Thirty and in Dirty Blackpool

As usual, the act of being at home has rendered me terribly busy! I've been here, there and everywhere, seeing people, catching up and of course eating and drinking too much. Oh yes, and all that on top of bashing out a 60,000 word first draft of a story in preparation for my dissertation. It's amazing how a pen can run away with itself!
My 30th birthday was a momentous occasion, and I must say I'm feeling completely older and wiser now. Ha. I've been thinking about everything that happened in the decade that was my 20s. At the beginning of it I was in my second year at university and working at pizza hut. By the end of it I'd had 16 other jobs spanning six different countries, as well as in four different cities in England. I got married. I became an aunty (three times!). I visited lots of wonderful places and met countless wonderful people. 
Yes, my 30s have got a lot to live up to, but I feel sure they're up to the challenge!

Last weekend was my sister's hen night in sunny Blackpool. As is obligatory in these sorts of situations, we were drinking by 10am on the bus and arrived to overcast skies and heavy rain to drink some more. She had the full fluffy pink works including everything there is that is 'willy' (willy lollipops, willy whistles, willy straws, you name it). We headed out to a transvestite show, which I have to say showcased Blackpool's absolute finest. That sounds sarcastic, but it's really not. In it's heyday Blackpool was the place to go: ballroom dancing in the the tower, shows, fair rides on the pier and donkey rides on the sandy beach. Unfortunately with the decline of the British seaside holiday (which the crappy weather is largely to blame for), Blackpool seems to now have a sign at the gates saying 'hen and stag dos only.' The result is a load of dirty people being loud and getting paralytic. I saw a fair few collapsed people and ambulances by the time the night was over. Not to mention the fact that Blackpool is known for having a pretty down-and-out populace. 'Funny Girls,' however, was wonderful. Set in a proper theatre, it included tap dancing, ballroom dancing and acrobatics. There were tributes to Michael Jackson and the Spice Girls, and even an amusing montage from The Sound of Music! Despite being up on the balcony I went to order at the downstairs bar, simply to get a closer look at the trannies serving the drinks there. They were amazing! What struck me was the difference between the Dame Edna-esque trannies of Blackpool and the lady boys of south east Asia. The hugely tall compared to short, the larger than life wigs compared to glossy home grown hair, the stuffed bras compared to the real fake boobies, the gruff voices and stubbly chins compared to the high pitched girly laughs and baby soft cheeks. The adams apples compared to the lack thereof. The transvestites compared to the transsexuals. The list goes on. 
One of my favourite parts of the evening was wondering what the 80 year old woman in the booth next to us thought of it all...

All in all I have to say Blackpool proved itself as a right laugh-if a bit of a dive. 

The hens out in the sun (if you ask me 7pm is way to early for this sort of thing!)

Tranny Sound of Music aka 'Rachel's highlight.' Terrible picture but hey...

It's really quite pretty when you look at it this way

Hoping to be back a little sooner next time. But in the words of the north, I'll say turrah for now!

 

Praying for Rain

On Friday the heavens opened and there was a major downpour. Much like England and the snow, Saudi Arabia is not at all prepared for rain. There's no drainage on the roads so even a short sharp shower can create a problem. The sports centre had water pouring in through various holes in the ceiling, creating big puddles on the indoor football court. We had to wade through a river in the road to get back home (luckily I was wearing flip flops, but the old abaya got a soaking). Our school driver lives in a room by the outer door of our apartment block, and he was in serious danger of being flooded. It seems the idiots (I mean people, cough cough) who built this place thought it would be OK to make it on a slope, with no drains, leading down to the drivers room. Poor George was trying to push the water away before it came over the threshold.
So anyway, on Saturday we had a small miracle befall us, in that school was cancelled! Hurrah for King Abdullah who declared that all schools be closed. Sweet! The only annoying part was that we didn't find out until half 11 at night, by which time I was already in bed, rather than up partying.
On Saturday, much to my disappointment, there was hardly any rain. I had a great day watching films, making a map and generally bumming around. In the evening we waited up way too late hoping and wishing for that happy text message saying we would be off again on Sunday. But it never came (sob), which meant not only did we have to go to school the next day, but we were also really tired from excitedly waiting into the night.
Sunday morning was the first time in my life I've ever been angry at a clear blue sky. Damn you sun! Ever since then the clouds have been playing with my emotions, gathering and looking ominous, then disappearing beyond trace. And the weather forecast is just as bad, predicting thunder storms and then failing to deliver. What's the point in even predicting anything if you're as wrong as thunderstorms to 'actually no it's really hot and pleasant.' Hmpf.

