Possibly the most genius idea ever. A totally and utterly fabulous plan!

I need to get sponsorship for my work!

Preferably in the form of . . .

SHOES!!! :-)    

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

 

In just a few hours I’m going to reach the grand old age of twenty-six. It’s high time I invested in Botox Injections.

Except if I get Botox now I fear I might never get the chance to use the expression I’ve been working on for sometime. I’d hoped to use it before, alas I’ve not had the chance, but the practise has paid off cos I’m pretty good at it now and it’d be a shame to waste it.

I know it might seem a little unusual to practise a facial expression, but you see I have to practise looking surprised, because it isn’t often that I actually am surprised.

I’ve been shocked certainly, lots of times. But usually when I’m shocked I’ll gasp a bit, cry lots and then make tea. So there really is little need for a decent facial expression to convey the emotion. And anyway, being shocked and being surprised are two different things. I imagine.

It’s my fault I don’t get surprised very often. There are three main reasons. Firstly I’m an inquisitive creature, I like to know stuff. So I’ll bombard my potential surprise-r with question, upon question, until they eventually have no will to continue, and so abnegate and reveal whatever surprises they had hidden up their sleeves for me. Secondly I am incredibly impatient, (but you knew that anyway,) so any hint of a potential surprise and I’ll find myself powerless to cease seeking information until I have every inch of the surprise uncovered. And as if that wasn’t enough I’m also quite intuitive. (Psychic actually, though ‘Intuitive’ makes me sound far less nutty,) so if I can’t crack it with questions and impatience it doesn't matter, because I’ll probably just ‘know’ what my surprise is anyway. Whether I want to or not.

Either way it'll probably end in disappointment for all involved.

Recognising myself that I am indeed a crap surprise-ee I have always made no secret of the reason for my practising my surprised face. And that is that for as long as I have been walking the earth I have dreamt of having my very own surprise party. To walk towards a dark room and into an excitable cheer, a sea of happy faces and a display of party poppers has been a fantasy ever since I was a kid. It would be amazing. And I could do my best surprised face and there’d be a clown. (or maybe not.) And we’d all have a simply fabulous night!

But you couldn’t keep it a surprise from me. So I don’t mind that I know. And my ‘surprised face’ truly is very impressive. Nobody else would ever need to know that you know that I know. It’ll be our little secret.

I realise that I’ve left you very little time to organise my party. What with it being my birthday tomorrow. But you won’t have to do much. Just hire me a room somewhere with alcohol and a dance floor that is compatible with my Roland Cartier shoes (i.e a not sticky) and invite everyone on my Facebook Friends list. And I’d need a cake. Obviously. But a little one would do. So long as it’s big enough for lots of sparkler thingys. Cos I’ve always wanted lots of them.

Oh I can’t wait! (But don’t worry, I’ll forget that I know about it now.)

Though I’ve yet to have my own surprise party I’ve had some wicked Birthdays all the same, particularly in this last decade.

The year 2000 saw me turn sweet, (sort of) sixteen. I celebrated with my mates in Yates Wine Bar in Camberley. I might have been two years too young, yet ‘Yates’ was my regular haunt back then. Oh and that night was the best! The Karaoke. The Pink Cow-girl hat I wore. (A fashion faux pas perhaps, but at the time it was a much-loved accessory.) - Mum made me a chocolate cake with candles. A one and a six. But before anyone else noticed a friend of mine had the bright idea to turn the ‘6’ upside down. Thus turning me 19.

‘Hello Steph’ spoke a familiar face leaning against the bar. Nice jeans, lovely shoes. Early 20’s, rather dishy actually, (as mum would say.)  It took a few seconds for me to realise who he was.

‘Happy, er ‘19th’’ He smiled. I blushed furiously, nodded and replied, ‘Thank you Sir.’ He knew I wasn’t nineteen. He taught year 11 P.E at my school.

Later Mum and Paul dropped my friends and I off at Pantiles. We danced the night away to Shania Twain, Britney Spears and S club 7. I can’t remember exactly why, but I do recall telling the bouncers that it had been the ‘best birthday ever!!’

The following birthday wasn’t quite so successful. I went to Bo's - Bojanglez Nightclub—my fav club in Guildford at that time. I’d just returned from a holiday in Gran Canaria and had painfully obtained a tan to be proud of, (this was before my discovery of the wonders of fake tan.) I teamed the tan with a little denim number, white denim jeans (those were the days when my arse defied gravity, so I could get away with them then) and a matching jacket, embellished with lots of silver and gold studs.

Anyway the outfit, carefully selected to win back the heart of the bloke I had been seeing in college, didn’t have the desired effect. In fact he didn’t even notice my JLo inspired look. Because he was too busy in an embrace with another girl. And he didn’t come up for air.

