLANKET WITH SLEEVES. I AM WARM AND ENSCONCED IN THE MAGICAL FABRIC HUG OF A BLANKET, BUT I HAVE ARMS!

Not to mention the fact if you put it on backwards it's like wizard's robes. Trashy, zebra-print wizard robes. The kind of thing I imagine Rita Skeeter or Madam Rosmerta would swan around in in their boudoirs.

Tell us something about the person who nominated you:
She is one of the kindest and most generous people I have ever met. And she manages to combine this with such strength of character. It's very hard to be both appropriately hard and soft in this world but she is. And with grace.

My next step is to nominate 10 others:
This is going to be tough, as I dip in and out of blogs. But here we go, I can at least do seven and will add more if I remember them:

My friend Liv is on an adventure in Japan. This is her blog of how it's going:   http://herroyalhobbitness.blogspot.co.uk/

James blogs randomly but it's always a joy to read: http://wyatthaplo.blogspot.co.uk/

Leanne does regular and lovely YA book reviews: http://districtya.blogspot.co.uk/

Robin also writes insanely good, funny, witty and honest book reviews: http://redbreastedbird.blogspot.co.uk/

Amy. Does it all. http://turntothemusic.blogspot.co.uk/

Jamie writes about television and films and writing and pretty much anything else interesting. http://jamiekrakover.blogspot.co.uk/

Genny is lovely. I love her. http://cheeseymusings.wordpress.com/2012/07/02/my-big-black-cat/ 

      

Grown ups lie. ALL THE TIME.

Me: Hi, Mum, is Dad there?
Mum: No, he's taking Granddad home, why?
Me: Can I ask you a question? And will you be honest with me?
Mum: ...
Mum: Yes...
Me: What really happened to Benji?
Mum: The dog?
Me: Yeah. Benji the dog. What happened to him?
Mum: Your dad said he ran away.
Me: And is that true?

Adults lie. All the time. They lie about nice things, like Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. And they lie about big things too.

What really happened to Benji?

Earlier, I phoned my dad to wish him a happy Fathers' Day. We had a chat and then he put one of my nieces on the phone. When she asked who it was, I told her it was the Tooth Fairy. We had a brief, but highly amusing chat about the state of Granddad's teeth and that was it.

But then I started thinking...

I'd just lied to a child. A tiny child, who trusts adults to protect her and guide her through the evil soup that is childhood. What kind of monster am I? As if she doesn't have enough to be getting on with, playground politics, who's going to whose party, who's her best friend this week, etc., without me adding to it by outright lying to her.

Being a kid is HARD. 

Nobody takes you seriously. No-one listens to you. Everything is a predator, other kids, older kids, strangers, the bunyip, spontaneous combustion, dinosaurs. Life is a constant battle just to stay alive. Adults seem to be under the impression that to be a child is to be carefree and joyful. Once they cross the threshold into adulthood the dark side of childhood evaporates, leaving room for the really important stuff like interior decorating and being outraged at things they've heard on the radio. Things like how important it is to keep all your limbs inside the bed at night because if you don't then you will absolutely, definitely be eaten to death are forgotten. 

So given that, do they really need people like me messing with them? No. No they do not. The very last thing a child needs is me or my ilk toying with them like a cat with a mouse. They deserve my honesty. I will not be the adult who says "If you tell the truth, you won't be in any trouble."

LIES! 

Of course I'll be in trouble, are you kidding me? This is a trick, a dirty, sneaky trick designed to make me confess to a crime you're not even sure I've committed. That's why you're trying to bribe me with the false promise of absolution if I 'fess up. We both know you don't know for a fact that I did it, or you wouldn't be trying to bargain with me. If you knew 100% I was the perpetrator, I'd already be in solitary with no sweets for a month. I'm saying nothing, denying everything and you're just going to have to go to your grave wondering if I really was innocent. We've been here before, remember?

"If you tell the truth, you won't be in any trouble." 
"You're right! It was I! I did use your chapstick to write invisible letters to my best friend. And I'd do it again I tell you! I'd do it again!"
"YOU ARE GROUNDED, MADAM. BE GONE TO YOUR ROOM. NO SWEETS FOR YOU. YOU LITTLE DEVIANT."
"What? You said I wouldn't be in any trouble if I told the truth. I just told the truth. Now I'm in trouble. What kind of manipulative sicko are you?"

Lesson learned. Lie to adults. They will lie to you. Because if they know you've done it, they toy with you in a different way.

"And where have you been?"
"Oh, just up the field"
"Not in the woods then? You've not been to the pond?"
"Nope. Just up the field."
"I SAW YOU BY THE POND IN THE WOODS. I SAW IT. WHY DID YOU LIE?"
"I don't know, why did you ask me where I was when you already knew? Does that not strike you as a mentalist thing to do? What was the point in that? Do you feel clever now you didn't get caught in the conniving web of lies I'm spinning around you, Mother? Do you feel like Poirot now? Jesus."

Lesson learned. Adults only ask you seemingly innocuous questions when they already know the answer. Don't rise to the bait. Stay silent, stay strong. 

Honesty is the best policy, is it? Right. So, explain to me then, oh mature one, why it is when I'm honest, it's 'being cheeky'.

"Did you like the cake Auntie Mary made you?"
"No, to be honest, I think it was a bit heavy. Maybe try using less eggs next time. Or buying one, because I'm not going to lie, Auntie Mary, honesty is the best policy and in all honesty, your cakes are rubbish."
"GO TO YOUR ROOM, AUNTIE MARY AND I WON'T PUT UP WITH YOUR CHEEK"
"I wasn't being cheeky, I was being honest..."
"DON'T BACK ANSWER ME, GIRL. ROOM. NOW"

Or my favourite;

"It won't hurt, it'll just feel like a little scratch"
"Oh really? You're about to stick a needle in my arm. IN MY ARM. It's not going to feel like a scratch, it's going to feel like you're sticking a thin piece of metal into my flesh. THAT'S NOT WHAT SCRATCHING IS".

I won't have it. No longer will I kowtow to the cult of being an adult. I won't lie to children and tell them that honesty is the best policy. I'm going to be straight down the line with them. They'll thank me for it, when they're adults.

