tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63757916459656327562024-03-13T13:39:55.413-07:00Melissa in a Market TownMelissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-14498991920459373292011-08-06T02:54:00.000-07:002011-08-06T03:56:02.689-07:00Happy Holidays?Holiday fun with the children in tow? What contradiction is this?<br />Is it possible to negotiate airports, mealtimes and toilet breaks whilst simultaneously organising enough energy consuming activities to render the rugrats tired and compliant instead of bored and whiny?<br /><br />Yes, it absolutely is possible. Controversial perhaps, but emminently doable. <br /><br />I've read a few newspaper articles recently describing the sheer hell and torment to be had on a package holiday with anyone too small to tie their own shoelaces or understand that Mummy would quite like half an hour to read her novel, or even just a measly five minutes to speed read the trashy mag she picked up in the departure lounge at Luton.<br /> And I understand.<br /> I really do.<br /> Because I have children. Two of them. They're eleven and eight now, so far more self reliant than they were five years ago. I no longer have to endure the hell of changing a nappy on the beach or apologising because my toddler has knocked (another) glass tumbler off the table in a restaurant oddly devoid of offspring except ours. I remember, with toe curling embarrassment six years after the event, leaving a restaurant in some sleepy hamlet in Normandy, before the waiter could even take our order, because youngest daughter was doing fart noises and it was clearly not 'that kind of venue.'<br /><br />So yes, I've stared down the barrel of that gun and it aint all pretty. <br />Some of it is damned ugly.<br />Some of it made me reminisce fondly over fantastic childless breaks in my twenties when we could sleep in and do city breaks without a chorus of 'where's the beach, I'm bored of old houses now' ringing in my ears. But most of it is fine, magical even. (when you're relaxed enough to lower your standards and expectations just a smidgen)<br /><br />Let me tell you about the magic.<br /> We took the girls to see their grandmother in America last summer and in between fitted in a road trip between Los Angeles, Las Vegas and Phoenix. A road trip with little people, I hear you scream? What fresh hell is this? Endless hours of dull insterstate interjected with frequent requests for drinks, snacks and toilet trips? Well no, actually. It was fun with a giant F. We talked for hours. The girls were endlessly fascinated at each new town, each new motel. The fun was in being somewhere totally different, new. And it was fun imagining this experience through their eyes. Their unfaked childish enthusiasm was contagious.<br /><br /> I'm too old to wake up in a fit of girly hysteria because we're off to the airport. But my daughters are the perfect age to savour this sort of moment. When we woke them at five in the morning to get ready for an early drive down to Heathrow, they were beyond ecstatic. And the novelty didn't wear off. Everything rendered them delirious with joy,from the colour of the Virgin flight attendants uniform (it's red Mummy, my favourite colour) to the type of hire car we had, to the 'funny, weird' accents everyone had and how 'big and wide' everything was and how wonderful/amazing/brilliant the food was. They'd never had a corn dog before, or been to an Ihop before. (International House Of Pancakes before you ask; place where you can buy about three dozen pancakes with an assortment of atery furring condiments to drench them in for less than a can of Pepsi back home). And that was before we arrived at the hallowed gates of Disney. I despise hackneyed old phrases, but you know that old saying, 'Happy kids, Happy parents?' Well, it's true.<br /><br />Drag the kids around Gothic architecture in Barcelona at your peril. I guarantee that, even if you shove a constant supply of ice creams and bribes their way, it will only take half an hour for them to trill something along the lines of 'no fun...where's beach.. I'm bored... feet hurt..where's beach?' ad infinitum, until your ears bleed and you start maniacally examining your map to find out where the local beach is. (luckily, Barcelona has one)<br /><br />But if you go to a beach, a zoo, or a pretty public park (with swings, naturally) or a theme park or a museum with things-of-interest-to-smalls, you will have a super duper trip devoid of angst and kidborne misery. Holidays with children are always fun if you find out what they enjoy and just do that instead of looking around ancient cathedrals. (we 'did' Barcelona again sans smalls a few years later, after depositing kids with relatives and stayed up till the early hours drinking mojitas safe in the knowledge that we could lie in the next day. And we looked around lots of beautiful old buildings)<br /><br />I agree that holidays can be tough with kids. But only if you're trying to replicate childless trips of years before. Find out what they like and (almost) everything falls into place.<br />(it helps if they have a good holiday club too)Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-63619498582784431762010-04-12T03:18:00.000-07:002010-04-12T03:46:38.497-07:00The Emerald City, as fast as lightning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://girlfromthehills.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/ruby-slippers-wizard-of-oz.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 333px;" src="http://girlfromthehills.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/ruby-slippers-wizard-of-oz.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It's Easter and I have a few days off work to entertain/referee the girls and save a few quid in childcare costs. I only fund childcare costs for two girls and it baffles me how other people 'afford' to work when their children are tiny or the total sum of offspring equals two or more..<br />It was my thirty seventh birthday yesterday. It was the perfect weekend with constant sunshine and the kind of good vibrations the Beach Boys used to sing about.. the sort of weekend where it seems the planets have aligned in some magical way to create a steady flow of positive karma. And I don't usually subscribe to the Hippy Dippy Channel, so that sentence was almost painful to write.<br />I went to a great Italian place with friends and watched an alleged 'rom-com' with Sandra Bullock (who is aging properly but beautifully, unlike her contemporaries- an oddly satisfying thing)and Ryan Reynolds who is a tad wooden and depressingly aware of his chiseled good looks.<br />We took the chihuahua for a lazy walk on the common and had some pasta (with the best fresh green pesto) later whilst watching The Wizard Of Oz on Blu Ray and marvelling (no pun intended) at the perfect clarity of the seventy year old movie, whose cast members have all since departed for the Emerald City in the sky...<br />Dorothy Gale from Kansas. <br />Still a dazzling heroine for little girls,all these years later.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-70589384611830031792010-02-26T12:30:00.000-08:002010-02-26T13:06:33.663-08:00Girls Vs Boys<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://thegirlfromtheghetto.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/feminist.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 424px;" src="http://thegirlfromtheghetto.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/feminist.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I'll try to avoid a rant, I promise. <br />I've been thinking recently (please bear with me) about social expectations regarding girls/boys and continue to be increasingly depressed with the attitude (which dictates) that girls are soft voiced spangly pink princesses who float delicately around the room, the embodiment of glitter encrusted serenity, whilst boys can be vocal, expressive and dirty (by that, I mean caked in mud on occasion).<br />It's so unfair. Who decided that girls must be quiet, genteel and ladylike (shudder) whilst boys are entitled to an opinion, a voice and are not expected to look polished and well presented?