tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32278016692784010532024-01-20T06:11:14.983+00:00Bad Penny.Life In The Fast/Middle LanePennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.comBlogger320125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-64292925402611579062014-06-24T21:02:00.002+01:002014-06-24T21:07:13.452+01:00How To Like Exercise When You Don't Like ExerciseWherever I go on my bumpy and meandering journey of life, I find there's one subject I just keep coming back to. It's not just fitness (although fitness is fun), it's trying to get other people who don't enjoy it to find their way of enjoying it. I am driven to it, irritatingly so, like a wasp to a picnic.<br />
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I'm not sure if it stems from my torturous secondary school years of being categorically un-sporty - permanently sitting at the side of every playing field feigning an asthma attack whilst feeding a headphone up one blazer sleeve through which to listen to the latest Ash cassingle. Or maybe it's because I then went on to have my own exercise epiphany, and have since proceeded to lose my fitness mojo and find it again to varying degrees for the past fifteen years. Maybe I want everybody to be able to share the joy in finding you're actually good at something you thought you couldn't do. Maybe it's just because I'm a pain in your backside. Whatever.<br />
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The last few years, I think, have seen media coverage of diets and exercise regimes reach saturation point, and beyond. Not only that, but the regimes themselves seem to be getting more and more extreme. I suppose if you sell your readers a workout and it doesn't cut it, the next concept has to take it up a notch. Undertaking the latest fads requires obsessive structure and self-discipline. If that comes naturally to you, or if you can force it for a few weeks, you'll get so far with it....maybe even score some impressive results. But we're only human beings. Sooner or later this thing bumps up against real life and before we know it we're off the wacky workout wagon and eating Nutella straight out of the jar with both hands while we're waiting for our thick-sliced bread to toast. Meanwhile the rest of the population laughs, cries and gawps in disbelief at us, the endless parade of lycra-clad lemmings flinging ourselves off the cliff of wellbeing. Some of the guys who refuse to engage with the madness already have their own active things they do, and love. But there are plenty more who get completely alienated by exercise and think that it's for Other People. </div>
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It's about time for a backlash. The business of keeping yourself healthy shouldn't be an exclusive club that you need to dress the right way to get into. You shouldn't have to subscribe to an expensive gym or (whisper it) maybe the even government's advised three cardio sessions a week (actually these days they recommend 150 minutes of moderate activity, which can sound quite overwhelming if you're doing pretty much nothing at the moment). Maybe you just need to do what you feel like and not obsess over it. Even if that's not that much at all. </div>
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Controversial.</div>
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<a href="http://tyronetribulations.com/2013/09/03/gortin-man-tried-to-pull-a-fast-one-and-sell-wife-to-liverpool-fc-for-2-8m/"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image source</span></i></a></div>
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I was involved in a discussion on Twitter the other day about the fitness mantra <i>du jour</i> "eat clean, train dirty". I think it's great to get behind it if it's your thing - five years ago I would have been all over that shit. These days - as a working mum with a toddler? I'm not saying it would be impossible to subscribe to that lifestyle, it's just that my priorities have changed. I would rather see my son for an hour at the end of the day than go and train myself silly like I used to. I joked that <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/137669679621486/">my own fitness class'</a><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/137669679621486/">s </a>mantra should be "Eat dirty, train occasionally". I was saying it to be a dickhead, but the more I think about it, the more I like it. It's not about being lazy, it's about finding what you enjoy, doing it and being sensible about it. It's about saying goodbye to guilt, body shaming and restrictive lifestyles if they are beginning to control you. It's about letting yourself off every now and then. </div>
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But maybe that's just me trying to redress an imbalance in my own life - trying to find a happy medium between the asthma-attack-feigning schoolgirl and the gym and diet maniac I became in my twenties. Maybe others genuinely like to subscribe to all this extreme stuff just to get some sort of structure and routine. To give themselves a kick up the bum and get where they need to go. Maybe the guilt serves a purpose that's more helpful than I think.</div>
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I can't decide. If we stopped shouting about diets and exercise would it help? Or would we be straight back on the sofa with the rest of that Nutella? </div>
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Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-88881895122615104222014-05-31T21:58:00.001+01:002014-05-31T21:58:31.045+01:00Toddler Terror<div class="yiv4270137209MsoNormal" id="yui_3_16_0_1_1401569301049_6584" style="background-color: white; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OK, so the newborn and baby phases are not without their challenges. But there is an element of “get your head down and get through the days” that sits quite well with me. You give and you give and you give and I get that. I can do that. The only people judging you are the people on the outside (and your own crazy brain, if you let it). Your child doesn’t have a mind of its own yet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until, out of nowhere, he does.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He is suddenly old enough to know what he wants, but not quite old enough to understand the rationale behind why he can’t have it. And when he doesn’t get it, his world ends. His face melts into Munch’s Scream. He writhes and kicks and makes a sound so loud and terrible I can only assume he has seen a vision of hell and is screaming at us to save our souls lest we roast in the impending apocalypse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I bought a birthday card for a friend last week which had a duck wearing glasses and a wig on the front. E found it in my bag and, convinced it was a book, kept excitedly passing it to me to read to him. When I couldn’t, the screaming and accompanying bodily contortions commenced. And did not stop. I vainly tried to “read” it to him, by holding the card in front of him and making up a (frankly fantastic) story about a duck in drag, but did he care about my amazing story? He did not. He cared that he couldn’t turn the page and see what was next (a goat in a turban? A dog in a dress? Who knows) and lift the bloody flap on it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once upon a time I was amazing mummy who cuddled him all night and made his dinner come out of my boobs. Now I am crappy mummy who fails to turn birthday cards into a duck-in-wig-based Julia Donaldson books. Useless mummy who is unable to make more yoghurt appear in the empty pot he has just finished. Rubbish, lame-o mummy who is simply here to stop him eating the cat’s food, crawling into the road, picking up that cigarette butt off the floor and sucking on it and generally calling a halt to All Fun Ever. I am not sure how to start winning at this game now the rules have been changed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt anxious about the toddler stage from the very start, even before I was pregnant. I suspected I would be rubbish at it. I’m a people pleaser, and if I can’t learn to live with not pleasing the person I love (joint-ish) best in the world, how am I going to get through the next two years? Life is a catalogue of frustrations and disappointments for E at the moment and I am supposed to sit blithely by and say to him “this is life! Scream as loud as you want!” and – worse!- start to draw boundaries and tell him how he should be behaving. Be assertive and confident enough to draw a line and consistent enough to stick to it. All of these things I have to learn too, just as he is learning. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is bumwipes, frankly, I could do with a coach. Or a secondment. I’ll take your screeching, scrunchy faced newborn if you take my rampaging tot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apart from when he’s howling with laughter because I’m flicking water at him out of my glass. Or playing peepo underneath his blanket. Or turning to wave goodbye to the cat sitting in the window when we go out. Or talking to me earnestly in his baby babble, then looking at me pointedly as he waits for a proper, grown-up reply. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ll keep him then. You can just take the crap bits and I’ll go and sit in a coffee shop and eat cake. OK? Good.</span></div>