Oh right, yeah. The dog. Well, the story always was that he 'ran away'. My mum normally took him out for his walk but she was ill, so my dad did it. He came back, sans beloved family pet (he wasn't that beloved, he once ate the only blue crayon we had and then did blue poos everywhere, so all the poo was blue but the sky was forever white). Naturally, we were suspicious. Everyone (who's seen Lassie, and possibly Skippy) knows that lost animals find their way home after having a great adventure, foiling crimes, and saving lives. Benji never did and I've always secretly harboured the suspicion my dad is a murderer.

Mum said he went and looked for the dog and asked all around, but we did live in a small village surrounded by a lot of fields and woods and ponds, and he was still a very young dog, and it's possible he got into some trouble and died. 

We never saw him again. 

So today, after many years wondering whether the story that Benji "ran away" was just another of those horrible lies adults tell to children, I decided to find out the truth. I phoned them back, determined to solve this last, great mystery from my childhood. Did my parents lie to me about my dog? Did they, in fact, arrange for his death and try to hide it from us by saying he ran away?

No. He did just run away. I know my mum, she was too busy being relieved that I wasn't phoning from prison or announcing a pregnancy to be able to lie convincingly. The relief was palpable, there was just the right amount of confusion and concern. My mum's no actress, even over the phone. He ran away. I feel a bit how that lady must feel in Cold Case when she's put the big box of files back in the room with a big fat SOLVED sticker on it. I'd put money on it that tomorrow I'll see a dog, in the distance. A dog that bears remarkable resemblance to Benji. I'll smile at him fondly and the Smashing Pumpkins version of Landslide will start to play on my iPod.

And then the mystery dog will do a bright blue poo and I'll know my beloved pet is sleeping easy somewhere, his disappearance solved.
 
Case closed. 

Shipping - what's all that about?

I've been thinking a lot about 'Shipping' lately. For those of you who don't know, I'm talking 'Shipping', OTPs, Slash and all of the other mysterious terms the cool kids use on the Internet to talk about people they believe would make a good love/lust connection.

In one entry on the ever-reliable Urban Dictionary, user Heligoland describes 'Shipping' as:

(Fandom) uses this word as a verb to denote their interest in the possible (and perhaps more often impossible) romantic relationship between two characters in a piece of fiction belonging to any medium. It's really never used in a platonic way, but if it ever is, people tend to separately emphasize that they are using it platonically.

And that's where all my thoughts have sprung from. 'Never really used in a platonic way'. But that's not a big deal, is it? I mean, Buffy and Angel aren't platonic. And neither are Willow and Tara, or Jack and Ianto. They are people who are meant to be together. 

But what happens when people start to ship couples whose relationships are inherently platonic? What does that mean?

My first question was 'Why?' Why do you want these two people, who get on brilliantly, who complement each other in every way, to also be sleeping together? Why does that make the relationship better, or stronger? 

From this, I wondered whether, in the eyes of fans, Relationships > Friendships? And, if so, what the Baggins?

Which, in a roundabout way, takes me into the concept of 'Friendzoning'.

Friendzoning is, from what I can gather, when a boy likes a girl a lot, but she doesn't feel the same, and - rather than accept the fact that she just doesn't fancy him - he is subsequently bitches about being 'Friendzoned', never to be allowed the opportunity to allow his man sword near her scabbard of joy. 

Again - what the Baggins!?
When precisely did we decide that everything about a relationship had to involve sex or it was a lesser sort of relationship?
I put this question to the Internet (I posted it on FB and Twitter) and the first response I got was from my friend Liam, saying that it had always been this way, we were just a lot more open about it now.
And I think that's precisely it. It has always been this way and we are a lot more open about it now. Back in the day, everyone wanted Elizabeth and Darcy to be together. Or Mrs Pepys and Pembleton (Samuel was a GIT). But it was never (except with Samuel, dirty GIT) explicitly implied that sex was the Holy Grail. Back then, we were shown esteem, admiration, affection and love. Of course sex was involved, but it was never presented as the centripetal force. More as a pleasant interlude between brooding glances. But today, all we get is sex.

Every magazine you open is littered with features on how to be sexy, how to have the best sex, how to get more sex, how to get the sex you want and so on and so forth. In 2012, everything is about sex. Openly. Sexiest male, sexiest female, bodies, faces, positions, toys. We are saturated with the idea that sex is the most defining quality your life will have. And not just by having it, also by not having it. Choosing whether to have sex, not have sex, to have sex with boys, or girls, or just yourself becomes your most definitive feature. Everything is openly sexualised.

So then why (given that we're human and we always actively seek out the very thing we're not told about) would people already bombarded with more sexual ideas and imagery than even Casanova could devise, seek out EVEN MORE SEX?

Is it, in fact, the unattainability that makes it so alluring?

People are always drawn to what they can't or shouldn't want. It's the Garden of Eden every time. So is the desire to pair two characters who are patently not romantically involved the next natural step? Is shipping unlikely couples society's way of the shunning the media-prescribed versions of sex we're given?

If you believe the media, the most desirable (in terms of expectation and emulation) relationships are between people who are attractive, thin, affluent, successful, charismatic and adventurous. These are the relationships we are told to seek out. Even in books, the last refuge of the individual thinker, the relationships that get the most attention are the Edward and Bella type. Her the delicate, frail beauty who has no idea of her appeal and he the brooding, rich Greek God vampire-man. I'm yet to see the angsty, occasionally ugly, bitter-sweet but real love of a couple like Hazel and Augustus get a four page spread.

But the Internet has given power to the underdog in a way that couldn't be predicted. It's given people the chance to explore life and lifestyles outside of their immediate towns and cities. It's allowed them to find people who have quirks and interests like they do and so whole communities have emerged, dedicated to alternate lifestyles and ways of thinking. And shipping is very much a product of the Internet.

But are people really using ships as a way to redefine romantic ideals on their own terms?

Possibly, although romance still plays second fiddle to sex. I could go on Tumblr right now and find links to some absolutely golden filth about the BBC's Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, or Arthur Pendragon and Merlin. Ships, it seems, are not immune to sex.

But I genuinely think that subverting relationships to make them fulfilling on a personal level, as opposed to the media-led ideal of what a successful relationship should be, has to be the crux of why shippers are so passionate about their OTPs. They are the new fairytale. Way back when, people could seek solace in the fact that a prince might come and rescue them, or a beautiful fairy would take them away to her land and make them her consort. But in a world that's striving for equality and equal rights, we're a lot less keen now on the idea of coming into a partnership as the weaker or more dependant party. We want it to be an even match.

