4 Days to go. And if I had a pound for every message I've received informing me of this fact I'd be *surrounded by Jimmy Choo's shoes by now. (*Sort of.) It's not like I need reminding, I've been trying to forget. But it seems that the rest of the nation is quite excited by our TV adventure, considerably more so than I am. :-/ And to think I thought none of you would care. I guess I'd be excited too, if it was one of you I mean, alas none of you are quite as naive and silly as I am. :-/ Don't get me wrong, I'm anxious, but I'm not suicidal or anything. I'm not wanting the ground to open and swallow me whole, (though I probably will on Thursday.) In fact sometimes I experience a teeny tiny sensation that could almost be described as excitement, but then I hear a little voice in my head and a whole bunch of rocks appear in the pit of my stomach and bring me back to reality with a bit of a thud. 'Well she's very attractive and quite glamorous et cetera . . . But that doesn't count for much round here.' Of course If I were a boy I'd probably be quite chuffed with this comment from one of the villagers of Grassington. I'd probably grin, shrug and be quite satisfied with the thought that someone said I was attractive on the telly. But I'm not a boy. I'm a girl. (Yes I am.) And everyone knows girls don't focus on the positive things people say. It's not in our genes to do so. So I guess the villagers of Grassington had me down as just a pretty face? They should see me chasing my chickens, in wellies and PJ's, hair scraped back, mud flying . . . haha. It's not really a big surprise to me that I've been portrayed as a bit of a ditzy bird. Because, (here's where you're supposed to feign shock!) I can be a little bit ditzy. (I messed about with bleach far too much as a teenager.) I hope people don't assume that that means I don't have a brain though, because if they do make that assumption I shall probably spend the rest of my life trying to prove otherwise, (which, let's face it, for a ditzy bird might just be a little too much effort . . . !) The other day I had another random flashback, of my trying to navigate through Grassington square, negotiating, (badly) some kind of relations between my (very beautiful) stilettoed boots and the (also very beautiful) cobbled village streets. I think, though I cannot be sure, that I stumbled quite impressively, at least twice. On camera. (Okay ground, now you can open.) I should stop moaning though, cos I'm not getting half as much grief as my darling husband Del Boy is. ;-) (It's okay Mum, Dad, it could have been worse. I could have married a 'Trigger'?!) hahahahaha! Oh dear family and friends, please do accept my sincerest apologies in advance for what you are about to see. I hope you'll still love us come 10 o'clock on Thurs eve? And I hope we don't embarrass you too much. And dear residents of Grassington, especially those of you who were really, really nice to our faces, if you have reason to believe C4 may have caught you accidentally slating Del and I or bitching about us behind our backs please do speak now... Waterproof mascara and fluffy pillows at the ready. . . here goes nothin'! Love to all Stephie x x x 1 Comment Most pivotal moments in life happen when you least expect them. On a random Saturday morning in Spring of 1988 for example. All it takes is one event, one incident or one little situation and suddenly the dimensions of ones life can alter dramatically, never to be the same again . . . Okay, so the specific incident I’m referring to here wasn’t exactly a life-changing experience for me, (to be honest I’m not sure I can even call it pivotal really, I just wanted to use the word,) but it was certainly responsible for altering a few things in my life, laying down the foundations for at least two of my biggest passions, (clippie-cloppy shoes and dancing) and at least one of my biggest aversions, (mice and all scurrying creatures in general.) It all began in the old church hall, nestled in poison ivy at the bottom of a lane dotted with pot holes. There we stood, gazing at the frightening figure before us. Her hair scraped back in a no-nonsense bun, her fingers, slender and long and gesturing for us to move closer. Her figure, according to all the Mummies, was extremely desirable, though it occurred to me that she sort of resembled an ironing board. She wasn’t pretty per se, more striking, intimidating even. None of us dared to disobey. Obligingly we shuffled forwards, like a herd of mini pink elephants, we huddled together and listened carefully as Miss Marcell tilted her ironing board closer towards us and began to whisper. ‘Underneath us, under the wooden floorboards,’ she somehow whispered at volume, ‘there lives a family of little mice. And in this Ballet Class we shall not disturb the mice, shall we?’ We shook our little heads in response. ‘So we must walk on our tip-toes at all times and be as graceful as we can. Okay?’ This time we nodded. And those words were carefully etched into our minds forever. Now despite being a Tuesdays child I am about as graceful as a fairy elephant. Grace is not an attribute I naturally possess and I’m clumsy too. Present me with the simple task of walking through a 3ft wide-door and I shall inevitably smack myself into the door frame in my attempt. Tis a curse, that I shall never be without I imagine. Oh but I tried. I tip-toed, I whispered, I conjured every ounce of elegancy I could possibly find as I mastered the steps, the plie, the pirouette. And such was my concentration that I rarely managed to dance without my tongue hanging out to help me, even as I clung to the barre for support. I was a hopeless case. Destined never to be a ballerina, which is such a shame cos I do have what has been referred to as a ’dancers neck’ (in that it is the only part of me that remains permanently (and pointlessly) slender, at all times.) Eventually though and I cannot pin-point when exactly, something in side of me began to click in to place. It wasn’t the required balance and grace I needed in order to be selected to dance at the front with the best ballerinas though instead it was the powerful urge to rebel against Miss 2-backs and those flippin’ finicky mice. Here I was going out of my way to be extra-specially quiet, delicate and graceful and those flippin’ mice were nothing more than squeaky squatters! Shacked up underneath the floorboards of our hall, insisting upon silence. Our Mummies paid good money to send us to Ballet lessons with Miss 2 backs, or so I’d heard. And I couldn’t be sure, but I sensed that the mice family probably didn’t pay as much for their accommodation?! Who the squeak did they think they were?! And ever since then I have had a very strained relationship with mice And all scurrying creatures, come to think of it. Ah but my love for dance has never faltered. Over the years I’ve tried every style of dance going. Jazz, Tap, Jive, Street, Bhangra, Drunken, Lap (only joking!!) . . . You name it and if it involves music, rhythm and some fabulous shoes to wear I’ll definitely give it a whirl. My favourite kinda dance though is anything that can be performed in heels, because in my heels that clumsiness usually disappears and miraculously I find I have a teeny, tiny bit of grace after all. And it was this rule that convinced me that I’d be a pro at pole-dancing. After all I’d slid down the fireman's poles many times before in the park, (none of this is supposed to sound full of sexual innuendo by the way, so any smut in your mind hereafter is entirely your own.) and I thought I’d always demonstrated polished grandeur whilst spinning after one-two-many Vodka’s around the poles in nightclubs. AND I once got a round of applause from almost every single passenger on the Bakerloo line for my pole-dancing abilities on the tube. So how hard could it be?! VERY. At least it was for me. Even in 6 inch heels and my favourite Chanel lippy. I stood in a studio full of svelte young ladies, snaking their bodies around the poles effortlessly. And I did as instructed. I twisted my leg around my pole like all the other girls and I even managed to pull myself up with just my arms. But instead of spinning in a neat circle and landing on my shoes as I should have done I somehow tied my ankle to my pole and landed with a thud firmly on my arse. And then I tried again. And again. And again. Until the colour of my face matched my bright red lippy precisely. And eventually the lovely instructor decided it might be wise to place a crash-mat underneath my pole. For insurance purposes. I left the class feeling as though I had been involved in a horrific accident. How those girls do that and make it look sexy is beyond me. And I really must visit Peter Stringfellows some time soon to show my appreciation. Out of all the dance genre’s I’ve tried and tested my favourite, and the one in which I am by far the most accomplished has to be the mystical art of Raqs sharqi or more common, ‘Belly Dance.’ Why they call it belly dance I’m not sure, since it’s actually all about the hips and not at all about the belly. And since the hips are my favourite body part on a woman, and belly dance is all about celebrating being a woman, it suits me to a tee. I can’t get enough and have been shimmying all over the place, in the kitchen, in the shower, in my sleep, (there you go again, being smutty!) - and it’s stirred up the inner hippy, (I didn’t eat her either by the way, I just happen to have lots of creatures inside.) I feel very airy-fairy at the moment, full of inner peace and tranquillity. I’m even thinking of getting a toe-ring. (which in my book is the ultimate in hippy-chic.) I might even go blonde too . . . And guess what? I don’t belly-dance in my heels at all. I dance barefoot (so that I can ‘draw energy directly from the ground’ and ’be at one with the Earth’ and sufficiently open all of my chakra’s—according to Dolphina (my telly belly dance instructor.) - and I don’t mind at all. I don’t say this very often but I guess there are some things in life you can conquer without shoes :-) Steph x     Stephanie Connolly, 25 interviewed by Lorelei Connolly, 5. Enjoy ;-) x Et voila! Crimbo & New Year all wrapped up again for another 4 seasons. And, though I love the fun and festivities, it is with a little sigh of relief that I slip comfortably back into normality. I have flicked a cheeky finger at my superstitious-self by whipping the dec’s down a whole 6 days before the ‘12-Day’ rule. I did it yesterday. The tree, the garlands, the lights, the cards and the ornaments all packed neatly in the garage for next year. I concluded that it’s probably only unlucky to take them down early if you believe it is. And I don’t. I’ve also decided not to make any resolutions this year either. In my experience resolutions only serve to make me feel unnecessarily guilty when, come Jan 5th, they are no longer in tact. So it kinda makes sense not to promise myself