a day in the life... of a Day

Tiny Happy Moments

2011-01-01T12:09:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! What did you get up to? Did you watch fireworks on the Thames? Did you throw a wild police-provoking house party? Did you sit in your pants watching Jools Holland's Hootenany!? Whatever you did, I hope it was fun. And if it wasn't fun, I at least hope you were awake to see 2011 come out to play.

It's terribly predictable to spend the 1st of January thinking about the year that's passed. But as a terribly predictable person, this is exactly what I've spent my day doing. I've thought about moving home, starting a new job, the parties, the friends and the family I've shared some bloody great times with. I thought about the angst and the stress of all the change that's happened and how it's all turned out marvellously in the end. I've thought about all the things I should have done differently, the mistakes I've made and the opportunities I've missed. But all in all when I look back at 2010 I can say "that was a mighty fine year."

I've also, obviously, predictably, boringly, been thinking of the year ahead and I've been stuck on something that my boss said to me when sitting in the pub. I wish I didn't find most of wisdom in pubs or drunken evenings, but hey ho - dems the breaks.

Him and his girlfriend had been to visit their best friend at a commune in South Wales where the best friend had lived with his family for a few years. Even though my boss had only gone for a weekend he came back a chilled-out, happier version of his already chilled-out, happy self. We all listened, cloudy cold cider in hand and log fire crackling away by the side of us, as he talked about the silence, the peace, the elephant that made up his weekend. (That's right - an actual arsing elephant!)

But best of all, he told us about a lesson the best friend had tried to teach him - to learn how to enjoy the moment. It sounds so simple, but he meant REALLY enjoy the moment. Even the most ordinary, mundane, every day moment. "Like now," he said gesturing around the table at his five tipsy employees. "We're here with friends, healthy and happy. Drinking cider in a warm pub on a Friday night." He spoke with such conviction that I can remember every aspect of that moment. The heat from the fire that melted the right hand side of my body, how cold the glass felt in my hand, how we all softly murmoured in agreement that we should all try to live our lives that way.

I shared this story with my flat mate a few weeks later on Christmas Eve, Eve as - once again - we sat in a pub, Jack Daniels in hand, ready to say goodbye to each other until New Years Eve. I shared with him the idea that we should take time out to be grateful for the tiny happy moments which make up our years, which make up our lives. "Like now," I said, gesturing around the table at my flatmate who looked bemused as to why I was gesturing so grandly. "We're happy, we're healthy, and it's almost Christmas. We've got a glass of something merry in our hands and we're sharing this moment with a really great friend". And I can remember everything about that moment too. The sound of happy conversations from all round the room, the smell of food from nearby tables, the look in my flatmates eyes which suggested he thought I was being drunk rather than profound.

So for this year, for the first year in ages, I'm not going to regret which New Years resolutions I did, or didn't, acheieve this year. I'm only going to have one New Years resolution and that's to enjoy the tiny happy moments.

And to have bloomin' hundreds and thousands of them in 2011.

Love, as always,

Jenni

Grubby Little Secrets

2010-10-31T14:32:00.000-07:00

Every now and again, fortunately not too often, I discover something truly horrific about myself. I'm not talking about a blemish or, gulp, growth. Something hideously repulsive about my soul.

Rather than keep these horrible trinkets of my personality a secret, I think the best - most cleansing - thing to do is to share them with you in the hope I'll be so ashamed I'll force myself to change.

Jenni's Top Five Hypocrytical Thoughts

1. When couple's have arguments in public I judge them, and am yet disappointed when one of them says through gritted teeth "we'll finish this when we get home".

2. I tut loudly and roll my eyes when builders shout "'ello sexy!" Embarrasingly, I'm flattered.

3. Nothing's more annoying then when someone talks loudly on their phone on the bus. Except when people grumble when I need to make a very important call on public transport!

4. I think the Daily Mail is evil. It doesn't stop me from being addicted to their online Showbiz section.

5. When people declare their favourite band is N-Dubz I snigger. I live in fear they'll discover Girl's Aloud's back catalogue on my iPod.

Yester-Me, Yester-You, Yesterday

2010-10-24T13:08:00.000-07:00

Hello, you.

Have you forgotten about me? I wouldn’t blame you if you had.

I haven’t forgotten about you. In fact, I think about you every day. When I’m at work, when I’m on the bus. But whenever I sit down to write to you... well, you know. I can reel off excuses but the truth is that I’m here now and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

Don’t take it personally! It seems that all I write these days are text messages, work emails and notes to my flatmate. Even they can feel like a stretch at times, and I end up leaving a doodle – hoping that we’re in tune enough that he understand that a picture of a cow denotes that we’re out of milk. Not out of cows.

Now, I’m aware that what I’m about to type with make me sound like a wanker of the wankiest degree. But since I moved back to Laaaaaahndan (London for those not of the cockney persuasion) I seem to have no time to do anything other than to complain about the tube and how little time I have. I’m not complaining, please, please, don’t think that. But it turns out that when you’re out in the big wide, world
doing – you have little time to write about it.

But the other day, in the midst of hundreds of junk emails, I spotted one that literally made my hands freeze over my keyboard. No subject. Just a name that I hadn’t thought about since I was about 10 years old.

Many months ago, whilst living in the West Country, when I would have done ANYTHING to complain about my lack of time I had (I think that time is actually slower in the countryside. It’s the same timescale that Santa uses when he does his rounds) I was doing my daily Facebook stalking session. (Remarkably, I still find time for these)

After hours of mindless clicking I stumbled across said childhood-friends name. He was the kind of child that was so full of creativity and life that you’d be genuinely saddened to hear they’d ended up working in Co-Op. With a little bit of a Google I found out that my fear couldn’t be further from the truth. He’d turned into a film-maker, writing, generally witty, fun person. Well, this is what I could garner from his witty, fun website.

