Happy birthday to me...

Howdilly ho. And happy birthday to me! (Well, yesterday.) I'm on a week's holiday from work and intend to string this birthday lark out as long as humanly possible to mark (or mask) the fact that I'm now fast approaching 30 and should be behaving in a bit more of a grown up manner. Or something. The flood disaster is almost all repaired (woohoo!) and the damage was not nearly as bad as we first thought, so now I'm knuckling down to trying out recipes from my new Hairy Bikers cookbook and that all-important task of planning my birthday party. (I don't have to grow up straight away, do I?)

So, what's it like being on the other side of 25? It's not so bad. I still consider myself to be mid-twenties. (I can get away with that for another year, surely?) And just to be contrary, so far there's nothing grown-up at all about my planned partay. The theme is the 80s - so we're having an all-out kitsch fest. 80s games, 80s clothes, 80s music, 80s cocktails, 80s crap party food - the works. I need to make a trip into some neon-clad shops very soon for supplies. I have a feeling this party may hurt everyone's eyes with the sheer amount of neon that'll be on display in the house.

Actually, I am being quite grown up at the minute - not only are The Other Half and I visiting his mum in hospital everyday (she's had a horrendous sounding operation to remove some vertebrae and have metal rods inserted in their place - and is on the mend), but I've pro-actively remembered to make myself an appointment with my doctor without receiving the shameful 'your 3-year check-up is now overdue' letters through the post. (Girls, you know which check-up I'm talking about. It's that not-painful-but-no-less-unpleasant procedure that's necessary yet icky.) So, I've got a nurse invading me with what can only be described as a miniature loo brush to look forward to tomorrow. Oh joy.

Will you have a cup of tea, Father? Ah, go ON...

Times are hard. So hard in fact, that a group of friends and I have taken to hosting our own festival instead of buying tickets and trekking to the back end of beyond. Except this is a festival with a difference – it’s (DIY) TedFest 2009! And it had its first outing this weekend. You see, there's a birthday in our midst - my pal S, who is now no longer the nice round number of 25. And she's a big fan of Father Ted (who isn't? It's fantastic!). We really wanted to go to the actual TedFest in Ireland, but as we're all skint - this do-it-yourself job is (almost) the next best thing.

If you've never seen Father Ted before - hang your head in shame. I strongly recommend that you watch it. It's classic. Here's a bit of a scene-setter: three incompetent Irish priests - Ted, Dougal and Jack - live in a decrepit old parochial house on crazy Craggy Island with their bizarre housekeeper Mrs. Doyle, and get into all manner of mishaps and misunderstandings with the insane folk of their parish. So simple, yet it's got some of the best lines and catchphrases from comedy - ever! Anyhoo, I digress.

The night was a huge (if surreal) success and everyone made an effort with the costumes and scene-setting. S got into character easily as Mrs. Doyle the demented housekeeper, and served everyone their drinks from teapots all evening. We each brought a selection of sandwiches with us so a mountain of bread became the table centrepiece (again, if you've never seen the show, this will mean absolutely zilch to you); The Other Half did wear his new wig and take a pet brick along for company; and the room was generally filled with priests, nuns, weird villagers and Lovely Girls contestants. And we played the game I spent Saturday morning creating out of an old notice board, some embellishments and some pictures I found online of babies with inordinate amounts of hair...'Pin the 'tache on Pat Mustard's Hairy Babies'! A good time was had by all.

Pat Mustard's (the hairy, randy milkman of Craggy Island)
offspring...before they were studded with moustaches in a
'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' manner.

I'll be steering clear of sandwiches for a long time though, that’s for sure.

Blades of Glory and the Crash Test Dummies...

Yesterday I wound the clock back ten years and became a giggly teenager once again. And it felt great! I haven't laughed as much in one sitting in ages. A group of old chums and I decided to go ice skating for my friend C's birthday. (And as a sort of anti-Valnetine's Day thing.) Even my rickety, never-been-on-skates-before Other Half was persuaded to give it a go on the proviso that we're all pretty much novices, and since it'd been about a decade since any of us last hit the ice we'd all be as bad as each other. Give him his dues, he did try. And lasted all of four minutes before he did a lap of honour (clinging to the edges for dear life) and went off for coffee and to stand and point at us instead.

None of us fell over, we got a bit of speed skating going on once we all found our balance, and one mate, dubbed Christopher frickin' Dean, even attempted some fancy turns and arabesques. Show off. Not bad for a bunch of fast-approaching 30 year olds, all in all. But we had earned a drink or several by the end of the session and headed off for what turned out to be a very funny, very drunken lunch...which lead to impromptu late afternoon drinks...which led to an en-masse gathering at a mate's house...which led to muchos singing and wine until the small hours. The unplanned things are always the best. My head did not agree with that statement this morning, however.

And as for Christopher Dean, well - he kept breaking out into song throughout the day (if you can call his repeated renditions of the Crash Test Dummies' 'Mmmm mmmm mmmm mmmm' song, that is). In the pub when the rugby was on (cleared the bar). In the taxi going to our mate's house (almost had to get out and walk, the driver was so harassed by the ongoing verses). By the 14th performance in our mate's house, we knew it was home time. And I can't for the life of me remember WHY it was so funny or what it was in aid of. But I do know I never want to hear it again for a very long time.

Adventures of the kamikaze kitteh...

