Back to school for me

At the ripe age of 25, I suddenly find myself going back to school. If you'd have told  me this was going to be the case a couple of months ago, I would never have believed you. But it seems that fate has intervened and I am set to find myself back in the classroom as a student once more.

Home will be wherever I may be. I am going to be taking a leaf from the life of the humble snail and live with my world in a shell- well, a rucksack at least.

I have been given the opportunity to study Screen Acting for the next year- which I am greatly excited about. I'm going to learn how to be a professional actress for film and television. But I'm also going to learn loads of other stuff too. I would tell you what, but I'm not going to as I'm not even sure of everything yet. Wait one more week and I'll be able to give you more facts when I've started. I do know that 'other stuff' includes bits and bobs like screenwriting, screen combat (eek!!), martial arts and lots of behind the scenes stuff too. I'm not going to lie: one of the things I am greatly looking forward to is being able to hold that clapper board and say 'aaaannnnnd ACTION!' (completed with an elongated 'and'. It wouldn't be right otherwise).

 

Anyway, this is the part that I've been dying to tell you about. My school uniform consists of- well... nothing. Don't take that the wrong way- I'm not naked. I will be fully clothed. However, what I wear is entirely up to me. So, I have a few wardrobe staples that are sure to cement my credentials as a master geek. These include:

• proper walking boots (it's a nice morning trek to get to the train station), complete with a dark green paint splodge that I managed to bestow upon them when I was painting the shed for Dave.
• a fully functioning waterproof rucksack. I just don't know what I've been thinking all these years. I mean, there I've been fighting the need for one and yet, they have gloriously cushioned arm loops, way more space than a regular handbag and space for precious cargo such as a laptop. Dad- you've been recommending a rucksack since forever. From now on I hear you partner- I'm in your corner.  
• a waterproof coat (in white of course, so I'll always show up). It also happens to be super warm. Gone are the days of wearing a thin jacket whilst shivering with cold, reassuring anyone that asks through your chattering teeth 'of course I'm warm'.
• other miscellaneous clothing that you wear underneath your coat. I don't think I need to go into details here.

I'm taking two suitcases with me for the next two months and my rucksack. So far I've managed to pack one suitcase. Unfortunately it doesn't contain a single item of clothing. Instead it is filled with carefully selected books and therefore very heavy. I'm sure I'll get round to sorting my clothes. Eventually. 

As I've been preparing myself for this new chapter in my life, I've realised that life is a journey that is made for living. So that is exactly what I am going to do.

Less than 24 hours to go and I'm yet to start packing...

You know, I really think that I might have my priorities a little bit wrong.

You see, as I write this, I have just realised that I am actually supposed to be going on holiday in just 17 hours. By the time this is posted, it will be even sooner. 

But as per usual, I have not packed a thing. Not a sausage. Nada. Ne rien. Nothing. 

I do not appear to have learnt from any mistakes in the past, because if I did, I would already be packed and ready to go. 

Perhaps my priorities aren't what they're supposed to be. I mean, a sensible person would probably do their holiday packing before writing their blog. Maybe I'm just not sensible after all. I don't know. But if I'm not sensible, then that definitely makes Dave even less so. He hasn't even opened his suitcase yet- it's still in its wrapper. At least mine is ready and optimistically waiting. 

I suppose I really should go pack. After all, it's T minus 17 hours until departure. Before I do, I feel I should just leave a note for my Mum... you know... to explain why I'm so bad at packing. I think I'm just too excited!

Note for Mum:

Mum, I know that reading this must be a little bit disappointing for you. I mean, you've trained me well over the years. It's not your fault that I seem to have an innate ability to pack anything over 24 hours before I'm due to go away. What can I say? I've done all my laundry and all my ironing- so far so good; and I've even got my suitcase out. Well, I say out- I bought it from the shop two weeks ago and it never got put away. It's just patiently waiting to fulfil it's suitcasely duty in life. I guess all I can really say is, I'm truly Dad's daughter and I think that I've inherited his non-packing abilities. Yep, that's got to be it- it's genetic, so don't worry!).

Anyway, I'm going to go. I really can't put this off any longer. 

Mildred the Cyprus-bound adventurer is flying off... now where is my toothbrush?

x

I'm going on holiday... and I'll be double-knotting my bikini!

Hello. My name is Mildred McManus and I am super-duper excited. 

My excitement may be a little bit premature, but I'm going on holiday in... hold on- let me work it out... just a moment... I'm going in... just 9 days!

Dave and I are going to Cyprus for a week. When we're there, I'm going to make friends with the sunshine whilst wearing factor 30 sunscreen- you can never be too sure. Safety first! 

We're going to go snorkelling and join the mermaid population. Can't wait- so exciting!

We're going to go to a ginormous (a cross between gigantic and enormous... only it's bigger!) water park, but to be honest- I probably won't do those stupidly high slides with a vertical drop. They are far too dangerous, but not for the reason you may think. Yes yes, I am sure that they are perfectly safe and that you won't plummet to your impending doom. No, I'm not sure that they are conducive to bikini wearing... Just one teeny tiny loose tie needs to get caught and ahhhh!, you're ever so slightly over-exposed. Plus the force of those slides can cause any item of clothing to- well, put quite simply- rise. So a rather foolishly dangerous slide to use I think you'll agree.

We're going to look at some old stuff that might be a bit crumbly but is supposed to be architecturally and historically significant. Perhaps I've made a mistake in using the phrase 'old stuff', as according to Dad the correct term I'm looking for is ruins. Looking at ruins never sounds that exciting does it? But I think once you're there and you're kind of living in the moment of the history, it's a bit more interesting. I mean, how cool is it going to be to stand in the same place where once upon a time a real life Roman stood? That's my inner-geek revealing itself right there!

One of the things I'm most looking forward to is the opportunity to spend my birthday money. I'm going to treat myself on something that I've always wanted to do: I'm going to get covered in mud and then wrapped in seaweed! Cool eh?! I don't really know why it's been such an ambition, but it has. I didn't fancy a conventional massage, but would still like to be able to indulge in something a little memorable. Roll on the seaweed! 

Anyway, I'm going to leave it here for now. Cannot believe that I'm almost ready for our holiday- such an unusual occurrence! Just take a look back at A whirlwind hello and goodbye! if you wish to see how unprepared I usually am. To give you an idea- I was packing within 24 hours of departing the UK. That doesn't give you any wiggle-room at all and I am determined to attempt to change my ways. I am going to become a reformed Mildred. Yes indeed.

In the meantime, I'll be sure to double-knot my bikini at all times as you can never be too sure.

Mildred x

PS Happy Easter to one and all!

Tarzan and Jane? I think not! Tarzan and Mildred? Oh yes.

Yesterday, I went on a tree-top adventure with the boys to celebrate my birthday... a few days late I must confess. And what an adventure it was.

I put aside any girlieness that I may have had and joined Dave, Dad and Harry the dude. We spent the day, harnessed up in harnesses that the boys thought were uncomfy, but- I had to disagree here, as I thought they actually had the possibility of becoming the next season's must have accessory. Remember- you heard it here first!

As if to prove how great the harness is, I have uploaded this picture for your delectability. Yes, I am on the ground, but I can assure you that I did spend much of the time in the air.

I have to confess, I did have visions of Harry the dude losing his shoes whilst 10 metres (30 feet up). I just imagined he'd be whizzing along a zip line and then, all of a sudden- poof!, his shoes (or shoe) is gone, lost to the forest below... Thankfully this scenario did not happen.

I'm going to keep this blog nice and brief, but tomorrow I'm going to include a video for you to watch that stars me, because if it didn't it would probably not make much sense as to why it would be on my blog. It is shot way up high and in the freezing cold. (I couldn't really tell the boys I was cold because I would have received zero sympathy. Likewise, I could show no sign of fear because otherwise I'd have been called that terrible below the belt insult: a girl. And I can tell you- no way was I going to be called a girl! No siree).

It was a fabulous day- so much good fun! Swinging through the trees, zipping along like a bird and just hoping and praying that my harness was going to hold!

I'm going to fly off now. Fandangoooooooo!!

Mx

Why hello there, did you just clean that car?

That's right, hello. Did I just clean that lovely blue car? Why yes, I did indeed.