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Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-29846544649955394112014-04-13T19:18:00.001+01:002014-04-13T19:18:41.301+01:00Cool Music For BabiesI was sat in a Baby Sensory class last week explaining to my visiting friend how the classes always begin with a signature song. Said song involves waving hello to the sun and greeting the corn that feeds us, twinkling stars, flowers that gladden our hearts, etc. "It's totally cheesy!" I chuckled, "we sing it every week!" Without missing a beat, one of my mum friends turned round: "Don't give it all that," she said, "<i>You're not too cool for Sensory."</i><br />
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It's true. We've been going to classes since July. I sing every word, I sign every action, I love it. I am no longer the new girl sniggering at the back. This time last year I swore my baby would be into something obscure Peruvian techno and would have no interest in nursery rhymes, but Five Little Speckled Frogs is his favourite song, and that's all there is to it. I never said motherhood wouldn't change me. However, I maintained that it would not change the music I listened to. I have to level with you -it kind of has. Just a bit. Even if it means picking the Pharrell album over Perfect Pussy because E is happy bopping to funky r 'n b and finds hardcore punk a bit upsetting (he'll get there, right?)<br />
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To try and maintain the illusion that I haven't completely compromised my uncompromising music taste, I have spent some time gathering baby-friendly songs by bands you might actually go and watch, as well as some old classics that haven't lost their cool. It's a work in progress so feel free to suggest any additions you may feel are appropriate....<br />
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....in the meantime, if you need me, I'll be in the nursery singing.<br />
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<i>"one jumped into the pool, where it was nice and cool, then there were no green speckled frogs, GLUB GLUB."</i>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-38746425958652589662014-03-11T18:05:00.001+00:002014-03-11T18:28:21.898+00:00In Which I Get Out And Do Things Like A Normal PersonIt's incredibly easy to fall down the mummy rabbit-hole during maternity leave. You meet a whole new load of people who don't care if you own such-a-record on clear blue vinyl or what new bar just opened in town or that Righteous Golden Unicorns are playing there next Saturday. Most of these people don't even know <i>your</i> name, they just know the name of your snotty oik. And that's only because you're bellowing it at ten thousand decibels as your offspring body-slams their precious cherub and pokes it in the eye.<br />
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So it was very nice to be whisked out to Tower Of Song last week and be reminded that I am not just a mother, wife and aerobics instructor, I am also a (very amateur) writer of music, and that this formed a huge part of my life once upon a time. Tower Of Song is a monthly night co-run by my bandmate Nicky at the Fox & Newt in Leeds. Each month there's a theme and a style, which you can adhere to or ignore as you choose - the only proviso is that all performers play original music. You can go and gawk or go and play, it's all very friendly and fun. <br />
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OK so some of these people are <i>really</i> good...Nicky and Iz's songwriting prowess is positively terrifying (I nearly bottled it after S showed me a video of their Eurovision-style song about biscuits from February's do). But despite this it was such a relaxed and lovely atmosphere for March's installment - 80s Action Heroes performed in a punk style.<br />
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It's positively encouraged to stop in the middle and wonder what the next chord might be or (as I did) bury your head in your carefully written out lyrics with zero showmanship and a terrible strumming technique. It's all about taking part though, isn't it? I had such a great time once my nerves left (round about the time of the last verse), and it proved that I <i>can </i>still knock out a song in a couple of days, even with only a couple of hours to do it and a 9 month old clinging onto the strings and trying to dance for that entire time. I'm only sorry I don't have a video of the writing process.... I do, however, have the footage from the night:<br />
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Worth a listen just to hear my impression of a machine gun, which S says is "really good for a girl".Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-41943662796645351932014-03-02T14:34:00.002+00:002014-03-02T14:34:40.367+00:00The Tears FactorOh it's Oscars day! You know what that means. Some people win, some people lose, everyone wears ritzy stuff that cost a boat-load of money. You know what else? People will cry.<br />
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<a href="http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/octavia-spencer-cries-after-oscar-win-receives-standing-ovation-2012262"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Image source</i></span></a></div>
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They'll cry because they're happy, mostly. Crying because you're a bad loser is just poor PR, isn't it? Imagine it now, you've lost out on your Academy Award to some jumped up little porcelain-veneered, perma-tanned, simpering nobber fresh out of drama school and the camera is on YOU. You have no option but to suck back that tide of It's So Unfair hysterics, suck it in baby, and smile for the camera like you're an unmoveable mountain. It's the performance of your life. <i>You're acting baby! You're doing it! They should give you that award just for THIS!</i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://perezhilton.com/galleries/celebrity-sore-losers/?id=393602#sthash.zpbTYYGP.dpbs">How great is this gif? Thanks Perez Hilton</a>!</span></i></div>
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I don't know how those Hollywood stars do it. Even with my highly impressive grade at GCSE Drama, I can't hold back the angry tears of injustice. Sad-Tears at watching Bambi I can lock down. Pain-Tears when I stub my toe I can contain. Tears because you just took credit for my work/pushed in front of me in the bus queue/were just downright rude to that little old lady? That's when the dam bursts. I start to say the very coherent, cutting and composed thing I have in my head, find myself getting ten words in and starting to hyperventilate.<br />
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"Excuse me, I think you'll find this dear sweet old lady was simply trying to <i>(sharp intake of breath) </i>find her spec <i>(hic) </i>ta <i>(hic) </i>cles before you <i>(snort) </i>reversed your four <i>(snort) </i>by <i>(snort) </i>four over her footAHABAHHHAWAA..."<i>(face turns purple, collapses into a puddle of snot)</i><br />