But of course I was a survivor. An independent woman. I was working for my money. The shoes on my feet? I bought ‘em. I didn’t need no man to validate me. Blah, Blah, Blah. So I did what every independent girl would do. I got pissed, cried and made an absolute twat of myself. And that was the end of that.

My 18th was a blast. I had a house party at Mum and Pauls pad in Eversley. I don’t know how I convinced them to agree to it. But they did. And as far as house parties go this one was pretty successful. Nothing got broken, no-one got hurt, (except my gold-fish, Inny, who nearly met his fate when Best Friend and Fish-slaughterer Katy, poured the entire contents on his fish food into his bowl because she thought he ‘looked hungry.’)

 



 

The following year, 2003 I began my Music Course at Brooklands and found myself tottering in stilettos and a faux fur jacket into a class room of punk-rocking guys with holes in their faces, rainbow-coloured hair and beyond-baggy jeans. And whilst I didn’t immediately find myself kicking off the heels in favour of a pair of Converse, I did form unlikely but everlasting friendships with these guys. They opened my eyes to different trends, my ears to different sounds and my mind to different views. They are the reason that I am just as happy to listen to Rage Against the Machine as I am LLCoolJ.

It was obvious that this birthday would be different. And I blew out my 19th candle on a free pastry, (given to me by a lovely lady in a service-station) at 2am on the M4 on my way home from a gig in Wales.

My darling daughter made her debut on the outside world a week before my 20th. Marking this birthday the official turning point in which this girl became a woman, (well, a ‘mother’ at least.)

Lorelei and I had a joint party that year, at home in Arborfield. A party to celebrate my birthday and to welcome Lolly into the world.

My 21st was a Hollywood-themed bash in Woodham. With Karaoke. (Can you spot the pattern here?!) fabulous dresses and dancing til dawn. T’was an awesome night.

And for my 22nd I chose to flick a middle-finger up to maturity by hiring the Laser Quest in Guildford for my friends and I.

Karaoke and a massive party at the Castle in Chertsey was on the agenda for 2006 and my 23rd. I think we continued the party back at our pad by the river? Jay?? Anyone?? Ah well, whatever happened it was wicked. (My 23rd came a close 2nd to my 16th in order of best birthdays ever.)

Nothing could top that, not really. My 24th didn’t. It was crap actually. Not worth documenting.

And last year, my 25th I was pregnant with Leo. I drank a quarter of a can of Bud on the tube to celebrate, (classy girl that I am) and Jay and I went to see Blood Brothers with Steve and Ellie. Twas a lovely evening, even without the alcohol.

Phew, and there you have it—proof that even at the grand old age of 26 my memory is still very much intact!

How about yours?? Can you remember your last 10 birthdays?? If so pray do share!

In the meantime I’ll see you at my surprise! Ssssshhhh!!

Steph x

 

And 8 hours later I became a Mummy for the very first time :-)

"There is a rock on the banks of the River Rhine in Germany where a beautiful mermaid sits and sings.  Her beauty so radiant, her voice so powerful, and her song so alluring, that many a sailor has met his fate distracted by her presence.

Her name is Lorelei.

So too was the character played by Marilyn Monroe in the 1953 hit-movie, 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.'

Many poems have been written, many songs too, all inspired by the magical qualities of which the beautiful Lorelei possesses.

Mumma's darling girl,  your name suits you to a tee.

Lorelei Jasmyn, you are but five years old and already you are making your mark on our world. You are so intelligent, so knowledgeable, so inquisitive and the more I get to know you day-by-day, the more certain I am that you are destined for great things.

You're an absolute blessing to me, you always have been and you always will be.

When you first made your presence known your Mumma was just nineteen years old, in college, studying Music, working part-time as a waitress. I knew very little of the meaning of life, but you changed all of that.

Fate had decided that that Summer, 2003 would see many a new discovery in my life. And before I started my second year of college I packed my Rainbow Stilettoes into my back-pack and jetted solo across the globe to spend the season with my best friend in the land down under.

Together Katy and I travelled along the east-coast of Queensland, Australia. We swam in the Great Barrier Reef. We rode horses along the beach. We got lost in the Rainforest. Got stuck in a cable-car high in the mountains. We sang in bars, slept in hammocks under the stars and survived on a diet of watery beer and instant noodles. We had an absolute blast.

That was to be my last Single-gal Summer.

And by the time I set foot on English soil again I knew you were there.

I couldn't eat anything. Couldn’t stand the scent of food full stop, never mind the taste. And my hormones were shot to pieces. The in-flight movie on the way home, Bambi, had me sobbing almost hysterically.

It wasn't a big shock when the pregnancy test proved positive. But it was terrifying.