“Contact Me!”

...To click or not to click? I pondered this while I made myself a cup of tea. What would I write? How do you start off a conversation with someone you haven’t spoken to for 15 years?

I plumped for “hello”.

Thereafter, I painstakingly chose every word. Reading and re-reading and re-writing as I went. The whole process took me the best part of three hours. Three hours to write five paragraphs. Five paragraphs of cool-but-not-too-cool-breezy-but-not-too-breezy-friendly-but-not-overly-friendly waffle.

Send.

Yes, I thought. Send that into cyber space. That’s good. And off it went.

Three months past. I started a new job. I moved to a new city. My family started new jobs and moved to the same new city. My friends had birthdays, grew up and got married. New lives were created. (Maybe not that last part).

I resigned to not hearing back from my friend-gone-by. Even more time passed and I forgot about not hearing back altogether.

And then I did.

It was cool-but-not-too-cool-breezy-but-not-too-breezy-friendly-but-not-overly-friendly load of loveliness. I was genuinely riveted by how a memory of a boy I once knew had gone into the world, move countries, and became a full actual life-sized person.

The next reply came a lot easier. In fact, spurred on by our electronic reunion, my fingers could barely keep up with all the things I wanted to tell him.

Even after I’d signed off, and pressed the dreaded “Send” button my fingers were still eager to type.

So I came on here and wrote to you. And I’m happy that I did.

Till the next time.

Jenni

Dear Sixteen Year Old Jenni...

2010-07-11T13:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Jenni,

I've been trying to rack my brain for what it was like to be 16 years old. What are your hopes, dreams, loves, hates, I ask myself. What little gem of wisdom can I offer to you? I consult my diary. (FYI Jenni, your appauling handwriting does NOT improve with age). So many questions! Will you pass your A Levels? Will you go to University? Will I make life-long friends? Will you get a boyfriend? The answer to all of these things: yes. Will you be a size 12? Will you get the job of your dreams? Will you ever be truly happy? The answer: 'outlook not so good'.

The next couple of years will be the best of your life to date: at first you'll hate it. You've just started at a new 6th form; you feel out of your depth. Then you'll meet those life-long friends of yours, you go to parties, get drunk, flirt, fall in love, argue and become naively confident. You'll have the best of all worlds - music, friends, family, boyfriends, no money - but you don't care. Embrace it all! Do all the embarrasing stuff you did - they'll make great stories. If anything - don't hold back, be a prat, be arrogant, be stupid - people don't care. They're embarrasing and arrogant and stupid too! Say what you think and mean what you say - learn now, because it'll only get harder as you get older.

A teacher will say to you the following words "your writing style is magnificent, but your content is awful". You will ponder these words for years to come. You will morph them into every aspect of your life until they apply to everything; work, life, love. You hope to meet this teacher again if only to present them with the best essay they've ever read on Lady Macbeth.

Then you'll go to University and you'll struggle at first - but then again you'll meet the people you'll hold dear for ever. You'll get so drunk you can't see, and sleep through lectures and meet weird and wonderful people. But after you leave you'll worry that you didn't live the experience to the full. So get drunker! Go to more clubs, snog strangers, streak, go to more house parties, dye your hair weird colours and listen to more music.

You'll have your heart broken, and mended and broken again and you'll learn nothing from it. You'll feel so sad you'll think you'll never feel happy again - but you will. And you'll be so grateful you went through all of it. You'll treat some people badly, and some people too nicely. And once again I beg and pray that you could just learn to speak your mind and be selfish and brave. Think of number one because you'll learn that everyone else does. And don't worry - you won't be working at Waitrose forever. But you WILL have jobs that you hate even more than that.

And then you'll start work and that's where it all become a bit scary. After a couple years of struggling with money (to the point of not being able to pay for your bus fare) you'll start to become responsible. You'll open an ISA, you'll learn how to iron and cook a dinner which requires more than "peel back plastic and microwave for two mnutes". You'll long for the days when you had no responsibilities.

The worst year of your life will be 2008. Among money problems, missing home and no direction - Mum won't be well and you'll truly believe there's only one outcome. But if only you knew she'd get better - those tears you shed, those sleepless nights will make you realise the depth of your love for your family and friends. You'll promise yourself that you'll make everyday count and realise how blessed your life is. Promise me, promise yourself, you do.

On the practical side: learn how to drive (you'll never find the time), do lots of work experience (you'll only have to do it after University), read the newspaper (great for pub quizzes if nothing else), expand your music collection (you'll be eternally jealous of those will large album collections) grow your hair long and DO NOT bite your nail, and never ever get a credit card (it will take you two years to pay off the damage)

So my advise for you Jenni is be reckless, say you what you feel, don't take your friends and family for granted, take more photographs and learn to like yourself a bit more. Other people do.

Oh, and buy hair straighteners almost straight away after reading this letter. You'll never look back.

All my love,

Jenni

Reasons To Be Cheerful

2010-05-19T15:27:00.000-07:00

Hello you.

I’ve just had, what can only be described as, an F’ing brilliant weekend. Friends. Family. Food. Flight of the Conchords. Florence and the Machine. New Flat. Tom Foolery. Fun, fun, fun. The sort of weekend you wish you could bottle and take a sip from any time you feel blue.