This weekend I decided to do something that I only do once a year. I have to wait until the weather is really good... and providing that I have nothing better to do, I make the decision to do this chore.

Spring is here, so that means that it's time to spring into action and do a spot of the ol' 'spring cleaning'. Usually, I do this begrudgingly, cleaning into the Summer over a period of months as it's too much to do everything on one day. Plus, I'm not like my Mum- I'm not that good at the cleaning as I just don't think that I'm disciplined enough (and yes Mum, if you are reading this, that is a compliment).

I woke up early yesterday morning and went for a glorious walk with Dave. As a consequence, my nose freckles have made an appearance many months earlier than usual... but I think that's a story for a different blog.

Anyway, following on from our walk, Dave popped out and I decided that because I couldn't think of anything better to do, I was going to clean the car. Starting with the inside. I couldn't handle both inside and out on the same day- the exterior had to wait until this morning.

I have to admit, it was a little bit tricky, attempting to clean the car when I couldn't find the right attachment for the hoover. It just made the experience that much more interesting... and time-consuming.

When I was satisfied with the vacuum cleaner, I graduated to the polish- something that can only be described as a very odd scientific experiment. You see- now half a can lighter, each time I sprayed the dashboard the polish just seemed to evaporate and vanish into thin air. It was as if Harry Potter were in the car, hidden under his invisibility cloak, playing a little prank. Oh Harry, what are you like?!

Having removed about a thousand receipts (perhaps an exaggeration... I suppose it was more like nine hundred and ninety nine), the car looked like a contestant on one of those before and after make-over shows- it was a shadow of it's former self. This meant, that the outside then had to match.

This morning, I went to one of those car washing places where you use the giant hose-thingy. Crumba! I pushed go and poof!, I was lucky to remain on two feet and not on the floor. There was so much pressure, which required much concentration. After many lapses, my trousers were cleaned up to the knees and my t-shirt also received a complimentary valet.

Driving off, I felt quite proud of my achievements (including remembering to close all the windows. This follows on from a previous experience. Two words: not good). I felt proud of my achievements until I got home and realised oh b*gg*r, I'd forgotten to clean under the doors. Oh well, I'd say that fact balances out the fact that I forgot to clean out the boot (or- and this sounds so much cooler: the trunk).

Happy car cleaning people, happy sunny days!

Mx

Confessions of a House-Sitter

I have decided to write this blog before the parents return from their holiday to the land of 'The Pyramids'... the mighty Egypt that is. I feel I should have a clean conscience before their return... So begins the 'Confessions of a House-Sitter'.

There are many different aspects involved in being a house-sitter, including sitting in the house that you are supposed to be house-sitting (though I'm sure you'd guessed that much). In the absence of the owners (AKA the parents), the house-sitter (AKA me), is expected to look after the house as if it were their own and- most importantly, ensure that there are no burglaries, trespassers or anything as equally undesirable.

Now, between us, this is where the issues start to arise. If I am looking after a house as if it's my own, then there's no way that I'm going to be maintaining it to the standard that the owner expects. Yes, it'll still be tidy... just not everyday. Likewise, I don't necessarily welcome any burglar's or robber's. But I have to say,  it is unclear if this selection of unwanted visitors includes animals.

For instance- 30 seconds ago a HUGE spider just walked through our lounge. I didn't invite it into the house, so does that make this spider a trespassing-burglar? They're on my property (well, the parents') without my consent, potentially stealing fluff from the carpet (albeit unwanted) to make a nice cosy bed for itself. These grey area's are just not made clear in the official house-sitter's manual. Not clear at all.

Anyway, to ensure that I write with accuracy, I am sat with the house-sitter's manual in front of me.

• Did I answer the telephone and take any relevant messages? Yes I did. However, the only person who actually phoned the house was Dave, so I have to confess, I took precisely zero messages. Did I therefore fail in my secretarial duties?
• Did I feed and water the animals of the household and the plants? Erm... yes and no. Fed and watered pet... but forgot to do the same for the plants. I'm ashamed to say that they have seen better days... sorry parents.
• Did I inspect the utilities such as the plumbing and air conditioning? Nope. When have I ever done that before? Never. Besides, we don't even have any air conditioning... unless it's invisible. But as far as I was aware, the water was running out of the taps crystal clear, so we didn't have a problem.

There's a load of other jobs and chores, but they're all a bit boring. 

Hold on, I'm just going to consult the manual- check I've covered the main points.

*

What?! Can you believe it? Apparently, I'm supposed to be checking the swimming pool! Where is said swimming device Mum, Dad? If it's in the manual, it's got to be true. I mean, honestly, talk about being short-changed! I'll have to have a chat with the parents when they return... 

Actually, on second thoughts... maybe I won't mention it after all. Mum would only turn around to me and point out the obvious: the pool- in February would be unswimmable, freezing and probably full of leaves. More to the point, it would just be a nuisance to look after.

So you know what I'm going to do now? I'm throwing the manual away. My days as a professional house sitter are over. I'm just going to go back and finish my stint as chief-house-looker-after-er as a professional daughter instead.

Mx

The information relating to house sitting came from this website if you wanted further details as it is actually, a real job:  http://dot-job-descriptions.careerplanner.com/HOUSE-SITTER.cfm.

Can you believe it? My 50th post!

Hello everyone and welcome to my 50th blog!

To mark this occassion, I have decided to review the key things that have happened since I began writing my blog way back in March 2011. For obvious reasons, I'm only going to choose the items of interest, otherwise this would make very dull reading indeed. No, actually, I'm going to pick my favourite moments!

So, March:

Erm... after much deliberation I have decided that March is a month of little consequence, so I'm skipping it. Next!


April:


Oh April... you were not a good month for me, were you? I say this for two reasons:

1). April was the month of the doomed interview (I'm PIA-ing... I'm Post Interview Analysing and I can tell you I was not on form... ). Not only did I drop my CV off to the wrong garden centre, but I researched the wrong market and started spouting off facts that were about the other garden centre when I was being interviewed. Not to mention, I turned up to the interview dressed in high-heeled smart shoes and classic interview gear, only to see that the next candidate was wearing an anorack and steel-toed shoes (the footwear of choice I've since been told). One word: DISASTER.

2). April was also the month when Grandma played Cupid and set me up on a date (which- I would like to add, I had exceedingly high expectations for: (I wanted to bring you a success story, but I have to face facts: I am a dating disaster... ). Unfortunately, said date did not go to plan... especially when I inadvertently managed to turn myself orange. I remember it well: on Sunday, I was an English Rose. On Wednesday, I was an English Dandelion. A day later, as I wrote that blog, I was the colour of a satsuma. Since this unfortunate incident, I have never fake-tanned, preferring greatly to be pale and interesting. I have just one word to sum up this incident: ORANGE.


May:


In May, I decided that the time had come to absolve myself of any wrong-doing over the years and to dish out some well-earned thanks: (A series of thank you's and apologies ). Unfortunately, I accidentally publicised Scott's (secret) phobia of spiders to the world... now I've just realised that I've (accidentally) done it again. Oh well, it's out in the open now so I may as well share with you what I wrote: 'SORRY for all the spiders that you've thought I've removed from various locations for you Scott. Sometimes they went into my hand and out the window, other times they didn't. Of course, on those occasions I'd always say that the spider was long gone when in reality, it was probably hovering pretty close to your bed/ close to you... Sorry, really I am!

June:

June... what a peculiar month you were.

1). I learnt what it felt like to be in your ever loyal stead (AKA your car) and experience the feeling of insignificance and total inferiority to the beauty of a machine parked next to you. In my case, I was in my trusty Poop Mobile (Ford Fiesta) and somehow ended up parked beside a brand new red Aston Martin (Yesterday, I had my first experience of car-o-feriority). There was a wonderful twist to this tale though, when I realised that: 'Next to my poop smattered Fiesta was a poop splattered Aston. For once, I felt grateful for a little black and white speckling on the bonnet and would have gladly accepted a little more on mine, feeling blessed that a bird would share itself with both the Prince and Pauper of the car world.'


2). I learnt what it felt like to be surrounded by folk aged over 60 for over 100 solid hours. (And let me tell you, 100 hours may not sound a lot... but it is)! That holiday with Grandma was certainly an interesting experience to say that least (Life with a coach-load of old folk (and me)). 

