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!

 

Travel, study, pack, enjoy!

At the moment it seems that life leaves little or no space for blogging. In the last couple of weeks in Korea I was finishing three pieces of work for my research methods module and packing up our flat (annoying as we're going back but weren't allowed to keep the room). The packing really put into perspective how much stuff we humans accumulate in life. Just six months of being in Korea resulted in boxes and boxes of stuff to leave there for the summer! You have to wonder where it all comes from and why we really need it.

We stopped off in Amsterdam on the way back, but not without hitch. One of the things I'm beginning to realise about travelling so often is that it results in fairly frequent (and expensive) f*ck ups.

So here's the story:

Our boss booked the ticket through a travel agent, with a change in Amsterdam on the way to Birmingham International. After deciding we wanted to stay in Amsterdam for a couple of days, we phoned KLM to change the second ticket, but they said only the travel agent could change it. We couldn't get in contact with the travel agent, so we bought another ticket instead, with another airline.
At Seoul airport we were told it was against the conditions of the (first) ticket to pick up our bags halfway through the journey, therefore our bags would be sent through to Birmingham, despite us not wanting them to. Pretty annoying when the journey has been paid for twice! The robotic 'customer handling agent' refused to do anything about it, but said maybe in Amsterdam we would be able to stop our bags.

11 hours later, at Amsterdam airport...
We were told it was impossible to give us our bags, but if we didn't board the plane then our bags would be offloaded and held until we paid the release fee of 275 euros per bag. Which was obviously insane, not to mention more money than buying a new flight. So we bought a new flight.
We went back to Birmingham and left one bag in the lockers there. The wait time for the flight was four hours, which we spent mainly in the airport bar. This resulted in us drinking too much and (Lee) telling far too many people that we were on our way to Amsterdam, "but had already been there once today."

What a crazy world.

Amsterdam was, of course, wonderful, and I hold out hope that we'll be able to live there one day, when we make our millions. I love the bikes, the canals, the friendliness, the relaxed atmosphere. I love the cafes and the red light district. I love that every bar has a resident cat! We went to Anne Frank's House, which was interesting, being something I've known about and seen pictures of for as long as I can remember.

And now, once again, we're home. It always feels so strange in that all the waiting and missing everyone fades to a distant memory, as we seamlessly slot back in. As always, it's like we were never away.

This summer is set to be busy and extremely fun. Plans include meeting two very important babies, going to a very important wedding, writing a very important dissertation, clearing out my very important (not really) stuff, helping my parents with their very important move to Kent, and going to Brazil for the all important World Cup!!!

And now I'll leave you with a picture of dear Coventry on a lovely sunny afternoon. It's not all bad here! 

Shhh, a Secret Festival

I'll apologise now for the silly amount of videos and photos in this post. It's just one of those things, I couldn't help myself.

Last week Lee and I went to an oh-so-secret-festival-that-cannot-be-named. We booked our tickets only a couple of weeks beforehand, because our friend invited us to come and see his band and we thought 'why not?' And we definitely didn't regret it. The festival feeling was so friendly and the music extremely diverse, treating your ears to a mix of swing, reggae, drum and base and everything in between as we ambled between the various stages. I especially like the outdoor stages that had man-made hills around the edge, creating pits of music in the middle. There was an insane amount of fancy dress going on, with veterans of the festival going all out in various wild costumes, or just not wearing any clothes at all. The campsite had postmen and women in complete get-up, hired to take post to the tents using addresses as vague as 'blue tent next to the tree on the left, East Camp.'
My favourite tent/stage had to be The Village Hall, which came complete with vicar, cleaner and even lollipop lady to help you across the zebra crossing on the grass outside. At the Village Hall we watched some amazing acoustic guitar, the highlight being a medley from Jungle Book. We also witnessed some marriages and even a funeral of festival volunteers, lead by the slightly psychotic vicar.
Our friend's band Sashi and the Wild Beans couldn't help but make you bop around to the soulful, fun sax infused beats. Have a listen, it's great.

And as it is when you know musicians, we were then introduced to friends of friends, who happened to be another amazingly talented and fun band They Say Jump. They were unexpectedly asked to play on the main stage in addition to their allotted set, which meant that we were able to follow them like groupies and soak up some of their glory and happiness.