<br />There is nothing I loathe more than stereotypes, but I've fallen foul of the double standard on several occasions, so you can accurately refer to me as a hypocrite. Sadly, I've felt the need to admonish my girls for being too feisty/opinionated/vocal, whilst silencing my inner voice which shouts 'this is fine and you were the same at their age Melissa and why should they be mute and devoid of expression because they are girls?' And here endeth my mini rant, before it develops into a fully fledged rage against the machine of gender politics !<br />ps. in case you wondered, the image above is an attempt at tongue-in-cheek humour. For the record, I don't hate men or break balls.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-5883434718082537332010-01-18T10:53:00.000-08:002010-01-18T11:12:48.472-08:00The Power Of Music<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.moonbattery.com/boy-george.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 350px;" src="http://www.moonbattery.com/boy-george.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I've just skimmed nervously through my unashamedly gushy post below about my favourite singer in the whole of musikdom and I have to ask the question... am I too old, at 36, to wax lyrical(ok, hysterical)about a pop star? <br />Perhaps.<br />Perhaps I ought to have waited a fortnight or two, and reflected sensibly, before typing out a carefully worded reaction/review which makes me appear less of an obsessed fangirl? But that's the problem with music, especially music which taps into our psyche in a certain way... it is what it is and when we start trying to explain the mysterious and wonderful way music winds itself around our consciousness,we fail spectacularly.<br /><br />I've always loved music, and if I hear certain tunes from the past, am instantly transported to another decade, which has long passed. Every time I hear Frank Sinatra, my Father's voice and face are there in front of me, despite him being dead for twenty five years. When I hear Boy George, I'm instantly right there in my bedroom at Wenlock Close with my friend Sinead and a vinyl record playing over and over ad infinitum. When I hear ELO, or Prince, or early Madonna, I think of Gavin. And when I hear Electric Six, I think of my youngest daughters birth, which was over before I could say 'epidural'in a 5 minute drama at Basildon Hospital! Music takes me back to my eldest daughters birth, when Prince was singing 'The Most Beautiful Girl In The World' on the radio and it was so perfect, so fitting..it's corny, but if you remember every special memory, I bet there is music playing somewhere in the background, a 'theme tune' for every milestone and every amazing day.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-59726911336805099292010-01-06T13:02:00.000-08:002011-02-15T14:11:30.716-08:00Magic In The Room<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://mobilmusic.ru/mfile/69/42/1f/525cat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 126px; height: 126px;" src="http://mobilmusic.ru/mfile/69/42/1f/525cat.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Here's what I refer to as a 'Dorothy moment', when we realise, with some uncertain glee, that we are 'not in Kansas anymore' but in some fantastical domain, the name of which eludes us yet.<br /><br />The rest of this blog entry is awful, truly truly awful. You have been warned.<br /> It's unashamedly gushy cheese from a bonafide signed up member of the Darren Hayes fangirl collective. It's syrupy and corny and cliched and probably the shittiest prose you'll ever read. I'm sorry about that.<br /><br />There are occasions in life when we are lifted up beyond our ordinary selves into another realm. At times like these, our senses are heightened, emotions amplified. <br /><br />On New Years Eve, the Emerald City took the shape of a smart club complex in Vauxhall called 'The Colloseum' and we arrived early thanks to my wonderful sister Alison who babysat for the day/ evening, so we could spend New Years Eve in the company of an Australian superstar called Darren Hayes. He used to be in a band called Savage Garden. It's a shame I feel compelled to report this fact every time I mention his name. Without it, most people ask 'who do you mean?' For me, one of the biggest mysteries of the past decade is why Mr. Hayes is not a global star at the top of the A-List. There are few singers who can penetrate your soul with the power of their voice, but Darren Hayes is one of them. His falsetto is flawless, his live vocals even more perfect and spine tingling than those recorded in a studio. He is my favourite male vocalist of the past twenty years.<br /><br />I've never been much of a properly committed fangirl. Aside from the 1980's, when I loved Boy George and Culture Club with all my angsty teenage heart, music has never moved me in the same way. I didn't even know who this Hayes person was. <br /> I thought he must be a new act, a new music star... the name was a mystery.<br /> <br /><br />So what of New Years Eve 2009? A number of strange and beautiful coincidences conspired to make the perfect day/evening.<br />When Gavin and I arrived, armed with our much coveted fanclub tickets, we chose a table near a radiator (for warmth and no other more spurious reason) which happened to be right next to the door which led from the Cafe Rez into the Club Colloseum, where the show was being held. Darren told us fans to 'get our glitz on' so I excitedly opted for sequins and taffeta! <br /><br />We were lucky to get into the room early, so had a superb view of the stage. I've never been that close to any performer before and the realisation that we had such a prime position, made me jump for joy (and realise that I couldn't eat or drink for the next six hours to save our place - we had to make do with a lukewarm can of diet pepsi). Lady Gaga's song 'Monster' was the track playing before Darren appeared on stage. <br /><br />Darren began with a pitch perfect performance of 'Ego' and looked very relaxed, tossing his unruly blond hair all over the place, (with the help of a strategically placed wind machine) like the seasoned pop star he is. During one song (which eludes me now, damn damn, damn!) Darren walked over to where I was standing and grabbed my hand whilst singing. Who me? (I screamed, yes I did) <br /><br />I'm not sixteen years old anymore, almost 37, but a moment of fangirl joy is still one to be savoured and appreciated as intensely as possible. I looked over at Gavin and he was visibly happy for me. (My husband, the guy who pretends that he is cajoled into coming, but attended the Royal Albert Hall gig on his own because he was working in London and we had no babysitters for both of us to attend!) <br /><br />When Darren performed 'Where You Want To Be' for the first time ever, an audible gasp was heard around the room.<br />I'd always assumed the song was about his former bandmate Daniel, so to have this confirmed by Darren, was pretty edifying.<br />After the show and once Darren had done his funny (as ever) countdown to New Year with his iPhone, we danced away to a set-list prepared by Darren, which had some pretty amazing tracks in there, Bowie/Prince/Little Boots/Gaga amongst many others.<br /><br />And then, not long before we were ready to leave, when we were just about danced out and exhausted after being vertical for over twelve hours with little to sustain us aside from some Thai food and diet coke, we saw Darren leave the VIP area.<br />Gavin walked us both over there to have a 'quick look' before we left finally for the night and Darren appeared to say hello to his fans, sign autographs and take photos etc. It doesn't quite come naturally to me, this fangirl stuff. In private, in the privacy of my car or kitchen or ipod, I am quite the fangirl extraordinairre, an unashamed pop bitch fan!<br /><br />But in reality, I'm quite a shy person, respectful of personal space and boundaries. I'm not the most tactile person in the world either, so it took a fair bit of chutzpah to politely (and too quietly, Darren could hardly hear me) request a hug. After this wonderfully surreal moment, which passed in a happy blur, Darren gestured towards Gavin to take a photo of us together. So there I am, in the wee small hours of New Years Day, in a nightclub in London, being snapped on camera as per request of my music idol! Tell me how future New Years Eves can ever compare with this?