Speaking of getting older...

Proof, if proof were needed that when I get old, I will simply turn into Diana Rigg (Dame).













PS. This is me. Cunningly disguised as an older lady. You would never recognise me in the street, never!

The same but different.

I had a lovely time.

I did not have to show my arse.

It was a relief.

We stayed in the same flat as we had when we were 18, and played cricket like we did when we were 18 (I did not, I sat in the sun and watched and gossiped and drank wine, occasionally complimenting the boys on their marvellous throwing and such like) and we sat on the beach in the dark like we did when we were 18, and we sang a lot of songs like we did when we were 18.

It was good.

There was less snogging.

In fact, there was no snogging at all.

This was a bit of a shame, but with having a hub and all, I thought it would be bad form. (Hub was at home. Going to beer festivals. And getting so drunk that he fell asleep on the bus and ended up in Croydon. Then fell asleep again and ended up back in town. And finally made it home on his third go. Foolish boy.)

This time, two people had dogs. (One was a puppy. He was really good.)

Next time, some people might have children. (We are doing it again in another ten years. Fingers crossed we will all be alive.)

What was nice and odd and nice was that it has sort of made me feel younger; like re-visiting and re-experiencing that place and the dynamics of that particular group of friends has reminded me a bit of where I came from and who I am.

And as I sat in the sunshine on some oddly spongy grass looking out over the sea yesterday, I realised that I quite like who I have become, and I am *whispers* happy.

It is good.

PS. I have just been informed that I have won a thing! It is exciting. Thank you Anna, and thank you Mike. Gosh, things are all nice.

My arse.

I am going to Devon. In one hour and nine minutes. It is exciting.

It is also a bit strange.

Good.

But strange.

You see the last time I went to this place in Devon was ten years ago with a group of my very dearest friends after we had finished our A levels.

It is a sort of ten year anniversary.

(I am a bit apprehensive. This is mostly because the weekend might involve swimming and therefore people who last saw me semi-naked at 18 seeing me semi-naked now which let me assure you, is a very different kettle of fish.)

Oh semi-nudity! And its friend, accompanying dreadful anxiety!

I like my friends. I hope they like me enough not to be put off by the sight of my arse. (Not naked arse. I do not want to lose them forever.)

I will let you know how I get on.

(On the plus side, sea! Again! That's three times in a month! A bit like it will be when we move by the sea. Only less often. Not sure that was really worth including.)

How a young heart really feels

I lay the blame for my rampant romanticism squarely at the feet of Matthew Hooper (aged 7.)

One day, as I was doing something Very Important in Class 3 (I suspect it was Cutting, or indeed, Sticking) I was interrupted by David Sutton. David Sutton was older than me (I was later hopelessly in love with his brother, Richard Sutton). He told me that I had to go and look in a particular book on the book table because Matthew Hooper had left a present for me.

The book table ran along the whole length of the classroom wall and overlooked the playground. I spent a lot of time there, rootling through for treasures. I loved books and read an awful lot.

I began to search. I can't remember which book it was; the fact of the present rather blocked out that particular bit of information. In any case, a popular children's book. Let's say.

So I found it. And opened it. And inside, lying lined up between the front cover and the first page were three daisies.

From Matthew Hooper.

I took them very carefully and put them in the pocket of my school dress.

On arriving home that afternoon, I filled my flask's yellow lid with water and placed them gently in it.

Then for reasons I can't explain, I put it on the windowsill of the downstairs toilet.

I don't remember ever thanking Matthew Hooper, or in fact even speaking to him. What I do remember is that thereafter and for a while, at the end of playtime when the bell rang and we all had to stand still, he would make sure he was standing next to me. And he would hold my hand.

I'm not.

Dear readers, do a thing for me.

Put your hands out in front of you, palms towards your body, fingertips touching.

Keeping them in the same position, bring them so they are hovering above your tummy.

Now describe a small dome shape in the air starting above the navel, and ending below.

This, my dear readers, was what a friend of mine did the other day on seeing me for the first time in a long while.

Accompanied by the words:

"Oh my god, are you...?" (aforementioned action)

What is a girl to do?

Surprises

This is my new look. I hope you like it. Knowing my exceptionally poor attention span, I will be changing it again soon. I am sure the accepted wisdom is that one should not consistently change one's blog in order not to alienate one's dear readers. I am hoping, however, that the changes which are bound to come will add a positive element of surprise, thereby attracting more readers, dropping by to see what today's scheme could possibly be.

Or something.

Anyway. George Bernard Shaw. I would have thought, in an exceptionally judgmental way, that I would not like George Bernard Shaw. Dry and intellectual, I would think to myself. No gags, I would also think. And a distinct lack of physical vitality and stuff.

I would be wrong!

Go and see Saint Joan at the National by George Bernard Shaw. It is ace. It has banging and stomping and men in armour. Also, it is funny. And as well, it is interesting in a very robust and muscular way. It was directed by Marianne Elliot, whose Therese Raquin I loved last year. It was seething and simmering and chock full of lust and guilt. But it was a similar surprise; I thought it would be all dull and drawing-roomy. This leads me to conclude that Marianne Elliot is VEER clever.

So, Saint Joan. All very good, apart from Paterson Joseph, who while completely brilliant in Peep Show, appears to lack the ability to speak lines, and where possible, sings them instead.

PS. We have a meeting about the plays! Those very ones you generously helped me a lot with earlier this year. We have a lady who is clever at producing who will help us raise money, and we are meeting with the theatre to talk about doing them properly for three weeks with a proper design and actors and everything. This is excellent news. I am heartily cheered by it.

Hoorah.

Who nose what to do? (Do you see what I did? A-HA-HA-HA!)

I am suffering from smelly feet.

I do not know whether this is a wise thing to share with you as I am well aware that most of you are desperately in love with me, or at the very least lust, and this will off-put you forever.

It's a chance I'll have to take.

I am perplexed! Perplexed I say!

I have never suffered from smelly feet before! Not even once! In my whole life!

Hub thinks it is to do with not wearing socks, but I am firmly on the side of blaming a particular pair of shoes. They are my work shoes. I wear them when I am pretending to be business-like and such. But the overpowering foot-odour tends to knock the business-like stuff on the head. Quite hard.

Oh tell me dear ones, what can I do?
I do not know whether leather or pu;*
I cannot tell
If the ghastly smell
Is from my feet, or from the shoe.

*curtsies*

*Pu. It is a man-made material from which cheapy shoes are crafted.