Something reminded me...

That life can be so short, which has led me back to blogging.

I guess my life has changed a little since I was last here. I've been living with my boyfriend for five months now, and I am currently on my second 'proper job' since I left uni. I appear to have fallen into the world of insurance...and I love it.

My first 'proper job' involved working in a small brokers which was the business equivalent of Fawlty Towers.  Nice enough people, but most of them were bloody miserable. My job was also erratic, to the point that my job role changing every week became a running joke.

Six months later I was snapped up by a big corporate company and I couldn't be happier. Now I work with  happy people that are always happy to help. A good working environment really can make a difference, after all you do spend 5 days out of 7 there a week.

We also now have two new additions to the family....Alfie and Rosie. Alfie is currently 12 weeks old and is a little bugger, he likes to run around and rip up everything in sight.

Life is good, but I do wonder what's next for us now. I need an adventure.

Fatty Millie on the spare bed!

Rosie :)

Me and Alfie!

Joyeux Anniversaire

A cake for my other half :)

Huzzah

I have decided that in relation to my prior waffle about the meaning of the whole blog business, that this particular blog just is what it is. A place for me to express myself, my interests and my love of music. I think it may be something interesting to perhaps look back on one day (as I write this sentence I am once again reminded of my hatred towards thinking of myself as one day meeting the pensioner stereotype with grey hair, wooly jumpers, outrageous fashion sense and Eau de Urine in tow). 

I think my love of music is the one interest I have had my whole life that has never got up and left out of boredom. I remember in primary school I had a friend that knew the lyrics to all the latest pop songs, and I often found myself intensely jealous of her 'skills'. She would sing along and I would do the usual making up the words and mumbling along to the tune, and she would tease me for it. This then of course spurred me to compete to be just as good as she was. I wish I still had that competitive streak. 

When I began to learn lyrics, I couldn't help but read them and think about them. Since I was little I have been obsessed with words. I learnt to read at a young age and when I was small I could never read a book quickly enough to satisfy myself. I read my entire school library, and quickly moved up the ranks on the reading lists in class. I even recall reading the dictionary. I guess I had found my niche. You see... I have never been good at anything else, not even now. I am a useless artist, a terrible mathematician, and although science fascinates me I am awful at remembering the details. But words are easy. Although interestingly enough I have never been good at writing stories. This has greatly frustrated me all my life and I still to this day do not understand why I can grasp the technicalities of syntax, metaphors and semantics, but still cannot write myself. I guess I must have lost my imagination at some point.

Back to music. As you can probably tell from previous blogs; I Love Lyrics. Lyrics were my obsession for a long time and I pride myself on being able to learn a new song very quickly. In most cases a song tells a story, which is why I guess I am obsessed. A nice fix of trying to figure out what the meaning behind a new song is provides a quick sense of satisfaction. Even better if you can't quite figure it out.

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor

No one laughs at God
When the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one's laughing at God
When it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from the party yet

No one laughs at God
When their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God
When they see the one they love hand in hand with someone else
And they hope that they're mistaken

No one laughs at God
When the cops knock on their door
And they say we got some bad news, sir
No one's laughing at God
When there's a famine or fire or flood

But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke

God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they've lost all they've got and they don't know what for

No one laughs at God
On the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see
Is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God
When they're saying their goodbyes

But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke

God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughing at God in a hospital
No one's laughing at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor

No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God

France

 Ok, if you know me, you know all too well that I am obsessed with France. It just had to be mentioned at some point, and that point is now. However, being me, I am obsessed with a place I have never been to. Though it has to be said, how can any sane person not be obsessed with France?

My aim is to get there sometime within the next year, and see if my imagination is as good as I hope it is. If so, I may never want to come home.


Cobbles, open French windows, patisseries, hanging baskets, cafés, culture, sunflowers, wine, beaches, architecture, bicycles , literature, art, film, postcards, trinkets, sunshine and cuisine...

Cosmic Love

A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,
So darkness I became

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart 

Quand le doigt montre le ciel, l' imbécile regarde le doigt.

When a finger points up at the sky, only the fool looks at the finger. 

Self-evaluation and the like.

I've come here to write this bloody blog thing again and I've concluded that I am a dick. Yes, a dick. "But why?!" you exclaim... well, put simply, what sort of person writes a blog? A quick suggestion would probably be a 'self obsessed egotist with little to do other than to rant her inner most thoughts to complete strangers'... not too far off.

