Musings on music

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On Saturday we went to see Muse live at the Emirates in London.  For some bizarre reason we chose to buy ‘standing only’ tickets, which in retrospect was completely ridiculous.  We aren’t young anymore and seven hours of standing doesn’t do our old, tired bones any good. Incidentally, I used to wonder why old people wanted to go to gigs.  Now, I’m the old person who gets wondered about.  It’s a laugh, this grow’d up lark.

*grin*

But it was brilliant.  Bastille weren’t bad (although I’m sure they didn’t play the song of theirs which I like the best, but being stood next to drunk Chelsea-type knobs who were shouting didn’t help with my hearing) and Dizzee Rascal was far more enjoyable than I’d been led to believe.  Not enough to go out and spend my hard earned cash on his tunes, but good enough to bop along to in the atmosphere of the moment.

I’ve been trying to remember which bands I’ve seen live. It isn’t many (when compared to lots of people) but it is quite a handful (when compared to yet other people.)  The first band I saw live (apart from dodgy local bands who were never going to cut the mustard and rise above the back rooms of greasy flea-ridden pubs) were the Manic Street Preachers.  It was the autumn of 1992, I was eighteen and my new boyfriend at my new university took me to Newcastle to see them.  I can still recall the way he stood behind me and held me tightly as I stood transfixed by the sight of seeing my idols right in front of me, barely ten feet away. Daft, the things we remember.

That boyfriend lasted just a few weeks and a few months later one of his best mates broke my heart. But that’s by-the-by.  I’ve seen the Manics about six times in total, from their humble beginnings in Student Union bars, through their sell-out stadium tours and back down to the smaller venues.  They are my most favourite band to see live. Oddly, I rarely listen to them but know all the words to most of the songs, and do consider them to be the best band of all time.

So, who else?  Terrorvision, The Wonderstuff, The Damned, Chumbawumba, REM (x2), Pop Will Eat Itself (spoke to Clint, have his autograph), The Killers (second favourite band to see live), Eels, Scouting for Girls, Busted (supported by McFly), Kylie, Bjorn Again (shared post-gig drinks with the band), S*M*A*S*H (shared post-gig drinks with Salv [drinking = common theme apparently] who later briefly joined Carter USM), Robbie Williams, British Sea Power …

It seems so few. And far too eclectic.  I also kick myself for missing out on Kasabian playing the diddy venues on their rise to stardom. Blokey doesn’t let me forget my vehement shaking of head when he suggested we see them a few years ago.

*sigh*

I’ve been rooting through my extensive collection of photos on my computer (somebody really needs to stop collecting photos of nothing and start tidying up her files) and found some to share.  Nothing special, just an occasional memory.

Busted 2004, Ipswich

Manics 2004, Nottingham

Kylie 2005, Manchester

Kylie 2005, Manchester

REM 2005, Ipswich

REM 2005, Ipswich

Robbie Williams 2006, Milton Keynes

Robbie Williams 2006, Milton Keynes

Manics 2007, Cambridge

Manics 2007, Cambridge

Eels 2008, Cambridge

Eels 2008, Cambridge

Scouting for Girls 2008, Cambridge

Scouting for Girls 2008, Cambridge

The Killers 2009, Cardiff

The Killers 2009, Cardiff

Muse 2013, London

Muse 2013, London

Tales of my MiL

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MotherInLaw

You have met my MiL before. She’s the woman who attracts bitterness and negative thoughts.  She oozes food from her pores and embraces arguments with people who are merely doing their jobs.  Her way is the Right Way (and please, don’t forget it).  She sits atop a goldmine, yet cuddles her bag with a ferocious glare when it’s time to pay the restaurant bill.  She has no friends and never does anything.

Moan.

[her]

Grumble.

[her]

Whinge.

[her]

Biting of tongue.

[me]

When we saw her yesterday she didn’t disappoint. She rarely disappoints.

Yesterday’s offering to the gods of Oh, woe is me came courtesy of the impending marriage of BiL and YASiL.

I don’t understand, she seethed, why we have nothing to do with the wedding.

Eh?

Blokey is going to be an usher.  I’ve been asked to do a reading [whoa, where's my comfort zone?].  What more does she want?  I later said to Blokey that if she wanted more input into the wedding perhaps she should have had a daughter. Or maybe offered to donate some of the money which just sits gathering dust in her many bank accounts.

