I’d love to possess a more ‘scientific’ brain! Actually that’s bollocks. Science bores the pants off me. But right now a little knowledge of physics wouldn’t go amiss.

Something terrible might have just happened. I can’t be sure. 

Of course really I shouldn’t disclose this kind of information to you, because confessing to being so dim is rather embarrassing, and generally speaking humans aren’t supposed to admit, let alone, highlight, flaws of this magnitude.

Well forgive me but I am human. And I am delightfully flawed. And this, my sweets, is a little example of how flawed I am.

I dropped a drawing pin into the toaster.

Will I die?! Will I be propelled like lightening across the other side of the room the next time I go to make peanut butter on toast?! Will sparks fly? Will the toaster explode into teeny tiny pieces?  Oh if only I had the sense to be sure.

I have, of course, considered turning the toaster upside down in order to retrieve the aforementioned drawing pin, but the idea of lots of toasty crumbs everywhere is putting me off. So I guess I’ll just have to risk my life instead. Cleanliness is next to Godliness you know.

Now don’t go thinking that this extremely intense dilemma of mine will not affect you. Because it will. In fact it could confuse you completely. Cos you’re not gonna know now, whether my absence from the blogosphere and world wide web in general is as a result of my fatality with the toaster and pin, or not . . .

Poor Steph is dead. You might conclude. After all loads and loads of people die from accidents around the home, (and loads and loads of those accidents occur to me every day— honestly I’ve had fires, sparks, electric shocks, I’ve walked into walls, patio doors, windows. I fall down the stairs all the time. Once a roof tile fell and missed me by about an inch and only yesterday I got my head caught in the clothes horse when I bent down to collapse the damn thing.) - the odd’s are not in my favour.

But I mightn’t be dead at all. I might be simply working hard away from the comfort of my beloved blog. As are my intentions for a while.

In the unlikely event of my survival from accidentally killing myself with stuff in the home, I have plans for a little blog-break. Why? Well despite my talent for running in high heels, (which indeed requires lots of balance,) as yet I haven’t mastered the art of balance in the other important aspects of my life. So other tasks of importance are suffering. Tasks like shopping, getting manicures (seriously you should see ‘em at the moment. I look like a boy.) and laundry. (My life isn’t quite that glamorous just yet.)

And it’s high-time I sorted it out. So, dear blog and lovely, lovely readers—It’s not you. It’s me. I’m just rubbish at juggling.

I’ve been asked to contribute on a Project on the topic of Pregnancy, which I am uber excited about, (thank you to everyone who took part in my survey by the way!)  - so I’m still going to be working hard, even though you won’t see my blogs very often and I’m also going to spend as much time as I possibly can in the depths of a fantasy world by concentrating on my new novel , which thus far, exists only in my imagination. (When it’s longing to be put on paper.)

I’ll be back before you know it, blogging regularly and lavishing you with the undivided attention we both know you deserve. But in the meantime forgive me if my posts are few and far between for a while. And rest assured that it’s not because I am lounging around on my (award winning—I hasten to add) butt eating Snickers Bars (Ooooh I could just scoff one of those right now . . . )

In the words of Arnie himself,

Hasta La Vista Baby!

I’ll be back ;-)

Steph x

 

Speaking of nudity . . .

If there ever was a perfect moment in time to strip down to nothing but my red heels, a splash of Chanel No. 5 and a big soppy grin, to climb on the roof of my house and wave and scream like a lunatic - now would be that moment.

Alas it is a ridiculously windy and very cold evening, and I'm kinda afraid of heights, so I'm thinking it wouldn't be particularly smart to seize this specific moment. :-/

Instead I'm going to ask you, gorgeous, gorgeous people, to visualize, if you will, (and while you're at it could you please imagine me skinnier?!)

Why? You might ask, do I want to scream naked from a roof-top? Because . . .  (can I get a drum-roll here please . . . ? lol) my book is officially on sale and I couldn't think of a better way to tell you!

So here I am, smiling the soppiest of smiles, waving my freshly manicured hands (remember we're imagining here) in the air as I announce - My Book is on sale right NOW!!!

Would you like a sneaky peek? Of course you do! Well . . . Here ya go!

I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I'm so nervous, yet so excited!
If you do like it, might I humbly request you spread the love around? I'd be eternally grateful!

I'm gonna be back to my regular blogging self in a few weeks time, have missed it so! But until then, happy reading and major love to all!

(A very excited!) Steph x





 

Round Two. Fight!




After declaring it officially 1-0 to us ladies in my last blog I was forced to consider one or two small incidents that might just sway my 'Men V's Women' argument a little.




I hate admitting I'm wrong, (it's very rare, because I'm normally always right of course,) so I'm not wrong, but just this once, just on this occasion, I am going to sort of, half admit that I might have been a little . . . unfair.




Not many men read my blog, maybe just 2% of all readers are male, (my Daddy and my Husband make up this entire percentage i reckon.) And whilst I do not like to be wrong, or lose at things or admit defeat in a battle such as this, I do believe in justice and have kinda concluded that this fight probably isn't all that fair with only one party present. Thus I have decided to review the matter accordingly . . .




