Viva La Essex Girl!!

Question: Why does an Essex Girl wear knickers?
Answer: To keep her ankles warm.

Question: How do you know when an Essex Girl's been using a computer?
Answer: There's Tipp-Ex all over the screen

And in those two 'jokes' you pretty much get all you need to know about the girls from the fair county of Essex...at least according to TV producers, Nuts magazine and most of the rest of the population. Oh, the jokes I've heard over the years implying that because I was born in Essex I must either be a slag, really thick or both. It got worse after Jodie Marsh was 'discovered' in "Essex Wives" and even more horrendous after that stupid "The Only Way Is Essex" drivel was shown recently. I will confess to raising a wry smile at some of the jokes, but right now I'm making a stand. And not just because I've heard them all by now...

Why is it so bloody difficult to make a programme about Essex that doesn't show its residents as thick slags or those smug 'wide-boy' arses who make me want to scratch their precious Ford Cortina with my white stilettos? I'll be the first person to admit that we have more than our fair share of those two groups, but there are some phenomenally talented people from Essex who should make the county proud - you never see them on any of these shows! It makes me so angry - if you were to make a programme that deliberately conformed to the stereotypes of Muslims, for example, or the Welsh, you'd be shot, and yet it's ok to do it about Essex-ers? Enough is enough!!

We aren't just the county that gave the world Jodie friggin' Marsh and that muppet Scott from Five (for which, by the way, I heartily apologise. We had no right to inflict them on the rest of the UK...I also apologise for Noel Edmonds and, inadvertently, Mr Blobby). Dame Maggie Smith is an Essex Girl, as is Dame Helen Mirren; Sally Gunnell's a Essex Girl born and bred; hell, the leader of the Peasant's Revolt - a certain Mr Wat Tyler - was an Essex Boy, as is Bilbo Baggins (Sir Ian Holm) and the man who discovered antiseptic, Joesph Lister. Even old Fang-Boy himself, True Blood's Stephen Moyer, is one of us. And although he wasn't actually born here, the late, great Douglas Adams - the man who discovered the very meaning of life, for goodness sake (42) - moved here at the age of 5, as did Griff Rhys Jones. Goddammit, even Joan Sims was an Essex Girl!! We have brains in this county; brains and wit and hard graft and we're NOT all thick and useless!! We work hard, we play hard and we fight bloody hard for what we believe in, as Uncle Wat and Aunt Boadicea have inspired us to do. Essex folk, especially its women, are bloody fierce and I am fiercely proud to be from this county.

So the next time some smart arse makes some wisecrack about being an Essex Girl, I'm going to look back at the roll call of 'real' Essex Girls (i.e. not Jodie friggin' Marsh) and lift my chin with pride. We're NOT thick. We're NOT slags. We're fierce and beautiful and the only reason the rest of the world makes up jokes about us is because they're jealous and scared. And if it happens to you, my fellow Essex Girls, this is what you do. Channel Boadicea. Channel Dames Helen and Maggie. Conjure up the rebellious spirit of Wat Tyler and then skip away from the poor pathetic fool who has to joke about who and what we are, safe in the knowledge that, actually, we are utterly amazing.

And if you happen to be wearing white stilettos at the time - ironically or otherwise - so much the better...

Embrace your inner Essex Girl, people, and don't take others' opinions to heart. It's what Dame Maggie would do, and SHE, after all, is fabulous...

Crashing Back To Reality...

Finally. I feel vaguely human again after the battle to make the 50k on my Nano novel last month, and I actually managed to do it. Now all I need to do is finish the stupid story. Oh yeah, and get rid of whatever the hell it is that's currently making me feel like a walking corpse. Dear Santa, please send me a new body for Christmas. Preferably one that isn't falling apart from the inside out because, frankly, I'm bored of this now.

I'm sure there was supposed to be a point to this post but frankly it's escaped me now. Ho hum.

Right, back to the christmas list...not for me, sadly, but for other people. I don't know why I'm doing it; I'll not buy anything until Christmas Eve and then run around like a mad thing trying to ensure I don't miss anyone. Works like a charm...

Although, Santa, if you are reading this and want to put a little something under my tree: I appreciate that a new body is out of the question, but a pair of Vivienne Westwood Pirate boots and this dress http://candysays.co.uk/cream-and-brown-sprigged-1950s-shawl-collar-day-dress would be very kind of you.

And if you throw in burlesque lessons, I'll even sit on your lap...

On Board The Good Ship Friend...

...or in other words, I should have just called this 'on friendship' but I was being a smart arse.

I have the most amazingly wonderful friends in the entire history of the world. Seriously. My friends are better than your friends, and I know this because they are able to put up with me without wanting to strangle me with a sock. Or, if they ever HAVE wanted to strangle me with a sock, they've been awesome enough to keep it to themselves and never act on such an impulse. What can I say? My friends just rock.

Some of my friends I've known since forever, and it embarrasses me only slightly that they can still recall what I looked like at that school disco; bless them for their sweetness in never mentioning it. Others have fallen by the wayside but a very rare few are still hanging around. Quite WHY they're still hanging around I haven't entirely figured out, but it shows that I must be doing something right. I love you muchly.

Others I have only known for a couple of years or so, and this includes the mighty tribe of Forumbat, who are actually THE most awesome people you could ever hope to meet. Whenever I find myself in a down moment (which, lets be honest, isn't exactly a rare occurrence for a mardy cow like me), I just think of all the epic times I've had as a Forumbat and before you can say Robert is your mother's brother I'm laughing like a fool. Although apparently not everyone gets the joke and tends to look at you a bit oddly if the answer to their question, "er, what are you laughing at?" is the ecstatic response "squirrels with beards!!" What can I say, it's their loss...Anyway, I love you very muchly also and insist that you all remain as bonkers and brilliant as you are now.

However. Oh, but however. If there is one thing guaranteed to make me turn into a snarling, spitting, biting, scratching she-wolf (yes, one that's even worse than I normally am) it's anyone foolish enough to attempt to rain on my friends parades. I had fisticuffs in secondary school with a few people in defence of my friends and believe me, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. My friends are amazing people, for reasons that I couldn't even begin to list, but the main one is they put up with me and my madness and for that they deserve to be defended to the death. (Or possibly sectioned. Or a medal. Or all three). I can't stand it when my friends are unhappy, and although it's taken me a while to learn that sometimes I can't actually fix it and the best thing I can do is just be there for them, there's still an instinct inside me that makes me want to go charging into battle on their behalf. I fail to understand why anyone would want to do something to make any of my friends unhappy when they're such amazing people; it's complete anathema to me. I'm not saying they're perfect (sorry guys) because they're only human, after all, but actually they are pretty darn special and I pity anyone who can't see that.

So this is a friendly warning, a heads-up, a shot across the bows, if you will. If you are one of the foolish, foolish people who have ever dared to upset one of my friends, any of them, you better pray like hell to whatever-it-is you believe in that our paths never cross. Because let me tell you something, only one of us will walk away from the encounter unscathed and it won't be you. I can do things with plastic teaspoons that are hitherto unknown to man, so you better wise up and shut up if you want to keep walking the way you do. I don't intend to kill you, I'm not that soft, but you may well be left wishing I had. Don't say I didn't warn you.

And if you are one of my friends, especially the one who inspired this rant because of some morons pathetic opinion and complete lies, listen up because this bit is for all of you. I love you, I will always be there for you and even if I can't fix it I'll do my darndest to try. If all I can do is let you cry till snot dribbles all over my favourite jumper, it's a sacrifice I will gladly make. I won't even charge you for the dry cleaning. I can't fight your battles for you and I can't always provide the right answers, but even if all I can do is be at the end of a computer screen or a phone, I am here for you. We may argue, we may disagree over stupid things and I know for sure I'm not perfect, but I love you all and will cheris every single memory we've shared - even the not so great ones, where we fought over a boy in college or something equally stupid - until the day I die.

Thank you for being my friends and thank you for giving me so much love, laughter, inspiration, frustration, jealousy, pride and every other emotion possible. You are, quite simply, the best.

Love Kate xxx

On National Domestic Abuse Awareness Week...

Some statistics for you...

1) 1 in 4 women in the UK will experience domestic abuse at some time in their life, as will 1 in 6 men.
2) Every minute, a domestic abuse related call will be made to a police force somewhere in the UK.
3) Less than 40% of domestic abuse cases will be reported to the police.
4) On average, a woman will be abused 35 times before she first calls the police.
5) In 30% of domestic abuse cases, the abuse started during pregnancy.
6) At least 750,000 children a year witness domestic violence, which can cause them physical, emotional, psychological and behavioural damage.
7) On average, two women a week are killed by a violent partner or ex-partner.

Pretty shocking stuff, isn't it? Oh, I know domestic abuse is 'my thing' and that I'll willingly stand on my soapbox and rant about it to all and sundry, but I honestly think these stats speak for themselves. How is it that in the 21st Century, when Man has been to the Moon, for goodness sake, we can still be so backwards when it comes to dealing with domestic abuse?

The current and accepted Government definition of domestic abuse is: any incident of threatening behaviour, violence or abuse (psychological, physical, sexual, financial or emotional) between adults who are or have been intimate partners or family members, regardless of gender or sexuality. In both my professional and my personal life, I have seen the damage that domestic abuse can do to women and children, for it is mainly women and children who are the victims of this crime.