<br /><br />On the tube back to Cockfosters, at four o'clock in the morning, I wondered if it had all actually happened, or if I was Dorothy Gale and about to wake later in Kansas and wonder what the hell?! But after driving back to Biggleswade and scoffing bacon sandwiches as the sun rose, and getting six straight hours of sleep as our daughters slept in, we awoke to the happy realisation that we had been to the Emerald City and back and the Wizard was real.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-36597635129872591982009-12-21T02:21:00.000-08:002010-01-05T03:44:52.648-08:00A Good Tradition<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.calorieking.com.au/library/article_menu_mince_pies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="http://images.calorieking.com.au/library/article_menu_mince_pies.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I love Christmas, especially the few days just before The Big Day when 'Christmas is all around me' in the words of Bill Nighy from Love Actually. ( which I watched the other night and enjoyed far more than the first outing when I rather unfairly dismissed it as movie conveyor belt tosh! )<br /><br />Here's an amusing excerpt from a letter my daughter wrote to Santa this morning:<br /><br />'Do <span style="font-style:italic;">you</span> ever receive Christmas presents ?<br /> I hope you get presents. If I have time, I'll leave out wine too. I send all my love to you' xxxx<br /><br />She reassures Santa that she'll leave a mince pie and that<br /> 'Dad makes the best' <br />(but we'll see about that!)<br /> I've challenged Gavin to a bake-off this Christmas Eve, a good natured (but only if I win) little bakeathon to see who produces the bestest mince pies.<br /> I quite like the luxury mini mince pies from M&S, but it's traditional in our house to produce actual home made ones. After first scraping a years worth of dust from the poor neglected food processor....I am no Nigella.<br /> Gavin follows his Mum's well aged recipe which bizarrely involves self raising flour and one classified ingredient.. <br />okay okay, I'll share, but keep it to yourself-<br />( <span style="font-style:italic;">copious quantities of cherry brandy</span>.)<br /> I can't deny the flavoursome properties of Gav's mince pies, but I'm quite keen to see if I can win at our version of the 'Pepsi Challenge' so watch this space for a (hopefully) vaguely amusing followup. <br /><br />The trees are up.<br /> And we have two. <br />A 3 ft Nordman fir from Asda which is furiously moulting needles despite the non-drop description and an increasingly frail looking fake tree whose fakery is further amplified by the presence of authentic living tree across the room. <br /><br />Both trees have a small selection of home and school made decorations collected over almost ten years of childhood, an annual reminder of which preschool they attended, what house we lived in, which friends they played with, etc.<br /> Christmases past and Christmas present. <br /><br />The lounge is all red candle wreaths, orange cinammon, pine, fairy lights and mess. Christmas is not Christmas without a messy lounge and myself trying to hide some ocd tendencies (must throw under the sofa where the rest of the crap goes )<br />Now where's the mulled wine and Baileys ?Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-7050529907594819822009-11-13T01:39:00.000-08:002010-04-12T15:20:53.734-07:00Musing on the Muse gig<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://potq.cl/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/muse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 349px;" src="http://potq.cl/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/muse.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />We went to the O2 last night my husband and I. <br /> It's become something of a habit.<br /> It seems that every couple of months we find a suitable excuse to part with some cash in exchange for concert tickets. <br />Last night was the turn of Muse, funky British alternative rock band who started off in Devon and ended up sliding across the stage at the O2 last night in tight pink trousers, electric guitars screaming.......<br />The stage was brilliantly thought out, with the audience always being number one priority. <br /><br />Now there's a novel concept!<br />You'd think 'audience enjoyment and participation' would figure quite highly when an artist takes their sound to the stage,<br /> but alas this is not always the case.<br />We saw Madonna last year at Wembley and whilst it was a wonderful privilege to share the same space as an icon for 90 minutes, it was tricky to actually see and absorb what was happening. Madonna was devotedly aware of the first 3 rows and not much beyond in that cavernous stadium jammed with tens of thousands of us. Arena gigs are always more intimate than those in canyonesque stadia , but the O2 is large enough to pack a huge (sold out last night) crowd.<br /><br />So what of Muse, then ?<br /><br /> Well, the stage was visible from every corner of the O2 and huge 3D rectangular columns flashed lights and images throughout. They moved up and down intermittently so band members were able to come down to the crowds level before being raised aloft once again. I'll try ( it wont be easy ) to avoid cliche, but this is a band unafraid of the grand gesture. <br />If they ever grew tired of their name, they could call themselves Drama instead.<br /> Or Passion.<br /> Or Hyperactive. (the lead vocalist looked ready for a shot of Ritalin post-gig)<br />I've been to many concerts and the truest way to gauge the impact of an artist is to watch the crowd. <br />Their reaction says more than a million reviews ever can. And last night the O2 became one great living musical organism of Muse fans throbbing to the relentless beat. There were lasers, giant balloons filled with confetti falling from the heavens and a sold-out arena soaking up every electric second of a jaw droppingly great gig. <br />I look forward to the next one.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-46630215418597218582009-11-06T02:45:00.001-08:002010-04-12T15:22:51.807-07:00The Julie/Julia Project<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.lifeofmimi.com/images/daydreaming-large.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 362px; height: 467px;" src="http://www.lifeofmimi.com/images/daydreaming-large.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Have you heard about the Julie/Julia project ?<br /><br />It's a blog written by a bored secretary, in which she reproduces the recipes of colourful TV chef Julia Child. <br /><br />I was reading the Blog late last night and laughing out loud at her attempts to juggle a mundane job with her forays into the Blogosphere. She started way back in the early noughties when Blogging was still a rare hobby and Bloggers an exotic species.<br />The new fangled concept of 'The Blog' made it possible to self-publish instantly. One woman and her laptop could tap away happily for hours, churning out endless streams of thought into the arms of an anonymous readership. There was no reward, except the satisfaction of saying whatever you want, whenever you want, and having it there in some corner of the web, forever.<br /><br />The really popular Blogs have what I refer to as a UBSP (unique blog selling point) because they detail an unusual hobby, have utter shock value (Belle Du Jour/Petite Anglaise anyone?) air laundry so filthy it bypasses the Hotpoint on the way to the Bonfire or air controversial political or religious views on the extreme side of the spectrum. <br /><br />My Blog is just something I write, without a Grand Plan or intention.<br />I have far too many opinions for my own good, so Das Blog is a handy outlet.<br />Still, the fact that it's out there and in the public domain is quite scary, quite a risk really. <br />Julie, the bored office worker living in a tiny apartment in NYC and author of The Julie/Julia Project is hesitant about Blogging.