... and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

101 things that make Jenni cheerful

1. Seeing a bright red route master bus.
2. A cold pint of cider.
3. Wearing colourful underwear.
4. Receiving a hand written letter.
5. Getting an email that’s not a circular.
6. Seeing a celebrity on the street.
7. Long lie-ins.
8. Pubs that smell like ale and oak.
9. Eating fish and chips straight from the newspaper.
10. After work cocktails.
11. Pay day.
12. Getting a flirty text from a flirty friend.
13. Drunken photographs.
14. Going to a West End musical.
15. Making a mixed tape.
16. Getting a mixed tape.
17. Watching an episode of Flight of the Conchords.
18. Eating a Kit Kat which is solid chocolate.
19. The first spray of Daisy perfume in the morning.
20. Listening to early Elvis records.
21. Hand writing letters.
22. Wearing pillar box red lipstick.
23. The Adam and Joe radio show.
24. Charlie Brooker’s column in The Guardian.
25. Drinking over priced coffee and cake with friends.
26. Making dinner with mum.
27. Hearing my dad laugh until he cries.
28. Walking around art galleries with my sister.
29. Sitting in the front seat at the top of a double decker bus.
30. Dinners made by friends.
31. House parties.
32. Finding a bargain in a charity shop.
33. Lunch time drinking.
34. Catching the eye of a sexy stranger.
35. Finishing a novel.
36. Getting dressed up to the nines.
37. Somebody else making you a cup of tea.
38. Yellow roses.
39. Freebies.
40. Going to fancy dress parties.
41. Reunions with friends you haven’t seen for ages.
42. Friday nights.
43. Sunday mornings.
44. Baking cakes.
45. Lying on the grass.
46. Taking a ride on a boat.
47. Adam Garcia.
48. Walking down a London street I’ve never been on before.
49. Being recommended new comedians/musicians by friends.
50. Completing The Guardian crossword. Rare.
51. A link to a pointless YouTube video.
52. Singing in the shower.
53. Karaoke.
54. Talking on the phone for hours and hours.
55. Window shopping in Tiffany’s.
56. Waking up to tea and toast on my bedside table.
57. Getting wolf-whistled.
58. People holding the door open for you.
59. Letting old people on the bus first.
60. The sound of Guy Garvey’s voice.
61. Seeing a Banksy in the flesh.
62. Facts.
63. Pulling apart the split ends of my hair.
64. Buying a box set. Of anything.
65. Live music.
66. Learning foreign phrases.
67. My friend Eve sending me recipes.
68. Using a typewriter.
69. Falling asleep on the train.
70. The latest edition of Cosmopolitan magazine.
71. Passing cows and sheep in fields.
72. Chasing waves at the beach.
73. Dancing.
74. Making presents.
75. Writing birthday cards.
76. Getting a dirty joke by text.
77. People watching.
78. Overhearing conversations.
79. Vintage clothes shops.
80. Listening to secrets.
81. Hand me downs.
82. Borough Market.
83. Las Vegas.
84. Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
85. The smell of theatre programmes.
86. Autographs.
87. Collecting ticket stubs.
88. Writing.
89. Homemade soup.
90. Mr. Whippy ice cream.
91. Stroking my cat.
92. Pimms and Lemonade.
93. Counting my pennies.
94. Hula Hooping.
95. Making photo collages.
96. Flossing my teeth.
97. Blowing raspberries on people’s stomachs.
98. Butterfly kisses.
99. Holidays abroad.
100. Sleeping in my own bed.
101. Writing lists.

Binary Solo... 0000001 00000011

2010-03-01T14:30:00.000-08:00

I've just been watching Elvis' 68 comeback special. There's quite a lovely, somewhat sexist (somewhat sexy), interlude where The King kisses all the girls on the front row. He masterfully takes their teenage faces in his bejewelled hands and gives them a memory to last them a lifetime. This is the metaphorical welcome I'd like to give you. So, hello. Mwah! I hope that stays in your brain box for a couple of years. Thankyouverymuch.

Watching a dead rocker sing and dance for two hours might be some people's idea of hell, but for me it was a reward for figuratively chaining myself to my latop these past couple of months. Had I actually chained myself to my computer I may have gotten through my work all the more faster. For five months I fooled myself into thinking that two jobs were better than one, and come pay day that was partly true. By day I was a mild mannered, sympathetic writer of emails to angry Virgin Mobile customers. By night I was a trendy, witty reviewer of Bristol bars, theatres, shops and events. When in reality I felt like neither. I felt grumpy, sleepy, wingey, dopey, bashful and Doc.

Having spent most of my days and evenings writing in some form or another, I began to forget that life could exist without my fingers glued to my computer. I'd started to forget what it was like not to feel the heavy, hot weight of a laptop on my thighs. My mind dreamt of the days when I lied on the grass, stared at the clear blue sky and felt the warm summer breeze on my skin - but then again, so had most people. It was winter.

I knew life had taken a bit of an odd turn when I'd spent ten hours a day at work in front of painfully bright white screen, only to come home and continue writing away on my own little HP. Much like a baby needs its blanket, I felt comforted falling asleep by the soft whirr of my laptop. Only to be awoken by Malcolm Tucker effing and jeffing on The Thick of It DVD I'd left in the player.

What was supposed to be a four week job writing for a website, turned into 20 weeks. So when lovely Laura lady (my temporary boss) said 'I'm sorry, but we've finished launching the website,' I couldn't have been more pleased to have been fired by default. The day after I finished I slept like a baby. Minus the whirring, swearing blanket of Malcolm Tucker.

Shortly afterwards I received my final pay cheque, and I decided that depsite what I'd always told my (poorer) self, money could in fact buy me happiness. So I marched myself to the shops to buy many many things I didn't need. Books, fancy underwear, make-up. A cup with a bird drawn on the front. All extremely worthwhile purchases.

Buying stuff was literally the gift that kept on giving, in the happiness stakes. As I sat on the train on the way to eat, drink and be merry, wearing my new clobber, my face awash with freshly opened make-up, my nose firmly in a new-book-smelling-bestseller I couldn't have felt more cheery. I even had swanky new shoes on my happy tootsies. So swanky in fact my eyes couldn't be torn away from them. A smile spread across my face as I ambled my way around the back streets of Bath. But what do they say boys and girls? Pride comes before a ... * Crash! Bang! Wallop! * Oooh, err... fall. My swanky SLIPPERY new shoes left me falling arse over tit in front of some very helpful Japanese tourists, who dusted me off and sent me on my way.