When Jay read my last blog he laughed a little, rolled his eyes to heaven and then said, 'God you are such a suffragette.' - and then had to explain to me exactly what a suffragette was because I'm ashamed to say I didn't know, and he then proceeded to gently remind me of the events of that day for the both of us.




So firstly let me take you on a little journey through my life on the day that I wrote the last blog.




I awoke. Did very little. Pottered about a bit. Looked at the washing. Decided to do it later. Half-heartedly wiped the kitchen sides down in a bid to clean up and then answered the door to the ASDA delivery boy. Mum had very kindly offered to order us 'a few bits,' (because I'd accidentally spent most of our money by persuading a very tipsy and therefore vulnerable Jay to buys lots of drinks in London on Tuesday night, and then persuaded a very hungover and therefore vulnerable Jay to buy us a huge Maccy D's the day after. And the two of us kinda prioritised booze and junk food over shopping. Whoops. Told you I was crap with money.)




As I began to unpack my goodies I noticed something rather peculiar. The shopping, much like Noah's animals, was coming in two-by-two. Hurrah! Baffled and strangely excited by the wonders of such a cock-up I continued to unpack. 2 sacks of potatoes. 4 packets of nappies. 2 enormous bags of dog biscuits. 12 pints of milk. 4 loaves of bread. 96 Weetabix. 'Why on earth would Mum buy us 96 bloody Weetabix?' I thought, 'What does she think I am?! Some kind of wheat junkie?!'




I scrambled about for the receipt to ensure the cock-up had been the fault of Mr. ASDA and not my Mumma's and sure enough the extra items had not been charged for. (So I ought to take this opportunity to thank both my Mum and Mr. ASDA for my now being the in possession of 48 loo rolls, amongst other things. Thank you kindly, I shall recreate the feeding of the five thousand at my gaff pronto!)




Now the trouble with us women is that we can become irrational about the strangest of things and my mammoth grocery supply was enough to leave me irrationally thrilled to bits. And so thrilled was I that I forgot to shut my top kitchen cupboards and i enthusiastically leapt around the kitchen finding new homes for all my stuff when I accidentally ran straight into the corner of one of the cupboards and smacked my head with such almighty force that I fell backwards and landed in a dazed and confused heap on the kitchen floor next to the bin.




My god did it hurt. If I'd been animated little birds and stars and stuff would have been circling my head and a bump the size of a banana would have formed. Instead I was sick on my trousers and my head was bleeding a little :-( It hurt too much to cry, or swear. Instead I settled for staying put and reaching for the phone to call my man. (That's the other thing about us girlies. It doesn't matter how tough we are, when we're hurt or when we're really sad there's nothing quite as soothing as a nice masculine shoulder to cry on.)




In contrast, please allow me to take you on the journey that my husband had had that very same day.




Jay had been on his way to work that morning, (probably singing along to West Life songs I imagine, such is his peculiar taste in music,) when he noticed a nasty accident up ahead. A car lay almost upside down in a ditch at the side of the road, the engine hissing furiously. Lot's of people we're nearby. Some redirecting the traffic, others gawping in horror, some just lapping up the drama of the scenario, but nobody had checked on the passengers inside the upside-down car, until Captain Jay arrived in his cape. (Just to clarify, he wasn't really wearing a cape, he may listen to West Life but he's not completely camp!) Jay pulled up and ran to the car where he prised the door open and managed to single-handedly rescue a terrified woman and her shaking baby from the vehicle.




In my head he emerged through a cloud of smoke, his shirt torn, his muscles bulging, cradling the angelic baby in his arms. The crowds erupts into grateful and amazed applause and cheers before the car explodes into a giant ball of flames.




Alas since this is Britain, (and we're all so reserved,) and cars don't really explode the way they do in the movies, I don't think it happened quite like that. And being the modern-day hero he is Jay simply put his cape in the boot and continued his journey to work.




Later that afternoon he received a telephone call from another damsel in distress. Only this muppet was less Hollywood starlet, more Womble laying in a heap on the kitchen floor. Still Captain Jay returned from his heroics, rescued said Womble, cooked a scrummy tea of sausages, mash and peas and nursed the womble and her sore head with lots of love, kisses and chocolate.




Whoever it is sitting up there in the rulers chair, (most probably male) must have read my blog and decided to teach me a lesson, and so though it pains me to say it, i think the score is probably by now pretty much even.

I once read an article that said you could tell a lot about a person from the contents of their wallet. 'No Sh*T Sherlock,' I hear you say, but money aside, apparently the other stuff you carry around can actually speak volumes about you.




At the time I was a fresh-faced and enthusiastic eighteen year old, with a full time job at a health spa, very little responsibility and plans to conquer the world, one shoe at a time.




My wallet was of course manufactured and designed by Morgan De Toi, it was black, with a chunky silver, 'M' tag and it was home to many a truth-telling token. Photographs of drunk and happy groups of friends snapped in the hottest nightclubs in town accompanied by old train tickets, beauticians business cards and taxi numbers. Tucked away in the compartments that only those with teeny, tiny fingers could access were screwed up bits of receipts printed with telephone numbers carefully scrawled in eye liner. And on display for all to see were my newly-acquired driving licence and permanently abused cash-cards.