It is never acceptable.

It is never right.

This week is National Domestic Abuse Awareness Week, which culminates in the International Day for the Elimination of Violence and Women on Thursday 25th November. I know I go on about it. I know I rant about it. But you know what? Until every woman and child feels safe in their home and can live without the threat of domestic abuse hanging over their heads, I and many other people simply won't shut up. And so I am asking anyone who read this please, please sign the White Ribbon Pledge; men, to show that you won't ever commit, condone or keep silent about violence to women; and women, that you will support men who honour this pledge. Unless we stand together we will never stop it, and no one should ever have to live in fear of the person they love. I signed the pledge. Now I'm asking you to do the same, to show your support. If you do just one thing on the internet today, make it this.

http://www.whiteribboncampaign.co.uk/

Thank you.

Love Kate xx

Liberty...But Only Within The Strict Ordinances Of The Regime...

As those of you who know and tolerate me will know by now, I can be a teeny bit vocal when it comes to politics. More than one of you will have been subjected to one of my rants about the bunch of muppets that pass for our elected leaders these days, among various other diatribes, and no doubt some of you (or all of you) have disagreed with me about something. And while I still stand by the statement that the current Government are bunch of posh morons with nary an iota of common sense amongst them, I am profoundly grateful to them for one thing - that I live in a country where, if I want to protest about David Cameron's idiotic policies or say that actually I don't really give a monkeys about William and Kate's wedding thank you very much, I can do so without fear of being gagged, tortured or thrown into prison for it.

The reason for this blog post is something that I read in the Times today (I know - posh, right?) But it really struck a chord with me, especially in the wake of the long-awaited release of Aung San Suu Kyi in Burma, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991 while under house arrest for her unflagging efforts to bring democracy and human rights to that troubled country. This years Nobel Peace Prize winner-elect is Liu Xiaobo of China, another tireless campaigner for human rights in democracy in yet another troubled country. I say winner-elect because, if Mr Liu or a member of his family are unable to collect the prize, it may well not be awarded at all. Mr Liu is, however, in prison, his wife is currently under house arrest and the Chinese Government have just banned the rest of his family from travelling outside the country. Their crime? To attempt to bring democracy and basic human rights to a regime that point-blank refuses to acknowledge that such things exist. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 21st century...

What has made this even more bizarre, apart from the obvious fact of locking up someone who hasn't actually done anything wrong, has been China's response to the news. When Mr Liu's wife went for her monthly visit to the prison two days after the announcement and told him the good news, the authorities promptly had her locked up under house arrest. They have also accused the Nobel Committee of all kinds of shenanigans, and have even written to all the other nations asking them to boycott the event. Surprise, surprise, Russia are going along with their demands. *rolls eyes*

So what exactly did Liu Xiaobo actually DO to merit such treatment? Well, in the words of the Committee who have, despite the 'advice' of China, decided to award the prize, Mr Liu has been involved in "a long and non-violent struggle for fundamental human rights in China". He is currently two years into an eleven year sentence for 'subversion', whatever the hell that means, and co-wrote Charter 08, a document designed to promote political reform and human rights in China. It was for his involvement in this document that he was arrested, just a few hours before it was published, and many others who have signed this document have also been taken in and 'questioned'. All for trying to introduce to their country the same basic rights and dignities we in the Westernized world selfishly take for granted.

It's actually impossible to underestimate the bravery of this man, just as it's impossible to underestimate the bravery of Aung San Suu Kiyi. To try and save themselves from the embarrassment of having a Nobel prize winner in jail, the government of China have made Mr Liu an offer, one they've made to other 'awkward' prisoners in the past such as Wang Dan, the student leader of the demonstrations that eventually led to the outrageous massacre of Tianamen Square in 1989. If he will apply for medical parole and sign a 'confession', they'll release him from prison and he will be exiled from the country forever. But, like so many other brave men and women who exist under the oppressive regime in China, Mr Liu has refused to sign any such spurious confession, preferring instead to serve his sentence and stay in China in order to better serve his country.

Liu Xiaobo's courage, like that of so many others around the world, is humbling. Next time I complain bitterly about some ridiculous law of Government in this country, I shall do so with thanks to the Powers That Be that I can do so freely and openly, that I can join a protest march in London or petition against the leaders of the land; and I shall also think of Mr Liu in his prison cell, of Aung San Suu Kiyi as she adjusts to her freedom, and of the hundreds of thousands of other men, women and children across the world who don't have that right...

The Most Fun You Can Have...

This post was inspired by my dearly beloved and completely twisted GBF, who today made the following pronouncement:

"Ah, feeding the ducks. The most fun you can have with your clothes off."

Once I'd stopped falling about laughing at the statement (come to Southend; we feed ducks in the nude! We know how to have fun!) it got me thinking. *dons Carrie Bradshaw voice* What IS the most fun you can have with your...ok, ok, I'm kidding! But it DID start a discussion about our favourite things to do that are free...

The Top Five...

1) Feeding the ducks. With or without clothes, depending on your preference, although I highly recommend going equipped in garments of some sort. Less chilly. Also means you'll be less likely to be arrested. All you need is a park with a duck pond and some stale-ish bread, which can usually be obtained from either your own stores or by begging some from friends and relations. And yes, you may be the only adult there without a small child to assist you (for authenticity/camouflage purposes I suppose you could always borrow a small child from somewhere, but they have a tendency to ruin the atmosphere and to attempt to throw themselves headlong into the water). Et voila - a perfectly enjoyable pastime. Bread, ducks...is there anything more peaceful? Just avoid the geese - they can be nasty.

2) Libraries. Ahhhh, libraries. I have already written of my reverence for these wonderful seats of learning and shelter from the cold for the local aged, infirm and generally mental population (no one said this was PC, ok?) but there really is nothing better than pitching up to a library, settling yourself down in a corner somewhere and voraciously devouring books. Which you are then allowed to take home. For FREE!! I demand to know who first came up with this revolutionary and marvellous idea so that I can shake their hand...

3) Museums and art galleries. Admittedly there may be a small cost for this, such as a train fare to London and a bun in the cafe (and, if you're me, a shedload of money in the shop afterwards), or perhaps a small donation, but we live a country where some of the greatest paintings and bits of Ye Olde Historical Tat have been put together under one roof (or several roofs, if you're being picky about it) for our enjoyment, and nary a compulsory entrance fee among them. I might even go as far as to say the ones you DO have to pay for are rubbish...unless it's the Lawnmower Museum. Because that is just genius, obv.

4) People watching. Piece of cake, this: find somewhere that has people in it, or that people pass through at regular intervals. Sit down somewhere nearby. Observe your fellow man. Laugh internally at the hilarity/pointlessness/stupidity of your fellow man. Feel bad for being so judgemental...

5)We struggled with number 5, I'll admit. I wanted 'curling up at home with a good dvd and some hot chocolate' but Lee pointed out this necessitates spending money on a home, a dvd, a dvd player, a tv AND hot chocolate. He wanted listening to music, but I got just as pedantic and pointed out you need to spend money on music and something to play it on in the first place. We then thought sleeping, but again - money for beds. And a house. In the end we came up with sitting outside gazing up at the moon and stars, and watching the sun rise and set.

We are but simple creatures, me and the GBF...even if we DO feed he ducks while naked...

The Curse of the NaNo Plot Bunnies...

Now there's a title for a new book...well, maybe when I finally get around to finishing this one, I shall write it. (Not to mention the small matter of all my other unfinished ficlets whose characters abuse me constantly for forgetting about them. I must finish 'Children of the Revolution' before the next millenia, otherwise they may kill me...not to mention the two and a bit fantasy novels I found half-started in a notebook the other day, all of which need doing because, dammit, they're good. Ish.)

But I digress. And procrastinate, something I've been doing rather well at throughout the *checks NaNo discombobulator* 16 days of NaNoWriMo. As you may have guessed, it's going swimmingly. Not. The two stories I was originally going to write both fell by the wayside, so now I'm only writing one and it wasn't one I'd planned on doing in the first place. Don't you love it when a plan comes together like that? [/sarcasm] However, I am rather in love with my new story. It's a steampunk-esque Jack the Ripper-based novel, with a fiesty heroine, a supernatural twist and guest appearences by a (very) thinly-disguised Doctor Watson from the Sherlock Holmes stories; a fan fiction-based Bill Sikes from Oliver Twist, complete with dog; long dead poets and, er, the Elephant Man. Please don't ask me how poor Joseph Merrick came to be part of this whole shebang because it wasn't planned, but lo and behold there he is. God bless him. And the steampunk thing is just me being a tad obsessed with the whole genre. Cos I like to make things difficult for myself.