I loved nearly all the music and was pleasantly surprised at the lack of Indie bands. Hooray for me.
There is clearly no expense spared in the vision for this festival. There was a swim-or-sail-up shipwreck stage in the middle of the lake, and countless artwork pieces such as a huge muti-coloured hand created out of inflated rubber gloves. There was the Artful Badger stage hidden in the woods, with old pianos dotted here and there to play on if you felt like it. There were workshops galore: knitting, hoola hoop, fire breathing and songwriting to name just a few. At night there were camp fires or hardcore raves, depending on what you were in the mood for. On the last night we happened upon Natty Congeroo and the Flames of Rhythm, an energetic Cuban-Harlem swing/jazz act that reminded me of the bad guy in Princess and the Frog.
Saturday night saw the real climax of the festival. We watched Dread Zone and 2 Many DJs, then eagerly awaited Faithless. And we never could have predicted what was done to keep us occupied in the run up to the headliner. Cue flame throwers. Cue fireworks to Killing in the Name Of, giving way to Thriller, and a whole variety of other eclectic classics. The fireworks were epic and could probably give the Southbank New Years Eve ones a run for their money. And when I though it couldn't get any better, Land of Hope and Glory blasted out and I thought I was going to die of happiness.

After that the shipwreck in the middle of the lake was set on fire to the sound of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, aka the music V blows up parliament to in V for Vendetta.

And it really was like in the film! Amazing.

To sum up, I would describe the festival as a celebration of freedom, creativity, individuality and fun, a place for all types and shapes of music, drama and expression. Basically it was the don, but to tell you the name of it would be to ruin the secret, so you'll just have to figure it out for yourself...

 

The Gym/Club disguise

After ten months of sitting on my arse eating chocolate and doing no more exercise than walking the ten paces between my house and the school bus, I've decided to take drastic action by joining a gym. Eek! I'm certainly no fan of the gym atmosphere: the repetitive grind of the treadmill; individuals keeping themselves to themselves and probably pretending they're somewhere else; everybody inserting exercise into their lives because it isn't there naturally. It's true, the gym is a pretty hateful place. But never fear my friends, the one I've joined is no ordinary gym! Pure Gym in Coventry is in an old nightclub building, a nightclub that entertained me for many happy hours between the ages of 16-18. My main nights there were Thursdays, and I have fond memories of staying out till three then dragging myself into sixth form the next morning to giggle my still drunk self through group readings of Shakespeare in English class. Those were the days.The building still has the layout of the club, with all the equipment pointing towards the glitter ball in the middle. I was told the other day that at night they even dim the lights. Ooooh! My way of enjoying myself is to pretend I'm back at the club, the songs they play making for easy inspiration. Yesterday I jogged to Base in the Place London by Public Domain, instantly transporting me back to the days of 'raving' around my heels and handbag. Sigh.

And in those heyday years of the 'superclub' Ikon, it came complete with podium dancers, stilt walkers and a strict dress code. It was so cool.  
But rather than focus on the depressing downward spiral trend of all things Coventry, I am instead being grateful that through the powers of reminiscing, my gym experience is more exciting.

Transformations of a building from one thing to another is a delicate and problematic business. For me it is never more delicate than when a disused church is taken up for another purpose. In Leeds I remember a big old church that was part of the Theatre department. Fine by me. And in Nottingham there's a lovely Pitcher and Piano pub in an old church building. Also fine by me. What was not fine, however, was when a new nightclub opened in Leeds in an old church building. Its name Halo struck me as a bit insulting from the off, but I'd seen nothing yet. The club had stripper-dancers dressed as Nuns, and the stained glass windows were one by one getting smashed thanks to the lairy clientele the place was attracting. Now I'm not particularly religious, but I couldn't help feeling that it was all a little disrespectful, not to mention a terrible waste of a beautiful building. Makes me mad.

Anyway, that's enough ramblings. I'm off to party at the gym!
    