On the way home, self esteem and bottom somewhat bruised I stared out of the window. As the train glided its way past the rivers of Bradford on Avon and the fields of Avoncliffe, I felt myself unwind for the first time in months. My eyes widened, free of feeling tired or dry, at the beautiful sights before them. I breathed a breathy sigh and rolled my shoulders, shaking off the weight of the world. Like something from the movies, the lyrics 'one day like this a year would see my right' soared through my iPod headphones. (Shortly followed by Carwash by Rolls Royce, which seemed slighly less significant).

It was then I knew that I was in fact right all along, clever me, money can't buy you serenity. Only Guy Garvey, the green, green grass of home and a day away from my laptop could do that.

...I just couldn't wait to sit down in front of my computer with a cup of coffee and tell you all about it.

Hootenany!

2010-01-02T12:49:00.000-08:00

Happy New Years boys and girls! Here we are - 2010! Sounds almost 'space age' doesn't it? Did you have a good time? Did you get crazy and wild and naked? (I don't why, dear reader, but I imagine you to be somewhat of a slut.)

Well, I suppose it's that time of year, bloated and partied out, where we should reflect on what was and what's to come. I tried to do this while I was at work the other day (shamefully the highlight of mind-numbingly boring day) and my mind went blank. Oh my! What HAVE I done with my year? What life-changing events occurred? What I do to benefit the world? My family? My friends? Me?!

I scratched my head, and then my chin, and then my head again possibly looking like I had some sort of weird affliction. I was stumped. I couldn't remember what I actually achieved, let alone what I set out to do at the beginning of 2009. And then I came across a simple bit of paper I wrote just over a year ago. While I was sat at an equally boring desk at work in December 2008 I wrote my New Years Resolutions, 'From 2008 Jenni to 2009 Jenni'.

Shall we see how well I did?

1. Lose Weight

Ah! A classic! How terribly predictable of me. With a little help from my friend Claire-from-Steps I did actually manage to achieve this one. At one point I'd lost a rather surprising 5 inches from around my tyre of a tummy. This has slightly changed since the season of goodwill (and Jack Daniels and cake and chocolate) but I'm pleased to say there's less of me now than there was last year. When I look in the mirror I find this hard to believe, but just one flick through my Facebook photographs and it all comes flashing back. What I've found quite fun is to flick between my chubbier self and now and back again. It's like watching me inflate and deflate at a push of a button.

2. Watch 'must-see' films I've never got around to watching

I've watched about ten films this year. Among these were 500 Days of Summer (a slushy indie romance about a weedy boy and an irritating girl), Up (a children's film. I love this), Four Christmasses (the most awful unfunny comedy ever) and The Hangover (on the way to Las Vegas - what better way?) These may have been enjoyable but they're hardly classics, are they? I imagined myself holding my weight with the film-buff friends, discussing names like Burton and Hitchcock and... you know, the other one. I did try to watch Gone with the Wind but I'd been for quite a long walk before hand and fell asleep during the opening titles.

3. Read all the books I've bought but never read

This didn't happen either. I actually bought about eight more books, been given four and loaned three. I've read about three books this year - two autobiographies and a self-help book on fear of flying. E-. Must try harder. See me after class. To take reading lessons.

4. Spend less time on Facebook

'Jenni must spend less time on Facebook...' would make a great status, wouldn't it? Oh. Erm... well. I REALLY tried on this one.

5. Remember everybody's birthday

Ooh! Good! Yes, one I achieved. I bought myself a diary. I wrote down everyone's name in the diary. I looked at the diary. I wished people Happy Birthday whose birthday it was on the day I was looking at. Hoorah! One point to Jenni. No points to the... erm, New Years Resolution... breaker. Master.

6. Look less scruffy

Friends of mine who read this will probably spit out their drink of choice to laugh heartily at the fact that my hair is still massive and I often spill food down myself. BUT I have purchased several pairs of heels, have started to brush my hair at least three times a week and have bought make up brushes. You're impressed aren't you? I can tell.

7. Sort out my finances

If the hair brushing thing didn't turn you on, this certainly will - I have an ISA. Oh yes boys, I have internet banking! I don't receive letters which start 'final warning' and I DON'T have a minus sign in front on my balance. It turns out I actually enjoy being boringly organised and not making rash purchases. I have an internal monologue now which says, 'Jenni do you NEED a Margaret Thatcher nut cracker?' You want me now, right?

8. Have a holiday

Aye, I did. I went to Fabulous Las Vegas! It was my first holiday abroad for about three years and boy did I need it. I loved speaking to strangers and them telling me how sexy my accent was (although one said I sounded like the Queen. Maybe that floats their boats?), I loved not having to wear three layers and thermals when leaving my room and I LOVED being drunk at midday, eating till I burst and gambling away all the money in my ISA. It turns out reality is a bit rubbish in comparison!

9. Move back to London

Well I'm writing this from my bed in the West Country - you do the maths. (If you're bad at maths, or geography, no I didn't move back). But me and my family are planning a move back this year. For deffo, y'all. Oh yes, the fresh air has been nice and seeing animals in fields rather than on plates has been swell. But it turns out the country is a bit boring. And by a bit, I mean very. And that's fine. For a weekend. But a year on and I'd like to quote Dylan Moran; 'getting murdered is more likely in the city. But so is sex, coffee and conversation'.

10. Spend vast amounts of time with my friends and family

I'm pleased to say this I definitely did achieve. I've down to Brighton and up to Derby, across to London and powered through to Middlesex. I spent a week abroad with my family and I can't wait to spend every waking moment with my most loved in 2010.

I think this year the key to achieving ALL my New Years Resolutions is to have less of them. So please see my revised list.