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I do wonder what greatness I might have achieved if I had been able to stay more composed during times of heightened crossness. I definitely have the right words to say, words that would deal a crushing blow if my voice didn't rise up three octaves halfway through my sentence, making me look about as scary as Piglet trying to argue his way out of a parking ticket. Is it a girl thing? Is it a me thing? Is it a millenia-old evolutionary device to stop me getting into punch-ups at soft play cafes? Would you hit somebody who was crying, even if it sounded a bit like they were calling you a bell-end between the sobs?<br />
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Anyway. Happy Oscars day all, whether you are an avid red carpet fan or couldn't give a taffeta shit about the plastic ponce parade. I heartily endorse Lancome for waterproof mascara, just fyi.<br />
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-3337084710528255312014-02-14T12:12:00.000+00:002014-02-14T18:19:00.415+00:00Things I Have Learned On Maternity Leave.<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">CPD's got nothing on this...</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How to dress a baby in a nappy and three layers of clothing as it crawls away as fast as possible,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> whilst ensuring a xylophone beater stays in its left
hand at all times</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Household flotsam that previously had no discernible use
(lid-less Tupperware, boxes of ping-pong balls) will hold a baby’s interest
longer than the entire stock of the Early Learning Centre. Rule: if it has no
small parts and makes a noise when struck, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">don’t
t throw it out</i></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>TMI warning:</b> If, pre-baby, you have ever had negative
thoughts about the snotty offspring of others, this basically acts as a curse
ensuring your children will always have an impossibly large glistening string
of snot swinging from their nostril. This will be a permanent facial fixture until their 30</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
birthday.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Extreme TMI warning:</b> If this snot forms a crust upon your
child’s nostril, do not, I REPEAT DO NOT attempt to remove it. It is there for
a reason. To hold back the tsunami.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never leave the house with a baby and fewer than
three <i>correct sized </i>nappies for that baby. Never.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Re. the above, apparently even the cutest baby has the capacity to poo so hard it ends up shooting down trousers and into socks without even grazing the legs...</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">...so it might be worth putting a change of clothes for
yourself in that change bag.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anybody wishing to purchase a singing/talking/shrieking
plastic toy for somebody else’s offspring should be forced to sit in a locked
room with it playing on repeat for 48 hours before purchase is permitted.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People tell you maternity leave is all sitting in coffee
shops eating cake. This is because coffee shops now function as drug clinics
where you can get a supervised hit of the caffeine and sugar you are now
hopelessly addicted to, with a bit of counselling on the side.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, nobody ever warns you that somewhere between 6 and 12
months your child will become mobile, these coffee dates will stop dramatically,
and you will be forcibly catapulted into the seventh circle of hell: SOFT PLAY.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You will want to call whoever brought you up and tell them
you’re sorry on a daily, sometimes hourly basis.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But for some preposterous reason, once you’ve been immersed
in this crazy, puke-splattered, saggy eyed, puree-smeared world, you may never
want to leave. And even if you do, things will certainly never be the same again...</span></li>
</ul>
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-43372324963380887182014-01-26T18:02:00.002+00:002014-01-26T18:49:31.146+00:00Legally BrownLast weekend I went mental and had my hair dyed from bright blonde to brown. Not a gentle, caramel hued fudge. Not a soft, coppery oak. I'm talking batty Bonham Carter brown, darker than madness itself.<br />
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I had been blonde for six years. Blonde is the fun, dippy, easy-going, party-loving Me of my late twenties. I don't have the time, the bank balance or the deep conditioning treatments to deal with it any more. Post-baby, I had been walking round like a dog-eared version of my former self: hair scraped back, haloed with frizz, ends so split there wasn't even hope of a reunion tour. It was time to take drastic action.<br />
<br />
Going dark was more of shock than I'd expected. I'm seven years older than the last time I had dark hair. My thirty-something complexion is going to take some serious TLC before it can stand up to the harsh mistress Brunette. My hair is now a brutal contrast to my pasty face, mutinously pointing out my extra bags and wrinkles. I haven't been able to leave the house without a FFOM (Full Face Of Make-up) yet.<br />
<br />
I tell you what though, it still feels good. I can wear yellow again. I can go an extra day without a shampoo. I'm saving £10 and an hour and a half at hair appointments I can now wait weeks longer for. My hair doesn't look like its been cooked in a George Foreman mega-grill anymore. I can get away with wearing at least ten times more eye make-up, which is my absolute favourite thing to do. And I can pretend to be dark and mysterious for at least five minutes before opening my mouth.<br />
<br />
Who wouldn't want to be a brunette?<br />
<br />
(I give it at least six months before I go post-box red)Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-69178819512332664912014-01-16T21:23:00.000+00:002014-01-16T21:23:16.071+00:00Out Of TimePatience is a funny thing. I’ve spent so many years waiting for the next big thing… the next job, the next holiday, the perfect pair of shoes. Always wishing my life away waiting for something a little bit better, a little bit more grown-up, something that takes me that little bit closer to ultimate fulfilment.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDKtuMK5PwG9waDruP2Jx-7fW7IuO_u98A4CfwTqx7VDG0IERBPO-UHJZOdtAtGquyXM_5_FrpFuDfFK42GYbXeTRK1R3ZjvTvG64N1aGkafuT66kTVdf559tR0Mj6kSlPb-tCxMA0y8/s1600/145fa4e4c475382a15981c3ac56fd97f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDKtuMK5PwG9waDruP2Jx-7fW7IuO_u98A4CfwTqx7VDG0IERBPO-UHJZOdtAtGquyXM_5_FrpFuDfFK42GYbXeTRK1R3ZjvTvG64N1aGkafuT66kTVdf559tR0Mj6kSlPb-tCxMA0y8/s1600/145fa4e4c475382a15981c3ac56fd97f.jpg" height="320" width="303" /></a></div>
<br />Now it’s not weeks and months I’m concerned with - it’s minutes and hours. I start at one hundred green bottles, not ten, as I think longingly about the dinner that’s getting cold downstairs, that phone-call I really need to make, how much I want to lie down on my feather soft bed and close my eyes. On bad days I attempt to harness psychic powers to will that clock around to 6:15pm so somebody else can hold this screaming, teething, tomato-faced baby who clearly hates me. It’s a continuous mental battle of wanting time to pass quicker, faster, now, now, now…or watching it slipping past as I’m stuck marching up and down a nursery with an aching back and an inconsolable, wailing boy. It’s easy to fall into the trap of always wanting to be somewhere you’re not. To fall into a pointless spiral of misery.<br />