Cats are very peculiar creatures. Not only do they power the internet (check out I Can Has Cheezburger if you don't believe me), but they are sneaky thieves. See below for my photographic evidence. Now, my cat looks quite proficient at this standing-on-my-bedside-cabinet-stealing-my-water-malarkey here, so I'm guessing she's been doing it for quite a while. On the sly. Which also means that I've been unknowingly sipping out of cat-tainted drinks in the middle of the night. Mmmm, delicious. I don't think.

The Cat Burglar caught in the act.
Note: the book on my bedside cabinet at the minute is utter rubbish. Just don't bother.

Anyway, yesterday I came home from work and our little mog wasn't mewing at the front door to greet me (and demand food) as usual. Instead, she was yelping on the landing and dragging herself about with limp hind legs. So, a trip to the vet was in order. Turned out she'd dislocated her hips and strained her ligaments. How, we can only guess - as nothing looked out of place in the house, like there'd been an almighty calamity. But I reckon she's tried to leap onto the cabinet (pictured) from the bed for a sneaky sup of my water, misjudged it completely and fallen down the gap.

She's on the mend. On a lot of drugs. And, I've had words with her. I think she understood that at 14, she should no longer be leaping about furniture in a kamikaze manner. Then she passed out on painkillers.

I wish you hadn't told me that...

Today would have been a lazy Sunday - time to recover from the previous evening's escapades - had we not impulsively decided to redecorate the living room. More on that later. Anyway, I'm not recovering from last night in the alcohol sense (although there was alcohol involved, but mercifully my tongue was not loosened sufficiently by it to make a spectacle of myself), more recoiling in horror at what was disclosed to me. Things I will not repeat. Ever. Things people had no business telling me and I may well spend a lifetime trying to shake the imagery out of my head. You see, I attended a family party. Now, family parties can be civilised affairs. Admittedly, something will usually happen as most family get-togethers are celebratory situations. The drunken uncle at the wedding who insists you dance to Come on Eileen with him; the old Gran whose teeth fall out after too many sherries at the Christening; or whatever.

Last night's soiree started out civilised. Then the drinks flowed and I had nowhere to hide. It was a housewarming/birthday joint party and the first time many family members had all been in the same room for quite some time. Lots to catch up on. I just didn't expect to catch up in so much detail. I'm quite saddened that I've reached that certain age where the elders are comfortable to tell x-rated tales in front of me. I'd have preferred to remain an innocent. I don't mind hearing about a second cousin once removed who has left his wife, or the misdemeanours of another distant relative. However, the full graphic glory of said cousin's, er, marital relations and the carnal penchants of the another is something I need not know, thank you. And hearing my mother dearest and my aunt using profanities was something I was not at all prepared for. Good grief. They'd have washed my mouth out with soap had I used such language.

So, yes. Somewhat spontaneously, we've decided to decorate. And miracle of miracles, so far have agreed on everything straight up. Job one is re-hauling the lounge - painting the walls, new lamps, sofas - bells and whistles. This room was relatively untouched when we moved in, and it's high time we put our own stamp on things. We've been staring at white walls for over a year. The down side is DIY shops - soul sucking places. You may as well move into one when you're redecorating - you go to all the trouble of using paint charts and swatches and everything, get home and realise you've forgotten the brushes. I'm consequently going to be broke until about July now thanks to this home make-over, but at least my thoughts are occupied with paint colours instead of the disturbing images planted there by my kith and kin.

Bye bye baby, baby bye bye...

Do you ever wake up some days and feel really well and truly old? Today is one of those days for me. I feel ancient. Preserved and pickled ancient. Firstly, it's my nephew's birthday. Ordinarily this is often somewhat problematic for me to comprehend, simply because I was an auntie at age 12 and have always felt far to young to have such family members. Not that I would change him though - he's lovely. And I don't see enough of him, but anyway. Today, this little boy turns 13. I have a teenage nephew. I'm sure photos exist of me wearing a Sweater Shop jumper (remember those?! I thought I was the business in mine) and changing his nappy. This is not that long ago in my head.

And if you're good at maths (ok, you don't need to be good at maths; it's pretty obvious what the sum is) you'll have worked out my age from that statement. It's not that old when you look at the number literally; but when I think about fast approaching my late twenties, fear strikes my very core. While my nephew is enjoying his birthday party and his last bastion of childhood; I'll be racing towards thirty. Then middle age. Then before you know it, I'll be 50. Then thinking about retirement. Then dead. I think I've managed to convince myself that this is all a very long way off though, so I'll try not to ponder this too much.

Anyway, the thing that's tipped me over the edge today is my baby sister. No longer a baby. Has her own flat and is moving to London with her other half. I don't think it's age or anything that's bothering me here; it's more to do with the fact that I'll really miss her! There was a time not so long ago when you could feel the mutual loathing and seething whenever we were in the same room. We were both evil children and fought a lot, and spent a considerable amount of time getting the other back for past offences. Then we hit our teens and the fighting still continued, but we had delightful name-calling, screaming, slapping and door slamming added to the mix. She'll deny this vehemently, but I swear on one occasion she slammed my neck in her bedroom door. But I used to grab her wrists and pin her down, which she hated. It worked out even.

Thankfully, we both emerged from this hideous teenage era unscathed (our mother was most relieved), and I moved out and she went to college. And we found that we actually get along. Is that called growing up? So there you have it. I wish her luck and know she'll be happy. I'll probably see more of her now than I ever have, come to think of it. Such is the way when someone moves - you tend to make more of an effort! And I've told her to expect lots of visitors who just happen to be passing though London. Hell, a free base in the capital! You can't knock it.

But still, I'm off to look up stair lifts and mobility scooters on t'interweb. No doubt I'll be needing them soon so it's best to be prepared.