1. Lose MORE weight
2. Learn a new skill (website design, driving, riding a bike)
3. Go to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival again
4. READ. MORE. BOOKS.
5. Be less reserved, less self conscious and more self assured.

Happy New Years and here's to a fabulous 2010!

That Blog What I Wrote

2009-08-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

Hello friends.

How are you? You look well. Did you do something to your hair? You washed it? That must be it!

Now, I feel I must apologise to you, my loyal following (of about 2.4 people) for my absence. I promise it's nothing you've done. It's not you, it's me. I'm sorry I've seemed distant but I want you to know that I want to change, if you'll let me. I hope you can find it in your collective hearts to forgive me.

Maybe I should start off by explaining why I've been so aloof these last few months. I've been meaning to write, honest I have - there's so much I've been meaning to tell you. Like, get this right, I wrote a text... ha, ha... to my friend Emma, but... ho, ho... I sent it... tee hee... to ANOTHER Emma by mistake! Mwah ha ha! I know, I know. I'm sorry you had to miss it too. It was a hoot. But no matter how good my intentions to write have been, whenever I sit down in front of my laptop night after night, my fingers poised over the worn-out keys, nothing happens. Sometimes my hands try to trick my brain into thinking it's about to write something of merit but the only buttons that they ever touched were f..a..c..e..b..o..o..k.

It was as if every lazy, boring fibre of my being sprung, or sludged, into life stealing my brain and leaving cotton wool in it's place. I felt mindless and numb, wading through photographs of people I used to go to school with, but don't actually know anymore, drinkng and falling over and out of their clothes in a variety of venues. I felt like a woman possessed, as if Facebook had me under a hypnotic spell where time sped up and my thoughts flatlines into white noise. Time: 8.34... maybe I'll just check my profile... Time: 11:42. Appauling behaviour. Spending, wasting, pissing (preverbally) my time away, convincing myself that being on a social networking site is anything other than anti-social. I have no interest in "networking". Cyberstalking the girl who used to poke me (in the proper-old-fashioned-non-facebooky-wooky sense!) in the back all the way through assembly when I was six is all I care for!

This isn't the first time I've fallen out of love with Facebook. I often deliberate deleting my profile altogether or at least culling people from my list that I can't actually legitimately call my friends. But then my ego takes over. You'll never be able to re-tag yourself in all those photos... How will you ever build your number of friends to over 300 again?! So I continue with my trip down the Self Loathing Highway, destined to watch idly by as all my 'friends' get married and have children and travel and be exciting and beautiful and I just sit in a darkened room getting older, and more bitter, and dustier until I'm just an old, dusty pint of bitter.

But for now I am young and interesting and relatively carefree so living my life through a website seems fine for now.

Anyhoo - a couple of weeks ago my Dad, who goes through books the way he goes through packets of Marlborough Lights, came into my room carrying a book in each hand. "Jen, I'm finished with these. Do you want 'em?" In the left was a copy of "Sound of Laughter", Peter Kay and in the right "Look Who It Is!" by Alan Carr. (I ask you at this point not to judge my Dad's choice in light reading.) I glanced at my bedside table. Piled high were books that ranged from "almost finished" to "barely thumbed". (Any jokes about my bedroom behaviour at this point will be strongly overlooked).

"Yep, thanks. Pop them on the pile." I told Dad, and went back to poking my friend Tom. (We haven't seen each other for months, but we find the odd poke every now and again really keeps the friendship alive). But the tower of books loomed over me, almost blocking out the slither of natural daylight that dared enter my room completely. I stared at the exciting covers, the witty titles and rave reviews. I meant to read them Guv'nor, honest I did. But I had jolly good excuses why I never have done.

For example, among the titles is Dawn's French's autobiography, "Dear Fatty". I bought it in the the WHSmiths in Paddington train station to keep me company on the three hour journey back to the West Country. However much I complain about it, there are some good things about living out in the sticks. Besides the whole fresh air, less pollution, longer life expectancy thingymajiggy. you also need to go on lots of long train journeys to visit non-country-bumpkin folk. Therefore lots of time to be spent on expanding your mind with music, books, newspapers and the like. My love of The Adam and Joe radio show (STEPHEN!) grew over months of commuting to work by train. I parked my bum in my allocated seat, with my book in one hand and a goats cheese panini in the other and was ready to laugh, cry and gawp and photographs of Dawn's private life. Then I heard a giggle. The sweet innocent giggle of a girl being entertained by her Dad on the seat adjacent to mine. Then, aah, my old friend paranoia. Is she laughing at me? Oh God. Dear. Fatty. I'm reading a book with "fatty" in the title, written by Britain's most loved fatty, whilst looking like a fatty eating my fatty sandwich. I promptly closed the book, tossed it in my bag and decided to enjoy the landscape instead. You'll be pleased to know I finished my sandwich.

Back at home the book joined the leaning tower of novels, subcategory: barely thumbed, and I carried on with my little life happy in the knowledge that it was "next on my reading list". A couple of days later and I met up with one of my most favourite people, Ian, in Bristol to celebrate the day of my birth. The first port of call: coffee. Over the years me and Mr. D have shared more cups of coffee together than Starbucks have even made. The hours we spent talking bollocks and eeking out the one large Mocha we managed to buy with our student loans each week could have spent towards something more useful, sure, but I think we truly answered life's great mysteries. Like, which Eddie Izzard tour was funnier and why people actually prefer it when you don't get a 1st in your degree. (Subsequently Ian actually got a 1st. Maybe taking me out for coffee was a ploy to make me not study?)