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<br />I don’t know when it clicked for me. Somewhere during the horrible weeks before we worked out that E was dairy intolerant, I think. I reached a tipping point, and my mind gave up. It just quit. It stopped trying to teleport me somewhere I wasn’t, stopped trying to hold back the sands of time, stopped trying to change something it couldn’t change. It wasn’t a conscious decision I made - my brain simply couldn’t take any more. Immediately everything else in the world fell away, and it was just me and my little boy. The irritating hum of <i>what’s on telly when is S home I haven’t done the washing up I think the cat is weeing on that banjo </i>stopped. There was nothing but me and the crying. And when that happened, I finally heard him properly, focused on him, realised there was nothing I could do to help him that I wasn’t already doing. So I just cuddled him. And the minutes suddenly started to pass more quickly, and I wasn’t cross, and it didn’t feel like my fault anymore. It didn’t feel like he was broken and I couldn’t fix him, it felt like he was a baby who was crying, and at some point he would be a baby who wasn't crying. And then he would probably cry again, and that would stop too. And that was just the way of the world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfRfB12DmbkyT0ElFkCx2zyjPU7NeNpGlBO9ykSKEHfqlFjBqEkH_bunPFz8YwZiEMSHX5pmSo5rC0y4rQFdBXBIQ2EqZgZfZeo4_kfd23YOCYI2FWkangUK1wVZnNF3BoGJgc1D4WMQ/s1600/Ariel-Pinks-Haunted-Graffiti-Before-Today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfRfB12DmbkyT0ElFkCx2zyjPU7NeNpGlBO9ykSKEHfqlFjBqEkH_bunPFz8YwZiEMSHX5pmSo5rC0y4rQFdBXBIQ2EqZgZfZeo4_kfd23YOCYI2FWkangUK1wVZnNF3BoGJgc1D4WMQ/s1600/Ariel-Pinks-Haunted-Graffiti-Before-Today.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />I'm thinking about this now because I've recently tried to take up meditation, and it seems to me the same sort of set-up. Getting your mind to Just Let Go is simultaneously the simplest and the most elusive thing in the world. To suggest it's even an act you can perform or a state you can achieve seems wrong somehow. It's the opposite of all that. It's a giving up, almost. It's the ultimate patience. Not necessarily being happy, but being content to just sit and be. Let chaos go on around you, but keep yourself still at the centre. <br /><br />It doesn't always work for me - the thought of having to go back to work in a few months is already giving me sleepless nights. In a bid to stop the pointless dread of the inevitable future (that almost certainly won't be as bad as I think it's going to be) I'm going to milk every drop of joy from the weeks we've got left together just the two of us. To be still together. To have patience.Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-57228523864963287962014-01-05T14:19:00.002+00:002014-01-05T14:19:50.506+00:002014: Persist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u5XkycmC3Fe8_g0Akc8QlXxaha-GpNhorSJ6n7QaREJcmxlR-dMnTFqyBlLAn9WQTbYiaLpltxUd2rXmJTAmwBs-8Xugl9uDbibkTc0zk64PKOF19TYpV21a6iiIOTAwq2fhVwRJJVQ/s1600/Persistence_Wallpaper_by_hellhoundp2k.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u5XkycmC3Fe8_g0Akc8QlXxaha-GpNhorSJ6n7QaREJcmxlR-dMnTFqyBlLAn9WQTbYiaLpltxUd2rXmJTAmwBs-8Xugl9uDbibkTc0zk64PKOF19TYpV21a6iiIOTAwq2fhVwRJJVQ/s400/Persistence_Wallpaper_by_hellhoundp2k.png" width="400" /> </a></div>
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Last year was amazing for me, the best for as long as I can remember. I am so lucky to have had the experiences I have had. I have learned to be patient, to be present in the moment and consciously switch my brain off from thinking about the past or the future. I have learned the value of time.<br />
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Having acres of time is paralysing. It's easy to put things off. But when, suddenly, time is only available to you in twenty, ten and two minute bursts, you are thrust into the present. Every waking moment becomes an opportunity to get things done. Prioritising becomes an artform. You become an efficiency machine. "Today I will 1 - wee 2 - eat 3 - sleep 4 - shower 5 - wash up 6 - work/email 7 - sit my knackered arse down." So rarely do I reach the end of that list in a day, but it's definitely more often than it was six months ago.<br />
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It should be exhausting. It is. But sitting and letting the tide of Stuff That Needs To Get Done wash over me like a tsunami of drudgery is no longer an option. Money is running out. Maternity leave is running out. It's time to ride the wave.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><a href="http://waves.terra.com.br/surf/fotos/bigwaves/tow-in/g-mac-dispara-o-canhao/44211"> image source</a></i></span></div>
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My word for 2014 is PERSIST. When I fall off, I will get back up. If I feel sad, I need to dust myself down and keep trying. Make that list longer and keep hitting it until I've achieved. I will not spend the next twenty years treading water or wondering what I might have accomplished if I'd tried a bit harder. Even if I only get five spare minutes in a day, those minutes have to go towards something. Another step in the right direction, however small. </div>
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-47125801924398140362013-10-01T09:06:00.003+01:002013-10-01T09:16:48.666+01:00Born Free....Soy and Dairy Free....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VwwF8hnGL9skvssjktPkuJPx4rrw6f8hyphenhypheniAnK5g5yGUzQunrFgQ8fTKHL5VvjfnALo1BuQmPEl3Eo0z8Av78Jk4xmhgfn3_s3TXHiX_9a39JG3andRv_utavIE2fPpStQPyMMiI-uyo/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VwwF8hnGL9skvssjktPkuJPx4rrw6f8hyphenhypheniAnK5g5yGUzQunrFgQ8fTKHL5VvjfnALo1BuQmPEl3Eo0z8Av78Jk4xmhgfn3_s3TXHiX_9a39JG3andRv_utavIE2fPpStQPyMMiI-uyo/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
So the first eight weeks of having a baby were a little bit bumpy. Thing is, even if you KNOW in your heart of hearts that something isn't right, it's very difficult to get anybody to listen to you when you've got your pants on back to front and haven't brushed your hair since April. "Is this your first baby? AH! All babies cry! They do! Yes, a lot! Babies wake up in the night! Yes, a lot! He will grow out of it! Don't worry your silly head." SUBTEXT - stupid first time mother, go home and man up.<br />
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On some days E would cry for more hours than he slept. In the end I videoed him screaming inconsolably (he invariably shut up the second we went into the doctor's surgery) and kept a log of his behaviour. It still took a fifth opinion before a GP suggested it might be a lactose issue, which lead me to do my own research and start wondering if it might be a cow's milk protein intolerance.<br />
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I dropped dairy and soy from my diet. Within a few days there was improvement, by ten days my baby was noticeably more settled. By two weeks it was like somebody had swapped him for a different baby altogether. He jumped from the 25th to the 50th centile on his growth chart.<br />
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I think you get into a sort of blitz mentality when you have a newborn. You just do whatever you need to do to get through. Looking back I realise how I swallowed a lot of the guilt and emotion that came along with all this, and that it keeps popping up in odd places every now and again.<br />
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I recognise now that I still feel angry with myself for inadvertently hurting my tiny, helpless baby. Look, I know it wasn't my fault, and that I fixed it, but it's hardwired in me to protect him and for those first few vulnerable weeks, unknowingly, I did quite the opposite. I wondered if I'd been selfish to carry on breastfeeding - especially when the GP recommended giving him formula to ensure he had a food source that was allergen free. I've been strict with myself, but even now when he has a bad night, I wonder if it was something I've eaten unknowingly. The couple of times I've slipped up - although they have served to prove that soy and dairy <i>are </i>the issues - have been unbearable. And now the second I'm taken out of control of the food I'm eating, I get horribly paranoid. Is that sauce really dairy free? Do those vegetables really not have butter on them? They're kind of shiny.... I'll always go without rather than risk it. I know it's not forever, but for now, it is often challenging.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPaaekGApDrhtZsdLUO6d91nSC2gciJa1danPbfSlG_vOAmpz4FwdggMhDDMKZbLsWs_63zx-sUdLRWlTQP0ue3BY6lv2aTieiSiXXeKf6WoNqujGI0VAA66kh05H961u7Q8PA0Shxj28/s1600/Glarus-Cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPaaekGApDrhtZsdLUO6d91nSC2gciJa1danPbfSlG_vOAmpz4FwdggMhDDMKZbLsWs_63zx-sUdLRWlTQP0ue3BY6lv2aTieiSiXXeKf6WoNqujGI0VAA66kh05H961u7Q8PA0Shxj28/s320/Glarus-Cow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Luckily at home we're used to fussy diets. My husband is a vegan, so I'm already well-versed in products that sneak whey in where you're least expecting it. He gets his protein from soy though, so most nights I make two versions of the same meal so we don't drop apart from malnutrition. Not ideal when you have a newborn, but has made me the world's fastest cook. And I have so many recipes that you can put sausages in at the end. Also -Boot's chewable calcium supplements. They taste like vanilla sweets. Amazing.<br />