3).Very sadly, at the end of this month, I lost my beloved car- better known as The Poop Mobile (Farewell my friend). We had some good times, you know.


So dear friends, I am going to leave this blog here. Let's call it 'PART 1', shall we? Otherwise, it's going to become a blog-essay. PART 2 will follow shortly.

50th blog... I'm thrilled!

Mildred x

The tale of the engagement that never was, one woman's lifetime ban in the kitchen and goodness only knows what else...

Hello once again dear friends!

Are you sitting comfortably? You see, I have much to tell you. Try as I might not to ramble, I can’t omit too much from what I need to tell you without leaving out the story, otherwise my blog would read:

Hello once again dear friends!

…..

The end.

I think you’ll all agree, that doesn’t make for interesting reading in the slightest. So, it is with that, that I have concluded that a little bit of waffle receives the thumbs up.

Having established that, I shall now begin.

In this blog I’m going to bring you up to speed with my life as it stands at the moment (or rather, as it sits at the moment as I am currently sat writing to you, not stood up). Since I last wrote to you (not including yesterday), the following has happened:

·        I have finished my stint as a builder with- thank goodness, all ten fingers and toes still in situ.

·        I have taken up employment at my brother Scott’s garage temporarily until they can find a suitable candidate to fill the void vacancy. Their last receptionist abandoned the car trade in favour of sunnier climes: the lorry world. So I was brought in at the last minute, having earned my wings or stripes (or whatever it is that you earn) as a consequence of driving to Scotland and back in a Ford Ka. Apparently, that’s a right-of-passage into the car world, which I thought was rather cool- because, I’ll be honest- I have never once been described as cool… until now! Although, that could just have been Scott making things up… Hey-ho: I’m cool!

·        I have recently started dating my best friend Dave (who I’ve known for what feels like a zillion years). I am very happy. This follows on from our great Scottish adventure. He wrote me a poem you see. Some people might describe it as romantic, others less so. It’s quite sweet, so I’ll stick it at the end of my blog for you to read (in case you’re interested that is).

·        I have recently been engaged to Dave for all of ten minutes, courtesy of Scott. Thank you brother dearest (note the sarcasm if you’re reading, Scott!).

      We were attending Mum and Dad’s annual Christmas Jumper Party, when this startling revelation was made. Dave was talking with Grandma- or rather, Dave was listening to Grandma talking- as so often is the case. Meanwhile, I was chatting with Scott and the other guys from the garage- Harry, Lance and Louis when Scott unexpectedly announced that they were looking forward to hearing news of mine and Dave’s engagement. I was totally baffled and asked him how much beer he’d consumed.

      Ignoring me, he says: “come on Mils, everyone knows that Dave’s going to pop the question on Christmas day. It’s just so obvious. I mean, like I’ve just said- everyone knows.” I looked at him and the guys then slowly raised just one eyebrow. “Who’s everyone?” I asked, to which he replied: “oh, you know… me” [sip of drink] “the lads” [slightly larger sip of drink] “mother” [finished drink off]. I smiled serenely and walked over to Mum who was chatting with Julia (my godmother) and proceeded to explain that there would be no wedding as there was no engagement.

      Momentarily, Mum acted as though I were talking gibberish before casting a scathing look at Scott. “What?!” he said, “I couldn’t help it Mum- I’m just so excited my baby sister’s getting married!” At this, various stander-abouter’s start to congratulate me and Dave- with the exception of Dad. Dad takes poor bewildered Dave aside and asks why he hadn’t asked my father’s permission to marry me, considering he’d asked my father’s permission to help cook Christmas dinner. Before Dave could explain, Dad started going on about priorities and stuff- all the while, I’m being congratulated at being ‘off the shelf at last’…

      Eventually, Scott had to stand on a chair and announce that our engagement was a non-engagement. This meant that the congratulations quickly turned to commiserations from everyone except Grandma. This- dear friends, is how rumours start!

·        I have- since Christmas, acquired a major aversion to stuffing. No other food- just stuffing. I can no longer eat it.

·        I have not had my lifetime ban in the kitchen lifted this year. Dad kindly explained that: “it’s called a lifetime ban Mildred, because it lasts for life.” I asked him if he and the jury (better known as Mum and Dad) would reconsider. I received a very short answer: “no.” Honestly, you make one mistake and everyone forever holds it against you.

     

      Did I mean to set the turkey on fire? No.

      

      Did I intend for what became a ‘turkey-fireball’ to fall out of its tray and burn a hole into the kitchen lino? No.

      Did I apologise? Yes, profusely… though I don’t think it was accepted as I began my apology with the classic ‘it’s not fault, but…’ opener. That- ladies and gentlemen, was six years ago now and the jury just will not relent and reconsider my punishment, but at least they can laugh about it now. It’s a story that has gone down as McManus folklore and will one day become the stuff of legends (at least the way I tell it will).    

·         I spent New Year’s Eve with a bunch of strangers- three of which trod on my foot and one managed to wallop my shoulder with a bit of flamboyant dancing. Of course, aside from the strangers that made up 99% of the venue, I celebrated the start of 2012 with four renditions of Auld Lang’s Syne (honestly DJ, what went wrong?), with the boyfriend Dave, his brother Chris and Chris’s girlfriend Stephanie. All in all, jolly good fun.

      So, this takes us right up until the present moment where I am currently attempting to stick to my New Year's resolutions. I look forward to catching up with you this year and leave you today with my charming poem from Dave:

Dave’s poem for Mildred

Oh Mildred, Mildred, where is my Mildred? I miss her, my bright purple lid. Neither one of us are any longer a kid, which is just as well as we’re not baby goats.

Oh Mildred, Mildred, where is my Mildred? Ever since I saw you in August in your wet-weather gear, I was as smitten as a kitten. So won’t you let me be your Dave?

Oh Mildred, Mildred, where is my Mildred? Say yes to a date or three, as I’d really like to take you for tea. In the words of Mark Darcy to Bridget, ‘I like you just as you are.’

Mildred, I like you just as you are, however near or far. You’re my best friend, but for now I’ve reached the end. I’ll be your 'Davdred' to your 'Mildred', so let’s write our own story from the beginning.

The end (for real this time).

Until next time,

Mildred x 

Welcome back to sunny ol' England...

Hello there friends,

Just a quick blog today I'm afraid! I hope that you are all well and staying warm in this ridiculously unprecedented monsoon that we are experiencing. To be honest, it wasn't a particularly nice 'welcome home to England' present- not after all the glorious sunshine over in Bulgaria.

After touching down at the airport, Mum came to meet me. We chit-chatted and caught up. You know, she filled me in on all the gossip that was happening back home. For instance. Did you know that Valerie, who lives three doors down from us, managed to jump the queue for knee replacement surgery? No? I didn't either. Apparantly she flashed the surgoen some ankle without being requested to and at that point- he became anybodies. Unable to act on his ankle attraction because of professional purposes, the surgeon decided to pop Valerie to the top of the list. Talk about a bit of juicy gossip! I mean, what else could I have possibly missed?

Anyway, I asked Mum if she could see my tan. After much deliberation, she smiled at me and gently patted my arm as she declared that I 'looked well'.

I took that to mean no, she could not see my tan. But in fairness, it is fairly hard to make out... But Mum could have done the honorable thing and LIED! I wouldn't have minded.

But all in all, I had a rather lovely time in Bulgaria. And, I even got to sample the elusive Shopska salad and Bob soup! Both- you will be pleased to know, were rather yummy.

I did loads of different things including venturing into the mountains, attempting to speak Bulgarian very badly (and often failing miserably), swim in the jelly fish infested sea, swim in the hotel pool and read the entire autobiography of Julie Andrews from start to finish. What a truly exemplary lady she is! I now feel inspired to find a copy of Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music and watch them from start to finish more than once. (Recently I have already watched The Princess Diaries 1 and 2 and Shrek- all of which Julie stars in as a Queen, but I probably shouldn't let you know that I know this because they are- technically speaking, films for the younger generation. Know how I know that? Because they are all PG and U ratings...).

Anyway, I must fly (metaphorically). I hope to be in touch again soon.