When Blokey and I married, BiL was Best Man.  We had a small, family only, intimate ceremony so it made sense.  BiL and YASiL are inviting one hundred guests to the ceremony/wedding breakfast and BiL has asked his best friend of many (many – since school) years to be his Best Man. This wasn’t an issue for us.  Blokey doesn’t like talking in front of lots of people (the speech) and he didn’t want to have to organise a stag do (he’s not very good at coming up with ideas, coupled with our life of not really knowing how Our Kidney is going to behave) and well … he just didn’t really care.  But I think this is the MAJOR issue for my MiL.

She has this ‘thing’ about family.  Blokey doesn’t have a big family and those that do exist don’t see each other very much.  There are a lot of oldies (aunts and uncles of my beloved FiL for the most part), most of whom I’ve never met, and Blokey and BiL probably haven’t seen them since they were nippers in short trousers.  She insisted that BiL and YASiL sent them invitations and then made sure they received them.

Who does she think she is?

She’s having an outfit made for the wedding.  It’s costing her five hundred smackeroonies and a little part of me hopes that it’s truly horrendous (because I am the evil DiL.)

Nearly every year since Blokey and I have been together we’ve spent New Year’s Day with my MiL (and my FiL before his untimely death … why, oh why and please come back and all that jazz). When we get into routines with my MiL (and a routine is established after a thing has been done once) she expects it’s going to happen.  She doesn’t ask, she simply assumes.  I have worked hard to break many routines (I’m struggling with the trips to CigaretteTown in Belgium, but I WILL get there) and this year I am (we are) breaking the New Year one.  We’re going to London, to stay in a fancyish hotel near Buckingham Palace.  We know that she’s going to grumble and we’re actually scared to tell her.

How ridiculous are we?

*sigh*

Tomorrow we’ll be spending the gloriously sunny Bank Holiday Monday cooped up inside her cigarette-fragranced, stinky house.  And yes, we are prepared to take bets on how many minutes we’ll be there before she moans.

Ha.

Time for crumpets!

Ooh la la

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carousel

About five years ago I had a grumble about having to spend a weekend in a cold caravan with a girl I’d never met before.  I was pretty livid about it actually. I didn’t want to meet her and I certainly wasn’t going to like her. The lividness hid my anxiety and panicky-ness, but the weekend wasn’t too bad and I stated on my blog that the girl ‘was quite nice actually.’

That girl became known as GiL and in August I shall start calling her (privately in the virtual world, not in person) YASiL.  She’s going to be Yet Another Sister-in-Law.

GiL is completely different to me in so many ways.  She’s ambitious (she’s a headteacher, I gave up teaching), well educated (she has a BA and MA from Oxbridge, I only made it to a former polytechnic), very popular (she has a HUGE circle of friends, I’m a bit of a loner), chatty (she could talk the hind legs off a donkey, I find small-talk really uncomfortable) and a risk-taker (she’s up for anything, I cringe at the thought of the spotlight).

But despite (or perhaps because of) our differences she has become a really good friend to me. So when I was invited to share in her (it’s a surprise!) Hen Weekend I umm’d and ahh’d a little bit and then agreed to go. Every Hen party needs a quietly sane one, eh?

We went to Paris for a night, travelling by Eurostar and staying in a quaint little hotel near Place de Clichy.  And I had a thoroughly fabulous time.  I don’t know what her friends thought of me (and whether their Fb friend requests were purely so they could see the photos I took) but I’ve realised that I don’t care. I ate with them, I drank with them, I slept with them and I said a few funny things … but it was just a weekend and the person who truly mattered enjoyed my company and was happy I was there.

I think I’m getting all grow’d up. It brings tears to my eyes.

So anyhooha, Paris was cool.  I’ve been before of course, and I don’t find the place very exciting.  It’s not my favourite city in the world, but it’s nice. Having arrived and checked in (we had a heated toilet seat in our Junior Suite … how swish) we meandered down to a local brasserie where we indulged in onion soup and wine.  An excellent combination. A quick trip on the Metro took us to the Eiffel Tower and we played on the carousel. I’ve never been on a carousel before; I was a little disappointed that my horsey didn’t go very high, didn’t go very fast and didn’t do a Mary Poppins on me.