<br />
<br />
So now we're coming up to 19 weeks, with a happy, healthy, energetic little boy. The diet thing can definitely be done, although I'm still taking each day as it comes. I wish there had been more information out there for me in those early weeks - as many as 2% of babies experience some form of dairy intolerance, and a lot of those go undiagnosed for months. I can't imagine how I would feel now if I'd listened to those doctors and gone home and put up with it. For weeks I felt on the verge of depression - convinced I was imagining everything and that motherhood was a joyless, murderous trudge that everyone else was able to just get on with. As it turned out, there actually was a happy baby underneath it all.<br />
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-5539759186077345892013-08-19T15:04:00.001+01:002013-10-01T09:21:49.069+01:00Sockageddon<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjajf8xdFlF3bt_3cLTPgxIw_s_QNF0u20wpthFgE10N3tkYcpKKpbt0ylhvVdUy-iPNH5we6qu_tUNTJQU6eCysmXi45Zy25JzFIqSQI7o45sxrhoTlMYUQ9awyLj9Ib0wwu4TGwlH5g0/s1600/$%28KGrHqV,%21lsE8FbzwPMnBPQkeLtY5g%7E%7E60_35.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjajf8xdFlF3bt_3cLTPgxIw_s_QNF0u20wpthFgE10N3tkYcpKKpbt0ylhvVdUy-iPNH5we6qu_tUNTJQU6eCysmXi45Zy25JzFIqSQI7o45sxrhoTlMYUQ9awyLj9Ib0wwu4TGwlH5g0/s1600/$(KGrHqV,!lsE8FbzwPMnBPQkeLtY5g~~60_35.JPG" /></a> </div>
Argh what is it with those pesky socks? Yet again I have a drawer full of singles long divorced from their partners. Tacky lovehearts and inappropriate Christmas penguins just lolling about lonely with no hope or ambition of ever being reunited by their mate. I really think the cats pinch them and put them in other people's houses when we're out.<br />
<br />
It was bad enough in the days PB (Pre-Baby) when I would have at least 20 seconds to ruminate on their whereabouts before stealing a pair of my husband's. Now I am regularly sweaty and sockless in my shoes. This is because I am regularly forced to choose between locating a matching pair of socks and brushing my teeth/putting on my pants/having a poo or some other highly essential daily ablution. The socks always lose.<br />
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The worst thing is so many mum and baby activities require you to take off your shoes in order to participate (due, I'm guessing, to softly blanketed flooring and that general not-wanting-people-to-tread-dog-poo-near-babies thing). I'm trying to make new friends here with a vintage Primarni-loveheart-with-hole-in-heel on one foot and that bloody Christmas penguin on the other. THIS IS WHY I HAVE NO MUM FRIENDS.<br />
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In desperation I have spent late nights on eBay accumlating a raft of over-the-knee numbers in various colours and stripes, all large and bright enough not to lose. I am now in the process of throwing away ALL my old socks, ALL of them, even those black ones that ALMOST match goddamnit, and replacing them with these ludicrous great danglers. I may now resemble a deliberately quirky wanker or a teenage goth, but HOLY SHIT it'll look like I'm actually trying.Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-5994221112589673472013-08-16T08:37:00.001+01:002013-08-16T08:37:38.309+01:00Growing Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Whilst I have been growing skin, bones, teeth and organs, Sam has been growing what can only be described as triffids. I always thought that things like chillis and tomatoes were challenging for the amateur gardener (especially those without a garden) but these great green mutants are slowly consuming the front of our house. Outdoors, tomato plants have spilled out of their raised beds. They've throttled the basil and the garlic, and are now slowly wending a path across the yard to our front door. Tendrils are curling ominously, as if they're preparing to make a fist and knock. Meanwhile inside, rampaging chilli plants dangle obscene, bulging fruit. Leaves cover the front window like a rainforest canopy, concealing my modesty as I roll around the house with my boobs accidentally hanging out more or less all the time. We have put it all down to our "magic" south facing window and the totally tropical summer. We can't cook enough curry to keep up with the chillis, so if you want some do let me know. No fruit on the tomato plants yet though. Think we have to prune them or something. Don't ask me, I'm growing the baby instead.<br />
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While some things are growing, I am more concerned with shrinking back to something approaching a size that will fit into things I own. I have become quite accustomed to my pregnancy chub and will feel genuinely sad to see it go. It has wrapped around me like a lovely blanket and made me feel all round and homely and like a proper mum. Unfortunately it is not designed for teaching aerobics comfortably, and so must go much sooner than I would like it to. It has been quite strange having a very substantial arse for the first time in my life (my weight normally goes everywhere but bum-wards, giving the impression that fat only accumulates on my front and sides. If fat was spray-tan, it'd look like I'd been standing with my back against the spray-fat-booth wall). Let me tell you, big botties make small toilet cubicles very difficult to manoeuvre around. I have learned that it is possible to sit on the loo seat and the sanitary bin simultaneously. I have learned other things through pregnancy, it's true, but I feel this in particular is a moment that will really stay with me. Ladies and gents, I had a few minutes there where I really thought I might have to stay in that cubicle forever.<br />
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Now there is a small person here with us and there are even more exciting (often toilet-based) lessons to learn. I may talk more about those, and other, unrelated things, when I have another minute kicking around that I should probably be spending asleep.<br />
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-67216735478670419892012-12-01T17:12:00.000+00:002014-02-14T18:20:28.606+00:00This blog is temporarily rehoming.......to <a href="http://allweneedisradiogaga.wordpress.com/">Radio Gaga</a> where I talk about growing a baby and playing it amazing music for nine months.<br />
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Back soon!<br />
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*EDIT: if you're reading this in google reader this is a retrospective post dated December 2012*Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-64276237550476349552012-11-04T11:13:00.004+00:002012-11-04T11:25:50.616+00:00A Very Fluffy WeddingSince the blog that originally posted our wedding report has now taken it down, I am taking it upon myself to re-blog our wedding here so we still have an online memory of the day. If you don't like weddings or general self-indulgent silliness, you should definitely look away now!<br />
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For us it was, inevitably, the most amazing day. Our friends and family are truly the best. We did it in five months and we couldn't have pulled it off without them.<br />