With bestest wishes,
Mildred

By jove, I've done it: I've only gone and become a fully fledged adult this morning!

Friends,

On a day like any other with no particularly redeeming features, I had an astonishing realisation. I realised that I have indeed become a fully fledged adult today. Technically- age wise, you might argue that I was already there (which would be rather tricky to argue with as I am in my mid-twenties).

However, I have never really considered myself a 'proper' grown-up... until today that is. For a while now, I have felt as though I am floundering between young-adulthood and official adulthood- as if I don't really have a place in either. For want of a better phrase, you might say I have been in 'no man's land'. And if you did say that, I think I would have to agree with you. 

Anyway, I had my moment of realisation in a place I seldom visit, whilst partaking in an activity I seldom do. That's right; I was having my hair dressed. (Why they call the hair salon a hair dressers is something I had previously never stopped to question... until today. But I didn't question it out loud- only in my head. But really, dressing your hair? A most peculiar phrase).

I feel I should explain, as I believe that there are two camps of women when it comes to hair dressing experiences. There are those that savour every moment of it as they chat with their regular stylist, whilst enjoying a nice cup of tea (due to being regular clients). And then there are those that don't particularly enjoy staring at themselves in the mirror for the duration of the cutting, whilst you talk to a stranger wielding a pair of scissors.

I, fall into the second camp.

Usually, my normal hair dressing experience consists of the following:

• avoiding making an appointment until strictly necessary.
• planning in advance a new drastic haircut, and then doing nothing about it, apart from maybe having two inches cut off instead of just the one.
• sitting uncomfortably in my seat as I make chit-chat with my reflection and the hair dresser.
• moments of awkward silence between topics of conversation.
• and of course, the obligatory 'yes, I can see the difference' bit at the end of the event when they show you the back of your head in the mirror. Normally I can't really see the difference as I don't study the back of my head enough to know if a substantial difference has in fact resulted.

Today, however, was different.

I arrived at my 9:30 appointment ten minutes early. Instead of having to sit down on a really low sofa, I was ushered straight into one of the salon chairs and wrapped in the customary cape. At this point, I usually start to feel uncomfortable as I have to watch my floating head make expressions I don't even realise I make, but that discomfort never arrived. This did surprise me because nobody looks flattering in those wraps, or when under the harsh lighting. But today, I thought I didn't look too bad, (even when under the lights that usually leave me looking like I departed this planet many years ago).

I managed to deflect the subject of conversation from me and onto a load of hairdressing stuff that I was reading on a sign in front of me. As a consequence, my trip to the hair dressers became an educational experience. I learnt about things like hair extensions, creating volume and  foils- all stuff I'm sure will come in useful (one day).

The best thing about this appointment, was that I was in and out in no time at all. There was no dilly-dallying. Just quick scissor snipping and that's all folks (!): my kind of session.

As I was walking back to the car (after paying, of course), I realised I had become a grown-up. Gone was my younger-person awkwardness that usually accompanied a hair dressing venture. And gone was that peculiar sensation that you get when you talk to your reflection. Until those things had passed, I don't think I was ever going to be able to join the ranks of real adults the world over. So all in all, not bad at all.

Although, I do think- with hindsight, that the eradication of these awkwardnesses may have had something to do with the hairdresser being a fellow named Freddie. I must thank him for properly- and at long last, inducting me into the world of adulthood. It was my first experience of having my hair dressed by a man, but it was an experience that exceeded my expectations as Freddie coiffed my barnet to perfection.

Mum- Dad- if you're reading this, you'll be pleased to read that I have finally become a fully fledged adult. It has been a long time on the horizon I know, but I was just waiting for a pivotal life event to make me realise. I mean, I know I'm debuting my life story  in a short time in Scotland (which does happen to be a real job ******- you know who you are), but now I feel ready. And I'll tell you why I feel ready.

The girl staring back at me in the mirror was me. For the first time, I realised that I didn't want to change a single thing about me- nothing.

And that was when I knew I had become an adult: when I accepted I was who I am.

So, with that I draw this entry to a close. I write, wearing a smile of contentment, happy with the knowledge that I have finally transitioned through an invisible barrier, out of no man's land and into a life I am very happy and excited to lead.

From a now real grown-up,

Mildred

Farewell my friend

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to a loyal and devoted friend: the Poop Mobile.

*

That's right friends, my trusty stead is no more. 

Early one evening last week, the Poopster and I were driving home when a woman driving very fast hit us. Luckily, we were driving slowly, so I wasn't injured. Though I was taken to hospital as a precaution in the back of an ambulance. Lying down whilst being driven is an exceedingly strange sensation- one (I must add), I hope never to repeat again. 

After being given the all clear, I sought news on my constant companion. I found my Dad. He'd been talking with the policeman and was wearing an expression that was very grave indeed.

He told me to sit down. So I did. And then he proceeded to tell me that my little dalmation-ified car was no more. 

Dad was right to ensure that I was seated before delivering this sad news. Silently I looked to him as his eyes met my gaze. And then I spoke in a voice that didn't sound like my own.

'When can I see them?' (The Poop Mobile was like a fish- neither a him nor a her, so they became a 'them', in case you were wondering).

'Tomorrow love, tomorrow,' he replied.

I nodded. 'Okay.'

And with that, we left the hospital. 

*

As a tribute to my wonderful Poop Mobile, I would here like to take a moment to reflect on all the good times we shared as it ocurred to me earlier today: many of our good times have featured in this blog.

• My very first blog entry was about my little Poop Mobile as the exhaust had fallen off. It was the first time our relationship was tested and I wrote to you when they were being patched up in the hospital for cars garage.
• I pay tribute to my car for enduring and surviving ALL THE POT HOLES.
• Though my car may often have been splattered in offerings, when it was clean and dandy, it was a car for any outfit.
• My little car had a wheel transplant during it's time in my care.
• When I first bought the Poopster, I pimped it. I bought a pink air freshner and stuck it in the vent. That was as outrageous as the pimping got.
• I received some fabulous Halford's finest hub-caps for my birthday. To the Poop Mobile, that must have been like wearing a new pair of Manolo Blahnik's.
• Whilst driving along one evening, the car and I were attacked by the cannon-balling bee that flew in through the open window and had to be removed with my shoe.
• It was in my little white Fiesta that I first experienced car-o-feriority when parked next to that gleaming Aston Martin. I'll never forget that feeling; the moment I deduced my car was worth two Aston Martin tyres... I'll never forget the feeling later in the evening when I returned to my car to see that some birds had deposited on the shiny Aston bonnet. It was a feeling of contentment, knowing that to a bird, a car was just another surface: our feathered friends didn't care about the price. That was the moment when I felt most loyal to my car; the moment I realised I was very happy driving my Poop Mobile.

I will miss you.

Thank you for the good times. Though our time was short, it was exceedingly good fun.

There'll never be a first car like you.

*

Thank you for being here to say goodbye to the Poop Mobile. May they rest in peace.

Yesterday, I had my first experience of car-o-feriority

Hello Friends, and welcome to the glorious month of June. Well, it may be glorious for you, but it most certainly wasn't for me as the promising start to the month that I'd been hoping for never materialised. Instead, I suffered from my first bout of car-o-feriority.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, let me take a moment to familiarise you. Car-o-feriority is when you are sat in your automobile- in my case a white poop splattered Ford Fiesta, and then you park next to another car. But it's not just any car. Oh no. Car-o-feriority only happens when you realise that your little baby is decidedly mediocre. This fact becomes blindingly obvious the longer you sit next to perfection, ie, a car that you can only ever dream of owning and is usually ever only seen on Top Gear. Car-o-feriority is more commonly a male affliction (I have noted at least) and affects my poor father usually on a bi-monthly basis. It is yet, however, to affect my mother- she is very happy cruising along in old faithful- a Honda Civic.

Anyway, there I was sat in a car park, minding my own business (as you do) when I was suddenly struck down by a most peculiar sensation. I began to feel e-feminated (if this isn't a real word I apologise, but given that I'm of the fairer gender, it is impossible for me to be emasculated. Note: I have not put a double 'f' in the term e-feminate, as if I did it would become effeminate, which means to display womanly characteristics, which obviously, I do).