Nobody teaches you how to be a Mumma. And babies don't come with instructions. I was young and society often frowns upon young Mummies. But determined to prove myself I tried endlessly to do as good a job of raising you as I possibly could.

Often when Babies are born Mummies can suffer from something called Post Natal Depression. Nobody really talks about it. Perhaps because nobody likes to admit it. But Post Natal Depression can leave you feeling desperate, lonely, sad and unhappy. And because babies bring so much joy, when a new Mummy feels unhappy she also feels guilty. And guilt has to be one of the worst emotions to feel.

I thought perhaps I wasn't very good at being a Mummy at first. Nobody tells parents whether they are doing a good job. Instead people only point out the things that a new Mummy or Daddy is doing wrong. Not holding the baby correctly perhaps? Or bottle-feeding instead of breast feeding? There are endless reasons to feel guilty as a parent and very little recognition for the things that you do perfectly.

I had wanted everything to pan out perfectly. To feel the instant rush of Mothers Intuition, to bond with you as they do in the movies. Yet it was a slower process for you and I. At the time I felt I couldn't tell anybody. I painted a smile on my face to hide my fear, and I cried in my bedroom, where nobody could see. Because I thought I was alone. I thought it was different for everybody else and I thought you would be better off with somebody older and wiser, who knew what they were doing.

Yet my gorgeous baby girl it was you who saved Mummy from feelings of utter despair. Your first smile, at three o'clock in the morning, about 12 weeks after your arrival, was a moment of euphoria that shall never be forgotten. The way that you gazed at me. Your eyes wide and full of love. And it was at this moment that I knew. You needed me. I needed you and together we would be okay.

And as you grew you showed so many signs of love and appreciation. And you'll never know what that means to me. To hear you say, 'I love you,' to watch your face seek mine for approval and encouragement. To feel you in my arms and to watch you blossom into the most beautiful little lady I have ever known.

You have given my life a real purpose Lorelei and I pledge to you that no matter what I will always be the very best Mumma I can be."

~Excerpt taken from my book, 'Give a girl the right pair of shoes . . . And she can conquer the world.' ~

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

 

30th August 2008

 “ . . . Now the drugs don’t work, they just make you worse. Or so I’ve been told.

 But that’s okay, cos right now I don’t need drugs anyway. I’m high on life.

 God that sounds ridiculous doesn’t it? But it’s how I feel right now, right now at this very second. And guess what? Instead of over-analysing this, like I do with most suspicious emotions, (I can’t help it, I’m female, it’s what we ‘do’) I have decided to embrace my new found high and run with it, (not literally though, I’ve already done enough exercise this week, thank you very much!)

 Speaking of drugs though, (and sorry if I get that crappy Verve song stuck in your head,) – I went through a stage not so long ago of really believing that I needed some kind of substance to keep me going.

I’m not necessarily talking about the illegal kind, (especially if any policemen happen to be reading this,) – I just felt like I needed a new addiction.

Cigarettes are out of the question, since I quit last July, (not that I’m counting the months or anything) – Jay won’t let me even look at them. Which is such a shame since I’ve sort of forgotten why I quit in the first place now.

The Nut Squad, (whom I haven’t seen in a least a week, (check me out!)) have prescribed me some kind of anti-depressant which makes me feel quite pissed, which is sort of nice, but can be a bit of a pain in the arse when it comes to putting my make-up on or something, (Co-Coa the clown needs to learn my techniques,) – They’ve also given me beautiful, beautiful drugs to take for when I need to sleep and can’t. I think they’re about the closest thing to heroin I’ll ever get my hands on, (heroin’s quite expensive isn’t it?!) I shouldn’t joke about that, heroin isn’t funny at all. It is just a waste of tea spoons, (or so I’ve heard.)

I’d love to get my mitts on magic substances of the green variety, or, ‘Wacky Backy,’ as my Mum still calls it, but unfortunately there’s not much call for it here in, ‘no mans land’, so all the drug dealers, (much the same as the pizza delivery drivers,) don’t seem to cover our area.

I was looking out for an addiction that doesn’t require a small mortgage to fund, (thus eliminating cocaine from the equation,) and doesn’t make you feel sick if you accidentally have too much, (so there goes booze too, which is good since the Nut Squad have forbidden me to drink just in case I end up sitting outside the local church with a can of Tens, slurring my words, peeing on myself and scaring the choir boys.)

In the end I settled for a very dangerous substance. Dangerous as it can be found in almost every household and therefore there’s no getting away from it. It is so amazingly addictive that they even sell it in our local shop, (which is a miracle, trust me) – no, it’s not aerosol sniffing, (I never did really understand all that sock and deodorant stuff anyway,) it is Chocolate.

