A Dance that Glimmers and Glares

IMG_20130122_194914

Lashes do fan,

Do fan fan da flamico style,

How they flicker and flirt,

like wings flapping against your cheek

giving teases of a gentile sort.

Just to fan fan away like a tango

Skirt.

Flashing leg, I mean hazelnut eyes.

Daring you to embrace,

But your arms are lost to the hairs that fall to a

Blink.

I mean to the brink of a night where the stars are saying

Fly fly, nod off stamp those lashes down.

And like a broom they wait.

Bristles forgotten on the floor.

Gathering nights dust.

Like the morning-after mascara of your clumping disgrace.

Twitching only to remember the cha cha-ing of your

Seductive fluttering legs,

I mean eyelashes.

Which started this mess.

Review Number Three

3) Headcorn Village Tearooms – Kent

IMG_20130222_095039

On Sunday the 17th of February my Bandicoot and I celebrated a belated Valentines together since we were separated by 193miles of road on the actual day of love. We made plans to have cream teas, watch Wreck it Ralph and slow cook an entire chicken soaked in tandori sauce; it was going to be an enchanting day.

But then I woke up.

I’ll have to give you a quick back story. My Dad for some reason doesn’t like heat except from a wood burning fire; he’s an avid energy saver and a thick-blooded Scot… so our house is constantly on cold. When I go to my Boyfriends house, however, it’s a whole different story; it’s warm and welcoming and they offer me baths every day! The most I can hope for at home is a 2 minute ‘shower’.

So I woke up and for some reason his house was unusually boiling. It was beyond comfortable. It was a heat-wave. A distressing sauna. All I wanted to do was run outside, escape to a cooler climate, hug a penguin, but I couldn’t because I was in my PJ’s and I had to get ready for our day of romance. So I was trapped, rushing to get ready, getting hotter and grumpier as the morning wore on, just the kind of lass you want to take on a date, right? THEN my eyes went googly. My body couldn’t adjust to the sudden change of heat, all those months spent comatose in an ice kingdom had rendered my blood incapable of adapting and so, I got dizzy. I spent the morning feeling as if I was on the brink of fainting or was dodging objects that were in fact a metre away. I hated it. It ruined my whole mood and even as the day progressed I couldn’t shift it, even with the AC in the car set to freezing. I had hoped that by the time we had a cream tea it would be gone… but it wasn’t.

So, bearing this ill feeling in mind, I shall finally get on with this review.

The tearoom is deceptively small when you walk in. The roof is low and you immediately wonder how long you are going to have to stand there, cramped, waiting for a table. That is until you notice an archway leading to another room. That’s when you commit and hurriedly run in to see if you can snag a seat. The next room makes your eyes widen; the roof stretches up, welcoming you in and you suddenly feel less of a hunchback. Winning! Now all you have to do is choose from the abundance of free tables where to sit.

So yes, don’t worry, we found a table sure enough but that’s as far as the excitement goes.

The kitchen was right next to this room and it was relentlessly belting out heat and cooking smells with such force that it made my dizziness even worse. Superb. So I tried to fob it off and pretend that it wasn’t there but all I could focus on then was how sticky the vinyl tablecloths were. Each table was covered with this perspiring yellow and white chequered plastic, it made me feel as if I was back in pre-school blowing bubbles into paint and playing with glue; unclean and childish. Our order was taken promptly though, while my Lamb was in the loo, and it wasn’t long before our food had escaped the sweltering kitchen and was nestling onto our table. We got one plain and one fruit scone each… you can imagine how quickly I switched my fruity one for my Bandicoots plain, but don’t worry, he wasn’t duped, he was well aware of my theft and he didn’t mind (for he’s weird and actually likes fruit scones… Why I am I with him I hear you ask? Why am I with this disgusting fruit scone eater? Well, because he saves me from this exact situation and I get an even trade, that’s why!)