Never before had I suffered with e-femination, which rapidly became car-o-feriority as I began the mental comparison between my 12 year old battered and bruised old friend and this brand new pillar box red three door Aston Martin. Comprehension dawned on me as I thought about my pimping of my car and compared it to the Aston. Do I have alloys? No, but I have the finest Halfords hubcaps money can buy. Did the A.M. have alloys? Yes, in black. Evidently, this car was too cool for school. Do I have a leather interior? No. Did the A.M? Why, it most certainly did. Do I even have a CD player? Nope. Need I ask the question relating to the A.M? I think you know the answer: it had three.

Barely able to prise myself out of the car due to severe levels of car-o-feriority, I did the one thing that any young woman not in a relationship would have done: I phoned my Dad. He did not offer the comforting words I needed to hear. Instead, he welcomed me to the club and informed me that the entire value of my car was worth just two A.M. tyres at the most. To add insult to injury, he then asked me to take a picture so he could see the beast. Thank you dear father, thank you.

Now, I know you must be wondering: at any point did I feel superior in my speckled white Fiesta? The answer you are looking for would be no. I tried to do that logic thing that my Dad taught me where you work out the expenditure on top of the sum of the car, but it didn't perk me up. Yes, I might have cheaper insurance. And yes, I might have a lesser expenditure. But ultimately, I had a Ford Fiesta. These arguments became inconsequential as I began to question my loyalty to my pooped-up motor. What was happening to me, I wondered? For I had always been happy with my little car, until I experienced the phenomenon of car-o-feriority. All I can say, is that it must be exhausting being a man. I mean, this affliction strikes my Dad down at least a dozen times a year! How he manages to pick himself up is beyond me.

Oh well. Life must go on.

Yes, indeed it must. When I remembered that, I felt heartened. I can aspire to the dizzying heights of Aston Martin ownership and one day, maybe one day, succeed. And then I realised, I'm happy to wait twenty years for one. After all, my Dad's been waiting that long (and some), so he's due his any day now. For now, I'm happy to admire from a distance and wistfully hope that one day my hard work might pay off.

With that realisation, I was at one with myself and my ever loyal car once more.

All was well.

Especially when I returned to my car later that evening and felt a certain sense of smugness. Next to my poop smattered Fiesta was a poop splattered Aston. For once, I felt grateful for a little black and white speckling on the bonnet and would have gladly accepted a little more on mine, feeling blessed that a bird would share itself with both the Prince and Pauper of the car world.

A series of thank you's and apologies

Hello all! I'm not sure why I've greeted you with an exclamation, given that this blog is something of a confessional...


As you know, I have recently started to write my life-story, which is becoming surprisingly interesting the further back I reminisce. Until a couple of days ago, I had thought that my life was well, rather mediocre. Not today though, not today. I now think it's bordering on being slightly interesting.

Now, not that you need to know this, but having recently made the ground-breaking discovery that I can write in purple, I'm taking full advantage and doing so- as you can see. Ah, such small things that make life all the sweeter! 

But in seriousness, I realised that over the years, I may not have been entirely truthful with all my nearest and dearest. So, I would like to here offer a series of thank you's and apologies to those people who have helped make my life what it is.

• THANK YOU to Agent Grandma for selling my name to loads of other oldies who probably aren't in the least bit interested in what your granddaughter is up to and who probably have even lesser amounts of interest in reading my as yet unpublished (and rather unfinished) autobiography. Nevertheless, thanks for promoting me for free- I owe you one Gma! (Sorry I mentioned your fee- please, don't put your rates up now... I'll give you a signed free copy of my yet to reach completion novel. How's that for a deal?!). 
• THANK YOU to my good friend Sophie for being a person to aspire to- your levels of coolness far surpass my own.
• THANK YOU to Auntie Beatrice for reading my previously poor attempts at novel writing and not minding that I've (metaphorically) left you hanging on quite an important cliffhanger for quite some time now... I'm sorry, I've got major writer's block. I know it was an epic love story, but I don't know what happens when one half of the couple's been vapourised and the other frozen. Can a relationship between the two really continue? I knew I should have stuck to what I knew and not branched out into the world of sci-fi... So really, I'd also like to apologise to you Auntie Bea, given that this book is never going to end and you will forever be on a cliffhanger (metaphorically not literally). Sorry.
• THANK YOU to Pam for listening to me ramble on about goodness only knows what when you really should have been writing your essays when we were at uni. Ahh, friends. 
• THANK YOU to Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders for being an inspiration during my days at uni. You don't know me, but one day you will, so I shall look forward to our imminent meeting. 
• THANK YOU to Mr Walt Disney for your fantastic films over the years. No further explanation required.

 Now, onto all my sorries. Unsurprisingly, this list is somewhat larger...

• SORRY to all the people I have ever fallen onto when a bus has lurched around a corner in my pre-car days... 
• SORRY to any poor souls who have had to experience my cooking...
• SORRY for the time that I crashed the car into that rock Mum... I was doing the old emergency brake routine and well, that happened to be in the way... but at least it stopped the car. Plus, I was a learner, so what can you expect? (That's my story and I'm sticking by it, because I actually was a learner when said incident occurred).  
• SORRY about accidentally smoking out the lounge Dad, when you and Mum were on holiday. It was very cold and I was attempting to be a proper girl scout... unsuccessfully. I am evidently a bad work-person, because I am blaming my tools: the fire grate wouldn't do what was required of it. (Either that, or I'm a rubbish fire-lighting person, which is probably closer to the truth).
• SORRY to all the Newsagents who I have given false hope to over the years. No, I won't be buying the magazines. Yes, I will be reading them in your shop for free. Thanks!
• SORRY for all the times that I have inappropriately had the giggles and landed any of my friends in hot water- you know who you are. 
• SORRY to Mum for scaring you when I was learning to drive. 
• SORRY to all the people at Edinburgh airport on the day I arrived a couple of New Years ago, when at the top of my voice I shouted down the phone 'I'M IN SCOTLAND!', at the exact moment I went around a corner and into a silent departures lounge. 
• SORRY for all the spiders that you've thought I've removed from various locations for you Scott. Sometimes they went into my hand and out the window, other times they didn't. Of course, on those occasions I'd always say that the spider was long gone when in reality, it was probably hovering pretty close to your bed/ close to you... Sorry, really I am!
• Sorry for broadcasting your fear of spiders to everyone Scott. I promise not to reveal anymore secrets that might make you ever so slightly less cooler than you are. 
• Sorry to the Chancellor at my university graduation ceremony. I didn't mean to tread on your toe- it was nerves. Plus you  had exceedingly large feet.

So, having made peace with the world and the people I know, I can sleep easy for this evening at least. I hope that any of my past indiscretions can be overlooked and forgiven by the respective people. For now though, I bade you farewell and wish you a pleasant weekend.


Mildred

Committing ones self to paper is never as easy as you think...

Hello, hello, hello friends. Apologies for my absence, but I have been very busy lately. Having made the magnanimous decision to commit the great- as yet, untold story of my life to paper, I have been somewhat preoccupied.

After deciding that the time had come to document my life in paper form (regardless of the fact that it's likely I'll be the only reader...), I set out with every intention of doing things properly. So, I started by going to the library to find a book about how to go about writing your life story. I found one imaginatively named 'How to go about writing your life story', and as interesting as the book was, I didn't find it as helpful as I thought I would. I mean, the first instruction of 'decide who you're going to write about and who your reader is' was rather self-explanatory. The answer is me and me, because I'm not sure if there's many people who will be interested in the life of Mildred McManus. But, we shall live in hope.

Fairly early on, I decided to abandon the book and make it up as I went along (how to write that is, not my life). Basically, I've spent a lot of time thinking this week. Though I'm not sure that's what the parents would call it. Mum would say I've been day-dreaming myself into procrastination and Dad... well, Dad would simply say I'm wasting my time, when clearly I'm not.

Anyway, one particular incident happened to me this week, which I have sought to include in my great life history. Obviously, I am not writing chronologically because I don't seem to remember things in the correct order, meaning that I am going to share my recent past with you.