*sigh*

Having exhausted our inner-children we fattened our bellies with a dinner cruise on the Seine.  GiL provided the entertainment (the Japanese tourists will be talking about it for months) with silly little forfeits and the waiter struggled to understand the concept of vegetarianism. Our token vegetarian had a bowl of mashed potatoes and two meat-free starters.  The mash turned up just before the dessert.  However, my food was divine.  I missed Notre Dame.  The last time I went to Paris I went on a crusie along the Seine and missed Notre Dame.  One day I might actually get to see it. Heavens!

We took our stuffed bellies back to the hotel and dressed ourselves up (little black dresses, heels and masks) for the highlight of our stay; a show at the Moulin Rouge.  Oh my goodness, it was cheesiness personified.  Seriously, it was SO cheesy that it was just amazing.  The waiters were grumpy, the Champagne was drinkable and the place was packed. And there were BOOBIES GALORE! I had no idea what the backstory of the show was (it was all sung in French) but the flamboyant costumes, the fixed smiles on the faces of the dancers and the cute little surprises (snakes!) made the whole evening completely brilliant. I don’t know if I’d go again (I might take Blokey, just so he can enjoy some boobies without being scolded for fixating on other women).

Of course, waiting on Parisian street corners at 1.30am whilst one of the Hens buys a forgotten toothbrush from a 24 hour pharmacy isn’t the best thing to do.  I’d recommend it only if you’re in a biggish group and able to ignore the unwelcome advances of the sort of unsavoury men who also wait on Parisian street corners.  If it becomes too uncomfortable you can take shelter in the aforementioned pharmacy, but be aware that unsavoury men will be queueing in here for their condoms.

We all slept well that night. Perhaps I snored.  Maybe I farted. I was too zoinked to know or care.

We had brunch in a cafe near the Gare du Nord before whizzing home on the Eurostar having failed to catch a glimpse of the Paris marathon.

Enjoy some photos.

Place de Clichy Metro

Place de Clichy Metro

Sultriness above our ehads in bed

Sultriness above our heads in bed

A brood of Hens

A brood of Hens

The Eiffel Tower and the carousel

The Eiffel Tower and the carousel

Moulin Rouge

Moulin Rouge

Moulin Rouge

Moulin Rouge

The B2B left her heart in Paris (she carried that balloon with her all the way from home and it chose to scarper as we left the hotel!)

The B2B left her heart in Paris (she carried that balloon with her all the way from home and it chose to scarper as we left the hotel!)

Vampire, time-traveller or wizard?

Vampire, time-traveller or wizard?

Waiting o go through passprt control. Bye-bye Paris.

Waiting to go through passport control … Bye-bye Paris

Me and Maths

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Maths

I don’t suffer from Dyscalculia. I know this not because I’ve been tested (I haven’t) but because I checked the symtpoms on the most trustworthy of sites (Wikipedia) and I suffer from very few of them.

I can tell the time with both analogue and digital, I find basic mental arithmatic to be quite easy, I only very occasionally get muddled between right and left, I can navigate using a map exceptionally well, I’m punctual, I can guesstimate distance and measurements and I remember names and phone numbers. In fact, the only three points on the list to which I can relate are:

  • Often unable to grasp and remember mathematical concepts, rules, formulae, and sequences
  • Inability to concentrate on mentally intensive tasks
  • Low latent inhibition, i.e., over-sensitivity to noise, smell, light and the inability to tune out, filtering unwanted information or impressions. Might have a well-developed sense of imagination due to this (possibly as cognitive compensation to mathematical-numeric deficits)

Maths completely and utterly scares the proverbial out of me and I genuinely don’t understand it. I can learn about mean, median and range till the cows come home, but it goes in my right ear and tends to make a quick exit out of my left. Pythagoras theorem? Well, I can spell it. Does that count? Shove an ‘x’ and a ‘y’ in my face and I’m likely to try to turn it into a word instead of try to solve a problem. Part of my issue with Maths is that I don’t need to know it. I can gage if I’ve been given the correct change in a shop with a single glance and I can find my way from A to B using a timetable. I can set my alarm to get me up at the right time and I know that it’s going to take me ten minutes to walk to the bus stop, so I leave fifteen minutes prior. In any given day it isn’t important for me to know which of mean, median or range is the equivalent of being an average (why can’t it just be called average?) because I know how averages work. My mind goes topsy-turvy when I think of having to study Maths or support someone in a Maths lesson and everything gets muddled. I imagine that it’s similar to what Dyslexics have to endure, although at least mine is more liveable with.