"Oh, what's in here?" Ian reach into his bag. It was three wrapped packages of different shapes and sizes. My birthday presents. Hoorah! "Oh you shouldn't have!" I say, sort of meaning it, sort of too busy unwrapping the presents to make the modesty sound genuine. Two mixed CDs - bingo, great present. An Adam and Joe DVD - this fella KNOWS me. The last present - two books. Oh no! I've managed to convince one of the people who knows me best in the world that I'm a book person. Maybe it was all that talk of "the book pile" and "reading lists" that confused him. Don't get me wrong, I loved the gift. I loved opening them, holding them, kidding myself that I would read these in a week and we'll be discussing them the next time we shared coffee, but it was short lived as I could already envisage them on the pile of books on my bedside table. I'd throw them on, the paperbacks would groan and tremble like the twin towers on their descent. They'd tumble like dominoes endlessly, suffocating me till finally - my just deserts. Death by unread books.

It's been a week since I started properly doing the reading thing, replacing my Facebook fix with literary loveliness. It's bloody good you know. You should try it. Yeah! Dimwit. It wasn't easy as first. My brain was confused. Where are all the pictures, the sparkly icons, the live-feed, the visual noise, the lethargy, the self hatred? Slowly but surely my mind adapted to letting it imagine again. So conjure up images and scenes on it's own, not relying on photographs detailing every inch of every day of everyone's existence. Being away from the evil ugly site has filled my thoughts with life and creativity again, giving it enough time to type away at this splurge of drivel. Hooray - I'm back! My fingers are slamming the keys once more, gaining speed and aching as I try to keep up with this silly stream of consciousness.

My first entry in month. Aaah, great.

Now just a quick look at Facebook and I'm off to bed!

The Selfish Seen Kid

2009-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr Guy Garvey

You are brilliant. Your Northern dulcet tones put everything I’ve ever wanted to say about anything into words. Lovely, beautiful words that your inarticulate devotees are only too grateful for – because when we lowly dregs try to express emotion only clunky clichés come jumbling out. Your lyrics have filled more of my birthday cards, letters and phone calls than you could possibly imagine. I also like your beard.

The awards and recognition that you have recently received are long over-due and it’s only right that the general public have finally recognised your brilliance. But, as a fan since the near-beginning, I couldn’t help getting misty eyed when I came to see you play at Wembley on last Saturday.

As always, you were all on top form – the atmosphere was electric and the set-list was a veritable chocolate-box full of treats for fans old and new. But I was left with the same sinking feeling my sister must have felt all those years ago when she played me Newborn for the first time… I wish “other people” didn’t like you too.

For years you were my best kept secret, only to be shared with a select like-minded few. It was like fancying the slightly nerdy kid at school – until one of those crappy cool kids decided that he actually was a bit of all right and sunk her plastic nails into him faster than you could say ‘geek chic’. Yes, yes – I know this is selfish and loving your music should be like reading a good book (you want to share it with the world) but in reality, I kinda, sorta wish that you’d stay so niche and commercially unpopular that you were destined to spend your gig-playing days singing in venues so small you could name-check every member of the audience.

The first time I saw Elbow it felt like a revelation. Before I never realised what an all-encompassing experience a gig should be… the banter you had with the audience, the band’s natural sense of humour and most importantly the sheer beauty of your songs left me feeling like I’d heard live music for the first, proper, time.

And from that moment I was hooked. I started to see life through your lyrics – with every album, every song feeling like it was mirroring every situation I was going through. Switching Off played through my mind when I lay in bed with my boyfriend… and later Red made me realise the relationship was going nowhere… Puncture Repair was a gift to a friend who had always been there for me… and I blasted Station Approach through my dinky iPod headphones when I left London to come back and live at home.

So, naturally, I couldn’t wait for Seldom Seen Kid and more importantly the tour that went with it. I booked my tickets and in April 2008 me, my sister and best buddy were set to see you at Brixton. All that was left for us to do was wait and be wowed. I remember the first time I heard Grounds for Divorce. I was aimlessly flicking through the music channels one Sunday morning when the video caught my eye. “Monday’s is for drinking to the Seldom Seen Kid…”I was already in love. As you banged the tankard down on the bar it was like you were announcing “we’re back!”

Fresh out the studio and still at the start of the tour – the performance you gave at Brixton was phenomenal. Even when you stumbled over the words to Newborn you modestly laughed it off and started from the beginning – which we all adored, as it meant we got to hear our favourite tune twice in one gig,

Following my inevitable post-gig blues I made sure I knew when you were next back in town – 14th March 2009; almost one year on. But what followed during those twelve months was a mixture of highs and lows... elated that you got what you finally deserved, and nostalgic for the days when no-one knew who you were. At the end of the Wembley gig, as confetti filled the arena and the crowd chanted 'one day like this a year would see me right', you threw on your suit jacket and hugged your best friends. It felt like the end of a long journey for you and your fans and the beginning of a whole new one.

Now Mr Garvey – you’re never going to read this letter. Not because I’m accusing you of ‘selling out’ or getting ‘too big’… only that I’m never actually going to send this letter to you. All this is, is one fan's version of a childhood strop. Angry and sad that somebody else wants to play with her favourite toy. All I hope is that you don't forget us, the one's who didn't care if you had a Brit or a Mercury award. Please keep making songs that will become the soundtrack to our lives and don't worry about tailoring your songs to the masses. 'Cos in the words of Whitney we 'will always love you'.

Love you, Mate

Jenni Day

Happy Birthday!

2009-03-06T11:57:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I was your run-of-the-mill nerd. I studied hard, I had big goofy hair – and best of all, I would fall flat on my face in front of the too-cool-for-school kids on, nearly, a daily basis. They weren’t the best of times; they were the worst of times. But over the years I learnt the invaluable lesson of hair-straightening, watched in delight as womanly bumps grew under my unflattering school jumper and decided that talking to boys was much more fun than reading books. I was growing ever so slightly *gulp* popular.