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People say you won't sleep the night before your wedding, but I did, like a big knackered log. I watched Dirty Dancing and ate cake and drank fizz with my best friend and then I sparked out til 7am. <br />
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I can understand why people who have big fancy weddings stay in a hotel the night before. I woke up at home in Armley and it was weird how normal everything felt. Catie and I got ready together and our incredible photographer <a href="http://blackeyespecialistphotography.co.uk/">Kev</a> came round and took pictures of us. It didn't feel like it was actually happening until we left the house.<br />
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Even when Suzy came round it didn't feel like it was happening. And then
my Dad came to pick me up and exclaimed "ooh you're like a big furry
caterpillar!" and it started to get real. Only just a bit tiddly and nervous by this point.<br />
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We got married at Leeds Town Hall. Here's me walking down the "aisle" to You Make My Dreams Come True by Hall & Oates. I look really bat-shit smiley on all these pictures, but my enduring memory is feeling like I'd had too many cups of coffee.<br />
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We were moderately lucky with the weather - it was a crap June and we got a really sunny day til about 3pm, which was just about all we needed. Windy though. You'll notice me hanging onto The Veil in just about all the outdoor shots.<br />
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Got some weird looks posing outside Oceana - worth it to get the picture we used on our thankyou cards though. Onwards to The Lounge, where we had a sit-down meal in the upstairs room with our relatively tiny wedding ceremony gang (only 20 guests, all family apart from best man and wife, and my one bridesmaid). <br />
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I can't recommend <a href="http://www.loungebarandgrill.com/">The Lounge </a>more highly. They were amazing throughout our planning, the food was <i>insanely</i> good and they kept us within budget. The afternoon was seamless, which is more than can be said for the Limelight, our evening party venue, who decided to close the whole building just as we were due to start setting up. Dicks! Luckily our friends are resourceful and amazing and pulled off the set-up in minutes...</div>
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This is the unicorn dessert buffet, hosted by our pet mannequin Ken. We had a LOT of cake and a LOT of unicorns.<br />
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This is our wedding fanzine, which we gave out as favours. It had a cut-out-and-keep Nissan Bluebird in it. And our cat Granville had his own puzzle page. Our six-year-old selves would be so proud. Also, board games as centre-pieces - good ice breaker and something you can actually keep and use afterwards. Recommend!<br />
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Whilst everything was frantically set up, I was safely tucked away at our wedding night hotel, getting ready for the evening and putting my new shoes on. I am forever grateful for nobody telling me our reception nearly didn't happen until long after it had been sorted out.<br />
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My memory just swirls into one big crazy party after this point. I kept putting my drink down and losing it. I remember chasing small children with confetti. Rushing round trying to talk to everyone and not really seeing Sam all night. It was good though, there were speeches from best man and maid of honour and there was a Dad Band made up of various members of both our family and the best man, none of whom had ever played together before the day. They were seriously impressive....<br />
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....there were Penny and the Sausages too (who apparently were a bit too loud for the oldies, and one small child ran out screaming with her hands over her ears, sorry about that guests)<br />
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There was the cutting of the cake (and the moment we realised nobody tells you where to cut it, and also that we'd left the good knife at home)....<br />
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There were also an abundance of Slips sandwiches, which made excellent fuel for dancing. We only got round to first dance at about half past nine though, we forgot to do it. The Way You Make Me Feel followed by Pump Up The Jam. <br />
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After deciding my husband looks better than me in a veil, it was time to go to a fancy hotel and drink cocktails til bedtime. Exhuastion at previously unheard of levels. Excellent times.</div>
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All pictures by <a href="http://blackeyespecialistphotography.co.uk/">The Blackeye Specialist</a></div>
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-91833696410372109152012-09-05T07:00:00.000+01:002012-09-05T07:00:01.003+01:00Bag It UP!In spite of having to wait until the end of September to get paid ANYTHING from my new job, I am perpetually being lured by the siren call of city centre lunch-break shopping.<br />
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Here's the problem: if I don't leave the office, people think I'm still working and give me stuff to do.<br />
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However.<br />
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If I leave the office, there is another issue. I am faced with a city centre bursting with pretty things to buy. A thousand retail temptations dancing past my senses like a glorious technicolour parade of wanton jezebels, sequins glistening, satin shining, whispering <i>come buy me you need me you can't live without me.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bag in Zara. In my opinion, unfairly priced. Because I cannot afford it.</i></span></div>
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OH! if I just bought some black court shoes then all my previously jazzy and unsuitable work outfits would magically appear demure and work-appropriate. OH! if I just had the right (expensive) bag to put things in then I would suddenly be organised enough to not leave my lunch at home and have to go to Sesame <i>again. </i>OH! the conundrum of dressing for the corporate office with a hipster sensibility <i></i>could easily be solved with the right shirt dress. OH! a good black blazer makes everything look brilliantly smart, <i>you just need to look in enough shops to find the right one </i>ooh and while I'm in here look at that spotty top and those denim shorts <i>I need I need I need</i><br />
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How do people do this every day? What is the answer?<br />
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Do I just need to get a promotion so I can afford it all?Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-5519372113907355722012-09-04T07:00:00.000+01:002012-09-04T07:00:03.438+01:00Bad, Bad BoysI was having a debate with <a href="http://www.fieldandfallow.com/">Amy</a> on Sunday night about whether she should watch Top Gun or Point Break.<br />
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The debate was more of a mutual consensus that Patrick Swayze as dangerous wild-child criminal Bodhi will always top tiny little Tom Cruise, regardless of how many planes he flies or how much Kenny Loggins is on the soundtrack.<br />
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THEN yesterday at work I was talking to (boring to death - no wonder she wants to leave) my colleague and fellow new starter about how I never "got" Ryan Gosling until I saw Drive....<br />
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"Oh he's a really dark, violent character, but ..." *swoon*<br />
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...."which is weird because that's exactly how I was about Brad Pitt, I never "got" him til he played a sociopath in Fight Club! PHWOAR!"<br />