And the best even matches start with friends. Pure, honest-to-God, I'm-not-just-being-nice-to-you-to-get-in-your-knickers friends. And all of the ships I've come across, which are non-canon, seem to begin with friends.

I'd just like it if, for once, friendship was the ultimate prize. I'm old-fashioned like that.

Royalty and Jubilees

Bloody Royal Mail. 

Being British is a funny old thing. We spend half our lives being insanely proud of our heritage and the other half apologising profusely for everything that we've done wrong in the last 2000 odd years. We're fish and chips, haggis, Yorkshire Puddings, tea and biscuits. We're the Beatles and Take That, Torquay and Manchester. We're Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter and Elizabeth Bennet. We're the grimy inner city and the quaint seaside. 

We're also a nation composed almost entirely of contradictions and opposites. The stiff upper lip versus the eccentric. The gentleman against the street urchin. Exquisite manners versus hooliganism.  

We like a good moan. Especially if it's about the weather. Or queues. The weather is invariably too cold, wet, hot or windy. Or, our personal favourite, 'Grey'. Here in Britain, 'Grey' is a meteorological occurrence. A tediously regular meteorological occurrence. This is why the young ladies and gentlemen of Britain feel compelled to take off all their clothes at the slightest hint of sunshine. In Britain, sunshine is An Event.

Queuing in Britain means tutting, glancing at your watch and looking knowingly at your fellow queuers, maybe even throwing in an exaggerated eye-roll if it's a very slow queue.

That, however, does not stop us from joining a queue if one presents itself.

We eye a queue (the Post Office is a good one for this), trying to single out the weak. To leave a queue before you've reached the front is to dishonour your family and bring shame on your name. It's legitimately ok to be late to something if you're in a queue, because everyone knows you can't leave until the bitter end. 

As I was saying... (Staying on topic is another problem for us Brits. We do love a tangent). We like a good moan. But by God, we can't stand a whiner. By all means, have a bit of a grumble but then chin up, make an inappropriate joke about it and crack on. There's that whole 'Keep Calm and Carry On' thing for which we're so well known. And don't get me started on our stance over-sharing outside of the confines of gossip.

We also don't really like a fuss. Unless there's an opportunity for a fuss and then there had better be a fuss or else. So this weekend looks to be pretty darned exciting for everyone on our little island.

This weekend, we are, en masse, celebrating the 60th anniversary of the Queen's coronation. To the right, for those who don't know (looking at you, Steve Rogers), is The Queen. You can say 'The Queen' to anyone in the world and they will know you mean that one. She's quite the lady. So I, for one, am excited to celebrate her Jubilee. Sixty years on the throne is quite an achievement and we all know she's gunning for Vic's record so this won't be the last party we throw in her honour. Not by a long shot.

One of my very favourite things about being British is the fact we live in a Kingdom. We live in a kingdom with a Queen and Princes and Princesses and they live in palaces and castles and hob-nob with Dukes and Barons and the like. Anti-royalists and those who'd cheerfully abolish the monarchy think this is AWFUL. I, on the other hand, think it's GREAT.

How can you not be inspired to create and dream when you live in a place that for most of the world is like something out of a fairy story? Just last year, a 'commoner' married the most eligible man in the country, someday-heir to the throne, Prince William. That actually happened. We watched it. I even teared up a bit.

I love the pomp and circumstance of it all, the archaic pageantry. I love the protocol and the elegance of it. It all seems to happen in beautiful slow motion, a wave of the hand, a graceful nod. Yes, it's elitist and I'll never get to be a part of it in the same way they are. But I can't help loving it, all the same. There's still a little girl inside me that wants to put on a beautiful dress and go to a ball and dance with a handsome stranger. He doesn't have to know that under the dress my garter belts hold knives and my tiara is actually a Chakram.

Bargain

If I could go back to any time-period in history, despite my deep and abiding love for the Victorians, it would would be Tudor Britain. Because they rocked this kind of thing. They were all about the highfalutin drama. Parades, processions, hunts and jousts and tourneys and the like. Life for the Tudors was an endless parade of eating, drinking,  'making love' and making love.  

Admittedly, if you were a peasant like me, the best you could hope for would be to wait at the palace gate and hope Henners didn't eat all the pies (he did) and you could have some genuine Royal Table scraps. 

They couldn't do that now, the stuff would be on Ebay within an hour. And the best, in this era, that a peasant like me can hope for is a glimpse of a Royal Wave as a boat goes past, or to watch it all on telly and simultaneously tweet about it. At least in this era, I'm less likely to be beheaded for treason if my critique of some of the royal attire is less than flattering. 

So, yes, I'm excited about the coming festivities. I'm excited to watch this fantastic woman sail the Thames. I'm excited to go to a party and eat cucumber sandwiches and Victoria Sponge. I'm excited to wave a cheap plastic flag and get drunker than is strictly necessary.

Despite the state of the country, and the world at large, at the moment, there's still a lot to be hopeful about. Let's start it with a party. Let's start it with this party, to celebrate a woman who has been the global figurehead of who we are for the past sixty years.

And if that doesn't float your boat: FOUR DAY WEEKEND.

Putting the 'art' in tea-party

A fortnight ago, I flew out to my beloved second home to see Snowy, my sister from another mister. And lady - in fact, not in any way, shape or form my sister except in the sense of souls. Which is also an arguable concept, depending on your belief system. She's a nice girl. I like her a lot, we'll leave it at that.

Upon arrival at her home I was presented with the missive on the right, an invitation to Afternoon Tea. 

Snowy, being of practical and sound mind, had had the foresight to let me know beforehand that there was an occasion in the offing, so I knew I had a suitable frock. I was not prepared, however, for a glittery peacock.

Clearly, this was going to be a good party.