Moving on… the scones appeared decent, they were plump and glossy but once I bit into them I realised the exterior had no bonds with its innards. They were strangely moist, not disgustingly so for it still tasted amazing, but it was as if the sweat from the kitchen had soaked into the scone. Yum. The two things that really saved this cream tea were the portions of cream and jam; they were colossal! We both had plenty to spare. The cream calmly melted on top and the sweetness of the jam disguised the peculiar muggy texture; they obviously knew we’d need it… sneaky buggers… So yes, not the best, but not entirely unsatisfactory either. It was more the cutlery and the menus that put me off; they had obviously not been washed properly, they were covered in bits and residue… Yuk. I’m hoping that it was just a onetime accident on that particular day; they all did seem rather stressed and I can’t imagine them getting away with being that careless all the time. All the old biddies would be up in arms otherwise and they are the ones that write the best angry letters after all. So make sure you go on a quiet day and try not to sit too near the kitchen if you can, they do have lovely gifts for sale and I saw some yummy fried food passing by our table.

So, asides from the gross cutlery and in spite of my constant need to crack open a window, I believe I judged fairly. The day wasn’t as triumphant as I had hoped but, hey, there is always next Valentine’s and with any luck we’ll be able to do it on the actual day itself!

A Confession at 23:50

Boob Envy

MjAxMi01NjQ1M2EwNDdiMGQzMzZl

Jealousy is an irregular and erratic emotion.

Imagine it as a rash; its itchy, its hot and it irritates you right to the core. There are different levels of inflammation that you can catch, ranging from the bearable to the insanely painful. You can have the reoccurring outbreaks of mild prickliness, which only appear in certain places, every once in a while. OR, and this OR is a bad OR because it’s an OR which no person deserves to have, you can have the full bodied blisters, which are constantly ignited and cause searing grief on a daily basis. It depends on your character, I guess, which degree of itchiness you have; if you are of a content disposition I doubt you would get this rash often, but if you are unhappy, insecure and resentful I could imagine how unbearable your rash might be.

It’s an unattractive trait to be sure; one that can creep up unannounced with not so much as a hello or good day to settle in on your heart like it’s a sofa-bed. It’s a squatter, a horrible green-eyed monster squatter, not welcome to stay but not easy to remove either.

I think everyone has this little green monster inside of them. I know I do and though mostly docile mine can be dangerously feral and has a tendency to pop up at the most inconvenient occasions. I think everyone would admit, if they were being really honest with themselves, that at one time or another, this green creature has had a house call.

And I have one that comes a-knocking most frequently.

So here it is; my third confession to you all – I have outrageous boob envy.

It started ever since my classmates hit puberty.

Did you get that?

Yeah/

I mean just so we’re clear – effectively everyone else but ME hit puberty.

I got tha/

My classmates, NOT ME, my friends, NOT ME, everybody else got’s the goodies… except ME. So we are clear, right? They got boobs, I did not. Yeah? Oh… you got that the first time?

Yes/

Without my help? Oh…

Never mind then…

Sorry…

P.E was the worst. I’d wander in all innocent and flat-chested to get changed and BAM… BOOB’S EVERWHERE! It’s no wonder they thought I was a lesbian (not that the short hair helped or anything) for I could but stare, dumbfounded, at them. My eyes would always wander away from theirs and drift down to their chests; at their perfect perky mounds of boob. I found it hard to look away. My jealousy was so severe, so astonished and so in UTTER awe of their tits, that it wouldn’t stop looking at them. Its green eyes were stuck.

‘I’m unhealthily transfixed by them’, partly because I find these big bosoms beautiful but also because I secretly want to punch them back into their chests… I think being a pervert is better than causing physical bodily harm, no?

Mine are pitiful; to quote Bend it Like Beckham they are like ‘mosquito bites’. I wish they weren’t, I wish they were as ample as Kelly Brook’s are… did you see Piranha 3D?  They were splendid… floating nicely underwater like inflatable balls of loveliness… Sigh

I am honestly not a lesbianbut damn… I love her boobs.