Just this week, I was taking a break from reliving my childhood and I was cleaning the kitchen. As I was doing so, I was startled to hear a scratching sound and loud bang emanating from somewhere close by outdoors. I went to open the back door and lo, there was a badger right in front of me- in broad daylight! Well, my natural reaction was to scream.

So I did.

And then, upon recovering my composure, I drifted into the lounge where Dad was in his element. I kept this secret from Mum (though I don't know why), because Dad was not doing his allocated chores for the day. Instead, he was- horror of all horrors, relaxing on his day off! No, just joking. Although Dad did have his feet on the sofa, which meant he either thought that he was home alone or had simply forgotten that I was there (sadly the most probable).

Anyway, when I walked in, Dad had his eyes glued (metaphorically, not literally) to the television as he was watching a rather lackluster England football performance, but somehow hoping that by verbally abusing the plastic frame of the tele, he could offer his support and encouragement to the players.

I do not believe it worked.

'Dad', I said, my heart still pounding unnaturally fast due to the unforeseen badger escapade. 'Did you just hear me scream?'

'Yes', he replied without taking his eyes off the game.

'Were you going to come and see what terrified me so much?'

'Er... I really should say yes, but the game's on love.'

'But Dad, I could have died or something!'

Distinctly unimpressed with my dramatisation, he slowly raised his eyebrows in a manner that only fathers can perfect as I proceeded to describe to him what had happened. Eventually he said, 'are you sure it's a badger?'

'Yes', I confidently replied. But then followed a series of questions to establish whether it was actually a badger or quite simply, a horrifyingly over-fed rat that had been supplementing it's daily diet with a seriously high dosage of steroids.

I'm pleased to say that Dad concurred: it wasn't the latter.

But anyway, I'm going to have to shoot off as I've just had a childhood memory that I must commit to paper before it becomes lost for all time. It concerns the incident when I was enrolled in potty training classes and my brother Scott persuaded my other brother Graham to put an empty potty (thankfully) onto his head. Unfortunately for Graham, said toddler toilet got stuck and he had to go to hospital to have it removed. Ahh, it was a hoot (but not for Graham though)! I suspect that he has tried to erase this incident from his memory, so I must apologise to him. Graham- if you're reading this, sorry. If you're not reading this, then there's nothing to worry about!

Here, I bid you farewell and leave you with the following advice:

• never interrupt a father when they are watching a sporting event on television, regardless of the gravity of the situation.
• never put a potty on your head.
• never approach any animal that you suspect may be taking illegal or harmful drugs, or simply steroids.

Bye!

If you built me an ark, I would make a fantastic Noahetta... to some animals that is...

Dear friends and followers, today I write to you about animals, for in the last few days I have had some interesting incidents with man's companions.

Some of them were good, others were not so good.

But first, let me start by saying: if you could build me an ark, I would make a fantastic Noahetta. (For those of you who don't know, Noahetta is the female version of Noah. For obvious reasons, I cannot be a Noah. Nor can I be a Mrs Noah as I do not know any man with a first or last name that rhymes with mower. So, that is how I therefore deduced that I would make a superb Noahetta).

I think that I'd quite like life aboard an ark. After I'd led my animals in two by two I'd lead my friends in two by two and we'd all live happily ever after... Well, that's how it works out in my head.

The reality- I'd imagine, would be highly different. Dad wouldn't want me at the wheel of the boat, especially if I said I was driving it. This would be because 'you cannot drive a boat, Mildred', he would say. 'I've told you time and time again, you Captain it, so you have to wear a hat. You can't call left and right left and right, because when at sea, it is starboard and port. And, in case of an emergency you'd need to be proficient in Morse code in case your mobile phone goes out of range.'

Evidently, Dad doesn't think I'd drive- sorry, Captain, an ark that well. He's probably right. I won't lie. Last time I was in a boat that I Captained, I was in America with my good friends Sara, Brendan and James. Admittedly we weren't in very big boats. In fact, we were actually in very small boats. Well, the definition of boat is being pushed here slightly a lot. We were in a kayak. Sara and me in one and the boys in the other. When we parked the kayak along the stony bank due to calls of nature, Sara and I accidentally dented the front of it because we weren't sure of the correct docking procedure. (It was an accident I'd like to here add). Luckily, we didn't sink when we resumed the boat after business. Whilst one of us was acquanting ourselves with nature, the other 'guarded the boat', though who we were guarding it from is quite a mystery as there was no-one around in the American wilderness. Ahh, such fond memories.

Given that what I have neglected to share with you is that when Sara and I boarded the kayak, we ended going about 50m against the current, before realising we were going the wrong way. Our one saving grace was that we did not get lost (though we had an accidental detour)...

Anyway, I perfectly understand why Dad would have his reservations about me steering the ark to rescue. I think I'd have to leave it to him. I mean, if he can Captain an aeroplane, how tricky could an ark possibly be?

I'd like to think that if Dad went, Mum would go too (because they're a pair after all), but I have a funny feeling that she'd get really bad sea-sickness. And then we've got Graham whose fear of confined spaces would get out of control in that environment. Then we've got my friend Sophie whose spider phobia would be exacerbated due to the close proximity to these eight legged foes.

All in all, it's a recipe for disaster.

But then again, if I were to kind of 'help' the process of natural selection along a bit, would I really need to bring on all those animals whose only purpose in life is to induce fear in humans? For instance, wasps.

Yesterday, I was cruising along at a breezy 50m.p.h with my window half open when all of a sudden WHACK! A great big wasp cannon-balled itself into my car and then got caught in my skirt, all the while buzzing at me angrily, as if I was in the wrong. Sir waspalot, please explain this to me given that I was simply minding my own business when you propelled yourself at me, an innocent human being. It hit my arm with such ferocity that I was left with a huge red splodge on it for over 2 hours. But I have to say, the whole experience was totally alarming as the shock almost caused me to collide with numerous stationary objects (grass by the road in case you were wondering). I had to wriggle about indignantly to get this wasp off me  and then it fell on my seat into prime bottom territory...

But worry not, you'll all be pleased to know that at the traffic lights that were mercifully red, the wasp got knocked unconscious as it was scooped up in a high-heeled court shoe and thrown out of my open door (the wasp that is, not the shoe).

Note: If you are a lover of all animals, you'll be pleased to know that the wasp regained consciousness before making contact with the ground and was able to fly off into the distance, alive. If you are not a lover of all animals, you'll be disappointed.

Later on in that same day, I saw four small rabbits lining the road at various intervals. The fifth one I saw was no bigger than the palm of my hand and was all cute and fluffy. But, it was under attack from a predator. The predator was a magpie, but luckily, due to my unknown recently discovered Noahetta knowledge, I was there at the right place at the right time and Benjamin bunny lived to see another day (ta to Beatrix P for the name).

And yesterday, I saw a giant rat thing the size of a cat! Well, that's not quite true. It was about the size of half a cat- no smaller, but with it's tail, it was the length of our next-door neighbours cat Versace.

So, it is with all these experiences that I have deduced that I have new-found animal magnetism. Unfortunately it does not seem to be for the best. But if you're up to the challenge, feel free to build an ark and I'll see what I can do. Or- as the case may be, I'll see what my Dad can do.

Until next time, Mildred the Noahetta must sail off into the distance to come to the aid of the rest of the animal kingdom.

Hmmm... I wonder what to talk about? Maybe the event of the year? Yes, I think that's it.

So, congratulations to the future King of England and his new Missus!

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the subject of this bloggio. Now, I won't lie to you. Until this morning, I wasn't really one of those people who'd jumped onto the whole Royal Wedding band wagon. But then I went into the lounge and found Mum with a bottle of bubbly (yes, bottle) that she'd cracked open at the grand old hour of 10:30 a.m. So, wanting to be the diligent daughter that I know I am, I thought I'd keep Mum company and enjoy the festivities with her. And I have to say, once I got nuzzled into the empty three seater sofa and tucked my feet under the fluffy cushions I realised that I actually secretly wanted to watch this shindig. Plus, it was a convenient excuse not to have to get dressed. PJ's are so comfy, don't you know? They're the next big trend too (information that is hot off the press).