anything in the first place. Of course there are plenty of life’s little pleasures that I ought to give up, (chocolate, Diet Coke, Vodka . . . ) And plenty I could do with more of, (apples, exercise, shoes . . . ) and there are loads of random things I wanna achieve too, (help rescue orang-utans in Borneo, run the New York Marathon, sponsor a roundabout, that kinda thing . . . ) But I definitely don’t need to begin 2010 with more pressure and commitment upon my shoulders. According to Wikipedia, NY resolutions have a teeny tiny 12% chance of success. And we all resolve to change the same stuff too. Year after year our motto’s and missions remain the same. To avoid failure, which I don’t do well, I am officially declaring that I’m not gonna change a single thing. ;-) Having said that however there are a few things I‘ll definitely be leaving in 2009. I haven’t a choice. They’ve already gone. First to disappear was my gorgeous Red Lipstick. Which sucks since I’d grown rather fond of it of late, tis very rare to find such a good shade of red for my rather uneven pout. Alas it rolled it’s way outta my clutch on NYE never to be seen again. I have toyed with the idea of telephoning the Casino, to ask if it has been handed in, yet I fear they might underestimate the value of such an item and could therefore not take the matter as seriously as they should. Perhaps if I pretended it was some kind of spy device they’d return it to me? Just a thought. So with the exception of the absence of my lippy, and the new dry-cleaning bill for removing the kebab grease from my red coat, (one cannot conclude a classy night out without a greasy meal of some kind after all) not a lot has changed in my world since last year. I told you I was a good girl in 2009 and my sweetness did not go unnoticed. For Father C did indeed fill my stockings well! He didn’t exactly grant me with every little request on my list, but he did get me many a fabulous treat. And one of my fave gifts has been my new Wii Fitness Plus thingy. I cannot get enough of it. I have hula-hooped, dressed as a penguin and practised my balance, cycled, jogged, boxed and taken part in rhythm Kung Fu, all whilst still in my PJ’s in my very own living room. So far I’ve been on it everyday this year ;-) I feel tense, but good tense, achy, but satisfied. So I think I’m gonna make a habit of it, use the Wii to get extra fit and healthy this year. *Obviously that’s not a resolution though. lol Hope your own resolutions are still intact? ;-) Steph x Santa Baby, Just slip a sable, (whatever that might be) under the tree, for me. I’ve been an awfully good girl. Especially if you ignore the incident that took place a few days ago. I didn’t mean to throw my middle finger in the air. And I have no idea how that terribly offensive word flew out of my mouth at such volume. Honestly I never normally use such language. Least of all in public. But you see it was raining, and I was drenched. And that car plunged directly into a puddle of about 10 inches in depth causing an almighty tidal wave to come crashing down on me in my new coat and well . . . He sort of deserved what I accidentally called him. I know by now you must have made your list and checked it twice so you probably already know who’s naughty and nice. Hopefully the fact that I was punished for the aforementioned outburst, by a major dose of embarrassment as I had to stand in the playground amongst the Mums that had witnessed the scene and now are probably under the impression that I am a tourettes sufferer or something, will mean that the episode of naughtiness is well and truly behind us and you can put me back on the nice list? I promise not to let it happen again. Just this afternoon, for example, I broke the heel on my beautiful boots whilst tottering around Asda and I barely muttered the ‘f’ word under my breath. So there’s a start?! The thing is Santa Baby, I know bad language is probably frowned upon by you and your Elves, but it can be very therapeutic. And sometimes quite necessary. So I sincerely hope you still come down the Chimney to bring me my presents this year. So anyway, back to my list. As well as the sable, might I also have a higher metabolism this year too? I’ve heard they are quite necessary for those of us who wish to have the body of a supermodel whilst still indulging in the yummy foods that are compulsory to scoff over the Christmas period? I will of course start my diet on New Years Day, (as I do every year) and will of course be more dedicated this year than any other, (as I am every year) - it’s just that the metabolism might help for the next few weeks. (I fully intend on testing the mince pies for you, you see, before we leave them out on Crimbo Eve.) Santa Baby . . . I know everyone else is dreaming of a white Christmas, but I’d appreciate it if you could save the snow for the North Pole, cause it’s kinda cold enough this year. Numb fingers and faces all aglow may sound idyllic in carols, but they’re rather unattractive in real life. If my face really must be all aglowing could you ensure it is doing so with Benefit High Beam and Saint Tropez fake tan instead? Thank you. :-) Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a phone. I’ve spilt Diet Coke all over my one and no amount of resuscitating, disassembling and drying in the airing cupboard will bring it back to life this time. I promise in the future to not put opened bottles in my handbag. Also, Santa Baby, I know it’s not very