<br />She fears that nobody will care about her 'navel gazing' journeys into some old cookbook. But isn't a Blog supposed to be somewhat self indulgent? Isn't that the whole point? It's an online diary, so will scream ME ME ME. Most of us want to know more about Other-Peoples-Lives and what ultimately makes them tick.<br /> It's fascinating. It's a human soap opera. It's real life stripped down to the bare bones. A revelation. The most interesting thing in the world is Other People.<br /><br />But how awfully selfish of you Ms. Blogger, to fritter away half an hour publishing a post about Blogging!<br />Don't you realise that the number one biggest faux pas in all of Blogville is to dedicate an entire Post to the very subject of Blogging itself? <br />Stick to the point!Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-29232688120021004562009-10-13T02:06:00.001-07:002009-10-13T02:17:14.699-07:00Poetic Wisdom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://actortracker.com/images/actors/Maya_Angelou_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="http://actortracker.com/images/actors/Maya_Angelou_m.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The brilliant American author and poet Maya Angelou once said <br /> 'when someone shows you who they are, <span style="font-style:italic;">believe</span> them'<br />She also said 'If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude'. <br /> These are wise words indeed from a wise woman who has a courageous soul despite the most horrendous childhood experience of abuse and then (her) selective mutism. We can learn so much from the older generation. <br />A person who can rise from the ashes of personal tragedy and choose the tougher,alternative path is living wisdom.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-61876085028437711962009-10-06T10:42:00.000-07:002010-01-05T03:22:01.218-08:00The death of common sense<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.libertylive.org/Uploads/big-brother-is-watching-you4.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 353px; height: 450px;" src="http://www.libertylive.org/Uploads/big-brother-is-watching-you4.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Whatever happened to plain old fashioned common sense?<br />A news story grabbed my attention this week. Two police officers looked after each others children so the other could work, in a bloody sensible job share arrangement. Some sour faced do gooder ( who probably pays the local nursery a grand a month to look after their child) reported them to the powers that be who duly informed them that their happy, mutually convenient arrangement was 'illegal.'<br /> Our country, our government, knows what's best for our kids and you'd better sit up and pay attention before we all stumble blindly into an Orwellian Dead-End. <br /> Yes, it beggars belief. But no, it <span style="font-style:italic;">did</span> happen and as a result one of these women has decided to have no more children.<br /> She can't afford it. There's a fairly recent trend for one child families(through choice not desire) since it means the childcare arrangements are manageable and obviously much cheaper. Double up on the sprogs and double up on nursery fees, obviously.<br /> When I was researching the possiblities of returning to work when the youngest was born, and pondering on the cost of expensive and not always entirely suitable full time childcare options, I made the somewhat old fashioned and sometimes socially frowned-upon decision to stay at home with both of them. I worked out that, factoring in daycare costs, travel costs, and other sundry costs, my income would have to exceed 45k to make it worthwile, and even then I'd be exisiting in a state of constant shatterdom,( this is not a real word ) working 12 hour days in a stressful environment which makes no allowances for parents whatever bloody government directives are issued, and only seeing them both briefly in the morning and evening. Over the past ten years or so, this government has tempted/forced more and more parents to use full time daycare so they (women mostly, it seems Harriet Harman wants us all to get jobs as MP's )can work. Well, what if we don't want to ? What if we want to look after our children at home, all on our very own without any state intervention or Ofsted ruling? What if we prefer to do that ?<br /> What if a Mother wants a few years out to raise her brood, or part time work which fits in better with a growing family ?<br />Is that so very twee and 1950's?<br /> Harriet Harman insists that we need more women in Parliament. Well, wake up and smell the coffee, Hattie... most women don't want to live in a secondary residence all week (even if they can claim fraudulently for a new plasma telly on expenses) whilst a Nanny has all the fun at home with their children. Most women would shudder at the thought of working away from their children week in, week out. <br />The best thing to happen in 2010 will be the removal of Harriet Harman from government. Gordon is a bit crap too, but HH makes my blood boil. <br />Sod off Ofsted.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-53276972432920425022009-09-21T02:01:00.000-07:002009-10-01T15:43:40.965-07:00London Baby Yeah !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.hotelsoftherichandfamous.com/hotels/the-ritz-hotel-london/the-ritz-hotel-london-default.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 480px; height: 321px;" src="http://www.hotelsoftherichandfamous.com/hotels/the-ritz-hotel-london/the-ritz-hotel-london-default.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />As I've mentioned before on three or four occasions, I live in Biggleswade.<br />It's a quaintly pretty market town in Mid Bedfordshire next to the River Ivel and half an hour from Cambridge, Stevenage, Bedford and London<br />(on a good day.. on a bad one it takes 45 minutes and shudders to a creaking standstill at every small town between Biggleswade and Kings Cross)<br />If you ever catch Biggleswade on a bright Autumn Saturday, when the market is alive with the animated flurry of early risers, you will see it at its best.<br />Grab a steaming Latte and an almond croissant at the market square cafe, before settling back for a spot of people watching. This is cafe culture Biggleswade style !<br /><br />We moved here because of its practical proximity to London (for work) and the M1, which helps when we visit relatives ooop north. That, and the very pertinent fact that a move to Biggleswade<br />makes it possible to buy a decent house in a good area but on a mainline service into the capital.<br />Just a few miles down the road in Hertfordshire, house prices shoot skywards and the towns there hold no greater appeal<br />( except perhaps that the train journey shaves a handful of minutes off the journey to London and you can choose between a Costa, a Nero and five or six Starbucks )<br /><br />Anyway, where is this all leading ?<br /><br />Last weekend, my American cousin Lynn came to visit and we headed off to London, home of Queen Elizabeth II, that most resilient sovereign, who endured many an annus horribilis (in the past ) thanks to her errant offspring.<br />There's something quite magical about being in the company of a spontaneous person.<br />I'm often paralysed to the spot in my desire to plan ahead, just in case this or that might occur, but never does.<br />So you can imagine my consternation when we jumped off the tube at Covent Garden and after climbing (dragging our weary selves) 200 steps to daylight<br />( the lift was out of order ) stumbled upon a ticket office selling half price tickets for Wicked, Chicago, Avenue Q, etc. Serendipity in motion.<br /><br />We picked up cheap tickets for Hairspray in the Royal Circle with a perfect view of the stage. When Brian Connolly (Edna ) and a superb Wilbur understudy performed 'Timeless to Me', they both lost control for a few minutes of body wracking hysteria somewhere around the lines ' You're like a broken down chevy, all you need is a fresh coat of paint'. The audience of course loved it, and it added to the authenticity of the unpredictable live performance.<br />We strolled around Covent Garden, browsing the Apple Market and all the cute stalls selling everything from original art to handmade chocolate to sex toys and an assortment of yet weirder items.