I think therefore that Maths was created to make some people seem more intelligent than they are. Maths is hard for me because someone made it hard for me. It doesn’t need to be hard and I shouldn’t need to prove that I can do equations and algebra and work out ridiculous angles when I’m never going to bloody use them.

*stomps feet in despair*

Yesterday we had a mini-training session (one hour) on how to best support students in using the 4 Rules of Maths. We went through ‘re-ordering’ (um, I don’t think so), ‘partitioning’ (what the f>ck?!), ‘bridging’ (okay, now I just want to run from the room) and ‘compensating’ (nope, you’re just throwing numbers in my direction and they mean nothing so I will switch off and enjoy the wandering rambles of my imagination). Having looked at addition (I can do that) and subtraction (I can do that too) we turned our attentions to multiplication. And at this point I became unstuck again. A grid method on the PowerPoint made absolutely no sense to me. My brain couldn’t work it out. I’m looking at the slide on the handout right now and my brain is threatening to implode. It actually makes me want to cry. And when we got to division? I completely switched off. I’ve NEVER EVER EVER learnt how to divide using that bus-stop thingy. And long division? No thank you. P!ss off, please.

I hate Maths with a passion and I’m not scared to admit this. What’s Maths going to do? Bop me on the head with an octagon? I am an intelligent (but not clever) woman, with a 2.1 Honours Degree, a teaching qualification, an insatiable thirst to keep learning (but not Maths or nerdy-Science based stuff, thank you) and a desire to keep my brain active. I shouldn’t be made to feel sub-intelligent just because my brain isn’t wired for some of the more ridiculous Maths problems; I will never understand some of the more complex Maths problems, or even some of the more simple ones. I’ve tried to and I will continue to try to if I need to (dependent on classes I support in) but I am not Mathematical and I never will be. It saddens me that there is so much emphasis on the fact that so many adults don’t have even the most basic mathematical skills, and yet they’re having their heads forcibly filled with mathematical concepts which they will not need (dependent on vocation chosen) and this is just odd.

Maths, I don’t like you. And I refuse to change my mind, although I quite like you when puzzling through my Soduko.

Age creeps up, finds it’s not wanted, buggers off.

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Grow Old

I’m edging nearer and nearer to forty. This doesn’t excite me, but doesn’t fill me with dread either.  It’s simply a number after all and (somewhat fortunately perhaps) it won’t be popping up to say ‘Hello!‘ this year. The discovery that my everyday life is full of little foibles which make it apparent that I’m ‘growing up’ is a trifle irksome though.  So, this is my I Know I’m Growing Old Up When … Top Five list.

Rhif Un: Yr angen i fod yn brysur  … It’s Sunday, I’m lounging around and I feel terribly guilty and worryingly slothenly.  I have a desire to actually do something.  I’ve done two loads of washing, cooked a beef dinner, danced like nobody was watching (thank you, Just Dance 2,) enjoyed a very long, ridiculously hot bath and prepared fully for my day at work tomorrow (clothes, lunch, bag all ready).  I’ve even cast on and knitted two rows for a new knitting project, despite not knowing what the knitting project is yet.  It will be (partly) bright pink, is as far as I’ve got.  I’ve drunk copious amounts of tea. I feel idle.  I never used to have this problem; lazy-ness? Yes please, is the response a younger version of me would make.  I’m wasting the day and I desperately want to just waste the day, but I know I shouldn’t be. I must be growing up.

Pocet Dve: Safra … I’ve actually started to physically say ‘Gosh!‘ quite a lot. Who on earth says ‘Gosh!‘ except old(-er) people?