A brief synopsis:

London, 1888. Death stalks the East End district of Whitechapel, striking fear into the hearts of all citizens of the fair capital. At the bidding of her mysterious mentor Charlotte Gunner-Hawkyns, the headstrong only daughter of a widowed wealthy lawyer, investigates the murders using 'steampunk' technology and the help of her sailor lover and a streetwise but loyally affectionate urchin, all the while thwarting her aunt’s suggestion of marriage to a Viscount and the stifling social whirl that this would entail. She knows Queen Victoria, has an inventor on speed-dial, and is mentored by a mysterious yet ancient old man who knows a thing or two about the darker side of life. Can Charlotte identify the Ripper and stop him from killing again? Will her aunt’s scheme to marry her off be thwarted? Who exactly IS her mysterious teacher? All this and more will be revealed…

Well, it will be revealed if I ever get off my bum and write. Right! Enough procrastination - I've characters to torment. 22,723 words and counting...erk!!

Remembrance Writing...

I know, I know - two blog posts for the price of one, right? And I have yet to fill you all in on Brighton. To follow, I promise...But I just wanted to post this because, for some ridiculous reason, I am quite proud of this poem. Since November 1st I've been writing a poem every day, the idea being that by Samhain next year I'll have 365 poems to do something with. Burn, probably. Who knows? Anyway, since today is Remembrance Day, I took it as the theme of my poem this evening and as I'm procrastinating like anything instead of NaNo-ing, I thought I'd post because I actually quite like it...

Red The Poppy, White The Grave (A Villanelle)

I do not know your names, but I know you died.
Fighting for your land in some foreign field.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

And what of all the friends you fought beside,
Who answered when the country first appealed?
I do not know your names, but I know you died.

Through mud and blood and desert you did stride,
And not to fear or anger did you yield.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

How many of you left at home a bride,
And learnt to keep your sorrow tightly sealed?
I do not know your names, but I know you died.

For when your country sent you, you complied
And all your own emotions were concealed.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

In conflicts past and present you abide,
And now at last your bravery's revealed.
I do not know your names, but I know you died.
Today we shall remember you with pride...

Not that bad for a half hour's work, methinks (oh-so modestly). If only my NaNo novel was as easy; of the two that I started on November 1st, both have now fallen by the wayside and I've decided to concentrate on the story that replaced the Arthurian legend one. It's a sort-of steampunk Jack the Ripper thing, with a twist. Now I just need to crack on, catch up and get writing. GO!

We Will Remember Them...

Only one of my grandads served in the army during the Second World War. My Mum's dad was only a child, so he was evacuated, but my Dad's dad fought for his country in the heat and dust of Egypt and in the bloodbath that was Monte Cassino. That's pretty much all I know because apart from the occasional almost-jokey story (scorpions in your boots being a favourite of mine as a child, and the one about Grandad almost dropping an artillery shell on his foot - he was in the Royal Army Service Corps, I believe, supplying the frontlines with ammunition - never failed to amaze me) my Grandad, like so many of the brave men and women of his generation, never spoke about what he did during the war. Sadly, by the time I was old enough to want to know, he was too ill to have the conversation with and as I didn't want to upset him I never really brought it up. It's one of the many things I regret not asking him when he was alive, but it makes me no less proud to stand up at 11am on Remembrance Day and think of him and his courage, because I don't care what anyone else says - serving your country during a conflict, knowing that you might end up making the ultimate sacrifice, is a very brave thing to do. Of course my Arhoo, and any other service personnel for that matter, would see it differently, but that's what makes them so special.

A friend of mine currently serves in the army, although happily not for much longer as he will be leaving at the end of the month and returning to Civvy Street. His battalion have lost several men, some of them barely older than boys, in their tours of Afghanistan. I was born in the middle of the Falklands war, when 257 British military personnel lost their lives. My stepdad's father served in Burma; a friend's father fought in Korea, both often forgotten conflicts. The futility of war has been well documented; others continue to sing its praises and yet wherever and whenever you are in time there is a war raging somewhere in the world.

The men and women of the British Armed Forces, both past and present, have had to be incredibly strong, brave and resilient. They risk their lives for Queen and Country, fighting in every corner of this earth in an attempt to uphold Right and Justice and to keep us ordinary folks free and safe. They fill me full of admiration and intense pride, and on this Remembrance Day I will be thinking of all of them. I'll be thinking of Rob and the things that he has seen, thankful that soon he'll be home and safe. I'll be thinking of the friends and comrades he leaves behind, and of those he has already seen fall. I'll be thinking of the men and women serving in Afghanistan; of those who have fought and in many cases died in this and many other conflicts throughout the world. Most of all I shall be thinking of my Arhoo and the quiet dignity and courage of a man who served his country yet never spoke of it.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them...

The Wanderer Returns...

So I am back from the frozen and miserable wastes of Wolverhampton. And no, for once this is not me being melodramatic; it was bloody cold, wet and inexorably miserable up there. I can’t even imagine it being nice in the sunshine. And there’s not much to do, either…but I shall come on to that.

So why, I hear you ask, was a pathetic Southern softy like me up in the Midlands area when I was clearly so unimpressed with the place. Well, dearest blog-verse, t’was not my design, but I was there to see a band. And not just any band but the mighty and utterly fantabulous Apocalyptica. And, what is more, I went to said gig in said Midlands’s town with my Baby. It was, in fact, epic for many reasons…

Obviously, the most fabulous reason was seeing Gemma. Gem-Gem, you are such a warm and wonderful person that I can’t quite believe I’ve only known you a year. I always have so much fun when we’re together and Thursday was no exception. It’s also nice to know that I’m not the only dedicated/certifiable Apocalyptica fangirl in the gang; I finally rocked up to the party at about 3.30pm on the day after travelling up that morning, but Gem had been firmly in place at the front of the queue since 10am. Now that is dedication…I also got to meet the equally awesome Nick, Sophie and Tori, who had been queuing with the Baby since about 12, and I finally got to meet Imogen and Cez. Guys, you are all fantabulous people and you made queuing up in the cold absolutely hilarious. Whenever I see coach loads of slightly scared-looking school children, I shall think of you all and cackle hysterically. I haven’t had so much fun in ages and you were all awesome.

Once they opened the doors and we got inside, we managed to be right at the very front of the stage. We were on the right hand side, because the pesky VIP’s had managed to bag the centre spot, but as it turned out it was a pretty good spot. The first support band were called Awake By Design; never heard of them but damn, they were amazing!! Bassist was cute too…*cough* Anyway, they were really, really god; so much so that I bought their debut album after the show – best fiver I’ve spent in a long while, I reckon…

The next band on were Pain of Salvation, who I’ve heard a lot about (and heard Daniel Gildenlow sing on an Ayreon album) but I didn’t know their stuff especially. I am a convert. Daniel’s voice is even more amazing live, and he’s so charismatic on stage…they were brilliant. I couldn’t tell you what they played, but I’d see them again for sure.

And then, of course, there was Apocalyptica. I honestly think they are one of my favourite ever bands to see live, and this time I was right in the front. I got to exchange sticky-out-tongues with Perttu (sigh…) and was close enough to shriek at Mikko like a banshee when he came to join the other guys at the front. It. Was. Epic. And Gem had got some bags of wine gums for them (cos they like wine gums, apparently) and had stuck stickers on them so that there was one for each of the four guys from Gem, Cez, Imy and me. Awesome idea, sweetie, and Perttu certainly looked like he appreciated them!! All in all, it was a fabulous, fabulous evening and will go down as one of my favourite ever gig experiences. Thanks to Gemma, Imy, Cez, Nick, Sophie and Tori for making it all so much fun, and to Awake By Design, Pain of Salvation and Apocalyptica for making me completely deaf and spend most of Friday with my sexy husky voice after I screamed so much. It was appreciated.

Friday was spent wandering the streets of Wolverhampton like a vagabond, trying to find something to do before my train left at 7.45pm. There is a lovely art gallery that I wandered around very happily for two hours, and then I took the five giraffes Thelma, Louise, Brad, Butch and Sundance (sorry, Mooms, they’ll always be Butch and Sundance to me) down to the canals so we could take piccies of locks and ducks and things, but then it started to rain and I had to find something to do. Sadly, there isn’t anything to do, unless you like shopping centres. I went and looked round the church, which was very pretty, but it was a long, cold, wet afternoon. Still, I can now say I’ve been to Wolverhampton. Er, yeah…

On a brighter note, I am off to lovely Brighton tomorrow to see Hellyeah, Avenged Sevenfold and Stone Sour. Corey Taylor will certainly put a smile back on my face…marvellous…

And So The Epic Adventure Begins...

Well, that was an unqualified success...not. Having set myself the task of writing two novels for NaNoWriMo this year, I've stumbled at the first hurdle. And so farewell, Morgan LeFaye and King Arthur in your Swinging Sixties remake - 300 words in and I could tell you weren't going to play ball. (Although bugger the lot of you for annoying the hell out of me for weeks and then getting stage fright at the last minute...) Even the turning-of-the-short-story-into-novel may not be as straightforward as I initially thought, so this could be a very long 30 days.

Having said that, I have just opened a blank Word document and might just go with what I did the first year and write whatever comes into my head, with no thought of plot, marvellous prose or what the hell my characters think they're doing. Watch this space...

And to all those who are also embarking on the long and perilous NaNo voyage, I bid you luck and shall see you all on the other side. It's a long and ardouous journey, but at the end of it we'll emerge blinking into the sunlight wired on caffeine, skinny as they come and rambling incoherantly, but dammit, we're writers...bring it on!!