But despite my social circle growing in size, I lived in fear that one day they’d all realise my horrific secret that I was, and will always be, a geek. The anxiety that came with this secret was unbearable – I’d try to hide my clumsiness, naivety and forgetfulness by references to up-and-coming bands, and impressing my peers by being the youngest under-aged person to get served at the pub – but it was all destined to come out at some point. And one day it did. As I strutted down the corridor at sixth form, I towered over the tiny, insignificant year sevens as I made my way to the common room. (Which we all know is a haven of procrastination, slopping snogging and gossiping) But the carpet of our decaying suburban school had curled up around the edges and with my head stuck firmly in the clouds, I missed my footing and banged my head on the door frame. The illusion of superiority melted as the not-so-tiny young ‘uns pointed and laughed. But just as I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment a warm friendly hand grabbed my shoulder. “That happens to me all the time too!” said my friend Michael, beaming from ear to ear. Then I realised I’d found my soul mates - my friends were geeks too.

And it’s not just about being clumsy – I am a nerd through and through. But worse still, I’m the not the clever, braniac type – I am from the no-common-sense variety. I watched my friends howl with laughter as I quite happily believed that there were no shadows in Spain because of “where it sits on the equator”. And I’ve been to Spain! And sat in the shade?! Over the years I’ve tried to turn these negative traits into some sort of quirky, loveable shape of a person – and for most of the time I get by, by the skin of my teeth – but there’s one thing that drives my loved ones mad with despair: I can’t remember dates. More importantly – I can remember anyone’s birthday.

The problem is that it’s hard not to take it personally when you get a phone call along the lines of “I think it’s your birthday today?!” three days after the big event, or when yet another belated birthday card lands on your doormat. But it’s never a sign of how much I care about the person, or how important celebrating the day of their birth is to me. Only that I am useless with dates. Outside of my family I can only remember two of my friend’s birthdays: Emma’s and Richard’s – 10th and 17th January respectively. These are engrained in my mind forever because of a drunken-giggly-teenage-conversation where we laughed at the thought of each set of parents having sex at the same time. Unfortunately this is the same picture my mind still conjures up, even years later, whenever I wish either of them happy birthday.

As I see 2009 a year for self improvement, I bought myself a diary. Not in the Bridget ‘big pants’ Jones sense, but in the practical ‘you’re not 19 forever, pull yourself together’ sense. But as I flicked though page after page of blank white space in my brand new pocket book I felt my heart sink. 2009 was empty. I had no plans. I started to panic. The year that I’d had such hope for after the sheer terribleness of 2008 was destined to be as empty as my bank account. Then I heard the best sound in the world ‘beep beep’ – ah ha! The sound of popularity! “Hiya,im of wrk frm da 22nd.. I kno ur prob wrking, bt I was wondering if I could cum visit?? Xx” It was from Gawain. Lovely Gawain! Brilliant Gawain! “Yes! Definitely! Come!” I replied. I stared at it. Hmm, maybe that sounds desperate? “Yes! Definitely! Come! I’ll check my diary to see when I’m free.” Much better. Having a diary was already working in my favour. Send. I flipped the page to 22nd February 2009 and proudly wrote “Gawain visits Bath”. Fabulous.

A couple of days later, the awesome power of the diary strikes again while I was talking to my ex-flatmate Adam. “I’m going to come up and visit you. Maybe at the end of May?” I say loosely, but with every intention of setting a date. “That’s too far away. How does the 7th March sound?” I looked at the diary. The empty entry looked sad and lonely. But not for long; “Visit Adam in Derby”. Then I remember the very reason I bought a diary in the first place...

“Dear Friends. I have bought a diary to save me from myself. Please can I have your birthday so that I NEVER EVER forget it again?”

The response I got back was mixed. From Ashley “you should know this woman!”. From Mark “here is also my account number and mother’s maiden name”. And rather confusingly from Andrew, “February 31st”. Now as I flip through the pages of my Paperchase diary, and see my barely comprehensible handwriting scrawled across the dates I’m happy in the knowledge that for the first time I feel like my year has some direction. I’m seeing friends I haven’t seen for months, reuniting with old flatmates and travelling up and down the country. I just hope this level of active “doingness” continues all year round.

So, dear friends – do you fancy a pint sometime? Give me a call! I'll just check my diary.

One Year Later

2009-02-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

During my relatively short lifetime I have moved houses a grand total of 13 times, lived in four different counties and changed schools six times. As a result I have never become sentimental about a building or postcode. To this day I still can't understand why people sob when their parents finally decide to sell the house they were born in, weeping out the words, 'oh, the memories'. What they seem to forget are memories are mobile. You can move them about. That's the fabulous thing about memories you snotty idiot! I soon learnt that it's the people, not the places, that makes the memory worth remembering. So, as I sit in Costa's in Paddington train station I almost despise myself for the tears welling up in my eyes because this coffee shop is the most emotionally charged place on the planet to me.

I've only sat here twice before but this boring chained coffee outlet will be ingrained in my mind forever. The last time I sat here, fortunately, makes me chuckle as it comes the morning after my 22nd birthday party. I had had one of the best birthday's ever. It wasn't particularly exciting or spectacular but I was surrounded by friends, old and new, was drunker than a skunk dancing to the cheesiest songs Club de Fromage had on their playlist.

As 3am rolled round we all gathered outside singing, dancing and trying to flag down a cab. I looked at Emma, one of my most favourite people, and the friend on whose sofa I would be passing out on. She was not singing and dancing - which was odd, since she was normally the leader of the rowdy pack. 'I can't find my keys,' she mumbled so quietly I could barely hear her. Still inebriated to the eyeballs I laughed it off. 'Give me your keys you silly sausage,' I slurred, rummaging through her bag. No keys. Shit.