Afternoon tea is a concept that is widely believed to have been the brainchild of Anna Marie Russell, the Duchess of Bedford, whilst on a visit to Belvoir Castle, sometime in the 1840's. In nineteenth century Britain, the normal time for dinner was between 7.30-8.00pm. Because of the gap between breakfast and dinner, a meal called 'luncheon' had been created to be consumed around midday. However, Her Grace had found that the luncheon repast was not enough to tide her over until dinner, so invented the custom of taking tea and some small sandwiches or cakes a little later in the afternoon. She found it so refreshing that she began to invite friends to join her, and they liked the idea so much they began to do the same and lo and behold - Afternoon Tea is suddenly quite the thing in upper and middle class households. 

God bless Her Grace.

The afternoon before the Tea, K-Rob and I sat in Snowy's kitchen, perusing the beautiful The Vintage Tea Party book while our hostess arranged flowers and began to prep the food for the morrow. 


We were informed there would be four courses, including our mascot sandwich, the Huli Huli Chicken Sandwich. Cue paroxysms of joy from K-Rob (seriously, I once asked her if she had to pick between the sandwich and her fiance, which it would be. After careful thought, she told me she loved him so she'd choose him, but she henceforth hated me for even raising it. She also recently informed Snowy and I that she loved the sandwich more than us. See photo for her with the sandwich. Cow). 

Snowy also told us that on the menu would be Heston Blumenthal's Lemon Tart, chilled raspberry soup and a surprise. Almost giddy with anticipation, we took ourselves off to the living room to have some tea and watch Spaced.

The day of the party dawned. Thrown out of the kitchen while Snowy prepared, we took ourselves off to get dolled up, tea-party style. 

And then it was time.


The table was an absolute vision in aquas, blues and purples and the food was PHENOMENAL.

First up, a selection of sandwiches, the much-famed Huli Huli Chicken, the elegant cream cheese and cucumber, the classic smoked salmon and cream cheese and Snowy's own cream cheese and green grape.

GET IN MY BELLY! As the cool kids and that scary man from one of the Austin Power's films says.


Next course was the beautiful lemon tart, followed by the chilled raspberry soup and homemade chocolate cookie and icecream sandwiches. All served with a sparkling mint tonic, apple presse and, of course, tea, and set to a backdrop of thoughtful tunes. 


But did it do the job? Were we refreshed? Did we feel as though the luncheon/dinner minefield had been breached with elegance and style.

Fuck, yeah.

Hats off to Snowy for creating a perfect afternoon. And for very cleverly sedating me with food so I didn't go full-on mental when we went to Marvels: Avengers Assemble later that day.

Here she is, folks, the hostess with the mostess.

So what's the point of this blog, other than more showing off?

Well, according to The Vintage Tea Party book, it's very important that, after you go to a tea party, you send the hostess a note, thanking her for having you.

This is my note.

Thank you, Snowy, for organising, arranging and hosting such a beautiful and elegant occasion. I'm very grateful to count you amongst my best friends and I look forward to many more fun adventures with you in the future.
As long as you keep feeding me.

Love, Mel xxxxx                                                                      

Pressed Pennies

Pennies from The British Transport Museum,
Warwick Castle and Birmingham Thinktank

In the unprecedented occurrence of my being bothered to write a third blog this month, I have decided to share with you one of my little quirks. I have a lot of little quirks - but this is a nice one and I felt like putting it out there in the world, and giving it some sun. Because I'm kind like that. 

I'm a bit besotted with Penny Presses. You know the things, they're in museums, theme parks and the like and you pop a penny in one slot and maybe fifty pee or a pound in another and then you slam the drawer and crank the handle and then a flattened, elongated penny stamped with a design comes out? Well, them. I love them. 


Pressed pennies are made when the penny travels through a machine called a Jeweller's Mill, which has mirror-image designs cut into steel rollers. The pennies are squashed between the rollers at immense pressure (approx. 20 tons), which presses the coin into the design and due to the immense pressure simultaneously stretches the coin into an oval shape, resulting in elongated coins and embossed prettiness.
According to the Internets, the pressed penny - or less romantically - the 'elongated coin' (sod that, I'm sticking with pressed penny) was invented in America during the 1892 -1893 World's Columbia Exposition, to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus's 'discovery' of America, (I'm largely unsure how you can discover a country which already has a long-standing native population but there we go). 

Hyde Park Winter Wonderland, Madame Tussauds
and The Churchill War Experience

Discovering this foxed me a little, as I'd assumed from the general quaintness and cogs aspect of them, that they were a Victorian British invention. Not that I don't think America can do quaint, mind you. It's just the general pointlessness of them, combined with the intricacy, smacks of Blighty to me. But then what do I know?

So they've been around for about 120 years or so. And they're pretty global now. On the amazing Penny Collectors website, you can see where the ones nearest to you are and also if there are any where you plan to go. If only I'd known such a thing existed...

While doing some research for this blog, I spent a good ten minutes sobbing into my tea when I realised all of the opportunities I'd missed in places I'd been, not least the two machines on the seafront, 5 minutes bloody walk from my house. That will be amended. And I've cleverly bookmarked the page, so next time I go on a mooch, I can scout out the locations and find them. I will press ALL THE PENNIES. ALL OF THEM. I will become a connoisseur, an expert in the location and art of the pressed penny. I might even start a club about it. Not that there aren't already clubs devoted to it, there are even online shops to boost your collection, Ebay does a fine line in trading them and some people even collect them in themes - like stamps! Pressedpenny.com assures me 'there is no wrong way to collect pressed pennies!'

San Francisco love on American cents
and FOTA on a 1 euro coin

I've liked them since I was a child, there was something so magical - and also a bit naughty - about sticking a penny in a machine and squashing it and putting a picture where the Queen used to be. Sometimes, you can still see her outline on them, like a little ghost. It was exciting. And exciting to turn the crank handle as hard as you could and then stand back so the blistering hot metal didn't fly out at speed and gash your knees.

I've now, as an adult, got a bit of a reputation for having a mild obsession with penny presses. I've had tweets from friends who've been away, saying 'Oh my God, Mel - they have a PENNY PRESS here! You'd love it'. Thing is though, I can't have them as souvenirs unless I've been the one to press them. Unless my lily-white hands have been the ones getting all blistered by turning the crank, it's just not the same. I need the rush of seeing the machine myself, scrabbling in my purse for the correct change, selecting the design and then cranking. I'm a cranker.

So there you have an exciting little insight into one of my passions. Next up, I'll wax lyrical on the 243 different types of cigarette ash and how to identify them       
                                                                                                          

Disneyworld, Florida

Jurassic Park ones. Yes. Made of win.