<br /> We passed the living statues and a heavily tattooed man trussed up in heavy chains Houdini style and the clown and the street dancers and Kenny and Karly from Big Brother, who seemed totally at home in this bizarre scene.<br /> We caught the tube to Green Park and peered in through the windows of the Ritz, grinning at an amused looking security guard. We asked some bewildered looking German tourists for directions and strolled across to Buckingham Palace through the beautiful Green Park. I've been there a dozen or more times, but it's always a delight to see the Queen's splendidly stern sentry guards, the ornate palace gates and the mass of foreigners outside grasping to get a better shot of their group in front of this iconic building.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-14157457643756155292009-09-16T15:12:00.001-07:002010-01-05T03:23:22.046-08:00Delightfully Exhausted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://galen-frysinger.com/european_train/cambridge05.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 648px; height: 397px;" src="http://galen-frysinger.com/european_train/cambridge05.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />My lovely, vibrant American cousin just spent a week chez nous and it was the busiest, most entertaining week I've had for ages and ages. We spent 48 hours in London and saw Hairspray and Thriller Live and a couple of reality TV stars (Karly and Kenneth from Big Brother ) hanging out at Carllucio's in Leicester Square. <br />I'll do the London blog later. Tonight, Cambridge.<br /> We drove to Cambridge, whose ancient majestic halls of academia are just 30 minutes down a newly built dual carriageway (not yet available on Sat Nav, alas) from our house. We went 'punting' down the river, escorted by an affable young surfer-dude guide aged v.early 20's, who had recently graduated from the world famous Trinity College. In awe of this marvellous achievement,a degree from the worlds highest acclaimed College, I asked what his future plans might be. I'm only 36, so not quite old enough to have given birth to him, so strenuously avoided a maternal tone. God Forbid that I might patronise the youngfolk! <br />He informed me, in an impatient 'this-is-not-the-first-time-I've-been-asked-that-question' voice that he had:<br />'No Plans' and that he 'didn't want an office job' and that he just 'wanted to travel for ten years'<br />No Plans?<br />Back up.<br />Back up and steady on there just a second Mister.<br />No Plans?<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">You</span> graduated from Trinity College Cambridge, possibly the most academically esteemed Hall of Learning in the whole hallowed history of Learningdom and you have no bleeping plans ? <br />Not good enough, surfer dude. <br />Please try explaining that to the many failed applicants of the toughest College in the country whilst you are backpacking around Phuket. <br />Call me old fashioned, but you don't spent three or four years at Trinity College Cambridge to exit stage left with no-effing-plans.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-84772922418262301932009-09-01T14:54:00.000-07:002009-09-01T15:42:06.855-07:00Holiday Fun<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oRUOdPuCUTSG4_68wuh2prLo61FRR0BG5-Ba6Ukl6cofQEXvRQ8qPlc4ipMoKxtDG6OZD4XUV64IAhTN9ePkY1gvNvgdRUpESkU2XrHndNb8Gp50Q7cXedQcrDl1rQ-sON2ipIg101xv/s1600-h/156.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7oRUOdPuCUTSG4_68wuh2prLo61FRR0BG5-Ba6Ukl6cofQEXvRQ8qPlc4ipMoKxtDG6OZD4XUV64IAhTN9ePkY1gvNvgdRUpESkU2XrHndNb8Gp50Q7cXedQcrDl1rQ-sON2ipIg101xv/s200/156.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376629023883610530" /></a><br />The inevitable post holiday blues have kicked in. <br />But what a wonderful wonderful holiday.<br />We flew Easyjet. If you ever catch the programme 'Airline' you would be forgiven for thinking that Easyjet= Machiavellian cowboys hellbent on nicking your hardearned so you can wait several long hours more than originally intended in a depressing departure lounge before getting on a faulty AirbusA319 and sit sardine-packed into tidy rows of pissed off passengers before being deposited, several hours later, into a stuffy Meditteranean aeroport. <br />But you would be wrong.<br /> Because the flight was good. And the trip was better. <br />We arrived, after a few hours of travel and the disconcertingly simple collection of a lovely Seat Leon from the shockingly well organised Alicante Aiport, to Casa Vista.<br />And what a view indeed!<br />Corny cliches aside, it was like stepping inside a holiday villa brochure. Since we hired it out for a snip, I assumed it must be faulty somewhere, but it couldn't have been more perfect. Winding steps, littered with bougainvillea led up to a raised balcony with the most incredible view of a cerulean sea, complete with cliched white yachts and larger liners drifting past in relaxed slow-mo.... But, peace disintegrated into cries of 'where's my swimsuit' and ten minutes later, two little girls were jumping into our swimming pool like they owned the place. We don't. Sadly.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-38806644063174312782009-08-09T06:57:00.000-07:002010-01-05T03:24:06.366-08:00Inappropriate Blog MaterialSomeone just looked over my shoulder and asked why anyone in the world of Blogville would care a jot (give a damn, actually ) about my opinion on some random book by some random novelist ? <br />They forget that I am not writing a ruddy novel and trying to entertain a discerning readership- read the summarised profile folks! These are merely :<br /> random ramblings let loose on an unsuspecting web !<br />Not high art, entertainment or even attempts at witty banter. If I accidentally drop in some witty observation, it's a happy accident rather than a contrived attempt to impress or entertain the three people who read this. <br />The main purpose of The Blog is for Charlotte and Rebecca's benefit, so they can see what their Mum was like way back when.<br />(but he's right, I <span style="font-style:italic;">did</span> spell Haworth incorrectly, oh the shame )Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-31420096832449495242009-08-09T02:34:00.000-07:002009-08-09T07:14:00.048-07:00Reader, I married him<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://girlmogulmagazine.com/blog1/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/charlotte_bronte_coloured_drawing.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 424px; height: 600px;" src="http://girlmogulmagazine.com/blog1/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/charlotte_bronte_coloured_drawing.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I love Gothic novels.<br /> Since Horace Walpole wrote The Castle of Otranto in 1764, other writers have been emulating a version of this romantic terror from behind heavy castle doors a million miles from the normal world. A parallel world where Byronic heroes, madwomen in attics, monsters, angels, sirens and vampires replace stock characters of the realist novel. I remember visiting the Bronte Parsonage, in the quaint village of Haworth, many many times. And walking the same moors which provided the setting for Emily's 'Wuthering Heights' and wondering how Charlotte coped alone after the death of her brother and sisters. I remember walking around the tiny rooms, with their collections of original garments worn by Charlotte, the rooms where they sat and wrote Jane Eyre, the Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Wuthering Heights, and wondering where that genius comes from. The Bronte women rarely left the Parsonage in rural Haworth, so the vast majority of their work came from their imagination alone. Jane Eyre is one of my favourite novels. I read it (again) whilst I was pregnant with my eldest daughter and decided that, if she was a girl, she would be a Charlotte. And I found a beautiful edition of Jane Eyre when Charlotte was a baby, which I tucked away in a keepsake box for her.