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"But it's OK because really the only actor I <i>really</i> really fancy is John Cusack. And he's a very sensible sort of person to fancy. Although I only really properly fancy him in Grosse Point Blank. Oh yeah, he's a hitman in that isn't he? But he's a hitman with <i>really good taste in music.</i>"<br />
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<br />
This is all completely at odds with men I have dated, who have historically been ridiculously nice and non-dangerous. For crying out loud, my husband won't even get on a roller-coaster.<br />
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I don't have a point. And if you were thinking this post was just an excuse for me to post some pictures of some really, really attractive men you would be partly, if not entirely correct. <br />
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Vivez les bad boys!<br />
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-36207939925172980812012-09-02T02:11:00.002+01:002012-09-02T19:26:36.637+01:00I'm Back! Plus, the KabeediesI might not post every day now, but I'm back and feeling better.<br />
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HOLY SHIT my new job is full on. And obviously I'm still teaching fitness in the evenings too, which barely leaves me time to breathe. Or blog.<br />
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I've had an amazing weekend which involved going out in town on Saturday night and meeting people that have lived at the end of our street for the last four years and we have never spoken to before. I am amazed we have neighbours who are into tattoos/cats/FlamingLips ....how have we never met?*<br />
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Also, I've finally realised that margaritas are <i>my</i> cocktail. You know, like <i>your</i> cocktail is a mojito. Well, mine is a margarita.<br />
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And I totally forgot to tell you about this band, the Kabeedies. They're completely brilliant, and I want you to ignore the fact that their amazing female vocalist has just left the band because they're still great and I'm going to go back in time ten years and clone myself so they can have a Me to sing her parts instead. Because if I wasn't a boring old fart with a mortgage and a husband I would be hanging on their trouser legs and begging them to let me do it.<br />
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Proper summer music, proper ace. I got their album Soap a few weeks ago and it's relentlessly cheery. Check them out. <br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">*FAO Mum I still don't have any tattoos, that's just Sam. </span></i>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-74900441053261964572012-08-31T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-31T07:00:08.274+01:00What I Wore To Work 3: the technicolour dreamcoat<i>No FDF today .... still trying to get myself together. Here is a nice dress instead: </i><br />
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Definitely getting braver now. I wore a salmon pink shirt dress on last week and now this! No disciplinary as yet.<br />
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I'm currently storing my zebra boots in my desk drawer at work to whip on if I'm feeling brave. They'd look good with this graphic print dress I reckon. Make their eyes ache, that's what I say. Maybe I'll even borrow Ken's snazzy feather boa next time.<br />
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Gold tooth necklace: <b>Miss Selfridge</b></div>
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Graphic print dress: <b>Monsoon (sale)</b></div>
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Green bow pumps: <b>Faith</b></div>
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Blue jumper and feather boa : <b>model's own</b><br />
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Have a great weekend all. <b><br /></b></div>
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Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-34461273473463745472012-08-29T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-29T07:00:06.161+01:00It Finally Happened!I broke. I got ill.<br />
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You could blame the air conditioned bacterial heaven that is the interior of an office, you could blame a very late, boozy Saturday night, you could blame the fact that I've been pushing things just a little too hard for the last few months and it was all sort of inevitable...<br />
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Still, I haven't had so much as a cold for at least 18 months and I'm feeling a little put out about the whole thing.<br />
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I am having a little rest now, when my brain feels a bit less fuzzy I'll come out from under my duvet and see you.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://wildthymebank.wordpress.com/2011/09/03/back-soon/">Back soon</a></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the meantime you could go and take a peek at what I did with my weekend <a href="http://olivedragonfly.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/the-awesomeness-that-was-blen-part-1.html">over on Olive Dragonfly</a>. Warning: may contain pictures of me looking slightly ridiculous in a bright blue sleeping bag suit.</span></span><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></i></div>
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Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-55402504256659470522012-08-28T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-28T07:00:03.095+01:00People Of Leeds!*The rotation curation thing is just a bit of a lark really - different people in different cities/countries all over the world taking over Twitter to give the world a glimpse of what it's like in their lives for a whole week. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6B3RMyW9JTnfPUn9s6HQJijWcubLlp4ICjhDBxr-6RFONDonD2SpRjgRxnH43nUfRI3e6iWBuIGGXCxbAjVqY0SbCJhupv2365OaLJ3-nchf615Mb_DBzbd2kgGvr2Uc88iNGlHhB8Do/s1600/POL2_reasonably_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6B3RMyW9JTnfPUn9s6HQJijWcubLlp4ICjhDBxr-6RFONDonD2SpRjgRxnH43nUfRI3e6iWBuIGGXCxbAjVqY0SbCJhupv2365OaLJ3-nchf615Mb_DBzbd2kgGvr2Uc88iNGlHhB8Do/s1600/POL2_reasonably_small.jpg" /></a></div>
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I used to chuckle to myself about the fact that most of the PoLs so far have worked in PR or marketing. "Not me!" I thought.<br />
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Oh well.<br />
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ANYWAY, I am People Of Leeds this week! So if you want to stalk me a bit, you should add that account <a href="https://twitter.com/PeopleofLeeds">@PeopleOfLeeds</a>, as I won't be on my normal @tokaipenny nun-with-a-gun account until next Sunday evening.<br />
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Marvel at my duplicity as I stop swearing as much and start being super-interested in local independent businesses and events.<br />
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*if you're not on, or have no interest in Twitter, the entirety of this post may as well be in Swahili.<br />
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<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-57642183536994454682012-08-24T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-24T07:00:06.917+01:00First Dance Friday: What's Your Song House?I read <a href="http://www.avclub.com/articles/songs-we-want-to-live-inside,82374/">this article on AV Club </a>a while ago about Song Houses.<br />
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Song Houses are basically songs you want to live inside. Songs that give you a special sort of feeling (NO not a <i>sexy </i>one, a special one, put your trousers back on), a feeling maybe like you've heard them somewhere before, or maybe that they've always existed somewhere in your brain and one day you found a secret door behind a hedge and you opened it <i>and there it was, it was there all along</i>.<br />
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Song Houses are not necessarily the greatest songs, or the most exciting, or the coolest. But they are songs that evoke an emotional response in you that's quite profound, and you just have no idea why.<br />