Make, Do and Mend.

Crafts. That's a thing I do now. And like all the loveliest things, it happened totally by accident. 
Toward the end of last October, I decided it would be fun and nice to hand-make my friends' Christmas presents. I decided on jewellery as it's pretty and shiny and unique and easily tailored to someone's style, taste and personality. Also, my general approach to arts and crafts is more Blue Peter than Women's Institute and at least with jewellery there's less opportunities to sling a load of glitter on something and call it art. I'm not saying you can't, but it's harder to when making jewellery. It has a kind of glamour to it that repels PVA and toilet roll tubes. 

Anyhow... So, I ordered some bits, the plan being to make earrings, necklaces and charm bracelets. I posted a pithy Facebook status about it and cracked on with making it. A few days later, I uploaded some photos, feeling very proud of myself.

My friend Laura commented, saying 'You should have a stall at the Wizarding Winter Fair. You could sell things there.'

'Ok!' said I, ordering more things to make Harry Potter themed items to sell at the fair. I made some of these up and posted photos.

Then another friend asked if they were available to buy.

'Sure!' said I, promptly going to Etsy, setting up a shop and adding my sole ten items to it. 

Do you see how it snowballed? 

I've always been kind of artsy, happy with the making and doing, sitting around making charm bracelets, rosewater perfume in jam jars etc.. When I was at junior school, I was a budding animal rights activist. I spent lunchtimes memorising the Latin names of British wildlife. One of my life-goals was to get arrested for breaking into the Proctor and Gamble animal testing labs and liberating all the animals. I had visions of me in camo, armed with bolt-cutters, brandishing them in the air as I bellowed 'Animals are people too' before being led away, triumphantly in handcuffs.

I digress.

Anyway, I used to make cakes and sell them at break time and then put the money in my Halifax account so my mum could get me a cheque to send to the WWF. Not the World Wrestling Federation, as it was then, but the World Wildlife Fund. I rapidly realised though, that all those ten pences (twenty for fancy ones with icing AND jelly diamonds on) were not going to save the whales any time soon. I needed to do more.

I'd recently learnt to knit, so I decided to employ these new-found skills in my one-girl mission of saving the planet. I spent a weekend knitting squares, to which I then stitched faces and ears and made into keyrings of various animals. These were taken around the local old people's home, where I somehow managed to convince a bunch of blind, slightly senile, octogenarians to part with their pensions for them (fifty pence a pop. I was raking it in. Cha-ching!).

The game was on. Arts and crafts as a way to make money was go. It was heavily aided and abetted by my Nana, who is solely responsible for my love of making stuff. When I was little and used to stay over with her, we'd to spend hours cutting up bits of net curtain and sewing ribbon to it before stuffing it with lavender from her garden. She taught me how to make dolls house furniture from conkers and dolls from clothes-pegs. She taught me how to make clay out of flour and water and salt. She bought me ribbons and glue and paints and pencils and encouraged me to sit and make things. And she loved everything I made.


She broke her arm once and I knitted her this (with hindsight, utterly repulsive) cover for her cast. It was a slime-green frog, with a massive pink tongue and boggly-eyes made from my old gym knickers. Best of all, I lovingly made a fly to sit on its tongue. And she actually liked it. She really, really did. She wore it over the cast and when that came off, it spent the rest of its life sitting on the back of her chair. When she died, I insisted she was buried with it. 

I used to make cards, more than anything else. She always encouraged me to sell them, telling me to take them to shops and see if they'd sell them on. I never thought they were good enough though, so I used to say I preferred to do it for the people I loved. I was right, they weren't very good, not compared to what I do now. But I think she'd be pretty proud of me for finally doing something with all the arty stuff.

Where was I? Right, Etsy shop. So I set one up, added stock, people bought it.

What is this fuckery?

I made more things, got a bit creative. Then people started adding my items to their 'favourites', including them in Treasury Lists. I made a Facebook page to keep people updated on what I was doing. I found a local craft fair to go to. And after that, people started emailing me to ask me if I'd be interested in selling at their fairs.

As of right now, I have four craft fairs coming up in the next four months. My Etsy shop, after having stock in it for almost 5 months, has had 92 sales. It doesn't sound like a lot, and I'm certainly not about to start looking for property in Highgate, but it's a big deal to me. That I make these things and people like them, people want them, is so incredibly brilliant.

I used to sit and read my Ebay feedback if I was feeling a bit low, you know, the stuff like 'A-Star, Excellent Ebayer!' Or 'Perfect, 10 out of 10, come back again soon!'

Now I look at all the things I've made that other people have seen value in too, and I make more of them. It's a lot healthier, I think.

This post came about because last night, I decided to join Tumblr. Not because I desperately want to spend 4 hours a day sharing GIFS with the world, but because it's dawned on me that marketing is kind of essential to keeping this flow of awesome steady. And a lot of the stuff I make, though not all, is inspired by books and films and television. And if there is anything Tumblr knows about, it's what the fandoms are up to. So it seemed like a natural progression. I'll add photos and links to my Etsy shop, tag it appropriately and hopefully drive traffic, from people who might be interested in my stuff, to the shop. It's part marketing tool and part showcase of my hobbies.

And I won't lie, I will reblog pictures of foxes, teacups and narwhals if I see them.

At the moment, I'm in a very complicated relationship with my sewing machine. There are lots of things I want to start making, lace collars and cuffs, detachable Peter Pan collars, bow-ties and garters, that all necessitate, for sanity's sake, being able to use the machine. Except it scares the shit out of me. I may have to employ my usual tactic of getting drunk and having a go on it to break the ice.

It's exciting though, making things. I get so much pleasure from having bits and bobs and putting them together and making new things. I don't know how big it will get, or how big I want it to get. I'm worried all the joy might be sucked out of it if I end up spending all my time trying to keep up with orders, or relying on it as my main income. But for now, it's one of the loveliest parts of my life.

The Making of Harry Potter

It's been an action-packed few weeks. Lots has been done and lots is to come. Firstly... I SAW FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE!

I'm a bit in lesbians with Flo. By a bit, I mean COMPLETELY, UTTERLY AND IRREVOCABLY.