My students were all really excited when they came back to school on Sunday. They were full of stories of picnics and swimming in the rain. Weirdos.

  

Happy Birthday!

As a presently unemployed person I can’t say I was particularly enthralled at first with the idea of the Jubilee. I mean, who needs two extra days off when everyday is a holiday? If anything I was actually annoyed as it meant two more days when our visa process would not be moving along.
But somehow, slowly but surely, the great British spirit began to infiltrate my being, starting when I came home late on Saturday night to find my Mum had put up bunting in the living room. The good old red white and blue- sometimes it can’t help but make you smile. The following day involved the purchasing of some strawberries and cream and an impromptu BBQ, and before I knew it I was feeling the Jubilee joy.
As a newly converted enthusiast to the cause I was appalled and disgusted to learn that two separate individuals—a radio DJ and a member of the public on national TV—had both managed to loudly congratulate the Queen on reaching her 60^th birthday.
Oh. No.
That, right there, is what's wrong with the nation, people. Whether you love, hate or are indifferent to the royal family, there is no excuse for that.  It truly frightens me to know that there are people who are that stupid.  
I ended up watching some of the performances at Buckingham palace on the TV, really wishing I was there. Something about big events in London just whips you up in a flurry of excitement. As I watched the Jubilee event I found myself touched by the sense of unity. I even enjoyed the part where the crowd chanted ‘Philip’ over and over so he could hear them from his hospital bed. Here Philip, one has rounded up a friendly group of football fans in your honour.
The pinnacle of the night was Prince Charles’ speech, which I enjoyed whilst simultaneously being slightly confused as to why Cheryl Cole was chosen to stand behind the Queen. Then there was the National Anthem and finally Land of Hope and Glory, a song that embarrassingly enough has the power to make me cry. That's right, I may have shed a small tear and I'm not afraid to admit it (or am I, I don't know, it's pretty bad). I might start a petition to make it our national anthem as I think it’s much more fitting, as well as being less egotistical for the Queen.
After never giving it much thought in the past, I’ve come to the realisation over the weekend that I’m proud to be part of a country that still has a monarchy, and not only that but to be living during the reign of the soon to be longest standing monarch in English history. Maybe the royal family does cost us money, but they also put it back through tourism and are a source of great history and tradition. And I really don’t hear anyone complaining about those two extra bank holidays. So I say hurrah and God save the Queen!