To The Memories Of The Outcast Dead...

I found this on the BBC News website - a really sweet little audio slideshow about the Crossbones Cemetary, which I've mentioned before. It kind of gives you an idea of what the gates look like and what the ceremony's all about...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11642938

A Walk Between The Worlds...

So today is Samhain, the Witches New Year and a celebration of all that is past; when the last of the harvest has been gathered and our ancestors looked forwards, no doubt with some trepidation, to the winter ahead and trying to get through it in one piece. I'm kinda hoping that the next 12 months are slightly better than the last 12 (although there have been some seriously wonderful moments), but although I'm feeling all reflective this is not going to be one of those 'oh do you remember when we...?' posts. Instead, as the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest point tonight and the realms of the living and the dead become intertwined, I'm going to honour my own dead...

My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.

Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.

My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.

Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.

So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.

There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.

To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.

And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx

Strictly Shallow...

Today's post will be short but sweet. And very, very sexy...

In summary: tonight's Strictly Come Dancing was a Halloween special and I was ultra looking forward to it because there would be Argentine Tango and Paso Doble's being danced, which are my two favourites. Imagine my surprise, delight and down-on-the-knees-thankfulness, then, for the opening number, which saw five of the pro dancers doing a paso. I can't tell you what anyone else did, not even Ann and Anton (and I concur with Bruce - they're my favourites), because of this number. Not only did it feature the return of my favourite dancer, the very sexy Matthew Cutler, but the also very sexy Robin, Artem, James and Brendan were also involved. It was heaven. I don't care how shallow and tragic this post makes me sound, or how much like a teenage girl I look when I say 'phwoar' - this was something special.

Thank you, Strictly producers, and thank you, gentlemen, for showing everyone what a paso is supposed to look like. And for making my temperature shoot up. Phwoar.

Lorem Ipsum...

And so November is almost upon us, which means several things...

1) Lots of complete and utter idiots with fireworks.
2) An excuse to wear snugly jumpers, curl up with a hot chocolate and a good book and not go out because "ooh, it's a bit parky out there and it's raining".
3) My annual attempt to render myself even more insane than I already am begins.

Yes, it is indeed *that* time again. National Novel Writing Month, or NaNo, as it's affectionately/grudgingly known, kicks off on November 1st and once again yours truly is going for it. Write a novel of at least 50,000 words in a month, you say? Certainly, my fine fellow; in fact, why don't we make it two for the price of one and I'll throw in some apples as well!

One month, 50,000 words...except make mine a double because this year I'm attempting two novels. Oh, as well as having two or three rehearsed readings with my writer's group, setting myself the challenge of writing a poem a day for a year (starting on Samhain) and holding down a full-time, stressy job, among other things. Oh, and blogging. I may end up shooting myself at this rate. But it will, as always, be an experience.

Luckily for me, I have a vague idea of where my stories will go this year. One is to attempt to turn a short story I wrote into a fuller-length novel (thanks to kds at the Emilie Autumn forum, otherwise known as published author Kathryn Smith, for making me think I could do it. Read her 'Brotherhood of the Blood' books; they're amazing). The other is a modern retelling of ye olde Arthurian legends, set in the 1960's and reclaiming Morgan Le Faye from the 'incestuous whore' tag she's been saddled with over the years. It'll be interesting. I think. Come back to me on Tuesday and I'll probably be pulling my hair out and screaming that I can't write anything ever again, but for now I'm upbeat and positive.

In fact, to get my itchy fingers sorted out and attempt to engage my brain, I set myself a bit of a challenge: write a 26 word story in alphabetical order. Et voila the result...

A Little Piece of Heaven
At Beachy Cove, dawn echoes from ghostly hideaways immemorial. Jack kissed lucky me near open pools; questing, reaching, searching the undulating valleys, watching xanthic Yellowbill’s zooming…

It's short but sweet, and certainly made my brain work. Right, bring on November...

A Passion For Fashion

Technically I suppose that’s a bit of a misnomer, since you could never in a million years accuse me of being a fashion victim. The whole purpose of “fashion” as far as I can make out is to ensure that you blend in with the rest of the herd; Gods forbid that you should step outside “the rules” and look different to anyone else. And it seems to me that it doesn’t matter which ‘clique’ you’re part of, even the metal community; if you dress differently it’s not fashion and you, shameful blight on humanity that you are, will never be ‘in’.

I am, very happily, not ‘in’. I wear what the hell I like; sometimes I’m a jeans and band t-shirt kinda gal; other times I go for full-on Goth; sometimes I channel neo-Victorian, other times I dress like a Woodstock-going hippy and sometimes I wear something so odd that it makes even my nearest and dearest go ‘eh?’ (Ducky Dress FTW!!) I mix high street, vintage and charity shop finds and if you were to ask me to define my style, quite honestly I’d struggle. So explain to me, please, why I spent the day at the ExCel Centre ‘up tahn’ (in London, for those of you who haven’t seen ‘This is Essex’ and don’t speak the lingo) at Britain’s Next Top Model Live?

Actually, for all that it was a shallow girlie-fest of clothes, beauty, shopping, makeovers and celebrities I’d never heard of (with the exception of the charming Mr James Nesbitt, who actually IS that fabulous in real life), it was pretty good fun. The people-watching opportunities were fabulous, both the so-called celebrities and the ‘real’ shoppers and wannabes. I saw vintage vixens, goth girl glamour pusses, high street cuties (I nearly said ‘high street honeys’, but that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish…) and designer divas; women of all ages (and a few bored looking men and some very excited GBF’s) strutting their stuff, most of them wearing whatever happens to be ‘in’ at the moment. It was a joy to see the occasional gem standing out from the crowd in whatever she felt comfortable in rather than the same old, same old, but it was a helluva time, I can tell you. We had VIP tickets (darling) and so, with air-kisses all round (sweetie) I channelled my best Anna Wintour impression (I can’t think of any other fashionista phrases) as we took in the fashion show. I have no idea which of the models on the catwalk were actually in the last series of BNTM (never watched it) but the clothes were pretty amazing. And yours truly was very, very good and only bought two very cute little vintage-inspired dresses and a very dinky little thing that goes over the button of your jeans, shaped like Dorothy’s ruby slippers. What can I say? It might not be fashion, sweetie-darling, but it’s very, very me…

Oh, and FYI…I was wearing Ducky dress, black leggings, a black cardi and my tartan shoes from Ness. Proper glam. Not…

I Have A Dream...

No, before you ask, this is not me doing my Martin Luther King impression. Not that I've ever done such an impersonation but, hey, there's a first time for everything...I digress. No, this is about an actual dream that I have and the great Dr King's word's just seemed appropriate.

Not that this is the sort of politically-charged ideological dream that he had. Don't get me wrong, I have my own Utopian fantasies where everyone gets along with everyone else and everyone is happy and there's no war/famine/pestilence/Simon Cowell, but it's not that kind of dream I'm blogging about. Nor is it the sort of dream where I'm slowly spit-roasting David Cameron, Nick Clegg and George Osbourne over an open fire whilst cackling like a hag, although maybe both of those are worth blog entries in their own right...nope, this dream is both a little more sensible, a little more modest and a little more fantastical.

I have a dream. My dream is to have a library.

Yeah, yeah, you can stop laughing now. It's true - I am absolutely desperate to have a library of my own. I feel dreadful for my poor books at the moment, scattered around in two bookcases, various boxes and several piles on the floor; it's inhumane to treat them like that. My books deserve to be on beautifully designed shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling; in an ideal world they'd be spiralling round and round in an endless labyrinth (like in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books in Carlos Ruiz Zafon's masterpiece 'The Shadow of the Wind' - if such a place really existed, I would move in at once), but if not then just shelves as far as the eye could see would do. I've been fascinated by libraries ever since I was a child and I was taken to get my very first library ticket; having become an ardent reader and lover of books by the age of 3, the idea that I could just go to this place and take out as many books as I wanted, before bringing them back and exchanging them for more, was a concept that seemed too good to be true. Second-hand and antique book shops have always cast a spell over me, but so have libraries, and every time I was taken to a Stately 'Ome or still-inhabited castle, I was always endlessly delighted by the different libraries I saw (and always slightly put out that I couldn't go up to the shelves to a) see what Lord and Lady Such-and-Such were reading and b) take a book down from the endless shelves and curl up for an hour or so to have a good read). I was fortunate to have been blessed with a godmother who is a librarian, so she was always able to provide me with hits of the good stuff, and so enamoured was I of libraries as a child that I was library prefect at both Primary and Secondary school (yes, yes, I was a girlie swot for a time). Books have been my saviours, my friends and my kindred spirits since my early childhood; their myriad voices speak to me across time, space and language and they have both moved and inspired me in ways I could not have imagined when I first started out on this journey as A Reader.