She has the most amazing voice, style and panache. She's beautiful. 'No light, No light' from her second album, Ceremonials, is the most perfect song in my world at the moment. Since buying the album on October 31st, iTunes informs me I've now listened to it 403 times... Reasonable until I explain that I don't listen to my iPod every day. Usually when I'm travelling. So the 3.8 plays daily average is a lot scarier than it first seems. Still, it keeps me happy.

Pris and I went to see her in Brum, meeting up with Fran, Kirsty and Beth there. We had to drink our wine out of plastic pint glasses but I did get to buy a tea-cup and she played 'No light, No light,' as her second-to-last song and I did some happy tears and it was perfect. 

After Flo and some much needed fun-times with Pris, I headed home for a few hours to repack a suitcase before heading off to Surrey for a night, followed by a road trip to The Wirral to celebrate Ellie's birthday. It was pure bliss to have so many of my favourite people together in one place, last time it happened was Florida last July, so this was a rare treat. Though I'm hoping it doesn't stay a treat and we get to do it more, so much so that I start to take those beautiful people for granted.


Last week saw me, SophieSoph and Kat venturing into the past (and there actually was a TARDIS, no joke) and going to experience life in the Blitz, at the Winston Churchill War Museum by London Bridge. Soph and I are native City of Villains kids, so we're quite WW2 savvy, popping a gasmask on and scooting under a table when the air-raid siren goes off is all in a days work for us. We followed up Victory by seeking out crushing defeat, heading to the casino. I popped my complimentary £10 chip on the roulette wheel... And lost. So we got cake and went to the pub.


A couple of days later, I was awake at 5.30am... Because finally, after almost 5 months of waiting, it was time to go to Leavesden to The Making of Harry Potter at Leavesden Studios.


The point of this isn't to give you a step-by-step guide to it, as I'm hoping you'll eventually go and see for yourself just how amazing it is. But if you're a fan of the world of Hazza P, you'll love it.


Most of all though, I think it's a beautiful standing tribute to the people we never got to see on screen. So often, we focus on the actors and their performances, occasionally bashing directorial decisions or script changes, but we fail to appreciate the other miracles happening on screen. Thousands and thousands of props were created for the series, hours spent designing and painting things which, at best, might only be seen on screen for a split second. 

Actual chocolate

Since visiting Leavesden, I've realised that for every complaint I've made about the films, I should have been making three compliments, making a note of objects in the background, or how realistic a puppet was. I'm really excited to watch them all again now, to better appreciate the costumes and the detail that was added to them. Hours and hours spent covering phone books in leather, embossing letters, adding labels to bottles for when a camera pans past them swiftly. Things which were made, like Lily's letter to Sirius, but never included. The chocolate feast, some items made from real chocolate. The hundreds and hundreds of little touches, that make the Harry Potter series really magical. 

We won't be crashing into the Whomping Willow
and that's why our insurance is lower.

At the same time as discovering things you've never seen before, you can't look anywhere without seeing something you recognise. By the end of the day, my stomach ached from all the pangs I had when I saw something I knew. Big things, like the door to the Chamber of Secrets, the Knight Bus, the basilisk skeleton. Small things, like Umbridge's amazing cat brooch, Scabior's scarf, Luna's Dirigible Plum earrings. It was a trip down memory lane...

Not to be confused with the actual trip down memory lane that is Diagon Alley. It genuinely bought tears to my eyes and not just because I'm an insanely sappy fangirl. 

But because it's so real. Despite numerous reminders that we were on sound stages, it didn't click until we'd left and were on the red carpet watching the actors go back inside. Then I remembered that I hadn't just been to Hogwarts, or Diagon Alley, but to a workplace, where the cream of the British film industry spent ten years making miracles. 

I'm so excited to go back, I've booked to go again on 31st July, for Harry and JK Rowling's birthdays. And, best of all, because we were rushed from the gift shop at the end, WB have very generously comped us free tickets to go back! I would urge all Harry Potter fans to go, it is expensive but it's so worth it. And they have Butterbeer. Actual Butterbeer. It was beautiful.


I know there's stuff I didn't see there, stuff I need to see again, stuff I want to spend hours staring at. At the moment, the exhibit will be there until 2013, when it may be expanded to include more things, or removed to make Leavesden operational again. Go, before that happens. You won't regret it. It's one of two places in the world where you can step inside a book. And that's kind of all nerds want.

A Scandal in Bohemia

Hello!

It's been AGES - AGAIN - since I've done a blog, so please insert the usual apologies about being a slack git in here <sorrysorrybegforgivenesspleaforabsolutionetc> In my defence, I've been very busy though. I've been to Baker Street (twice -more on that later) and to Ireland and I've been working on the jewellery making and expanding my repertoire and client base (that's wanky talk for made some new stuffs and doing a craft fair).

But the most exciting thing I've done has been go to Prague. On my own. For four whole days and five whole nights.

I was at work a couple of weeks ago and I realised I was about to have a fortnight off. With very little planned, other than staying in bed watching Sherlock. And that I was sorely in need of an adventure. So, I had a gander at lastminute.com and found I could fly to Prague for 5 nights for less than £200. I booked it exactly a week before my flight was due to take off.

Got some new dresses, got some Czech crowns, Googled the Metro map and the location of the closest zoo and I was off. Flying with the hilariously named Wizz Air.

On the plane, I realised I might have just made a pretty big mistake. Because I could have gone to visit friends in Ireland, Germany, Norway or Sweden. Instead, I'd booked a stay in a place I'd never been, where I knew no-one and where I didn't speak the language. Alone. Add this to the numerous warnings I got about the local police and pick-pockets and I was beginning to wish I'd packed more books and less clothes. Because if worse came to worst, I could always sit in the hotel drinking wine and reading.

Thank God I didn't pack more books.

I got to the airport and met my driver, who agreed to let me take his photo with the sign saying he was there for me. (My whole life, it's been on my Bucket List to have someone meet me at an airport with a sign with my name on it. I nearly had one in San Francisco, but due to an early landing plane and my desperation to get out of the airport, my friends didn't have time to unfurl the amazing banner they'd made to welcome me. Though I still have it. Anyway...). He was sweet enough to let me take his photo holding it. And then we got in the car and he said 'Let's go home'. And I was in love.