One moment on your lips and a lifetime on your hips, yet I still crave it almost every evening. And now I can’t help but think how silly I am for wanting a new addiction in the first place.

Quickly I need a new fix? I’ll welcome all reasonable suggestions. Just don’t suggest I turn to exercise as we all know that that’s a load of bollocks. If exercise and endorphins and all that jazz were really as good as they’re cracked up to be, how come half of the world’s population is still obese??! Huh??! . Exactly. . .”

Seventeen months on and not only am I still a non-smoker but I am also a non-eater now too. (Of course I am still eating a bit, just not a lot.) And I’m kinda wondering what non-smoking, non-junkie, non-eating people do for kicks these days?!

Since I adopted my new saintly lifestyle I’ve found myself surrounded by rules and regulations. My new regime does not include consumption of chocolate, for example, which is a serious travesty. I am not allowed to smoke. Merely to breathe in the scent of somebody else’s cigarette smoke, (which may sound revolting to all you born and bred non-smokers, but is actually heavenly to former fag-heads like me.)  I am allowed to drink vodka, with juice, (cos at least that kinda counts as one of my five-a-day,) but Budweiser, (my beloved beer of choice) is totally outta the question.



So many rules. Too many for a gal with a rebellious approach to life, but I’m trying my very hardest to be a good-girl. After all it was my idea, (well, it was sort of me, the stroppy stubborn me that occasionally surfaces to put her two cents in from time to time.) And I can’t let myself down. (because stroppy stubborn Steph can be a force to reckon with you know.) 



I’ve got loads to tell you about regarding my mission to be a health saintly Steph, but for now I’m gonna indulge in something highly addictive which thankfully I know is good for me. Something I’ve been deprived of for way too long. Something that I know will leave me totally satisfied yet craving more at the same time. A little trip down Wisteria Lane and a large dose of the new series of Desperate Housewives. Yeah baby! :-)



Love to all



Steph x

‘If at first you don’t succeed . . . Give up. Because the chances are you’ll probably always be a little bit s**t at it.’



There. Take it. And keep the sentence somewhere safe so that, in the unlikely event of my temporarily suffering from amnesia and attempting to decorate again, you can ram the sentence down my throat and make me eat my own words. Because decorating is NOT fun.



A good work-(wo)man never blames her tools. But it was their fault. Probably cos they were cheap and if you pay for peanuts you get crap.



The soft cushiony bit of the roller thingy keeps sliding away from the handle and every time I roll with too much enthusiasm, (not that I’m feeling that enthusiastic now,) the squidgy-bits flies off and splatters emulsion around the room.



And I’m covered, literally covered, in paint. I have tiny, weeny splattered dots climbing up my arms, drips on my face and in my hair and I am not a happy bunny.



I’m now ‘taking a break’ from a job that I shouldn’t have started in the first place. I knew I shouldn’t have started, I could see the expression on Jay’s face when I walked in from the shed with all the decorating stuff in my arms. He knows there’s little point in interfering when I’m on a mission, yet he might as well have sighed loudly and said, ‘Here she goes again,’ or something along those lines. He’s avoiding helping at all costs, because , like his stupid wife, he is also rubbish at decorating, only he knows it. Subsequently he's taken refuge in the pub and left me to it. And somehow I’ve got to prove him wrong for doubting my decorating abilities in the first place.



The thing is he’s right. I am rubbish at decorating. Only I keep forgetting. I thought it would be easy since it’s only the bathroom, it’s not huge and I’m not wall-papering, (the last time I attempted to wallpaper the paste proved insufficient and the entire family had to literally hold the paper up against the wall to keep it up! You see? Not my fault. Crappy tools again.) 



I’m wondering whether it would be okay if left as it is? I mean it still functions as a bathroom. Everything still works. There are a few little drips of paint in the bath, but they’ll wash out, surely? And I think bluey-white is a nice unique shade anyway?



Obviously I’ll have to hoover up the bits of shattered glass that flew around the room when I fitted the roller with an extension pole and began unintentionally smashing stuff. It must have looked as though I were auditioning to be the third Chuckle Brother.  First I smashed my Jo Malone Vanilla candle and then I turned around to see what  I’d smashed and accidentally whacked the crystal bubbles from my pot of random pretty stuff that lives in the bathroom. Perhaps I should have listened to Jay when he told me to clear the room before I started.



I wish painting was as easy in my real life as it is here, in my virtual world on the P.C. I could just click a few times and it would be whatever colour I wanted? When are they gonna invent that? Probably not in the next half hour so I guess I’d better get on with it.



It’s taken about 7 hours so far, and I’m about half-way through, so if any of you feel compelled to come help please do so :-) In the meantime I shall return to lay in the drippy, bluey-white bed I’ve made myself :-/



Steph x