I won't lie. To my utter surprise I quite enjoyed watching loads of rich folk and scrutinising their ridiculously over-sized- or as it seems, under-sized hats (where were the regular sized specimens?) with my Mum. At the moment that Dad popped into the lounge, Princess Beatrice emerged from a chauffeur driven car wearing a beige outfit and what can only be described as a pair of lopsided antlers. Without thinking, Dad turned around (after requesting the fizz from Mum) and quite loudly asked the room why there was an extra from the Lion King at the Royal Wedding. (The room may not have been that large, but it was big enough for Dad to receive two sets of reproachful glances from Mum and me).

Between us, I may have agreed with Dad, but I felt I had to justify P.Bea's outfit choice due to the fact that we share the same gender. I felt that I had to stand united with her and declare my allegiance to woman-kind, when really in reality I know that there's no way I would dress up in something so un-hat like that defeats the point in even wearing a hat. Because, let's be honest: does that keep the sun of her face? I think not.

Hats aside, Mum and I waited eagerly for Kate to arrive as we got sucked into the romance vortex. Well, we- like zillions of other women (and possibly men), were not disappointed by THE DRESS. (Notice how THE DRESS is capitalised? Well, this would be because in the news broadcasting, THE DRESS was given as much attention as THE VENUE, if not more). When I saw her, my heart leapt a little: for her, the dream that every young girl has came true. Ever the romantic optimist, I shall stay true to myself and wait patiently for my day to arrive and the opportunity to wear a fabulous (but not as expensive as Kate's) dress. First, I need to find a fella. Here, I'm going to apply that old adage: good things come to those who wait.

Yes, I believe they do.

Well, I should really pop off. Since getting dressed, Mum, Dad and I have attended a nice street party in our road that's still going on. Lots of people are on their way to being slightly sozzled, which made the old 'people-spotting' game all the more amusing (but keep that between us)! You know the rules... watch people very carefully, but never give the game away. Honestly, it's thrilling stuff when you're mostly retired neighbours have been sipping a variety of drinks for much of the day. I know how to get my highs! Don't let it be said that my life isn't a whirlwind, because it's truly fabulous.

Anyway, I must go check on proceedings outside. Marjorie next door seems to be flashing a bit too much ankle to be appropriate...

Bank holiday, schmank holiday... enough is enough!!

Hello there. Long time no see: it's been a while for which I must apologise. You see, I have been delayed in my writing to you by the bank holidays... Bank schmank... they've just gone on and on and on. And yet, we have another two in the next week. Joy of joy! I don't think I know what to do with myself at the moment. I mean, Mum and Dad have both been crazy busy. Dad's been flying galore and Mum's been covering extra shifts at the hospital, so I've been left to fend for myself all alone in our big empty house...

Who am I convincing? No one. It's been alright. Although, the problem I have found with all these bank holidays is the amount of errands I've had to run on the parents behalf and Gma's. Plus, because they've all been so crazy busy I've had to do the rounds.

You know what I'm talking about: the rounds.

Oh, you don't know.

Well, the rounds are when you spend the bank holidays visiting long-lost relatives you didn't even realise you had. I have seen great aunts and uncles and loads of old folk that are all biologically connected to me who I don't ever recall meeting in my life. You see, through an impartial vote (consisting of Mum, Dad and the brothers) I was elected as the official McManus representative for this year. So that meant that I had to do the rounds. Although, this year was worse than my last stint as I didn't recognise 99.9% of them due to additional wrinkles obscuring facial landmarks. (However I did recognise my Great Uncle Sydney due to the abnormally large mole on the end of his elongated left ear).

Anyway, moving swiftly on! Today we McManuses had a barbecue in our garden. It was a 'BYOSD' (better known as 'bring your own stuff do'), but I didn't BAS (bring any stuff), because I figured that my presence was enough of a gift.

Only joking! No, I didn't bring any stuff because the barbecue was being held at my house... Well, I say my house, but really I mean the parents' house. However, by proxy it is my house because I live here and because I am their daughter and we abide by the policy 'what's mine is yours' (but only when it's convenient, and this was one of those convenient moments).

It was a nice day. Mum was definitely the hostess-with-the-mostess and Dad was unquestionably the barbecue king, though why that is I have never known. This year, I took the liberty of reqeusting my sausages be 'medium-rare' in the hope that they'd only be ever so slightly charred. But no, that request fell on deaf ears as Dad truly out-did himself this year when he presented cremated sausages that disintegrated the moment they caught sight of a bap. Oh Dad, please retire the apron and step down from your post as barbecue king. Retire gracefully while you still have some barbecue dignity left and pass the apron onto one your two sons. They will gladly receive the honour of barbecue prince, because I don't think you're ready to relinquish the title of barbecue king... Ah, parents.

On other matters, I thought I ought to let you know that all is forgiven between my friend Sunshine and myself. We've put our little spat behind us now and are ready to move on. I have said that he may reinstate his hat since the twins (bites) have left me. All is now well in Mildred-land.

So, what are the barbecue morals that I have to share with you? Well, I think they're very important, given that we've got even more bank holidays to look forward to.

• Never- and I repeat, never, try to assist a father that considers himself to be king of the barbecue. Simply accept your lowly status as food carrier or even food eater (or at least food attempter).
• If you have to do the rounds, make a list of each person's distinguishing features and memorise before hand. It'll make life much easier.
• Always stay on good terms with Monsieur Sunshine, otherwise he might try to burn you... I have learnt my lesson after my blaspheming of him last week...

I'm taking matters into my own hands and renaming Sunday GOODAY.

Hello, hello, hello!

It's been a while since I have greeted you all properly, so I thought that in the spirit of 'summery thinking', I will say a little hi-dee-hi. And I have to say, what fabulous weather we are having. Oh dear, I hear you say, she's talking about the weather. Well, I won't deny it: yes I am. I am, my mother's daughter through and through. Although, as you can imagine, the weather gets talked about a lot in our household, what with Dad being a pilot and all.

Anyway, sticking with the weather for just a moment more, I thought that I'd keep this blog short, sweet and to the point. After all, who wants to be sat at a computer on a day like today when it's so fabulously sunny outside in April? (Please don't say I've tempted fate... I'm adding a disclaimer (to be sure)... A-hem. I- Mildred Annabel McManus, would like to certify that just because I pointed out that we are having an unusually Mediterranean (usually) rainy month, I cannot be responsible for any unforeseen changes in the weather direction- i.e., rain. It's not my fault!).

So, I have a few things that I thought I'd share with you today, and then I shall bid you farewell.

It seems to me, that Sunday should be renamed as 'Good-deed-day'- GOODAY for short, because I have done yet another good deed today. Last week, I took Gma to Church. This week I did not. The embarrassment factor was too high, what with my abysmal date with Raymond still lingering, not to mention my tangerine tint. Urgh, when will it go away? I am in quarantine. Well, self-induced quarantine at least. Mum tried to help me cover it up, but I don't see how it's possible to disguise an orange face. Scratch that, I know it's not possible to disguise an orange face. We just ended up going through the colour spectrum until I was bordering on Oompah-Loompah territory. Understandably, that was the moment I confined myself to the house. (I dared not risk enjoying this sunshine too much, in case- horror of all horrors, I get a tan and that brings out the fake one even more...).

So with that in mind, I definitely did not take her to Church- look how that good deed turned out: it back-fired gloriously. When will I learn? Perhaps, good deeds are over-rated. But I took my chances and performed one today. Luckily, there was no man to impress (unless of course you are talking about men of the canine variety). 

Mum and Dad were desperate for me to get out of the house. You know, keep my spirits up (and all that stuff), as by this point, I'd already done the deed and begun to explore the dangerous territory of self-pitying. Not good. You've guessed it... I'd cracked open the chick-flick DVD's in the hope that I might be able to live one of those lives and meet a man who whisks me off my feet, gives me butterflies, and then be done with it. Hollywood makes it look so easy, but what do they know? I mean, it's highly unlikely that I'm going to fall head over heels with my best friend after about a million years. Although, it is highly likely that at some point, I will literally, fall head over heels.

... where was I? Oh yes, I was going to disclose my good deed: today, I took our next door neighbour's dog- Mowbray, for a very long walk. You see, Marjorie and Alan are getting on a bit in years, so I thought I'd give Mo the chance to stretch his legs. It was also the excuse I'd been looking for to get out of the house. Plus, both Marjorie and Alan wear glasses, so neither one of them has 20/20 vision which was excellent for me. It meant that they didn't even notice the tropical shade of my skin. In fact, they said how much I 'glowed with the sun' and how healthy I looked, so not a total disaster after all on the fake tan front.