And now it seems I have discovered a new friend who feels the same way about books as I do and who has written books of his own, one of which has inspired me to give further thought to the idea - the dream - of My Library. Alberto Manguel's two most recent books, 'A Reader on Reading' and 'The Library at Night' are like elegiac love songs to both books and libraries; personal journeys, literary histories and sociological encyclopaedias, they are also brilliantly written and are fast becoming new and treasured friends of mine. Alberto (because I'm on intimate terms with him now, don't you know) has a 30,000-volume library of his own at his home in a 15th century presbytery in France, built in the grounds and adjoining the house, yet completely separate from it. Naturally, I'm incredibly jealous, not just of the library or the number of books in his guardianship (because after all, you never really 'own' a book; you befriend and take care of them for a while before eventually relinquishing custody) but because living in a 15th century presbytery in France sounds like heaven. I digress…again. Anyway, reading about his library and the libraries of others has made me yearn even more for a library of my own; somewhere the books in my keeping can live and breathe, where we can all find sanctuary and renew our friendships, as well as having plenty of room for new acquaintances to join us. The fact that I currently have neither the space to assemble such a library or my own home in which to attempt it (or the money such a project deserves, although I’m quite certain that any right-thinking judge that has to hear the case when my bank-robbing spree comes to an end would understand the reasons for it) is neither here nor there. Everyone has to have a dream, and this is mine.

Of course, taking all my beloved friends over to such a place would be quite an adventure. All my antique books would have to have special glass-fronted shelves to live in, to protect them from the atmosphere and the ravages of time, although they are still able to be read and are happy to be so employed. And in their company would be books on innumerable topics and themes; my crime psychology books would have to be close at hand (what is a library if it doesn’t have a forensic dissection of the mind of Ted Bundy, after all?), as would the books I loved as a child and have kept ever since (step forward Fancy Nancy, Ramona Quimby, Junk and Stargirl). Alice in Wonderland and her journey Through the Looking Glass will converse with Tim Burton’s Oyster Boy and Edward Gorey’s tragic Gashlycrumb Tinies. The fairy tales that I have loved all my life – Charles Perrault, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson and the grim Grimm brothers – are here, along with the poets whose words give voice to my own emotions. My ‘witchy’ books, both historical and less scholarly, must take their place, along with the art books that carry the images I only wish I was able to create. The comic and the serious will have their own space; Shakespeare will dally with the myths and legends of other countries and different times, and historical and sociological books on countless different subjects will be given homes. Then there are the novels of course, both ‘classic’ and ‘modern’; fantasy, chick-lit and anything and everything in between will line the shelves. Money being no object (this is a fantasy library, after all), there will be numerous editions of books from the Folio Society scattered throughout the room, and my antique book collection will no doubt continue to grow. There will be sacrifices, of course; to own a first edition of Shakespeare’s plays would be an absolute blessing in any library, but I’d be so terrified of damaging it that I’d never read it and what is the point of a book if you can’t make it live by reading? And, of course, there would be space for new friends to join the old, because when you’re a reader there are always new discoveries to make…

My Library may be a long way off its full realisation, but I cannot wallow in the valley of despair. I have a dream, a dream that is deeply rooted in the dream of all readers. I have a dream that one day my books will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed; that they will sit on the shelves of brotherhood and find their own oasis where they are judged not by the colour of their bindings but by the content of their character. I have a dream that one day, one day, my books will be able to sing the words “free at last, free at last; thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Until then, I guess they'll have to stay where they are...

I Strop, Therefore I Am...

Bonjour blogverse!! Remember me? I appear to have been decidedly lax in writing my usual incoherent rambles recently - this is what I get for going on holiday and then going away for a long weekend; I get out of the habit of writing and then I can never find anything to say. It's vastly annoying.

Which brings me to...today's rant. I mean post. Whatever. Things that annoy, irritate and wind me up beyond belief. Please excuse the no doubt emo-ness of this entry, I'm ever hopeful that I'll stop being a mardy cow in the very near future and be back to my normal blog-shattering best. Or worst, depending on your point of view. It's very stressy at work at the moment with all this prostitution research (yes, I'm still doing it. The research, that is. Not...never mind). Just when I think I've cracked it, I find another sodding report to to read. Ho hum...

So, things that annoy me very muchly at present...

1) Some of the reports I'm having to read. When I was at university studying research methods and ethics and shiz, I was taught that although every researcher clearly has their own bias, opinions etc, a good researcher doesn't let them influence the actual work. Clearly some people never got the memo, and it's making it very difficult for me to actually read said reports because while they may have perfectly valid and useful info in them, I want to fling them across the room shrieking like a demented banshee.
2) Also on this theme...some of the men interviewed about their use of prostitutes are tools and make me despair for the future of the species. I've known a few arses before but some of these morons take the cake. And the guy who said that using prostitutes is like going to Tescos? You need therapy. Or sectioning. Either way, you must never be allowed near a supermarket...it's for the good of everyone involved.
3) People. Specifically people who antagonise, wind up, piss off and upset my friends or in any other way make their lives different from the warm love-hugs-and-sunshine vibes I would wish for them. You've seen the Incredible Hulk, right? You know what happens when he gets angry? Ok, now look at my profile picture and imagine me green and muscly. You will not know what hit you when I'm finished with you...
4) Footballers who are completely unable to sing their national anthem. Ok, so 'God Save The Queen' might not be the most stirring of anthems (that would be Italy) but it's ours and anyone lucky enough to represent their country at the highest level should at least have the decency to mouth the words at the very least. If I was a top-class footballer (unlikely, I know, but stick with me) I would be so thrilled to get the chance to represent my country that I would sing the whole of God Save The Queen from start to finish and be bloody proud and honoured to do so. The rest of you overpaid prima-donna's can sod off.
5) Car and perfume adverts. Just tell me if I can drive the car from A to B and if the perfume is vaguely nice rather than all this stupid posturing and flouncing about. I mean really - the new Opium ad is just pointless.
6) My body. It is officially crap and I want a new one. Preferably one that doesn't break down every five minutes. Is that too much to ask for?

However...all is not doom-and-gloom in the world of the Kady-cat at the moment. I have discovered that I am a song! Several songs, actually, and I'm not talking about the ones that use my real name. (Although Ben Fold Five's 'Kate' is just...well, there are no words). But for those of you who first knew me from my slightly manic posts on the Nightwish forum, you will know that in some corners of the web I go by the name Nocturna (I shall not reveal my others - self-preservation and all that). Thanks to a combination of boredom, frustration and curiosity, as I picked the name seemingly at random only because I am a bit of a 'creature of the night', I went googling for songs about my nom de plume, and I have to say I like what I found. There are a lot of songs that are 'Nocturna Something' or 'Something Nocturna', so I guess that's cheating a little bit, but it still counts as far as I'm concerned. So, songs about moi...

Therion - Via Nocturna. It's all about following Nocturna and Luna to midnight revels - so I am the moon and the key to the kingdom. Obviously.



Old Man's Child - Hominis Nocturna. This is a grower...never heard of them but hey, new is good.



Moonspell - Nocturna. Ah, Moonspell...I've been converted to you.



Anabantha - Nocturna. Ok, I have never heard of this Mexican band until now and I sprechen pas de Spanish, but this song is fab. And it has a FF8 video - what's not to love?!?!



So there you go. Nocturna is, in fact, awesome...

Strictly Holidays...

I have finally recovered from the arduous journey home from the North (and the horrendous feeling of going back to work after a holiday *sigh*) and shall return to blogging with a vengeance!

So yes, Scotland...well, what I can say about it? It was, as last year, absolutely beautiful - and with no sudden detours to A&E on the way home, it was also a bit better than last year!! We started in Edinburgh for a day and a half, which was lovely apart from the fact that it peed down with rain and I spent far too much money (ignore this bit please, Mothership), and I've realised that it's a gorgeous city, even in the grey gloom. Then we headed for a three-day coach tour of the Highlands and Islands, based at Portree in the Isle of Skye...It. Was. Fab. The weather was brilliant, the sceneery beautiful and if I rob a bank, I'm moving to Skye. I would upload piccies but Blogger appears to be playing silly wotsits and won't let me. They are on Facebook, though, if you want to see my half-arsed attempts with a camera...

Also in the news...Strictly is back on and suddenly the weekends are looking vaguely hilarious again. Gods, I lead such a sad and tragic life...sadly for me, Gavin Henson did reasonably well, but the new English and Russian professionals are seriously sexy and there promises to be much entertainment between now and Christmas. Ann Widdecome and Anton DuBeke? Love it! If I was any kind of a betting woman, which I'm not, I'd put money on them going quite far...

Crashing Back to Reality....

Hi there, Blogverse, remember me? I'm that weird person who writes complete and utter crud and rants a lot! I have returned from the Frozen Wastelands of the North (Scotland - and yes, it was frozen) and thought I'd better check in.

I had intended to make this a rather marvy post all about my awesome holiday and how beautiful it all was, but as I've just spent the best part of an hour swearing at my laptop and Facebook while trying to upload the snaps from said holiday, I've now lost the will to live. There will be holiday details and piccies and stories and stuff to follow, but for now I thought I'd nick this from GemGem's blog (and she stole it from Holly, so all's fair in love and blogging!)