<br />I'm in a book club and we are reading 'The Thirteenth Tale' which was suggested by one of the women. <br />Who also just happens to be the sister of the Author, Diane Setterfield. <br />I didn't really enjoy the last novel we read ( Miss.Garnett's Angel ) which was unnecessarily confusing( I don't mind wordy prose and clever plot devices, but logic and clarity is appreciated) and had a silly, silly ending. <br />But this novel was really very satisfying, in the Gothic tradition. I loved it. The only criticism I might level towards it is that there was really no need to remind us that the inspiration came from the Bronte sisters. Most of us are familiar with Jane Eyre and would have spotted the association almost immediately. Words never die. <br />Thank goodness I loved this novel.<br /> I would have been forced, by conscience and sheer bloody mindedness, to confess my dislike for the novel had I hated it, and then probably offended the writers lovely sister. But no need, because it's wonderful. Biographer Margaret Lea goes to a remote house on the Yorkshire moors to meet the elderly writer Vida Winter ( the novel has some other wonderfully named characters such as Aurelius Love ) and write the story of her incredible life..... what she discovers is a tale of Gothic tragedy, secrets, ghosts and self discovery. It's beautifully written. At one point, I wondered if the writer was about to parody the Gothic genre, in the style of Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey, but no. And I've been long overdue a thumping good story ( I normally select novels which are beautiful character studies of people and families ) so this went down a treat.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-23439175411766516802009-08-05T09:42:00.000-07:002009-08-05T14:17:33.886-07:00That golden childhood I was harping on about<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/marklcohen/Rdp-MIcQ3HI/AAAAAAAAAgU/aZ36mnH1x5Q/1950housewife.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 222px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/marklcohen/Rdp-MIcQ3HI/AAAAAAAAAgU/aZ36mnH1x5Q/1950housewife.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I have a tendency towards rose tinted day dreaming.<br />I guess you could say that I'm romantic and idealistic at times when a more pragmatic, realistic approach would work much much better. <br />I've always viewed the school summer break with a mixture of delight <br />( lie-ins, soft focus walks with the puppy in the park ) and white knuckled horror (summer holiday cabin fever)<br />Whilst I try to avoid turning C and R into children-who-demand-constant-entertainment-round-the-clock, I attempt what I refer to as 'laundry days' from time to time. These entail me playing catch up on the more mundane aspects of domestic slavery whilst chucking comics, paper, felt tips and arty crafty items at the girls with the instruction to<br /> 'go forth and be creative, preferably with the volume down or on mute for a while'<br />Today made me realize that the best way to promote compliance in kids is to wear them out thoroughly to the point of near exhaustion.<br />Wear them out with 3 mile walks, noisy sessions in the local swimming pool and energetic playtimes in the airless hell of KidsWorld, a soft play area near us which serves bland food in a gloomy windowless room which children absolutely adore. <br />Today, I scrubbed the karndean floors, polished the glass and wood, worked through a depressing pile of laundry, hung two lots of washing out, all to the grating tune of 'she called me stupid idiot' and 'why can't we go to Legoland' and 'my friends have all got one' etc. etc. ad infinitum.<br />I might continue this blog later, when I've fed the girls and closed this Cafe ( where are my sodding tips, then? ) for the evening.<br />Ah, the simple joys of a golden childhood;<br /> those halycon days where home cooked food and endless trips to feed the swans are all the blessed chidlets need to appreciate your efforts. If it were that easy !Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-14235924270511064832009-07-28T15:19:00.000-07:002009-07-29T14:28:55.738-07:00Home is Biggleswade<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.theairporttaxicompany.co.uk/images/location/Biggleswade.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 188px;" src="http://www.theairporttaxicompany.co.uk/images/location/Biggleswade.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Here continueth school summer 2009, week two. <br />Week two of the school summer holidays; not summer proper which kicks in somewhere around May/June if we're very lucky. Must remember to slather on the factor 30 for those three hot days sandwiched between endless weeks of mean grey sludge. <br />My sister visited last week and now she's gone. Back to the frozen North, where my other sister, Mother and some of my closest friends still live. We moved down south in 1998 and it felt like moving to a different continent in the sleepy, beautifully time warped village in west oxon with its unfriendly lack of street lighting, shops or any signs of life closer than ten miles away.<br /> I remember the first week we arrived, thinking that we had probably made a huge mistake, whilst at the same time suspecting that time would dilute or cleverly displace those thoughts and perhaps reveal, at some distant date in the future, why we decided to upsticks 250 miles across the country.<br /> Instinct shouted louder than emotion and I paid attention.<br /> I remember slouching in the tiny L-shaped lounge of our lovely little house in Freeland, not long after we moved, listening to distant thunder, and wondering, worrying, if we had made the right decision. I realized, about four of five years ago, that we had.<br /> We were no longer trying to convince ourselves and others of our shiny happy enthusiasm about leaving family and friends behind in the North West, but truthfully, genuinely content. And now, when I accelerate down the slip road to the M1 ( or mostly when Gavin does it, cos I avoid motorway driving if possible ) ,we are going uo North for a visit, not 'going home'. Home is Biggleswade.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-74750937905513413732009-07-16T14:49:00.000-07:002009-07-16T16:42:23.036-07:00The End Of An Era<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPykgd86p_rPtowUAlxf4aF2Kr5yPkuhWjVFnor-xkf0qjDwTg63jj40FpbFwClOt7HFstDmDCxYifaGFvYhYs9chIzJiiYnWj2WeKrA-HBRAD-LASXPIThzw7D2s6V7FbbvLaiUfTC_1D/s1600-h/DSC03741.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPykgd86p_rPtowUAlxf4aF2Kr5yPkuhWjVFnor-xkf0qjDwTg63jj40FpbFwClOt7HFstDmDCxYifaGFvYhYs9chIzJiiYnWj2WeKrA-HBRAD-LASXPIThzw7D2s6V7FbbvLaiUfTC_1D/s200/DSC03741.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359185321998734546" /></a><br />Charlotte 'graduated' from middle school today. My baby girl, who was born when I was 'way-too-young' according to many, but who ( along with Rebecca ) was the <br />'best-thing-I-ever-did' <br />left Lower School, aged nine.<br />It's been a wonderful, interesting nine years with Charlotte.<br />Let me tell you about her.<br />She has the most beautiful heart. She asks questions. Lots of them. Her favourite questions are 'Why?' and 'What for?'<br />She has an incredible gift for Art, which must come from both her Dad and her Grandfather ( my Dad ) who was both an Art teacher (before he became jaded with high school and became a College Lecturer) and Artist, whose work actually appeared in galleries OnceUponATimeWayBackWhen. And whose stories, in manuscript form, are still unfinished and sat yellowing and waiting ( in a drawer in my Mum's wardrobe ) for a clever illustrator (the grandddaughter he never met? )to complete. <br />Is it Ok and not too crass and irritating to brag about your children and your long deceased Father ? I expect not.<br />Other-Peoples-Blogs are annoying enough without syrupy references to their marvellous offspring and/or forebears. <br />But I must continue...(forgive me )<br />Charlotte is rather brilliant with words.<br />She writes stories which radiate warmth and brilliance and eccentric charm. <br />And what's more,(and this is the proverbial cherry ) she is excellent at Mathematics and Science. (Maths bores me rigid but I feign enthusiasm at her Maths-Love because.. well... why exactly ? )<br />Lastly, and least importantly, but perhaps most significantly ( for all of the superficial world we inhabit ) she is beautiful. I am biased, but the world is cynical. And the world must agree that she is an exquisite beauty. <br />I am biased, but no mind. I am her Mother, so it's allowed.