*gosh*

Numero Kolme: Minun mielikuvitusta  … As a child and young person my thirst for reading books which were actually for adults was insatiable. They were grow’d up, had BIG words and sometimes – if I was very lucky – they were a little bit on the naughty side.  When I visit the library/bookstore these days I always make straight for the Young Adult (Plus) Fiction shelf.  Always. It’s like an addiction. I recognise that in many respects I’m simply re-living my teenage years through the characters in a book; I’m a bit of an emo-adult (an emodult?) really. It’s a little bit sad, a little bit pathetic and a little bit ridiculous … almost a way of me trying to turn back time and grab those teenage years again, clinging onto them with the knowledge of what I would do differently.  Because every dark brooding nineteen year old of the male species whom I bumped into would be a Vampire. Or a Fallen Angel.

Obviously.

Númer Fjögur: Hvers vegna svo grátt? … I’ve been dying my hair since I was thirteen.  If I do my sums I imagine that maybe I’ve dyed my hair at least sixty times, if not many more (my maths skills are lacking somewhat). I’ve never had the inclination to be too outrageous; I’ve had bright red streaks a couple of times and gone for the black goth effect on occasion, but usually I’ve stuck to some more subtle shade of red or purple. But just recently I’ve started to think that I should just allow Mother Nature to do her worst and see what happens; she’s usually impressively quick to turn the occasional strand grey and once she gets going she likes to show her capabilities to their full potential.  I’m intrigued to know just how long it will take for my hair to go (completely) grey and if it will look strikingly lovely (it won’t). So, I umm’d and ahh’d and was considering it and then yesterday I chickened out and dyed my hair again.  My excuse is that I have a hen weekend coming up.  The reality is that I’m just a female who doesn’t want to look old.

Yet.

Zahl Fünf: Musik in meinen ohren … There used to be a time when I would have shuddered at the merest thought of actually admitting that I quite like certain music tracks.  Right now I’m listening to Lawson.  And I don’t care what you think about that.  This isn’t to say that my tastes in music have changed dramatically; they haven’t.  I’m still a gothicky (post-)rock chick, but now I sometimes dance in my underwear to stuff I shouldn’t.  And it’s liberating.

VERY liberating.

FArty Pants

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I achieved an F grade for my GCSE Art.  This has always amused me simply because I can make it say FArt. Childish perhaps, but also the humour masks the pain I feel at not being very good at something. This is tragic for a controlling perfectionist such as myself.

I come from a family with an abundance of creative flair. Dress-makers, jewellery-makers, knitters, stained glass window painters … Pffft.  I do not possess my Mother’s genes (although she does possess my jeans).  I take after my Father in more ways than I care to admit and so it should come as no surprise that he provided me with the gift of Rubbish Genes.

Occasionally I go through spurts of trying to be creative in an effort to coax out the deeply seated arty gene that must surely exist somewhere within me.  2013 has – thus far – been a year of arty pants, not least because for eight hours a week I support students on a Level 1 BTEC Arts Diploma.

I would like to introduce you to my endeavours before the party ends and I slump back into the pillows of pity-ness and declare my woefulness with creative panache …

18

A heart made with felt and buttons.  It doesn’t exist anymore (and never really existed anyway) except in a tin with a plethora of other crafty odds and sods.

27

My mother was often infuriated by my attempts at knitting as a child. Today I just infuriate myself. But I am trying.

45

I made biscuits for Blokey for Valentine’s Day.  They were very munchable and sickly sweet. This plate is one of my favourite (current) possessions, lovingly bought from a charity shop at the beginning of the week.

46a

I also made Blokey this (the framed object, not the photographs of my fine female ancestors). I keep apologising for the girlyness of it but I think he was touched.  He even remembered (with no prompting!) that the excerpt of The Velveteen Rabbit is the reading his Dad did at our wedding ceremony.  This isn’t the best picture but I am very pleased with the results.

46

Today I dug out my bath bomb kit and made bath bombs. They’re a bit crumble-y, but I’ll probably tootle off to run one in the bath when I’ve completed my online adventures.  Messy, but with the added bonus of a real sense of achievement.

I will not be giving up my day job.

the rise of the (crazy) cat stealing lady

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1

She’s at it again, the blasted woman.

I didn’t want him (her, I corrected) to get cold, she said.

Really? She went out at 1pm because she needed the loo and I’ve been calling her every thirty minutes or so since then. Please stop letting her in your house because when I call her and she doesn’t come trotting home I start to worry, I said.