It’s funny how many words beginning with B perfectly describe the boobs I want –

Bodacious

Bountiful

Big

Breathtaking

Beautiful

Boobralicious (look it up on Urban Dictionary… it’s there. Also look up breastaholic and breasmerized…)

Baps

Blimpish

Blessed

Bloated

Blossomed

Balloons

Bouncing

Bulky…

Bulky, really? Think you are desperately clutching at straws now… hum? This is turning into a dictionary rather than a blog post.

Ok, ok, maybe not bulky… or most of the others, but you get the idea.

It’s an unattainable desire, one that I will probably never get over. I can only hope that pregnancy will be kind and make my boobs grow to a decent proportion.

But, until then, my boob envy rages on…

So if you see me staring at your bazooma’s, I’m sorry, just take it as a HUGE compliment and know that it’s either that or I cut them off… which do you prefer?

Character Profile 4

Jellybean

IMAG2103

I’m not partial to Jellybeans.

When I was younger I adored all sorts of jellied sweets. All the luminescent capsules of tightly compacted sugar and those stringy laces packed with E numbers, but, as I grew older my fondness for sweets slowly diminished. My addiction for chocolate, however, is still swelling out of control. I have no idea where my sweet tooth has gone… maybe the dentist stole it? Man I hate dentists… but, yeah, I can’t stand sweets anymore. The colours are too vibrant and the sugar coating too tangy for me to handle… I don’t trust them… they are too artificial… not like chocolate… oh my beloved chocolate… Being little you don’t think about the health risks; you just gobble them up without a second thought. However, now that I am… ‘older’ I am incapable of putting them in my mouth, even holding them is beyond me. It’s a sign that my childhood has well and truly won its game of hide and seek…

WHERE ARE YOU HIDING, DAMMIT? COME BACK, I MISS YOU AND SO DO MY TEDDIES!

But not all Jellybeans are made of sugar, of course.

Of course?

Yes – of course… shut up!

Some are magic.

Some are mastered in the art of Karate, some need two packets of hair dye to change their hair colour and some sing along to Paramore when they are angry.

Well… only one actually.

I met a Jellybean at university. She was living in the same student accommodation as me… In fact she was right next door! I didn’t realise at the time that she was a jellybean of course, like she would’ve made it that easy… she had an excellent disguise. It wasn’t until I really got to know her that I began to see through the human facade and glimpsed the quirky secrets within.

Alcohol has a funny bonding effect. It doesn’t always work, I mean, it more than usually patches over awkward situations… but when it does it can form unbreakable bonds that stand through all sorts of arguments and fallouts. She was my night-out companion; the only one that willingly jumped straight in and chugged down spirits and wine with me without a second thought. Extraordinary how immediate our friendship was; strangers who are randomly thrown together have to adapt quickly and my, how quickly we did adapt. I’m not saying others didn’t dive in as well, no sir, I have one other that banded with us almost as soon as we had (but her story is for another time… when she is back from Asia… possibly… depends if she brings back presents… hum…) but there was an instant connection between myself and the Jellybean.

I was the one who saved her from her door being locked. On that fateful day when we all moved in, I was the one who stepped up and showed her up for not being able to unlock a door… what a lovely first impression that must have been… ahhhhh… sweet sweet nostalgia…

ANYWAY, I was her hero, and from then on, her drinking companion.

We’ve done it all. We rated boys bum’s together, we created our own language; which was just banging on our adjoining wall really, until one of us eventually gave in and went to the other’s room. One time we each drank a whole bottle of wine on a night out to the union; we were SO shit faced that only one of us actually got in (me), who then subsequently fell over (twice), puked a few times before she was finally chucked out of the union (this being in the first 10mins) and stumbled back home to find said Jellybean on some stairs sucking face with an American footballer.

Wow what a ramble…  Fun Times indeed.

I never knew you could recover from fallouts until I met her (and said other who has abandoned us for Asia…) usually the world would end and you couldn’t piece the shattered friendship back together. But with her (and also – her… lord it’s hard not to include said abandoner because we are something of a threesome…) it could always be fixed, we could always find the missing puzzle piece and jam it back together; it was easy. During the fallout however… HELL, UTTER UTTER HELL… the world would collapse briefly and all hope would appear taunt-like and abusive.