 
 

Flying Visit

I am currently in the middle of our nine day holiday in England, and I'm loving it. If it wasn't for the fact that it's f-f-freezing here then I'd be more than happy to stay forever.
We travelled first by Saudi Air from Riyadh to Dammam, which in case you're not familiar with Middle Eastern geography, meant we were still in Saudi Arabia, and therefore couldn't drink either on the plane or whilst waiting for our connection. Argh! The waiting was slow and painful but somehow I survived.
I particularly enjoyed take off from Riyadh- instead of doing the usual safety procedure routine, there was the following announcement: And now you will hear a prayer that the prophet Muhammed used to say before travelling.
OK, of course a prayer can be nice, but 1) Muhammad travelled mainly on camels so I imagine wasn't in much danger of crashing into the sea; 2) Isn't the safety procedure the very thing 'God' has given us as a means of staying safe, so shouldn't we use it?
It's the whole Inshallah thing again. Inshallah means roughly 'God willing.' The Saudis use and misuse it to excess, often as an excuse to do nothing about a problem. If God wants it to be so, it will be. But of course the major flaw here is that you still have to be proactive in order for things to happen!
Did you ever hear that joke about the guy who's drowning?
A lifeboat comes up to him but he refuses help, saying 'God will save me.'
This happens a second, then third time.
The man dies and goes to heaven where he meets God.
He asks, "Why didn't you save me?"
God replies, "I sent three lifeboats to rescue you, what more did you want?!!"

For me this applies to all aspects of life, even without God added into the equation. People can miss opportunities to do things they want to do, because the opportunities don't look how they thought they would.

I did, however, feel like maybe we needed a prayer whilst having the wings of the plane de-iced at Amsterdam airport. Not something nervous flyers would want to see!

Quite a fun job?

The view over England was so beautiful. It always is, above the clouds, and the joke is that I can't remember the last time I flew into England without there being clouds, sigh.

I've spent the last few days in a frenzy of spending time with friends and family, drinking too much (hooray!) and watching the beautiful snow fall. Although I really am an 'enjoy the snow from the safety and warmth of inside' kinda gal, because the reality of the outside is mainly a lot of grey slush.

The view from my bedroom

And now the question I'm asking is.... will we actually be able to get back to Saudi Arabia on Friday??

 









Sadness and Stress (the happiest post in the world)

I was in the middle of writing a blog post on Sunday when I received the news that my beautiful cat Freddie had suddenly died. I would like to say I held it together but truth be told I was devastated. Freddie was lovely and I was very attached to him from the moment we brought him home six years ago. He was so much smaller than his brother and didn't even know how to drink milk properly at first. He was such a curious and sociable cat and would often follow me wherever I went round the house. While I've been at home recently he watched me play on the Wii a lot, his head going back and forwards, trying to figure out what on earth I was doing. I never once saw him remotely angry or vicious (except of course when he brought in mice).
He was found under a neighbours garden bench, and just looked asleep.
I know he was just a cat, but he was my cat and I loved him. He will be truly missed and the Rock house won't be the same without him.

Anyway, that's that. This is what I was writing before about my new job:


A combination of spoilt children brought up by maids and lack of organisation in the school, meant that on my first day I stepped into a classroom that was worse than any I have experienced before (that's right SEV people, they were in fact worse than aloysius). The principal's warning that morning that I should be strict, in no way prepared me for the running on the tables, the water fights, the actual fights and the screaming and shouting that were pretty much constant through my first and second day. I know I'm not the toughest person in the world and I don't claim to know everything about classroom management, but I really did try. When you've been given no reward or discipline system, however, and no pencils, paper or even teachers desk, it is basically impossible. I asked the principal if I could send students down to her office if necessary, to which she just laughed and said, "no we don't do that here." So what then? Eventually, after a few instances of taking children by the arm and hurling them out of the room (not my proudest educational moments) I finally found someone to call on in times of crisis. A non-English speaking intern who by goodness knows how to shout. By the end of the week, just the threat of bringing her in was enough to make most of the boys at least sit down, if not be quiet.
One week in, I think I'm going to be OK. Yes, the boys are still naughty and loud and one in particular is completely defiant and refuses to do anything- he lay on the floor, plumping up other people's bags to use as pillows in my last class- but they are also really sweet and hilarious. And it's amazing how a seven year old can be bought with the promise of a smiley face stamp on their hand.
And tomorrow, after I introduce the magical all controlling star chart, my students will finally be powerless to resist my rule. hahahahahahaahaha (evil laugh).