politically correct these days, but I wondered if you might send me a servant? Or a slave? I’m not fussy :-) It’s just that I don’t want to waste valuable time doing washing and cleaning and bed-making and stuff. I don’t mind if my slave is human or robotic or anything really, however this request is of utmost importance so please sprinkle a little extra speed dust, (not drugs, of course, but the stuff you use for your sleigh) in order to deliver this present without delay :-) Now I’d like you to take a moment to think, if you would, of all the fun I’ve missed. Think of all the fella’s that I haven’t kissed . . . ? Next year I could be just as good if you check out my Christmas list? So Santa Baby, that’s my list and really it’s not a lot. I’ve been an angel all year, Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney on the 24th. Love Steph x x x Of course the trouble with not going to school very often and using science lessons as fag breaks is that the opportunity to obtain a career within the medical profession is pretty limited for a girl like me. In fact the reality of the situation is that I am currently facing two obtainable options. I could either look at becoming a surgeon, specialising in 'Operation,' (you know, the game where you use tweezers to take out body parts and if you put the wrong bits in the wrong places you get buzzed.) Or indeed i could consider option two, which is becoming a slutty nurse with a little assistance from the dressing-up section of Ann Summers. So you see, very limited options indeed. Fortunately, however, i am pleased to announce that I have no huge desires to embark on a new career in the medical profession anyway, though I do have a talent for diagnosing my own medical problems. And it is with this talent, coupled with a little internet research, that i have concluded to diagnose my current state of health. And it doesn't look good guys. Because I've decided to diagnose myself with the dreaded Swine Flu. (Either that or I have a cold.) As much as I'd love to have your sympathy right now, (I am a firm believer in the curing wonders of a touch of sympathy and a new pair of shoes – so please feel free to send shoes also,) – I probably don't deserve it. Because, Swine Flu or Common Cold, either way, I've probably bought it all on myself. I've partied far too much in the last week or so. I practically drank both Jay and Corny under the table the other night (when we had an impromptu evening of fun, frolics and karaoke) and I've lived off a diet of Budweiser and chips for a few days too long, (such a classy bird am i!) - not exactly running around screaming, 'get me, get me' to any form of virus going, but not really giving my immune system the best possible chances either. The very fact that I am even considering my immune system when i go out and let my hair down these days, probably indicates that I am too old for all this malarkey. Too old to be imitating Amy Winehouse's lifestyle, (though probably just old enough to wisely spend her money,) and too old to be assuming that my bod will bounce back to normality the morning after. Well I have learnt my lesson and am suffering the affects now. Especially now that I *have Swine Flu. Today I have on the sexy and alluring scent of Eau De Vicks, and I am popping Cold and Flu tablets like there's no tomorrow, (of course there might not be if I get much worse) – my nose is running (but it's okay cos I've bought some more toilet roll since my last blog) and I am generally feeling rough. An early night, a little TLC and a cuddle from my two gorgeous men should be just the medicine I need. Your lovely messages won't go a miss either ;-) P.S – I don't know if it's possible to diagnose oneself as a hypochondriac, but if it is, i think i am. (she says shamefully ...) 'Never air your dirty laundry in public,' was just one snippet of advice given to me by my darling Nanny Madge. 'Give a girl the right pair of shoes and she can conquer the world . . . ' Well at this precise moment in time, on a sunny April morning, I sit here in a pair of totally uninspiring, unsexy and unbelievably scruffy pair of flats and thus I am conquering very little. |  AuthorStephanie Connolly. 
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 slc84 Dear Saint David's Day. You have been very cruel to me :-\ AND I was going to watch re-runs of Gavin & Stacey tonight in your honour. #tut 8 minutes ago · reply slc84 @loueeze Thank you :-) I'll be taking all advice. May even leave country and go into hiding for a bit. Somewhere hot and exotic? (I wish!)x 14 minutes ago · reply slc84 Has the best friends and family ever! Thanks guys for putting things into perspective :-) #Lovethyneighbour All character building! lol xxx 3 hours ago · reply slc84 That's beautiful! I want to be there x (@GrassingtonFest)http://yfrog.com/h02ceywj 4 hours ago · reply slc84 Nothing as sweet as the scent of a newborn baby's head. It's delicious! Cannot stop kissing little Mason. Can't believe he's mine! x 12 hours ago · reply slc84 @Jayac 'Would you like to have a, hairy, baby with me?' Lol x x x #Beinghuman 12 hours ago · reply slc84 Dead makeovers, warewolf pregnancy and vampy ghost romance. Tonights ep is totally gruesome but totally brilliant! #Beinghuman 12 hours ago · reply slc84 @countthekicks P.S - Will be Sky +'ing #Thismorning tomo, heard you're on it! x 14 hours ago · reply
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CategoriesAll ArchivesSeptember 2011 |