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-90041079952567649672009-07-03T12:52:00.001-07:002009-07-03T16:05:44.325-07:00Psychological Warfare in the Big Brother House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://george.orwell.free.fr/images/big_brother_george_orwell.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 141px; height: 132px;" src="http://george.orwell.free.fr/images/big_brother_george_orwell.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I know it's viewed as trashy and vacuous and all-that's-gone-wrong-with-telly-in-the-noughties but Big Brother sucks me in each year, despite many half assed attempts to withdraw from it. I try to kick the habit. I really really try, but I love it.<br />I really love it. <br />I love watching group dynamics develop in that neon lit pressure cooker environment which must be an utter hell to endure for those poor fame grubbing contestants. <br />I remember the innocence of BB1 with cheeky Craig from Liverpool and Nasty Nick who, the sheer bloody cheek of it, tried to manipulate nominations by writing names down surreptitiously !<br /> I mean really, the internet ground to a shuddering halt for almost a whole day thanks to Nasty Nick Bateman and his memserizing attempts to win a reality TV contest by foul means not fair. It all sounds so very primitive and unsophisticated now, don't you think ? So very year 2000.<br /><br />In 2009, female contestants must have at least 3 of these attributes :<br /><br />a) spray tan and hair extensions which resemble burnt straw<br />b )giant triple H cup bazongas shoved dangerously into a child sized bikini<br />c )no opinions on anything apart from hair straighteners, hair extensions and endless chats about endless 'wicked' nights out getting 'totally feckin off my feckin face like ' <br />d) the ability to attract the prettiest and least intelligent male housemate and the ability to forget about any real life boyfriend should the opportunity to dive under the duvet with a potential showmancer arise.<br />I will continue with this in a little while. Davina is calling.<br /><br />Part Deux :<br />Right, where were we ?<br /> Psychological Warfare in a Hertfordshire film studio.<br />Halfwit is bright. He's clever. He went to Oxford. He has a high level of emotional intelligence too, so a devastating double whammy of both intellectual and emotional cleverness. So in other words, he's guaranteed to annoy about 94.7% of the BB housemates. It's impossible to imagine Karly ( with a kicking K naturally ) or Dogface or Kris (that <span style="font-style:italic;">K</span> again ) or Lisa ever hanging out with someone like Freddie. They find him alien, odd and 'annoying' presumably because he is interested in politics, current affairs and other-fings-what-don't-involve-getting-out-of-it-on-a-Friday night. His difference renders him an easy target. The 'group' agree to dislike Freddie out of loyalty for Lisa and the fear of provoking her steely wrath should they prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt. Heaven forbid that they might try to understand him, to find some common ground, to actually like the man. Because he is a nice guy, make no mistake.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-88454326538013751242009-07-01T10:20:00.000-07:002009-07-01T10:29:17.592-07:00Oh Make It StopIt's too hot.<br />I'm suffocating in an airless house.<br />We are not prepared for hot weather in the UK. <br />I keep popping into our local Spa. It's the only shop on our high street with air conditioning. Air conditioning in a heatwave is a beautiful thing.<br />Michael Jackson's funeral. There's a sentence I didn't expect to see for at least another twenty odd years.<br />Apparently, there will be a glass coffin and fairytale carriage which will take him to Neverland..... <br />I saw this video and found it incredibly moving <br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0mcxmCGetIMelissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-45368988413706309572009-07-01T10:18:00.000-07:002009-07-01T15:36:43.040-07:00A Bit Of PoetryWritten after a visit to the Natural History Museum :<br /><br />Stegosaurus<br /><br />140 million years too late,<br />Standing before a silenced Stegosaurus whose eyeless sockets peer out at<br />Kids drooling ice cream and old ladies in `I Love NY` t-shirts, which are too tight.<br /><br /><br /><br />We move on quickly to the interactive stuff which the kids prefer:<br />Foam rubber skin and spines that light up at the press of a button<br />Get the punters in the door, not a pile of old dinosaur bones.<br /><br /><br />And this one.. well, wow. I forgot how bamboozled I was by first time parenthood.<br />I was filled with a mixture of ecstasy and horror when Charlotte was born. It instigated a gargantuan seismic shift in my life, the likes of which I've never experienced before or since ! I remember speaking to friends who were having fertility treatment and feeling so ashamed of myself for finding it tough. <br />Found this lovely cheery verse in my documents folder which I'd forgotten about :<br /><br />Mother Bliss<br /><br />I questioned why no one had told me this<br />That I could pace for hours in airless gloom<br />The strained smile varnished tightly on my lips<br />as I sway her back and forth across the room. <br /><br />And how we yearned for this. Hoped for years<br />Took no advice, no pills, no IVF<br />Nothing is ever quite as it appears.<br />You start a life and then you mourn the death<br /><br />of solitude and all that came before.<br />Get up at noon, read books and stay up late.<br />Now it’s ‘how’s the baby?’ it’s a bore,<br />And other questions I have learned to hate.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A veritable ray of sunshine I am !!<br />let me report that my daughters bring so much joy and love and happiness into my life and they make me so proud and I adore them more than it's possible to adore anyone (but those early weeks are a fuggy blur of nightfeeds and hormones-gone-awry)Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-45134931030162015712009-06-28T03:09:00.000-07:002009-06-28T04:03:40.425-07:00Michael Jackson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.plong.com/MusicCatalog/M/Michael%20Jackson%20-%20Bad/Michael%20Jackson%20-%20Bad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://www.plong.com/MusicCatalog/M/Michael%20Jackson%20-%20Bad/Michael%20Jackson%20-%20Bad.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.galeon.com/allmusic/caratulas/m/Michael_Jackson-Bad-Frontal.jpg"></a><br />Michael Jackson is dead.<br />He was only 50.<br />He was arguably the worlds most famous man and he changed the face of popular culture and music. His death was sudden, unexpected and only a fortnight away from starting the first of 50<br />( count them ) gigs at the O2 arena.<br />A few weeks ago, I predicted that Michael wouldn't fulfil his obligations to the O2. The most recent sightings revealed a frail man; alabaster skin, sunken eyes, destroyed nose. But more importantly was the empty, expressionless face, partly created by surgery, partly by unknown psychological hurts created a lifetime ago when a sweet faced little boy from Indiana was already being primed for superstardom whether he wanted it or not. Any chance of a normal childhood was dashed against the wall.<br />He was never found guilty of any of the claims levelled against him. But ever since he opted to pay Jordan Chandler 18 million dollars instead of stand up in a courtroom and defend himself, the way he was forced to do later with Gavin Arvizo, his career was over. And with it, the weight of public opinion pointed towards his guilt. It's a cliche, but also an eternal truth. Mud sticks.<br />And on Thursday evening, when the news broke on SKY, I remembered the Michael I loved in the 1980's. He was a very precitable idol. The most famous man in pop ! But I happily jumped on the Jackson bandwagon and listened to his music for hours and hours, day after happy day.