Ever had that kind of fallout before?

One that hurts so badly that it actually signifies just how much they mean to you?

No?

Well it sucks. Literally, literally sucks balls. It’s like you’ve eaten a cracker and your throat is too dry to swallow, so much so that it’s like you are being struck when you breathe. That’s love, true love and it sucks when it’s broken.

BUT once mended, that argument is so effortlessly forgotten that it just transforms into an amusing anecdote which can be pulled out to tease, mock and reminisce whenever we like.

Much like a magnet my Jellybean attracts drama. Like wasps to a honey pot, flies to a piece of cake and ants to a picnic; it follows her and spoils her with its generosity. It lags behind, stalks her wherever she goes and only catches up with her when a semblance of normality seems, at last, in sight. I do not know how she copes. Her body’s stamina is astonishing. She soldiers on, never lets tragedy hold her back, with determination (and a little help from Pro Plus) she can withstand hours of work and any social plight. I have always admired her determination, even if at times it can be most inflexible and stubborn… humph… she never wavers from her opinions, she has the ability to trust in her own judgements; a trait I thoroughly wish I had…. but then, she studied Politics so it’s expected, in that kind of degree it’s mandatory to have strong opinions and a backbone to match.

She is the epitome of strength.

She is the modern day Amazon.

She is a force that even Mother Nature cannot withstand… a Jedi might though… but then Jedi’s can defeat anything, never cross a Jedi, they will own you.

She is… MY JELLYBEAN and I shall not eat her… because, like I said, I don’t like the taste of them and I much prefer them as friends anyway.

To Kill a Wendy-bird…

IMG_20130209_183021

Thanks to a close friend of mine (Patrick Enigma… I’ve mentioned him before perhaps you remember…? No? What? Well then read the post about him then, sheeeesh…) we’ve finally figured out which female Disney Character I am.

You know all those online questionnaires you do to figure out which Princess you are most like?

No?

WELL DO IT!!

Its fun; my friends and I used to have fun figuring out which ones we were and talking about our predominant character traits. Although, sometimes, it did lead to arguments when negative traits were mentioned… you know the ones your friends are not meant to notice or point out… EVER… well, I used to have fights with one of my Besties (Jellybean, will talk about her soon!) about which one of us was more like Belle from Beauty and the Beast… used to end with us having to pick other ones; she would be Ariel and I would end up being Snow White just to save us from throwing chocolate at each other.

HOWEVER, that has now changed. I finally must bow down and admit defeat… for I am none of them. Yes I love reading like Belle and can I sing like an angel too… (yeah errrm one of those might be a slight over exaggeration…) yes I love to clean up with my animal friends like Snow white and yes I flirt as badly as Meg does… not sure if she counts as a princess… meh… demi-god-dater is close enough… and hell’s yeah I like to rebel like Ariel but, alas, nope, nada, I am none of them. A single character trait has foiled me.

And that’s jealousy.

Can you guess who I mean yet?

No?

Ok, well I shall go into a little bit more detail. I HATE IT WHEN MY MALE FRIENDS GET GIRLFRIENDS.

There I said it… soooo happy to get that off my chest.

It’s not as if I fancy them or anything (well, sometimes…) but I just can’t stand it when another girl comes along and thinks she knows this guy better than I do. Fine ok I don’t know what their penis looks like but dammit there is a history here and you are spoiling it. I despise the girlfriends that force their lovers to stop hanging out with their friends just because their friends are women… I mean what’s that about? If you love him you should trust him. End of. You doing that just makes you out to be an obsessive, insecure and immature bitch. (You can tell I’ve had this happen to me often can’t you?) Do they really think I’m going to run off with their beloved? If I had wanted to don’t you think it would’ve happened already? (Wow that’s really arrogant isn’t it… (it isn’t if it’s true..) SHUSH INNER ME, ahem what nonsense… I certainly don’t think it would be that easy… … …)

A guy and a girl can be friends.

No. No. THEY CAN! It’s a myth set up by the controlling partners who can’t stand their girlfriend/ boyfriend being with the other sex no matter how innocent the situation may be.