If I were a time of day, I’d be midnight.
If I were a planet, I’d be Neptune (it's an icy bitch).
If I were a sea animal, I’d be a seal.
If I were a direction, I’d be lost. (Ask Rich!)
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be a squidgy armchair or a bookshelf.
If I were a liquid, I’d be blood.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be an emerald.
If I were a tree, I’d be a rowan (it's for protection).
If I were a tool, I’d be a hammer!
If I were a flower, I’d be a sweet pea.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be a thunderstorm.
If I were a musical instrument, I’d be a cello. Belonging to Perttu.
If I were a color, I’d be indigo blue.
If I were an emotion, I’d be tempestuous.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a peach.
If I were a sound, I’d be laughter.
If I were an element, I’d be earth.
If I were a car, I’d be either a VW Camper or an original Mini Cooper.
If I were a food, I’d be chocolate.
If I were a place, I’d be the Isle of Skye.
If I were a material, I’d be velvet.
If I were a taste, I’d taste of lemon and ginger.
If I were a scent, I’d smell divine!
If I were an animal, I’d be a wolf.
If I were an object, I’d be a key.
If I were a body part, I’d be the heart.
If I were a facial expression, I’d be a smile.
If I were a song, I’d be Feint by Epica or Unintended by Muse
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be T.U. K's, baby!!

Wow, random...

Oooh...Spooky!

The air turns chill, the leaves are starting to fall and the long dark nights are drawing in. Merlin and Strictly Come Dancing are back/soon to be back on our screens (there will, no doubt, be more posts on Strictly once it properly starts - I have a weakness for it). It can mean only one thing - Winter will soon be upon us.

All is not lost, however. I love the autumnal time of year anyway; from Mabon (which, by the way, is this Wednesday, so happy Autumn Equinox everyone) through to Samhain, there's a magick in the air that can't be explained. There's also the glorious pleasure of snuggling up on the sofa, hot chocolate in hand, and watching good telly. And - oh joy of joys - Monday's have become bearable again (at least for the next eight weeks) with the return of Spooks. *cue Kate's madly over exuberant bouncing, resulting in a fall from the bed*

Ok, ok, I have to admit it - this is an incredibly shallow post. I could spend hours going into the gritty realism, the brilliant acting, the expansive and gripping storylines and the fabulous special effects (a girl's gotta love those huge explosions, after all). I could tell you that I've learned more about counter-terrorism and the workings of MI5 from watching Spooks than I ever thought I'd need to know, and that because of the show I'm fully fluent in 'techie nerd' and 'computer geek' speak. Or I could just be really, brutally honest and admit that, while I always had a passing fascination with the show thanks to the storylines, explosions and the whole spying thing, it's only since Richard Armitage joined the team that I've really made sure I never miss an episode. Oh sure, I used to watch it, but I never fretted if I missed an episode or two and I was always able to do something else at the same time, like flick through a magazine or tap away at the computer. Since Mr A got his MI5 credentials, however, Monday night has become Spooks night and nothing, not even a half-naked rugby team standing on my doorstep (wait, which half? Oh, it doesn't matter anyway...) can drag me away from my drooling. I mean studious appraisal. Or something. *coughs*

So yes, this post is very, very shallow indeed. So I'm a walking boyband sometimes - a mile wide and an inch deep, that's me. But sometimes there's no shame in it. I mean look at this bloke. Seriously, just look at him...

Ok, ok, you can stop looking now. Seriously, stop. Back off, girls - Lady Nocturna doesn't do sharesies. Not even for you, Mooms...although if Sexy Becks is in your luggage upon your return from sunny LA then I'm open to negotiation...And not only is the divine Mr A single and sexy, he's also *swoon* highly intelligent and according to more than one of my sources, he's an absolute old-fashioned gentleman as well *swoon again* Seriously, ladies, back off. I'll bite...

This will be the last post on the blog for a few days as I'm to the wild and wet north-west of Bonny Scotland and shall be sans t'internet for a while. Sadly I'm not going with Richard Armitage (now there's a fantasy I'm not sharing...) but will no doubt have a thoroughly excellent, if not a slightly soggy time. I shall, however, leave you with another of my current crushes (what?): the always-awesome Black Stone Cherry. I saw them last year at around this time (October, I believe) and it was amazing; they're one of my favourite bands ever and Chris' voice is just...*shivers* The first song is 'Things My Father Said', which makes me howl like a baby because it's so beautiful; the second is 'Devil's Queen', which is my favourite song from their second album Folklore and Superstition. Sorry that the quality on the second one is 100%, but I freaking love this song! Oh, and because I'm a video-whore and a total slapper, I'm putting a Corey Taylor video on here; the beautiful version of 'Snuff' that he played at Sonisphere 2010 and dedicated to Paul Gray when I SAW HIM!! Ahem...it's my blog, I can do what I want. :D Ah, you know you guys are gonna miss me...Till I return from Soggy Scotland, farewell. And enjoy the music!! xx

OH GODS, I LOVE THIS MAN!!!!

The Pope Show

I swore I wasn't going to do this post. I promised myself that I wasn't going to do it, because I know there are many people out there who are passionate about their beliefs and, although I may not agree with you about it, I have always said I would defend to the death your right to worship however you see fit (as long as you don't push it down anyone else's throat. Especially mine). I even, shock horror, found myself defending the Catholic Church last Sunday in an argument with my Anglican grandmother, when I quite reasonably pointed out that not every priest is a paedophile and it isn't part of their job description. Yes, of course what has happened in the Catholic Church (and no doubt many other organisations over the years - look at orphanages and boarding schools) is horrendous; words can't accurately describe just how vile and reprehensible it is, and frankly the attitude of the Pope and the rest of the powers-that-be to the whole thing has been despicable, but bad apples and barrels, y'know? Believe me, no one was more surprised than I was by my sudden impassioned defence...

However. Oh, but however...No longer can I keep my big trap shut, and so this is going to be a bit of a ranty, what-the-fuck kind of post. Now that His Popeness is actually here, I'm starting to get slightly sickened by the whole freaking charade.

First of all, I find it completely ludicrous that in a nominally-Anglican country, the tax-payer is expected to contribute towards the cost of the whole shebang. We're facing horrendous cuts thanks to the retarded attitude of our Government; if we were a Catholic country I could maybe understand it, but we aren't. And why the hell is the whole thing being treated as a state visit? The Pope is the head of a religious sect to all intents and purposes, not a visiting President or monarch; why we have to treat him any differently is beyond me. The Catholic Church wanted him here, fair enough - he is their spiritual leader, after all - but then they should foot the bill. It's not a state visit in my eyes, so I want my money back, please. Give it to a charity that works in AIDS research, or put it towards a fund to help pay for counselling for the children abused by priests...

There is also the small issue of the whole attitude of the Catholic Church - and recently reiterated by His Popeness - with regard to women (although I couldn't give a hoot about women bishops, my inner Feminazi screams in unbridled fury at the implication that my gender makes me a lesser being in the eyes of some constructed faith - that's patriarchy for you); homosexuality, and the general attitude towards contraception. Now correct me if I'm wrong (I lay no claim to being an expert on the Bible; I've never read it) but I'm not aware that it actually states in black and white 'thou shalt never wear condoms'. Besides that, even if it did (and I know there's the whole 'go forth and multiply' directive), things have changed in the past 2000 years or so; Jesus and his happy band of followers didn't have to worry about HIV and AIDS whereas we, sadly, do, and how anyone with any modicum of influence and control over people (like the Pope) can stand by and actively encourage people not to use condoms when the rates of HIV and AIDS are going through the roof (especially to the faithful in Africa)...well, as far as I'm concerned he's as good as killed those people. And, of course, his attitude to abortion makes me sick. So when I have some terrified woman in front of me, crying her eyes out because she got pregnant after being raped in an alleyway, or a woman whose health and life will be put at risk if she has this baby which the Church is encouraging her to have anyway because of the whole 'multiply' edict, all I can do is tell her she can't have an abortion or she'll go to hell? Yeah, that's compassionate. Love thy neighbour and all that. Nice one.

But the whole tragic spectacle has become more and more ludicrous with each day that passes, especially now he's actually here. Even before he got here one of the aides compared Britain to a Third World country; when, offended, the Brits reacted, the Vatican's idea of damage control (apart from the sudden and inexplicably well timed attack of gout suffered by said Cardinal) was, "no, no, no, we didn't mean it like THAT! We were referring to how multicultural you are!" Ah good - so you're all racist as well then? Glad we got that one cleared up...

Then, of course, there was The Speech yesterday, followed by The Speech today. Basically, the Pope has come to Britain to try and return it to the Holy Church; to turn back the tide of secularism and atheism that has swept the country and which has caused the marginalisation of religion.

Ok, first of all...most people in this country don't give a shit. We are nominally an Anglican country, not Catholic, and haven't been since Henry the Eighth thought Anne Boleyn looked a bit of a goer; therefore we don't really give a flying monkey about coming back to Holy Mother Church. It was a bad break up, I'll admit but please, move on. We're so over it. I'd say most people in this country would either describe themselves as Agnostic or Atheist anyway, unless you're one of our multicultural brothers and sisters, in which case we know what the Pope thinks of you...he's already slated other religions because, let's face it, you aren't the 'true' religion like his is. Allegedly. So yeah, this is my first problem with his crusade.