I said…. Yeah

It’s hard to know where exactly this story started, in much the same way as it has not yet and probably will never finish. Maybe it began in a small and stuck-up office somewhere in Madrid where I was told to leave and never come back. Or maybe it began before that when I was lucky enough to become an aunty twice over, consequently promising myself I would never move as far away as Korea ever again.
As I searched for jobs, considering and then dismissing (or being dismissed from) various worldwide options, I found myself drawn to the UAE, but for one reason or another it seemed impossible to actually gain employment there at this point. Onwards my eye searched, to the UAE’s bigger, bolder and definitely scarier brother Saudi Arabia. After much deliberation, Lee and I decided we would give it a go. No less than ten minutes into an interview however, it became apparent exactly how big a problem it would be to live there as merely 'a couple.’ Walking down the street together, visiting each others houses or in fact talking to each other at any point are on the list of things that are illegal for a man and woman who are not related or married to do. Hello hands chopped off, or possible stoning (how I joke).This reality led to an awkward moment involving skype and a recruiter named Hannah, in which Lee proposed marriage, and Hannah left us to ‘talk things through together.’
Getting married? For a job? The thought was at first completely insane. Perhaps over time we talked ourselves into it, but nevertheless somewhere down the line it started to make sense. Surely everyone needs a reason to get married and maybe this was ours. I’ve heard a few people say they think marriage should be ‘for love’ but I’m confused why anyone would wag their finger at us disapprovingly and use this as an argument against our decisions. There has never been any doubt as to the fact that I love Lee, and I am certain the feeling is mutual. The real culprits of not marrying for love, in my eyes, are those who do it for money, due to pregnancy or pressure from parents, or because ‘it’s what people do,’ to name just a few reasons.
The next step was to call Coventry registry office. Has there ever been a more depressing thought? I’m not sure. Certain that it wasn’t the right way for us, and after a few too many drinks at a close friend’s wonderful after-wedding-house-party, our plan was born. Vegas baby!
And that was that basically. Four days later we arrived and exactly a week after making the decision we got married. Accidentally during a solar eclipse, may I add!
I loved it. People think Vegas chapels are cheesy, which they totally are, but it’s so perfect because you can do exactly what you want to do, exactly your way, and no one bats an eyelid. My only criticism is that same sex marriage is illegal in the state of Nevada- which seems to juxtapose the entire point, but never mind. The service was ten minutes long, conducted by minister Bob. I was terrified and clung to Lee’s hands, trying not to nervously laugh my way through the vows. I seriously don’t know how people do that in front of all their family and friends! I was actually so scared that it wasn’t till afterwards I realised I had in fact forgotten to say ‘I do.’ I knew at the time that ‘yeah’ wasn’t quite right, but couldn’t for the life of me think why. So there we have it, I am the girl who said ‘yeah.’ Nice one.
Afterwards we had a bottle of Asti and went on the rides at the top of the Stratosphere tower. All in all it was my idea of a perfect wedding!
I'm a great believer in things happening for a reason, so I know that however unconventional or weird it all may seem, something led me and Lee down this path and I know deep down that it was the right thing to do. Added to which, I'll always be able to say that my wedding dress cost 21 dollars! Now what could possibly be better than that?   

A Toast

At the weekend we celebrated my Grandparents diamond wedding anniversary. For all of you who are unaware—as I was—that’s 60 years. 60 years! It was a lovely party, totally heart wrenching, especially when they did a re-enactment of their wedding cake photo. In my life I’ve been lucky enough to celebrate with two couples in my family on their diamond anniversary. My Grandma was talking about ordering her telegram from the Queen, which reminded me that my great-grandparents used to have theirs framed on the wall, all those years ago.
I’ve done a bit of research on these telegrams: it seems there are only two ways in which you can get one, both of which invariably involve being very old. Firstly, as I’ve said, you have to have a diamond wedding anniversary. The other option open to us is to turn 100 years old. But the good news is that you get another one at 105, then one each year thereafter. I think my chances of ever qualifying for either option one or two are pretty slim. It seems the Queen has pretty high expectations.
I’m wondering whether a diamond wedding anniversary is going to become a thing of the past? Even if we don’t count only marriages but all relationships, I don’t know how many people in my generation will ever see that day even as a couple. In the world of ‘anniversaries’ (which of course I’m not even on the scale of yet because obviously it involves a rather minute detail called a wedding) I have made it to ‘iron.’ Not the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. If I am to have a go at making it to diamond then I, or should I say we have only got 52 years left. According to a website ‘the history of the diamond anniversary’ (gripping stuff) diamond was originally for the 75 mark. Now that just seems unreasonable. I’m not sure it’s even possible. Get married at 20, celebrate at 95… Apparently it changed after Queen Victoria celebrated her 60^th year on the throne in 1897, and decided to call it her diamond jubilee. Couples then followed her lead. So there you go! I think my favourite anniversary has to be 80, entitled Oak. Whoever made that up had a rather morbid sense of humour.  
When researching the names of the different anniversary years, I found some rather amusing website names, the most amazing being ‘women’s thoughts.’ Obviously I had to take a look, to see what it is I’m supposed to be thinking. It’s actually quite a sweet website for the forty-something woman, a forum in which they can chat and have their say. But, I ask you, is it really necessary to include a list of every Anniversary and corresponding jewel/piece of crap that comes with it. I mean, what a cliché ladies.
Anyway, what is the point in this random selection of musings? I guess I just think that making it to sixty years of marriage is something to be proud of and deserves a mention. That’s all.