I can now tell you, after my second week, that things are getting there slowly. My star chart is up and running and I've also been to talk to the big bosses to vent my issues. They've agreed to give me a learning support assistant, so things are looking up!

Busy Doing Nothing

I'm beginning to wonder how I will ever fit a job back into my life. How do you people do it? At the moment I find the day passes quickly, with sometimes not even enough hours in it for the things I want to do. I get up, read for a bit, or maybe play on the wii. I have a shower, clean the kitchen or hoover. I do some editing, or write a blog, or mess around trying to figure out how to make my blog look nice (this part probably accounts for about 30 percent of my time these past couple of days). I go into town, maybe meet my sister. I look at jobs and apply for one, have an interview, send some emails. I cook the dinner. I go to Lee's house or his Nan's house or I visit friends. I wallpaper a hallway, I feed the cats. I (did) watch the football, I watch Dexter with my brother, I read again. I sleep. So many options for filling the day!
At the same time, I do find that during periods of unemployment I can be unmotivated or uninspired to work on stories. I guess actually getting out the house and experiencing stuff gives me things to write about. Also I'm convinced that inactivity breeds laziness. I become the Queen of procrastination, finding any other random thing to do like rearranging a bookshelf or painting my nails again rather than actually writing. 
I think over time people develop an ability to 'spread out the fun.' Before you know it going to the dentist AND doing the ironing seems like far too much for just one small day. You don't want to wear yourself out after all! I also firmly believe that when you are free all the time, you stop appreciating your free time.

This reminds me of a random song that has stuck in my head since childhood. I don't know where it's from and I only know two of the lines, but anyway sing along if you want!

'I'm busy doing nothing, working the whole day through,
Trying to find lots of things not to do!'

Do you know the rest?

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!

It's the fashion, darling

Being away from England has given me the luxury of simply ignoring fashion. In Korea I could wear whatever, as well as be safe in the knowledge that only a few (British) foreigners would know when I was wearing Primark. Of course Koreans have a distinct fashion sense, but I never felt out of place not partaking in it. I think both I and they understood that the heels and hot pants look was just not for me. In England, however, I find myself observing high street fashion and make-up and feeling like I need to step up my game. Apparently the hybrid traveler/student/don’t really care look doesn’t cut it anymore (did it ever?). An alarming percentage of girls out and about look like they’ve spent at least three days getting ready. When did fake eyelashes become everyday attire? It’s all so confusing.  
I’ve noticed a few things during my unavoidable shopping trips this week: # 1.The height of high heels is just scary. How the hell can anyone walk in those monstrosities? There must be a lot of shoe related injuries these days.  # 2. Perfectly nice dresses now have holes in the sides. Is this the fashion? I really don’t think it suits me to have my belly on show to left and right, not dissimilar to a swimming costume from a pimped up music video.  Personally I want to know where those extra bits of material went. Surely when you buy the dress you should be given a hanky or two made from the discarded parts, or a discount at the very least.
One thing I really love about shopping here is being able to listen to peoples conversations in dressing rooms. It can be so entertaining at times that I actually forget what I’m doing and end up being there for ages. So this is what I overheard the other day (imagine the Cov accent—brash and loud—for full effect):

Girl 1- Do you like it then or does it make me look fat?
Girl 2- 100% not, you look well good, I swear.

I love England.
I was having my hair cut today and got talking to two hairdressers. One of them said her boyfriend takes longer to get ready than she does. How is this possible? Do men wear makeup? Do men have to match outfits with handbags and shoes? I don’t get it. Then the other hairdresser chipped in, saying her boyfriend not only takes ages to get ready, but also gets his eyebrows threaded! To me this is a sure sign that we have finally all gone mad. Maybe this is the way forward, but I have to say that for now I am happy with a man who shoves on his clothes, rubs his  hands quickly through his hair, then puts a hat on to hide the mess before heading out. 
Perhaps the real reason why I am suffering from fashion confusion is that I am, in fact, getting old and have therefore given up caring. Sigh. But if that means I get to wear flat shoes and a whole dress rather than just parts, then maybe it's not as bad as it sounds.