The other thing is...well, I guess he needs to sack his advisers. If I were Pope (fat chance as I'm a woman. Oh yeah, and a Pagan-heathen-burning-in-hell-non-believer), and I were coming to the UK on a mission to try and repair the damage of recent scandals and atrocities and to bring people back to the Light of the Lord, I would want to show the world how wonderful my religion is. I would actively want to get out there and spread the word, to bring people who have left in disgust back to the church and to maybe spark the interest of others who previously had no faith, so that they could seek out the information for themselves and maybe - just maybe - find spiritual peace in my faith. What I would not do is come over here and denounce the whole bloody lot of you as 'dangerous atheists', compare secularism and atheism to Nazism, and tell a load of schoolchildren that science was a bad thing. Way to win friends and influence people. It actually makes me even more antagonistic towards religion, especially Catholicism, to have this man come over here and start bitching about how unfair it is that he and his church don't have the power and influence they once did. I don't care for organised religion and I never have, although I find all religions deeply interesting. What I don't appreciate is being told that I'm going to burn for all eternity because I chose to use my brain instead of blindly following some invisible entity. My faith is in Nature, so it's sort-of Pagan/Wiccan but not strictly; this doesn't make me a bad person. Forced conversion, however, does; something organised religions seem to be only too familiar with (and they all have very short memories, it seems. She says, having the obligatory pop at Islam and Judaism as well - I don't discriminate in my antipathy and anger. Although you never get militant Buddhists, it seems...)

Yes, Christianity may be getting marginalised in the UK today, but that's because we live in the modern era instead of clinging to archaic and outdated rules. For those who choose to believe, whether that's in God, Allah or the Pink Unicorn of the Seventh Sanctum, there is a place for them in Britain, and we should never lose sight of the fact that this country has (mostly) always been a safe place for people to practice their religion (it got a little hazy in the middle for a while, what with Catholics being burnt and then Protestants/Anglicans being burnt, and the Jews being persecuted, and the Puritans so on). But we can still be nice people, nice human beings, without believing in Catholicism or any other religion. Similarly, as the recent problems within the church have shown, you can be a man of God and still be an utterly reprehensible human being - and the Pope's way of dealing with this is to make some half-arsed apology to people and then tell us that instead of bringing these bastards to justice, we should pray for them. Only after I castrate them with blunt nail scissors and see them put before a court of law, because strangely enough - secular though it may seem, Your Popeness - that's how we do things in the real world.

I'm sick of the whole sorry charade now and I can't wait until he goes back to Rome. Although this whole blog could just be because I'm bitter about the fact that I haven't lined the church's coffers by not owning any of the official merchandise; maybe if I had a 'Benedictaphone' to sing into, I wouldn't be so recalcitrant and secular. Or I could just be a realist...

Yes, It's Fucking Political!!!

Sometimes the world is a wonderful place, full of magick and abundance, when butterflies dance on shafts of light and there is music and mystery in the babbling brooks and on the gentle breezes. And sometimes the world is like the playground bully who steals your lunch money, punches you in the guts and then, for good measure, kicks sand in your face before running off laughing with your best friend.

When this happens, there are two strategies you can adopt. The first is to scream obscenities in the general direction of the All-Powerful Force of the Universe, shaking your fist and screaming how unfair the whole thing is before collapsing in a sobbing, hysterical heap on the floor. The second, always advocated by the hippy-dippy or ultra-religious lot, is to Count Your Blessings; the idea being that even in the depths of your ultimate despair you'll still be able to summon up the oomph to thank whichever Power you believe in that you aren't a starving African child or a victim of the Haitian earthquake. Clearly those people have never been in the depths of a depression so powerful that actually being a starving African child is preferable to your own miserable existence. Unless it's a starving African child adopted by Angelina Jolie or Madonna; then I think I'll stick with the pit of depression.

I, however, favour a third way. Although I try and count 3 good things that have happened to me each day and chronicle them in my notebook (I know; I'm such a hippy), there are always other things that I know I can count on when the going gets really, really tough...

1) My family, specifically my mum. Even when I have been the most unbearably awful child imaginable, shrieking in hysterical hypochondria or just generally being a complete cow, she is always, always there for me. I wish that everyone could be so lucky to have such a mother; however, no matter how much I love you, you cannot have her - she is mine and I won't do sharesies!!

2) My friends. They are all so different and yet all so dear to me. 'Nuff said, really.

3) Books. Opening a book is like opening a door into another world. There is always something new and wondrous to discover and sometimes you need to be taken out of the craptacular real world for a bit and play somewhere else.

4) Music. Ahh, music. Now this is always guaranteed to make my day because there is quite literally a song for every occasion; something to make the mood and the moment feel more intense. Music soothes the savage beast, it is the food of love and it's the best thing to get you through the good, the bad, the indifferent and just about anything you can think of. A few examples of my own personal soundtrack to life...

* Songs for expressing your righteous anger at the scumbags that somehow pass as politicians these days, with their smug smiles and their silly Eton haircuts: Yes, It's Fucking Political by Skunk Anansie; Take The Power Back by Rage Against The Machine; Fuck You by Lily Allen.
* Songs for being a general pain in "The Man's" butt: anything by Rage Against The Machine, really, but Killing In The Name Of goes down well...or not!
* Songs that remind me of my friends: Trash by Suede; Rasputin by Turisas; Escapist by Nightwish and (for Lee) Don't Stop Movin' by S Club 7. Remember lunchtimes in the pub, Lee-Lee? Ahh, happy days...
* Songs for getting over a break up: A Child That Walks In The Path Of A Man by Angtoria; Fighter by Christina Aguilera; A Rancid Romance by Diablo Swing Orchestra; Liar by Emilie Autumn; Smoke and Mirrors by Paloma Faith.
* Songs that take me right back to my teenage years: Weak by Skunk Anansie; Trash by Suede; Stupid Girl by Garbage; Yourself by the Manic Street Preachers; Bohemian Like You by the Dandy Warhols; Paint Pastel Princess by Silverchair; Local Boy in the Photograph by the Stereophonics; Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana.
* Songs for a bit of a 'feminist' moment: She's Like Thunder by Doro; Return of the Mother by Nina Hagen; Bitch by Sarah Jezebel Deva; That's What the Wise Lady Said by Angtoria; Why Didn't You Call Me by Macy Gray.
* Songs for my 'girlie fae' moments: What If, Rapunzel and Juliet, all by Emilie Autumn; Queen of the May, Wytches, Pagan Born, Heartbeat of the Earth, Midnight Queen, Beltane and pretty much anything by Inkubus Sukkubus.
* Songs guaranteed to reduce me to tears: Unintended and Sing For Absolution by Muse; Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley; Name by the Goo Goo Dolls; Feint by Epica; Bother by Corey Taylor; Piece of my Heart by Janis Joplin; Peace is Free by Black Stone Cherry; This is Yesterday by the Manic Street Preachers; Breathe by Abney Park; Faraway Vol. 2 by Apocalyptica.
* Songs that are better than Prozac: Drumming Song by Florence and the Machine; National Express by the Divine Comedy; The Ballad of Tom Jones by Spaced with Cerys Matthews; She Bangs by Ricky Martin; Love Machine by Girls Aloud; Airship Pirates by Abney Park; Wild Dances by Ruslana; anything by Lordi and anything by Motley Crue. Oh, and Du Hast and Pussy by Rammstein. Pussy also fits into the "songs that are not appropriate for singing in public as I found out to my eternal shame" category, along with 'The Devil is a Loser' by Lordi. Ahem...

So yeah, there you go. Quite a mixed bag, and that's only the stuff I've listened to recently or the categories that have been most appropriate recently. There are, of course, a million million more songs for both all of these categories and any other category you can think of. I honestly can't imagine my life without any of these four things, to be honest; if 'Heaven' is a place without my mum, my friends, my books and my music, you can keep it. Ooh, now there's a topic for a musical playlist...

On 9/11

Nine years ago today, I was preparing to embark on one of the biggest adventures of my life. In a week's time, I would be starting university, the first person in my immediate family to do so, and I was simultaneously excited and terrified by the prospect. Enjoying my last week of freedom before I had to knuckle down and become 'a university student', I was also glad to still be at home because my mum was recovering from an operation on her neck and although she was well on the road to recovery, it was good to be able to keep an eye on her. We had spent the morning watching trashy TV, gossiping and discussing my upcoming student-ness. That was when the BBC announcer advised that they were going to the newsroom for a special report. We rolled our eyes, laughed about "what the hell has happened now?" and waited. And then didn't move for the rest of the afternoon.

We sat and watched in horror as the cameras focused on the North Tower of the World Trade Centre, smoke billowing from its heights. A tragic accident, we surmised, as did most people caught up in the news story. And then...well, we all know what happens next.

On the ninth anniversary of the terrorist attacks on America, the sight of the second plane ploughing into the South Tower of the WTC has lost none of its impact or ability to shock. The iconic images of that day and the associated feelings that they conjure up, even after all this time, can never and should never be underestimated. Many people I know roll their eyes when people say 9/11 changed the world, dubbing it a product of media overraction; of American grandiosity and self-justifaction, but the truth is that the events of that day did change the world: it changed America; it changed the Islamic world and it changed, overtly or not, every other nation. It led America, Britain and other allied nations into the wars in Afghanistan and, subsequently, in Iraq. It changed the way we travel by plane. It made a previously unheard-of Saudi man the most wanted man in the world and it tested politicians, military personnel and civilians to the limits. Nothing like this could have been foreseen; no plan could ever have been laid down for what to do in this situation and yet ordinary people somehow, someway found the strength and resiliance to get through and to help others. Men and women who previously had been office workers, flight attendents, former military personnel; people who were husbands and wives, parents, brothers, sisters...they found the courage to cope with this extraordinary set of circumstances and, in many cases, to perform unthinkable acts of bravery.