There was a mint on my pillow in the hotel, which is a sign of quality in my book. I'm not joking, I love a pillow mint. I had my wine from Duty Free, my pillow mint and The Bodyguard dubbed in Czech on the telly. It was perfect.

St Vitus' Cathedral

Day one saw me tentatively wandering around Hradcany for a bit, looking at pretty, pretty palaces and the literally awesome St Vitus' Cathedral. I can't read maps to save my life, so I tend to just stride around, trying to look like I know where I'm going. This is a good tactic for anywhere, by the way. Just stride forward purposefully.  It works. And it enabled me to build up a smashing mind-map of the Castle District. I then headed down the Karlov Most (Charles Bridge to you lot) planning to go and have a look around town... And I accidentally wandered into the Museum of Medieval Torture Instruments. 

Which put paid to my lunch ideas.

I also visited the Waxwork Museum (sucked in by Harry Potter in the window), found Baker Street, Praha and had a good old wander. Best of all, they sell hot wine on the streets for around 40czk. So I got to have mulled wine while I gallivanted about. As the sun went down I headed back to Hradcany, before trekking out to the Monastery to have dinner in a cave (Peklo). Not just any cave, but a cave Brangelina rather like. And Timothy Dalton. Get me. It was delicious and I had the Svíčková na smetaně – filet mignon s poctivou smetanovo-zeleninovou omáčkou, karlovarským knedlíkem a divokými brusinkami. Followed by the Domácí doboš s pistáciovou zmrzlinou a karamelem. Yum. And I tried some of Grandma's Herbal Liquor. Which was nice too. 

Day two saw me scrap my plans to head out to Kutna Hora, in favour of further explorations of central Prague and a foray into New Town. I went to have a mooch around the Jewish Quarter and then headed over to Wenceslas Square. I bought Chamber of Secrets in Czech (as tradition now dictates, I must return from a trip to a new place with a native copy of Harry Potter). I found a tucked away vintage paradise and proceeded to spend a happy hour trying on all manner of frocks and jackets. As I went to pay for my bounty, the lady spoke to me in Czech. When I apologised, she tried again in English, asking me if I would still be in Prague on the 1st of March. I thought she meant that must be the latest I could return the jacket I was buying, so I said no and that I wouldn't need to bring it back. She laughed and said "No, no... I want you to catwalk for me. We are doing a show and you would be good in it."

CUE MASSIVE SMUGFACED GRIN LASTING THE REST OF THE DAY.

I need to move to Europe. Seriously. I'm so under-appreciated in this country.

Dinner that night was in a pretty little restaurant around the corner. And afterwards... Feeling very brave... I went for a stroll.

Prague at night is beautiful. Despite the unfamiliar terrain, the winding corners and alleys, I felt completely safe. It's so well lit and peaceful that I was comfortable just exploring quietly. I found a late-night shop, bought a bottle of wine and was about to head back to the hotel when I turned a corner and found myself in front of the Loretta, which is where all the Weeping Angels in Prague hang out. I should point out at this point in time, I'm also wearing a deerstalker.

So there I am, bottle of wine in one hand, camera in the other, deerstalker on my bonce, exploring the grounds of this beautiful church, when I realise there is a car behind me. It was the fuzz! Shit - I thought - they're going to come and ask for my passport and take it from me and charge me a million crowns to get it back. And they might take my wine. And my hat...

They drove on.

Which was kind of the theme for all of my encounters with the law. Unless you were doing a crime, they didn't care. There are a lot of police about, they patrol everywhere but they're not the demons the Internet led me to believe they were. So, sorry to the police of Prague. Thanks for not being corrupt. You're doing a cracking job.

Day three saw me venture out to Kutna Hora to go to Sedluc Ossuary, which is this amazing church that houses the bones of around 40,000 people. On display. As art. This was an exciting day for me as it meant I'd get my first go at using the Prague Metro (which is like the Tube) and also the overground rail system...

EASY.

Seriously, it's so straightforward and well sign-posted that I felt almost cheated. I have moments on the Underground here where I get confused but they just don't let that happen. They signpost. There are helpful staff waiting to answer your questions. There are interactive information boards that tell you all about your trains. So I got on my train, sat in a Potter-esque compartment and read until we arrived in Kutna Hora. 

Inside the Ossuary it was much colder than it was outside. Whether this is because of the way it's built, or the psychosomatic effect of being inside a mass-grave, I don't know. It was eerily beautiful, strange, creepy and also serene. The bones are arranged so artfully, that after the initial feeling of being inside one of Giger's masturbatory fantasies, it was easy to appreciate the craftsmanship that had gone into arranging these remains into something spectacular. There's a funny thing about seeing so many bones arranged so prettily, you forget what it is you're looking at. You stop noticing ribs and start appreciating the way they curve into and over each other. It's a small church, but unforgettable from the moment you enter and see the huge chandelier of bones.

Following this, I headed back to the station, bought some coffee from a lady eating raw meat, and got my train back into Stare Mesto in time for the Ghost Tour!

I love a good ghost tour. They're invariably the least scary thing you can do with your time, but usually you get to hear a lot of fun stories, get some local background and get to explore parts of the city you can't normally. I chose this one because it included a tour of the vaults under the Astronomical Clock at Old Town Hall. And it didn't disappoint. Gruesome councillors, evil old women, hanged noblemen and burnt witches. And a mooch under the ground. All good clean fun. And it even snowed a little, justifying my buying a hot wine and some pastries for the journey home.

Wednesday was my last day and I decided to take a bus out to Prague zoo. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love a good zoo. I like to see the animals, animals I may never see in the wild (like otters - lol), animals that are now extinct in the wild. I like zoos with good conservation programmes. Prague zoo is therefore all the things and has /THE/ most diverse selection of animals I've ever seen at any single zoo.

I was going to go back to hotel after the zoo, to try and find somewhere to eat and get a good nights sleep before travelling back. But then I walked along the Charles Bridge and there was a Swing Party happening and I decided there was time for one last adventure. I found a street I'd not been along yet and lo and behold - A ghost museum.  With half-price entry to the Alchemy Museum if you bought tickets for both. I did.