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This is my Song House at the moment:<br />
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M83 are one of those bands whose songs are a patchwork of nostalgic references that you can't quite put your finger on, so they are a good place to find a Song House for me. Listening to this song in particular seems to take me away to the 1980s, sitting in the back of the car, watching trees whizz by on a sunny day. It makes me think of twilight in the city, lights on in the windows of houses, people safe and warm inside. It might be because it sounds like the sort of song that would be on the football results on telly on a Sunday afternoon when I was little, and that makes me think of dusk and being in my Dad's front room getting ready to go back to my Mum's house. <br />
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Other Song Houses I have include Blowout by Radiohead, Let It Come by Hot Snakes, Pools In Eyes by Throwing Muses, Stinkfist by Tool and, bizarrely, Black Velvet by Alannah Miles. Mean and moody for me, but Song Houses can be jolly too - most of the AV staff writers choices involve deliriously happy songs.<br />
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What's your Song House?<br />
<br />Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-61815586968865630542012-08-23T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-23T07:00:00.403+01:00Naf Naf Jumpers Are RetroOh yes they are. You can buy this one on ASOS Marketplace. Look at this young model working that retro style.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Buy the vintage item that you still have in the bottom of your wardrobe from first time round <a href="https://marketplace-content.asos.com/listing/t-shirts/90s-naf-naf-t-shirt/436771">HERE</a></i></span></div>
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I resisted the lure of the Naf Naf branded jumper for a really long time. Somebody got me one for Christmas in the end. It was a very demure navy blue and I probably only wore a handful of times before it went the way of my Hi-Tec trainers and shell-suit (ie. dramatically out of style and if you were seen wearing one you were sooooo saaaaad). My friends had more vividly coloured ones with "snazzy" letters. There were jackets too, and bags, remember?<br />
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And pencil cases and folders and everything. I wonder what Naf Naf are doing now.<br />
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I also wonder what will be deemed "vintage" by the kids next. Will I ever be vindicated for holding onto my treasured Global Hypercolour t-shirt because "it'll come back round". Has it yet?<br />
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What was your Naf Naf jumper like?Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-860973257742648482012-08-22T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-22T07:00:00.769+01:00What I Wore To Work 2: who let the zebras out?OK I'm hiding them under long, loose-fit black trousers. And this is just another riff on the dark bottom/pale top combination that I seem so far tied to. BUT they are there, and this is a start. I am going to drip my personality into this office, one jazzy shoe at a time. <br />
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Seriously though, how do you tell if your office is a super-strict formal dress culture, or if your colleagues are just really boring at fashion?<br />
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Anyway. I like this trend for metal-tipped collars, and I really like my new shirt, even though it's cream. I had originally tried it on with a wine-coloured pleat skirt (also from New Look) but, again, too casual. Never mind - even with the blacks trews I feel a bit like a cowboy, which has got to cheer anyone up.<br />
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Cream shirt with metal tips- <b>Tokyo Doll for New Look</b></div>
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Wide leg trousers - <b>M&S</b></div>
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Zebra ankle boots - <b>Irregular Choice</b></div>
Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-80068587125052878322012-08-21T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-21T07:00:02.508+01:00On With My Bad SelfOne of the best things about getting married to Sam was gaining three amazing Wakefield lass sisters-in-law. And the nicest bit of all is that the Smyth siblings are <i>so happy</i> to have their scruffy punk brother finally ending up with a girl who's <i>like them</i>.<br />
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And by that, I mean a bit townie. Somebody who reads shit magazines and watches Celebrity Big Brother and looks like a dolly bird. And, at the heart of it, that's me. Just because a girl owns limited edition Mission of Burma vinyls doesn't mean she can't wear 6" stack wedges and rock a bubblegum lip-gloss, yeah?<br />
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Anyway, a few years ago at around this time I asked middle-souer Lucie what she wanted for her birthday, and she said the best thing I could possibly give her was a mix CD. She was giddy as a kipper to get it, and it was on constant rotation for months. So I'm doing her another one. Mostly because I came across this song and KNEW how much she'd love it:<br />
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Juice just loves a good tune and isn't fussy about where it comes from. This is a blinder. I have woken it up with it in my head at least three times since I first heard it, and you just <i>know</i> when you dream an earworm it's solid gold.<br />
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What a chorus. Yeah!Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3227801669278401053.post-32454294507831174432012-08-20T07:00:00.000+01:002012-08-20T07:00:07.303+01:00Feet Under The TableFirst week done and dusted. I have sent my first ever meeting request, tried to understand the concept of a conference call (they're all on the phone <i>at once! </i>although I'm still not sure how they know who's talking when), have sort of grasped the concept of underwriting although not really and last but not least have finally found an industry that writes in even longer sentences than I do.<br />
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BREATHE! <br />
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Oh, and that thing I said last week about making things I don't understand sound pretty and no matter the consequence? WELL I quickly got a very angry email about that from a man I was rewriting an article about. Turns out I inverted the entire meaning of the original document, turning his business victory into a business disaster <i>and then posted it all over the intranet</i>. Oops. I'm so glad my supervisor hadn't let me carry out my hilarious suggestion of photoshopping his face onto a background of the Olympic stadium for the article picture. One (wo)man's comedy is (probably) another man's salt in the wound. <br />
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The other new girl is still doing my head in, banging on about how the job is a massive pay cut for her and <i>ohhhh</i> London was so much more exciting and she's so tired all the time, and she likes to complain and to talk about herself a lot. But everybody else is super nice, although somebody needs to tell insurance people how to DRESS. Black, white, grey.....that's it. Even nudes and creams are reserved for edgy members of staff. I'm now not sure how far I can push it - are they all just safe dressers? Dress down Friday revealed a style desert - most people didn't look much different to how they look the rest of the week, just with jeans. Surely (providing no serious meetings are afoot) you can risk a splash of colour, providing it's structured and neat?<br />
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If anyone wants to start a sweepstake on how long it's going to take me to get a disciplinary on my outfit, maybe start this week.<br />
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Bring on the zebra print!Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13140441387378978556noreply@blogger.com2