9/11 changed the world as we know it but, nine years on, can we really say that we've learnt anything from it. The recent furore over the Florida preacher threating to burn the Qur'an today, the ongoing struggles in Afghanistan and Iraq to this day, the rise of Islamophobia and fundamentalism of all kinds...there were lessons to be learnt and I wonder whether people really have. Hatred and intolerance seem to be on the increase, and it's those attitudes that increase the likelihood of another attack somewhere in the world.

Hatred begets hatred. Intolerance begets intolerance. Discrimination begets discrimination. We need to learn the lessons that 9/11 and 7/7 taught us and rise above these things, to work together to overcome the evils of this world and do what we can to make it a safer place for the generations to come.

MUSE!!!!!

Ahem. *coughs* Yes, I think I'm still a little overemotional after the gig last night. I'm also incredibly tired, which doesn't help the emotion and also makes me unable to type (not to mention turns me into Oscar the Grouch!)

I wish I could tell you, in exact detail, everything about seeing Muse at Wembley last night. I wish I could explain, without sounding like a total fangirl, how important their music has been to me in the past when dealing with "stuff". I wish I could describe exactly why I cried last night on actually getting to see them live. I even wish I could put into words exactly what it is about them that I love so much (besides the fact that I fancy Matt Bellamy like mad). But I can't. I actually, physically cannot find the words. All I can tell you is that the White Rabbits have become a new favorite band of mine, the Big Pink needn't have bothered, Lily Allen was just amazing and I love her, and Muse were...well, Muse were Muse. And Goddess, how emotional...Luckily for me, this time round they didn't play "Unintended" or "Sing for Absolution", because then I would have had to have been taken away by the men in white coats and given ECT to calm my hysterical sobs, but they did play this song (video from their last Wembley gig) and it did reduce me to tears.

Rob - this is for you. You know why. xx

This Was Their Finest Hour...

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the Blitz. Naturally, and quite rightly, the Beeb has been mentioning it at every available opportunity. I'm actually really glad they have, because - thanks to the oh-so-reliable One Show - I have learnt something. Apparently, there is no official memorial to the brave men of Bomber Command.

Just think about that for a teeny, tiny second, please. These young men, over half of whom never returned home, were flying deep into enemy territory and, although we can look back with the luxury of the distance of years and some safety and shudder at the terrible bombings of Dresden, Berlin and the rest, they were only following orders. Just because Churchill himself distanced himself from his own commands at the end of the war (kinda ruins the 'saint Winston' image otherwise), the memories of the fallen shouldn't have to suffer; nor should the quiet heroism of the survivors be allowed to slide into obscurity. Apparently, a memorial to the dead of Bomber Command has been given the go-ahead this year - at long last. So as we look back at the heroism and stoicism of the British people during the Blitz - not just in London but all over the country - and at the daring-do of the pilots of the Battle of Britain, let's not forget the quiet men, the forgotten heroes. Their bravery and sacrifice must not be allowed to be swept under the carpet any more. Let us shout from the very rooftops of St Paul's - this was their finest hour, so here's to the Boys of Bomber Command!!

And of course whenever I think about the RAF and the Second World War, there are two family stories that always spring to mind. The first is that of my beloved Great-Auntie Rose, who tragically passed away last year. I loved my Auntie Rosie; she had an absolutely shocking life until she met my Great-Uncle Ron and the rest of his family, but it never made her bitter or resentful. She really was one of life's truly sweet and gentle people and I completely adored her. That said, we did always have a giggle over some of her exploits - her sense of humour was legendary within the family, and she once joked that she was going to get a motorbility scooter "so she could come down and see us". The thought of her bombing down the M25 on her scooter simultaneously made me shriek with laughter and want to warn the traffic police! During the war, while my Uncle Ronnie was was away fighting, Auntie Rosie worked in a factory making Spitfires, and the family always joked that it was amazing we managed to win the Battle of Britain with Rosie making the planes!!

The second family story is the one that makes me fiercely proud of my ancestors, and also goes someway perhaps to explaining my own personality. According to the story, my great-grandmother was walking home one day when one of the Luftwaffe's finest Doodlebug's flew overhead. Never one to back down from a challenge, Great Granny brandished her umbrella in a particularly menacing manner, shook it in her clenched fist at the departing German drone and shouted, "come on then, you buggers!!!" Great Granny versus the Luftwaffe? Please, no contest. If Churchill had sent some of the women of my family in to Germany, Hitler would have whimpered and rolled over within a matter of weeks. You don't mess with my bloodline...

That said, I now need to go in search of a Galadriel dress. My beloved Baby Forumbat and adopted daughter Gemma turns 18 in November, and is having a fancy dress party to celebrate. We all have to go dressed as something beginning with G. Owen is going as Gimli, from Lord of the Rings, and Ryan is going as Gandalf. When I heard that, I immediately dismissed all thoughts of 'gerbils' and 'gooseberries' from my mind and announced I would go as Galadriel. Cue much excitement from the others, and much scratching of my own fair head as to how and where I can transform myself into the luminous Cate Blanchett in two months.

Maybe I should go as a germ after all...

Consider Yourself...One Of The Family...

Ok, so bad West End musical impressions aside (oh, Oliver, how I adore thee!!) the title for today's post springs from the fact that I spent yesterday up in The Big Smoke with my beloved second family, the Forumbats. It is absolutely astonishing to think that it was only really just over a year ago that we all met properly, although there had been months/years of peripheral contact and abuse on the Nightwish forum beforehand, and yet I genuinely cannot imagine my life without any of them now. From the first initial "um...wombat?" at Brixton Academy last March to the hysteria that ensued in the Science Museum yesterday, I honestly adore all of them. Yes, Raymond, even you...

We were only six yesterday, as some of the Forumbats appear to have gone missing in action; another one (Alicia) is away in the Frozen Viking Wastelands of the North; and two (Rich and Ryan - flange!) were otherwise occupied, but those of us who did make the perilous trek into the capital reverted to type in our natural habitat of Hyde Park and spent hours talking about anything and everything, observed some very weird goings-on (a woman doing some bizarre form of Tai Chi, a couple who really needed to get a room and several strategically positioned corpses) before the so-called British Summertime became too much for us and we retreated to the warmth of the museums. After dragging the boys round the costume section of the V&A, we went up to the Cast Courts and technically went halfway round Europe. Next time I go away, I shall dispense with my camera and just take a whole truckload of Plaster of Paris with me...Having 'returned' from our travels, we spent many a happy hour shoving small children out of the way impatiently as we took our own child (Baby Forumbat GemGem) round the wonders of the Science Museum. I think I can confidently say that we learnt absolutely nothing from the experience, but we had a damn good laugh the whole time, so I would say it was a successful outcome!

Sadly, we had to lose Holly a bit early (well done on your A-levels again, sweetie; I am soooo proud of you!!) and GemGem and Owen too were gone by six (love you lots, my clever, fabulous daughter, and Owen, you are a complete genius). That left myself, Ray and Hannah (happy birthday for today, Hannah!! Love you!!) to stuff ourselves with chips before heading off to the Crossbones graveyard...

Crossbones is a patch of unconsecrated scrub ground which, back in medieval times, was designated the final resting place for the so-called "Winchester Geese"; the prostitutes licensed by the Bishop of Winchester to ply their trade in the area around the Clink. Over time, it became a place where all those too poor or 'shamed' to be given a decent Christian burial (not just prostitutes) were buried. When the Jubiliee line was being built, it was rediscovered and 148 bodies were removed; since then, it has become a place of pilgrimage and a memorial, not just to those who were and are still buried there, but to the many women within the sex industry today who have been murdered. There are memorials to the five women murdered in Ipswich, to the three women killed in Bradford and other cases that don't make the national news. I heard about it a few months ago and, as I potentially have an ancestor who was a sex worker (she was known as a 'seamstress', a euphemism for prostitute and as she only had one hand I'm a little dubious as to the exact brilliance of her sewing ability), I became intrigued. It was deeply moving and a very sombre end to the day, but I'm very grateful that Ray and Hannah came with me and I hope it wasn't too depressing for you both.

So all told, yesterday was a marvellous day and I love my Forumbat family more than life itself. Holly and Owen, good luck as you head off to uni in the next few weeks; I'm very proud of you both for your epic A-level results and know you'll both be brilliant. GemGem, my Baby and my treasure, I love you to bits and I am so pleased you came on Halloween and are now part of the family. And Ray and Hannah - what can I say to you that I haven't already said? I love you both more than I can say.

Forumbat meets will be harder to organise as even more of our number are off to university and the big wide world, but I can guarantee that whenever, wherever the next meet-up is, there will be much laughter, much love and complete chaos. Sorry, citizens.

RA RA!!