Anyway, I took Mowbray for a nice long walk. (Well, I say it was nice: it was a double dumper walk). Number two's aside, it was rather lovely. The only people I saw out and about were fellow dog walkers- none of whom commented on my citrus tinge, because they were too distracted by Mo's peculiar bark.

After a bit, I let Mo off his lead and then he went and did the obligatory territorial number one's in the middle of a bed of over flowering daffodils. A fellow dog owner gave me a look of disgust, as I feigned interest in an unusual marking on the tree I was leaning on and muttered loud enough to be heard- 'don't look at me, he's not even my dog'. Then, they did a very loud 'tut' and glared at me as their poodle trotted alongside them looking all proud and important and well behaved. Honestly, there was nothing I could do. Up against that poodle, Mowbray didn't stand a chance. After territorialising, Mo approached this jet black poodle called Dave (seriously? Yes). They had a bit of dog-frontation, but before anything could happen, Mo came scarpering back to me with his tail between his legs as this little poodle barked him away. I have to say, that was a classic display of short-dog syndrome. But truly there's no way a poodle named Dave could have messed with a dog who's real name is Melton Mowbray (seriously? Yes)- named after Marjorie and Alan's beloved pork pies.

Anyway, the rest of the walk passed without incident and when I returned Mr Mowbray

So, it just goes to show, it's easier to impress canine men than it is human men.
But, my final pieces of advice to you before I sign off are:

• If you are nervous about the colour of your fake tan, find an elderly neighbour (preferably one you know), and ask them what they think. If their sight's had better days, then the compliments will rain down on you and you'll leave feeling totally superb.
• Avoid the old chickus-flickus at all times. They are designed to make you feel worse, not better. 
• Best not to let your dog pee on flowers unless they are in the comforts of their own back garden.

Until next time, I bid you farewell!

Bye!

P.S. Honestly, I had every intention of writing a short blog, but you know...

I wanted to bring you a success story, but I have to face facts: I am a dating disaster...

Let me ask you a series of very important questions.

• Is my life destined along the path of single-hood-dom for ever and ever and ever?
• Has my life already been mapped out by Mr and Mrs Fate (notice how they are a couple. The Fate's can be cruel- I recommend learning that lesson sooner than it's taken me)?
• Does my name act as a date repellent? After all, Mildred screams one word: OLD.
• Why does it seem to be that the harder I try, the more likely it is that something will go wrong?
• Why oh why do I go to pieces on a date?

I wish I knew the answers, but I don't. What I can tell you is the reason I am asking these questions.

Yesterday, I went on a date.
Yesterday, I went out with Raymond.
Yesterday, I made a complete t*t of myself.

My story begins after a meagre and unsatisfying day of procrastination and job-hunting. (I'm sad to say, there was no success story here- I have not yet found employment). At about 4 p.m. I decided to begin the 'pre-date ritual' routine- something we all do, but keep secret. I had a fabulously long shower (22 minutes to be precise, but forget I told you that...), did some crucial leg maintenance as they tend to go into hibernation during the winter months and then tweezed my eyebrows into respectability. Then, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and thought 'hmmmm', how can I improve this pale and un-interesting body of mine? Alas, the answer was not in my bedroom, but buried deep in the murky depths of the bottom drawer in the bathroom drawer-thingy. That's right, against my better judgement I decided to fake tan. Well, I can tell you: that was my down-fall.

When Raymond and I were chatting, he said that he thought I was a classic 'English rose'... basically a polite way of saying pale and interesting (or un-interesting as the case may be). However, I wanted to improve my appearance, because that would greatly improve my chances of a post-date kiss. In honesty, I should have stayed as I was because there was no post-date kiss and I was orange.

On Sunday, I was an English Rose.
On Wednesday, I was an English Dandelion.
Today, as I write this, I am the colour of a satsuma.

Oh heck. This is not good. Hang on, hang on a minute.

......

I'm back. Blast! I've just consulted the fake tan bottle and it says that it takes up to 48 hours to reach your optimum shade... Well that's one good thing I guess: my colour has peaked, so things can only get better, right? Wrong. This fake tan says that it expired seven years ago and in the small print at the bottom, it says that after time, the formula becomes more concentrated, leading to a more intense colour. (Breathe deeply Mildred, just breathe deeply). I want to cry. I am orange. I want to be pale and interesting once more. I never want to eat a satsuma again.

But anyway, you're probably wondering what damage limitation measures I applied? Well, I dressed as though I were going to a funeral. Top to toe, I wore black; black shoes, black tights, black dress, black coat. I even worse black mascara. From a distance, I resembled a nun. You see, I had styled my hair to include a fringe that covered most of my face, but unfortunately this proved to be too impractical and I had to have a rethink as the curtains of hair would not stay open.

I asked my Mum if I looked okay: her silence spoke volumes.
I asked my Dad if I looked okay: his silence spoke volumes.
When I arrived in my car at Raymond's flat, I asked him if I looked okay: his silence spoke volumes.

Ladies and gents, we can conclude that I did NOT look okay.

After reaching this unsettling result, I drove us to the American diner that we had decided on. There, I immediately ordered myself a 'Little Drop of Heaven' (a drink, in case you were wondering). I thought it would be appropriate, but turns out it wasn't. I thought I would drink it and feel ephemeral. That never happened, because all I could think was 'eugh, Heaven tastes gross!' So very kindly, Raymond swapped his equally as icky tasting (but more masculine sounding) 'Ageing Rocker; The Jagger' cocktail for mine.

Understandably hoping to get this date over with ASAP, I ordered a classic American staple: the BBQ beef burger. I skipped the starters and later on, I skipped the desserts for cost purposes more than anything. We were being Dutch and splitting the bill 50/50, so I was trying to save a bit of my dwindling supplies of money. Raymond on the other hand was not. Me, frugal Mildred: £11.55 (including drink). Raymond, spendy Raymond: £27.90 (excluding drink). But the cheeky blighter then added our two bills together and then split it, so I had to pay over £20 when I didn't even eat half of what he did! I was not impressed. On Sunday I thought Raymond was a gentleman. Today, I no longer think that.

By the end of the night, after our lack of interesting conversation, I realised that the Sunday Raymond I saw was different on weekdays. He didn't laugh at my (quite frankly) hilarious jokes, yet he laughed at Gma's (quite frankly) appalling attempts at comedy. He didn't compliment me once, although I suppose I can let him off on this one- he'd really have to have been trying hard to find something good to say, given that I was a living tangerine disguised as a nun. But most importantly, there was no spark there. Our conversations were about as interesting as watching paint dry. And when I say that, I speak from experience. Watching paint dry is not a past-time I'd recommend to anyone, as it really is quite boring. No, scratch that. It's phenomenally dull.

When I dropped him home, curiosity got the better of me. I knew we were never destined to share the same last name, but I asked him anyway what his surname was as I knew it couldn't possibly be Raymond Dreamboat. Although, knowing what it is, I think I'd have preferred to be Mildred Dreamboat...

As it turns out, Raymond has a highly prestigious double-barrelled surname: he is a member of the ancient Cod-Swallop family whose family have roots dating back over 500 years. Obviously, I was somewhat confused. Was the 500 years thing supposed to impress me? Or was that supposed to detract from the fact that when you say his name fast it sounds like 'cods wallop'. To be honest, I wasn't disappointed. I was relieved. I could cross Mr Cod-Swallop off my list of potential suitors, because there's no way I want to be known as Mrs Cod-Swallop. No thank you.

Though my date with Raymond may not have been a success, I did take away some very important morals:

• Find out your date's name before the evening begins to save a lot of time and cods wallop.
• Never use your Grandmother as a replacement for Cupid on his day off.
• Never use fake tan that has passed it's sell-by date, otherwise you will go so fluorescent that you will virtually glow in the dark. I should know, because I'm glowing right now.
• Most importantly, embrace your inner English Rose so you don't have to become an English Dandelion.

Until next time, I hope to be able to write to you as a restored and de-orange-ified Mildred.