Even though you know where he is (her, I corrected), she said.

Yes, I said.

He (her, I corrected) scratched me (shows me a bloody thumb) because he (her, I corrected) obviously didn’t want to come back, she said.

What the fuck? I said (not really.)

I expect she didn’t really like you carrying her from your house to mine. Just put her out of the door; she’ll make her own way home without you having to put your coat/shoes on and nearly fall over in the snow, I said (really.)

Honestly, the woman does my head in. It’s mostly the fact that she advertises the fact that she’s letting Dora in that irks me, as if she believes we’re unfit and uncaring cat owners staff because Dora wants to go out for fresh air, territory checking and toilet needs. Both cats stay in every night and unless it’s going to be really cold, raining all day or snowing I tend to leave Dora out whilst we’re at work. She’s been a part of our little family since May 2011 and this has always been the case. She’s happy, healthy, glossy coated, well fed, insured and microchipped. I shouldn’t have to justify myself and my cat owning staffing abilities to some crazy old lady who has nothing to do with her days but steal the neighbourhood cats.

He (her, I corrected) sits under our car and we feel sorry for him (her, I corrected), she said.

Of course she frigging sits under your car. That’s really close to where you leave the cat food out for the hedgehogs, you nuttering nut bag, I said (not really.)

Shortly before Christmas Dora came home one day with a ribbon around her neck.  Attached to the ribbon was a little note which read something along the lines of, If this is your cat please could you let me know; if I don’t hear from anyone I’ll assume it’s a stray and call the local Cat Protection branch. Mr IHaveNothingBetterToDo, #43 Cat Stealing Lane. When I went round there I actually told them they knew she was our cat because when they previously tried to steal Mog they’d mentioned the little black cat who sits on my shed to me and I’d told them she was ours. Oh yes, they said. We knew he (she, I corrected) must belong to someone because he’s (she’s, I corrected) never around after about 6pm, they said. Then why put a note around her neck, you imbeciles!?

Seriously, just go away and stop stealing my babies!

The most worrying aspect for me was that when she brought Dora home yesterday (although she didn’t because Dora had scratched her thumb and leapt from her arms before she was even halfway to mine, yet she still crossed the road in the snow, with her fluid filled legs to let me know … *sigh*) she spied Qyzy.  Oh, you have another one, she said, far too excitedly for my liking …

that was the year that was

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so-it-goes

This was the year that saw the MASSIVE hernia get operated on, the Mumsy turn a big fat SEVEN OH!, the Father become Man and Gil become FiL.  Blokey achieved a mini-promotion and I started – and love – my new job. Paul Chowdhry, Andrew Lawrence, Sean Lock, Sarah Millican, Greg Davies and Jimmy Carr made us laugh (as did a few dubious acts at an amateur comedy club) but no bands made us jive to the beat.  I visited the cinema a grand total of 36 times (once on my own which was a first time experience) equating to – a minimum of – three whole days of the year sitting in front of the big screen.  We went to a posh wedding and stayed in a four-poster bed fit for a Queen and then experienced a My Big Fat Gypsy (style) Wedding, which was no less special and unique. We had weekends away in Wales and Warwickshire, and days out to CigaretteTown in Belgium.  We went to the football so much that we bought our very own t-shirts to wear with pride (until the team started playing exceptionally badly). I discovered Kurt Vonnegut, Battle Royale and the Galaxy Nexus (a surprise present for no other reason than I’m truly loved.) I became a bit of a shoe fetishist.

It was a grand year, despite the rocky start.

And 2013?

We have a Night in Norfolk booked for February, a hen weekend on foreign shores (that’s me, not Blokey) in April, tickets to see Muse in May, a wedding to attend in August, excuses to think of to delay horrid CigaretteTown trips to make, and I’m considering enjoying the experience of the London Bridges Walk for Kidney Research UK again …

The list has ended.  It is short, but we will no doubt be able to add to it as the year goes on.

I have taken on some new projects though. One is the sending of postcards, another is to take a photo a day (I did it once, I can do it again) and yet another is the sending of letters and/or other mail-able items during the month of February.

*grin*

May the blessings of 2013 shine upon you.