But I think my favourite token living in my wallet, which was strategically set to take pride of place, was none other than the little black rectangle of endless possibility. My first ever Credit Card.




Oh and it was so beautiful. Slim, sleek and shiny, with my name boldly embossed across the front of it and that familiar symbol of 'VISA' glistening away and provoking my imagination into a frenzy every time I caught sight of it.




I hadn't intended on owning my own Credit Card. The responsible seventeen year old Stephanie had assured herself that she would never be getting into debt. Yet the closer i got to my eighteenth birthday the more persistent the application forms became. Eventually it dawned on me that whilst I didn't trust myself with such a dangerous weapon Mr. Bank manager clearly did think i was responsible enough, and not only that but he actually wanted to give me free money in the form of a flexible friend. I didn't want to upset him, so of course I did my duty and applied for a card with a £2000 limit.




It wasn't to be used though, nope, i promised myself and my parents faithfully that it was merely there to add some art to my wallet. It looked good and provided good company for my other cards so that's where it would stay.




Until i ran out of real money one day. And there was a sale on at Topshop. And it was a really good sale. And included in the sale was the most gorgeous pair of rainbow stilettos. And i fell in love. And they told me to buy them. And my little credit card asked to be swiped. And the rest, as they say, is history.




But it was okay. They were an investment, (no really, they were, seven years on and I still wear them!) and it wasn't real money that I'd purchased them with anyway, everyone knows that credit cards aren't real money.




After that I became quite good at using my credit card, it served a real purpose and the two of us built a lovely relationship. Unfortunately though that relationship wasn't a long-lasting one, because whilst the money wasn't real, the bills were.




Suddenly the literature promising such hopes as 0%APR (which stands for something quite good in financial terms, i think) and lots of cashback and stuff turned nasty. The letters became mean and scary and the postman started smirking slightly whenever he delivered a red letter through the door. And my hard-earned wages told me they wanted to spent on travelling the world and not on the minimum payment that the credit card company demanded.

I got so used to living the champagne lifestyle on the lemonade budget that it actually hurt when I was forced to chop my lovely card up into little bits. I guess I leant my lesson the hard way.




Actually that's bull, in fact the only thing i really learnt is that I am extremely good at spending money. It's one of my talents. When i got my first pad at 20 years old I discovered that I am so good at spending that I managed to single-handedly blow an entire months rent in just one shop in half an hour. That's a record surely? Alas tis not a record anyone else seems to want to celebrate.




Eventually I have grown to kind of despise money. It's a weapon of ultimate temptation. It's full of empty promises and it brings out the absolute worst in even the nicest of people.




If I ruled the world I would abolish all kinds of money and instead go with the romantic notion that I've been working on in my fantasy land for quite some time. Instead of having and spending money to get what we need and desire we should just swap stuff? Trade for trade.




You know, like if i wanted to buy milk or something I could just go along to a farmer, select a cow, write the farmer and his cow something to amuse them and in return grab a pint.




And if a hairdresser needed an extension built on her house she could offer the builder highlights, or a new barnet or something?




You could have a lovely meal in a restaurant, for example, and literally sing for your supper. And the world would be a much happier place.




What do you think??




Until that day rolls around I guess I'll just have to live in the real world and accept that Money and Stephanie simply do make for a bit of a disaster, which is exactly what Mr. Connolly discovered upon meeting me.




Nowadays, much like the queen, I very rarely carry real money on me. And if i do have dosh in my purse we tend to part ways pretty quickly.




Mr. Connolly handles our finances and he does a fab job. Admittedly i don't own as many shoes and handbags as I could. Alas i can now climb into bed quite comfortably without sharing my slumber patch with my wardrobe (before I owned so many shoes that i could barely see a spot in which to rest my head.) And we have a fridge full of yummy food and a lovely roof over our heads, which is more than I could provide. (Tis better to have a home in which to house a *small amount of shoes than it is to just have shoes, apparently.)




It's an old-fashioned kind of arrangement, that we have here in the Connolly household, but it is definitely an arrangement that works.




If we go anywhere it's always Jay that picks up the bill, he goes to the bar when we go out and orders and pays for the drinks, (it's a London boy thing and if seeking a bit of a modern-day gentleman i highly recommend them) and even though I shouldn't say this as a modern gal, i much prefer it this way.




Especially now that we are all victims of the Credit Crunch, (unless of course you are an MP in which case you are probably still living the life of Riley.)




I can't pretend to know much about the ins and outs of why our country is in a state of financial disrepair. But it does frighten me. So many jobs are disappearing and so many redundancies are being made, and such a lot of talent, therefore is being wasted. It's so depressing.




Alas it seems the rest of the country are dealing with this depression much the same was as I do. With a little spot of retail therapy, (which works wonders) – and finally it is okay to shop. It's good for the economy.




So dig out your shopping shoes ladies and gents, and grab your 'bags for life'. Hit the pavements the way only Gok can and do not return unless you have battered your bank balances. ;-) It is, after all our duty. (And if you feel the urge to buy me presents please do not suppress it!)