Ghost museum was a lot of scary and wholly unbelievable stories from the days of yore, mixed in with some pretty hilarious waxworks. The Alchemy museum though... Beautifully done. Atmospheric, lots of real life text and examples and a guided tour of Edward Kelley's tower... Which is where the almost Scandal in Bohemia part of the blog comes in. But there is no scandal to speak of. Enough about that...

Dinner at the crazy medieval restaurant and then back to the hotel for one last night of Czech telly. At the party on Charles Bridge, I got a bit teary at the idea of going home. I wasn't ready. I didn't want to leave this pretty new land with its gorgeous architecture and myths and legends. I like Bohemia.

I'm so glad I went. For so many reasons. Because it was exciting to explore a new place, it was empowering to go out to dinner on my own, it was freeing to not have a schedule and to be able to travel at whim. I can't wait to do it again. I'm going to do it again. I foresee this being a thing I do a few times a year, just heading off at short notice to do something new.

Luckily, the sadness at having to come back did not last, as we had a Baker Street Adventure on Saturday. Myself and the Cumberbitches had breakfast at Speedy's, explored the museum, had a spot of lunch and then headed to St. Barts to re-enact The Fall. It's on video... If you're lucky, I'll share it with you.

And Sunday was my first proper craft fair, with an 100% muggle clientele! And it went well! I'd covered the cost of the table and taxi there in the first hour, trade picked up swiftly and people were lovely about the things I made. I made some new friends, ate a lot of cake, drank a lot of tea and had a spiffing time. More of that, please.

I think that about covers it. I really am the luckiest.

Janus again

I almost didn't write this post. I started it a few times but couldn't see it through. It is, of course, about the change of the year, 2011 regenerating into 2012. It wasn't laziness that stopped me writing it, it was not wanting to be a smug bug.

Because, without being a smug bug, 2011 was incredible. And I didn't want to post a list of all the amazing things I'd done, and believe me - they were AMAZING. It felt too showing-offy for me to be able to cope with, and, coming from a consummate and professional show off, that's saying a lot.

So what changed?

I read a book.

Oh, of course I did. It's me, after all. Almost all of my life decisions happen because I read a book. When I was 20, I read a book which culminated in me doing a skydive. That's right, the girl who was afraid of heights and had never been in a plane before cheerfully chucked herself out at 12,000ft because a book made her feel like she'd missed something.

It was amazing. But that's books for you, they lead you in the right direction.

Today, I was having a lovely day. My fox handbag arrived (no - not a real one, I didn't staple a handle to a fox's back and asked it if I could keep my make-up in its belly), I had the house to myself. I watched some Sherlock, ate some toast, drank some tea. Then I nipped off to Waterstones to pick up my copy of The Fault in Our Stars. I'd planned to read it on the plane tomorrow, I'm a fan of John Green, he's a good writer.

Thought I'd read a preliminary chapter or two, set the cogs in motion...


I'm now, some 4 hours later, covered in snot and tears. I'm ravaged. I'm a broken mess. And more than anything, I can't wait to get on a plane tomorrow and see the people I love. And that's what changed. Because I read something that reminded me I had no right at all to be ashamed of my life. For any reason.

Thing is, I'm never going to be a princess or a hero. I'm never going to find a cure for a horrid disease, or be the first person to walk on a planet. I'm never going to start or end a war, or front a rock band, or win an Oscar. I'll never lead a country, or be a martyr. History will not make a note of my name. I'm just going to live my silly, average one-in-seven-billion life.

And I'm more than fine with it. In fact, that's perfect.

I won't tell you what happens in The Fault in Our Stars, because I think you should read it. I think sometimes it's too easy to get caught up in the minutiae of life, all the 'she said so then I' stuff. And you forget that the clock is ticking and the world is bigger and stranger than you thought. And then you read a book like this and it's like being slapped in the face by an iceberg. Suddenly, the fog lifts and nasty, scary, ugly, beautiful, impossible life rears its head and gives you a short, sharp reminder that this is all fleeting. You're running out of time. And every second that passes is a second lost.  So you have to live, while and where you can. Because I might not be famous, or rich, or special. But by God, I know how to live.

And so, with no sense of shame, or embarrassment, I give you a tiny fraction of my amazing 2011:

• Florida, AGAIN, for Deathly Hallows pt 2 - a cinema full of fans, a themepark and butterbeer, Disney World and 8 days with the very best people I know
• Nykoping and Stockholm with James. GAMLA STAN!
• Ireland, many, many times - hot chocolate and moustaches and Mexican food and cake and tea and singing and Disney and Downton Abbey and dresses.
• Goteborg - Universeum, breaking into a beach, SEEING A MOOSE, eating a moose, Wizard rock and that amazing, amazing restaurant.
• Being in a film. IN A FILM. As a zombie. 
• Macclesfield: Wuthuring Heights, Radiohead, pool and Bo:Rap
• Partying with Neil, Fran and co
• Making so many wonderful new friends, Jules, Zach, Orla and so many others who I would function less ably without
• Christmas with Jules and lighting my first lantern
• Starting my own jewellery making business
• Throwing a party on Platform 9 3/4
• Going to the V&A, then dinner, then The King's Speech with my darling ones
• The Labyrinth Masquerade Ball
• Cuddle O'Clock in Lemur Town
• Pregnancy by sex-rock
• Post from Alan Rickman
• My Christmas present from Jules, via Ali Shaw
• ComicCon and spending the day with an Australian nutjob whom I adore.
• Becoming an Internet nerd-modelling pin-up sensation for 2 whole days
• Digging for dinosaurs and then catching a film... THE film
• Having it large in Stoke with G
• Staying at K-Robs and spending 3 straight days watching period dramas
• Seeing Iron and Wine again
• Oxford, Tolkien and The Eagle and Child
• Bad Taxidermy
• Hummingbird bakery
• Your Highness and milkshakes with Caitlin and Asma
• Winter Wonderland and Harrods
• Winning a knitted Dobby and a poster from WB
• Chinatown and a spontaneous sleepover 
• Cockpit invasions and being pleasantly surprised at how ace Easyjet are
• Marmaduke the Narwhal
• Reading The Night Circus
• 2.8 Hours later and almost surviving the zombie apocalypse

I'm sure I've forgotten stuff. But you get the gist.

Just live, ok? Please. Go and live. Hard as you can.

Here's to 2012. I know I say it every year, but I've not been wrong so far.

I think this is going to be the best yet.