If I were to be honest however, I'd go with a no on that one (the self obsessed egotist bit, the rest is true). I've had this blog for a few months and I daren't really show it to anyone. Mostly it's down to a fear of being mocked, and the fact I know I am quite an Unoriginal. I find this world I live in to be very much a big fan of the whole mocking thing, and unfortunately on a general scale I come from what would otherwise be known as The Kingdom of MockingVille had it not been named England instead. I'm also worried that when people find out what goes on in the synapses, neurons and grey sludge in my skull, they may well just think I'm a lunatic. I'm not ready to admit my lunatic status just yet and so for now this blog will remain a 'secret'. Unless of course you do something crazy like type my name into google, which would in its essence, make you a stalker. I would say that if you are stalking me to at least leave me a comment, but of course that would kill your whole stalking buzz and the moment would be lost for you. I shall live in ignorance. Ignorance is bliss, apparently. Absolute bollocks by the way.

....I've now realised that I've basically managed to write paragraphs about nothing, how typical. Always waffling and never really saying anything of real substance. I tend to find it best to be this way though, as I too often struggle with the problem of when  I have something of substance to say that no one wants to listen and even if they do, I end up getting my 'facts' wrong anyway. This means that if I say nothing of any real substance then no one is intellectually harmed, and minds all over the world cannot be injected with my not-so-knowledgeable, knowledge.

Now I'm back to thinking about why I have been drawn back here, to the place where my strange little thoughts accumulate into paragraphs of fluff. I guess it must be some form of self centered behaviour? But I will both justify and ignore this suggestion by making the comment that wonderful people like Stephen Fry have blogs, and so this must make my blog a lot less shameful. Except for the fact that his contains real substance and mine is just a pitiful waffle of course.

I'm not one of these types who is good at writing you see. Which is, if you know me, really quite shameful. I come from a life dotted with excellence in the English language throughout school and college, and did my first year at uni in the grand subject itself. But, over time, like with most things, my interest waned. And as easy as that, bang goes my vocabulary. My sweet, beautiful and fairly extensive vocabulary. Four years and a fair few alcoholic beverages apparently means you can kiss goodbye to words longer than four letters. These days I feel anything more than a grunt deserves some form of special praise from Countdown fanatics. God knows how I managed to bag a degree. That's a different story.

I'll have to bid you farewell now as I detect I  have most certainly gone into a murky realm from which neither you or myself will come out happy or satisfied. I apologise for wasting your time, and if you have got this far, ruddy well done to you.

 I wonder how long this blog with last before my vanity deletes it. Ok, perhaps the self obsessed egotist bit is true. Perhaps.

Your Life Is Just A Breeze In Eternity

... Since I was young I've had a strange obsession with death. A rather morbid child, perhaps. My own mortality fascinates me, and I often find myself very aware that everything around me is ephemeral as in a moment I can be gone. 


I find I have a growing hatred towards thinking of the future because I hate to think of myself in it. I daren't think of myself in it. I don't like to be what I think of as hopeful, assumptive and naive. I don't like to ponder over having a family, a career or a husband because I hate the thought that it is entirely possible I won't be here for those things. I think it's just a form of insecurity that I will never grow out of, an intense fear of the unknown. 


When I come to think about this sort of thing, what first springs to mind is the people I know. Their laughter, their smiles, their traits, our memories together...and then I think about that person cold and lifeless. They would be gone and they would never come back. I would never again notice when they look away out of embarrassment, or be jealous that their hair curls in all the right places, or admire the way they find the funny side to everything and how their face crinkles when they laugh. There isn't a thing I could invent or wish for that could change it or bring this life back. I guess that's one of life's real certainties, and I have concluded it is most definitely life's worst.


I'm reading a book called The Lovely Bones, which seems to convey most of what I think but is wrapped up in a beautiful work of fiction. I am fascinated by every word and piece of imagery Alice Sebold has so carefully worked to conjure through a sea of letters and appropriately placed dots and dashes. The idea that those in Heaven can look down on us, and although powerless to help, they can see our lives and understand us better than they ever would have on Earth. It is like the author stole my idea of Heaven and wrote it all down, bound it and put it on display for all to see. 


GAY.