That annoys me.

That’s why, like Tinkerbell, I burn red with hatred when girls take my boys away.

Lord that sounds possessive…

No it is possessive.

I admit I am slightly possessive…

I’ve no idea where it stems from; I don’t get as bad when my girly friends are taken away by their boyfriends… I think it’s because men can’t help but focus on one person at a time. When a guy has a girl they are either all in or not and that means that I am more than usually forgotten.

I hate being forgotten. Or left out. Or ignored… I think everyone can emphasise with those feelings.

I also think it’s easier between girls because they can have the excuse: ‘oh I’m having a girly night in/out, no boys allowed’ or on the other side ‘LADS NIGHT OUT!’ You can’t exactly say ‘we’re having a best boy and girl friend night out’ can you? It just doesn’t work, it just instantly sounds suspicious, WHICH IS SO UNFAIR, especially when there is really nothing suspicious about it AT ALL… it’s just the rules (written by the domineering manipulative, green-eyed cows… ahem I mean loving girlfriends I told you about… must not be bitter… stop being bitter…)  

Funny how it was my male friend that noticed… maybe because he is very much like Peter Pan…

And I am certainly his Tinkerbell; his sidekick who tries to kill his Wendy-birds… as of yet I have only ever approved of one of them… future Wendy-birds… BE CAREFUL!!! (but don’t worry I won’t really kill you, I will just turn red and glare at you or make it plain when meeting you for the first time that I did not want you here, interrupting Peter and I’s private party is a capital offence… and is not tolerated lightly.)

Ha I joke, like I would never be that obvious…

*shifty eyes…

The Moustache

Untitled

Is it me or has there been a sudden epidemic of moustaches lately? They are noticeably everywhere now and not just upon men’s upper lip; they’ve managed to integrate themselves into the fashion industry as well. They are on T-shirts, mugs, necklaces and rings; the amount of merchandise that surrounds this ‘tache’ is phenomenal. I mean who knew a little black symbol could create such an explosion of unabashed commercialism so quickly?

And how exactly did it manage to do this? One simple answer; Movember.

Movember was the pivotal point; the moment when the taboo became the trendsetter. Before Movember came along the idea of sporting hair on your face was considered severely unattractive, in Britain as least, women would see one and instantly feel nauseated. I certainly never looked at a man who had a moustache with awe, more, mockery and surprise. The moustache belongs to the weirdo’s, the rocker’s, the Dali enthusiasts and the upper class… upper lip – upper class… maybe there is a correlation there? Hum… anyway it’s not cool to have one, it’s unsightly and an instant turn off.

Or so it was…

A modern man’s ego is a precious thing; so delicate and easily unbalanced. Seeking approval from women was once their main priority, moustaches were off and beards were most certainly never spoken of, until…

A gauntlet was thrown.

The essence of man was called into question and a game of manly proportions had begun.

Thanks to some innovative marketing strategies the Movember challenge was born. It was created to raise awareness for men’s health, specifically for prostate and testicular cancer. For the entire month of November men must grow a moustache. Any man who was able to do this would be considered a true man and an invaluable asset to their goal to ‘become walking, talking billboards for the 30 days of November and through their actions and words raise awareness by prompting private and public conversation around the often ignored issue of men’s health.’

A truly brilliant idea and an obvious success story when you consider the momentum that it has created in its aftermath. Men do it to prove their worth and women support it because it is for a good cause… and now the opinion about this moustache has suddenly shifted. I for one am now converted, seeing my man with one didn’t make me ill like I thought it would… I liked it. I thought it was sexy. Yes. Yes I did and I supported my man so much that I made him keep his ‘tache’ a week longer than he needed to…

It’s funny how in other countries the moustache is revered and yet, for a long time, Britain looked upon it with a peculiar disdain. Now thanks to THE ultimate man challenge and hipsters it’s become acceptable, well, kind of… some women are still not wholly convinced… yet…

Men can wear one with pride now because it is visual proof of their manliness… and if they failed? Well there is always next year… let’s just hope puberty kicks in by then!