<br />I saved for weeks so I could go out and buy everything Jackson related ( all on cassette not CD !) and can vividly remember walking into Woolworths ( another dead icon ) on Victoria Road West in Cleveleys with a stash of coins ready to hand over in exchange for BAD, Michael's newest record at the time when my adulation was at its height. I thought he was utterly gorgeous back then, despite the fact that the beautiful black man from the Thriller era had transformed into a much paler version with stretched caucasion features. My Mum, sisters and friends mocked my teenaged crush asking how I could fancy 'that weirdo', but I did. I loved his eccentricity, his damned untouchable starriness and those sexy as hell dance moves.<br />I adored Michael and spent hours on the phone to my friend Gavin<br />( who later became my husband !) boring him with the ever more flowery details of my irrepressible fixation.<br />A fortnight ago, I spent a couple of hours organising a memory box from my teens, which was crammed full of MJ memorabilia, including the huge BAD poster which adorned my bedroom wall for many months. These items had sat untouched in a box for years.<br />I cried when Michael died. I don't care if this is insincere, silly, misplaced or another example of so-called 'misery porn' a term the media uses to describe collective grief on an inordinately grand scale. I know my feelings were authentic, heartfelt and sincere. What makes me the saddest is that this man, who brightened my teenage years beyond measure, seemed so utterly heartbreakingly miserable. He lived in a sealed world, a lonely world, a judgmental world.<br />He never seemed easy with the global adulation which was the inevitable byproduct of his immense talent. He always had a haunted expression, a distant air about him. He was a wreck, in the end. I can't believe he died so young. I can't believe I never saw him in concert. I can't believe that his children will grow up without a Dad.<br />And I am angry at some sections of the popular press, who have decided that it's macabre and inappropriate to express sadness at the death of someone we have never met.<br />They can kiss my ass.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-24628167046863189942009-06-23T02:37:00.000-07:002009-06-23T04:32:42.645-07:00The sun is shining<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfWpCbi-iFH7XtWaJlymlLjQvDCAIgk0O2GeEB6y4PLoAi_n6T8e7Lmv-USOhRPi9F6vTNgs4yAP2ullNfrE1HlhHuhWOV6kTUQnt-iY11p75omSBkUMPK7WylCRnPhk5WahkutLph5MO/s1600-h/DSC03788.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfWpCbi-iFH7XtWaJlymlLjQvDCAIgk0O2GeEB6y4PLoAi_n6T8e7Lmv-USOhRPi9F6vTNgs4yAP2ullNfrE1HlhHuhWOV6kTUQnt-iY11p75omSBkUMPK7WylCRnPhk5WahkutLph5MO/s320/DSC03788.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350484053622003778" border="0" /></a><br />I have a really good book and a really warm back garden and can't think of a better way to 'waste' an hour or two, later. We have a gardener coming tomorrow to prune the ceanothus and other large items I can't reach. And we refuse pointblank to purchase a chain saw. A power tool in my hands would be too great a risk. I'm accident prone. I managed to cut my hand last year whilst trying to open a can of wood stain, so I could treat the decking area. I regularly bump, cut, scrape or burn myself, so shudder to imagine what mayhem I could create with a chainsaw. And the puppy might circle into view at a crucial moment in the pruning process and find herself minus a tail, or worse.<br />Kate is the lovely and highly knowledgeable woman who does our garden twice a year. She is very reasonable, knows what she's talking about, and leaves the garden looking beautiful. I would upload a photo, if I wasn't the sort of low rent blogger who isn't quite sure how to. What is the use of a blog without pictures ? (to partially quote Lewis Carroll)<br />Speaking of Lewis Carroll, have you seen photos of the new Alice in Wonderland movie directed by Tim Burton ? Predictably enough, it stars Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter (if I was his wifey, I'd insist on a starring role too ) and the makeup is incredible. I love Tim Burton movies. He's eccentric bordering on crazy, but always pulls back from the brink of unfettered madness to produce classic movies which stand the test of time. Charlotte watched Edward Scissorhands for the first time last week and adored it. It's a good antidote to the formulaic drivel usually thrust upon kids, in the hope they wont notice, which is stupid because a) kids are clever; many kids are cleverer than many grown ups and b ) kids love to be scaredMelissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-39281076689399322642009-06-18T02:09:00.001-07:002010-01-05T03:27:19.202-08:00the self indulgent post you can skip<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_yeKE-2Ogyu91K7Alra_qMysryQiA7N-uzCoqsmRSdJ6SV3GxdklY2DYRtNj2Eo9WkYLarNkvOxuXj0uQnIy-Byx_BczUIbedow0_CDWfsYG04TCHpJVtgEYvKg0C4BmDICFIABreQKL/s1600-h/DSC03954.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_yeKE-2Ogyu91K7Alra_qMysryQiA7N-uzCoqsmRSdJ6SV3GxdklY2DYRtNj2Eo9WkYLarNkvOxuXj0uQnIy-Byx_BczUIbedow0_CDWfsYG04TCHpJVtgEYvKg0C4BmDICFIABreQKL/s320/DSC03954.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350487604721781746" border="0" /></a><br />I told a friend about my blog yesterday.<br />She was quite shocked at my enthusiasm to share private feelings and thoughts with all of Blogville. She is also shocked at social networking sites in general, finding them quite menacing and unnecessary. The thing is, we give as much as we are willing to share. Most bloggers leave out deeply personal reflections. Those are best saved for a handwritten tome stashed under the mattress. I'm just glad I didn't write a diary or a blog in my teens and early twenties. Oh, the self indulgent angst ridden twaddle that would have been !<br />At 36, I still ( on occasion ) have a propensity towards thin-skinned vulnerability.<br />I disguise it cleverly with lashings of strategically placed optimism and jovial good humour, the sort guaranteed to grate heavily on the nerves of those around me, from time to time. But like most people, I fall somewhere in the middle of lifes emotional barometer. I am neither Miss.Sunshine nor Miss.Grumpy. I know what's required of me and badger on in a mostly satisfied ( if not ecstatic) state of mind. I would love to be one of those naturally effervescent women, the kind who fizz even when the world around them has gone flat. But, I think I will always have the distant noise of self doubt in my ear. I can link it all the way back to childhood, when my Dad died. I realized then what a volatile world we live in, how circumstances can change dramatically and often in the most random way imaginable. The days of cast iron certainties were truly behind me and the future was a much more forbidding prospect.<br />I realized that I'd been living in a safe bubble. I envy the untroubled simplicity of children, and hope my girls can look back at a carefree youth, a golden childhood. It's what we all deserve.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6375791645965632756.post-77162133659036452312009-06-11T15:54:00.000-07:002009-06-11T16:06:56.169-07:00Car BillsWhy do unexpectedly huge car bills always always arrive 24 hours after booking a holiday ?<br />It's been an expensive month. The fridge freezer died. We had to replace it. The ensuite saniflo is making weird noises so we have Mr.Saniflo coming tomorrow to `clean through the pipes thoroughly`<br />( rather him than me ) and we just booked a holiday to Spain. Holidays are optional I know, but we booked it before hearing Gavin's car needed a new clutch and starter motor. I knew it was going to be grim when man-at-garage asked me if I was sitting down. I was; in my car, which will never need a clutch because it's an automatic. I have a manual driving license but prefer to live in a world without gear changes, hill starts and handbrakes. I spent the afternoon boring my neighbour with all this, over several cups of coffee.<br />I am optimistic. July will be a month of sunshine and frugality.Melissa in a Market Townhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15369672292873266365noreply@blogger.com0