But my former flatmate Adam, and another favourite of mine, was at had to save the day. 'Let's go to the hotel round the corner and find an empty room - they're bound to leave one of the doors open!' I could see no fault to this argument. Everyone else could. 'We'll see you in the lobby.' So me and Adam strolled confidently through reception and towards the lift. We agreed to try our hardest to appear sober, which consisted of holding our breath and smiling inanely. As the lift doors shut behind us we burst into some good old fashioned belly laughter. But what now? 'We'll just push doors until we find one that's open,' he persisted. But, what if we get caught? 'Then we get arrested - at least we'd have a bed for the night!' Once more - there was no doubting this logic.

It didn't take long before we found an open door. Adam pushed it slowly. We looked at each other - bingo. A free room at the Hilton, Islington. Adam stepped inside. A large, bald-headed gentleman rubbed his eyes in disbelief at the two drunkards in front of him. The room was far from empty. 'Erm... room service!' Adam declared before we ran straight back into the lift and back to the relative safety of our friends.

Emma's flatmate Ashley (another favourite - are you sensing a theme?) wouldn't be back until the next day. My friend Nav suggested we all go back to his to sleep, but I had another idea. 'I'll just get the first train home. It's 4:30 now, the first train back to Wiltshire will probably be... what, like, 5?!' I'll just make my way to Paddington.' Happy with this answer, my friends kissed me goodbye and bundled in a cab. I headed back inside. 'Could you check my train times,' I asked the woman behind the desk. 'Train to Trowbridge - 8:45 am, Miss.' Fuck. 'Would you mind if I sit in the lobby for four hours,' I asked jokingly, not joking at all. 'Erm... ok?' So I did.

Four long, hungover sleep-deprived hours later I had been asked to leave twice, convinced security that I wasn't a wino, was mistaken for a prostitute, convinced security I wasn't a prostitute and had fallen asleep for a grand total of six minutes. At 6:30am I'd decided I'd outstayed my welcome by several hours and got a cab to Paddington. Sitting in Costa's with a double espresso doing sod-all for my hangover I laughed to myself, grateful to God or whoever/whatever is in control of my destiny that it wasn't like my first experience at this Costa.

It was Valentine's Day 2008. It was my first single Valentine's day for four years and I was quite happy to do bugger all. Because regardless of whether I was in a relationship or not that's what I usually ended up doing. I've never liked Valentine's. If you're with someone you feel this enormous pressure to out-romance your friends and be over sentimental to the person you've already said I love you to 365 days over the past year. And if you're on your own - well, you just feel shit. But in 2008 Emma and Ashley were having none of it.

'We're young, free and single and we're going out to get very drunk.' We did this nearly every other night anyway, so I couldn't see what harm one more day could do. The three of us, friends from uni, had been through the best and worst of times and decided we could just about tolerate each other to live together. So before the inevitable drinking we went to look at a flat in Canary Wharf. It was stunning and well within our price range. But there was just one problem, if you can even call her that. The woman who showed us around was, well, a hooker. We have no actual proof of this but the flat reeked of dirty shameful sex and as we left a nervous suited gentleman came to the door, his eyes bulging at the sight of four young girls standing in the doorway.

Nevertheless, we were undeterred! We loved the flat and made our way to the pub to celebrate our new smelly flat. 'Don't tell Bette about the prossie,' Ash told me. 'She won't let you live there if she knows.' She was probably right. My mum, Bette Day was one of the most liberal open-minded people you could ever wish to meet, but she probably wouldn't have been pro-prostitute house. Ash was right though, I would probably tell my mum because she is my soul mate - the person I could tell anything to. Yes, yes - this makes me sound like a massive loser but it's true. She's kind, caring, funny and unjudgemental - the best Mum in the world. I really do count myself lucky that I'm so close to my family - now, more than ever.

Anyway, back to that later.

Cut to the pub, and several bottles of wine later. We were joined by Emma's friend from work - Joey. He'd left his warm Hackney home because his flatmate was having a romantic meal with his girlfriend and was happy to be a part of our impromptu singles club. We liked Joey instantly and in him I found another soul mate - a fellow music snob. We drunkenly discussed the brilliance of Paul Weller and judged those with less worthy tastes. It was a great night - one of those evenings where time escapes you. I looked at my phone: 12:02 - I'd missed the last tube. 'Mind if I stay at yours?' I asked the girls. The usual response came: 'you're always welcome Jenni Day!'

The drinking continued. And as it did I could see in the corner of my eye lustful looks being exchanged between Joey and Emma. It didn't take long before looks became Valentine kisses. Me and Ash exchanged a glance taking a moment's silence for our fallen comrades - there were only to be two members of the singles club that night. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket - no doubt another drunken singleton calling me to share their woes of love. But it wasn't - it was my mum. 'Why's she calling me now?!' I asked no-one in particular. My heart stopped. Why was she calling me?

'Ello Mama!' I bellowed, as I elbowed my way out of the bar and onto the quiet street outside. But it wasn't my mum. 'Jen, it's Dad.' My heart beat came back, a thousand times it's usual pace. I asked a question that I already knew the answer to; 'Everything ok?' No - it wasn't. My mum had fallen down the stairs, landed on her head and was lying in intensive care in Bristol. I didn't know what to say. At least I can't remember what I said. All I remember was hanging up with the words: I'll work out how to get back. I love you Dad.' Never had I meant it more.

For a second the buzzing electricity of Leicester Square seemed silent and still. Then my brain seem to realise the seriousness of the situation. My brain knew this was the worst moment of my life - but it couldn't relay the message to my tear ducts. Instead it forced my throat to retch and heave until tears strained their way down my face. Then there was no stopping them. My legs were the only part of my body that knew what they were doing. They walked themselves back into the bar, my arms grabbed my coat and my voice mumbled; 'I'm going'. My brain had switched off - it was on automatic. Ashley followed me outside. 'What's happened?'

My arms let go of my belongings and threw themselves around my friend. I sobbed so hard my lungs ached and black mascara-filled tears fell relentlessly onto Ashley's white shirt. I told her everything. Ashley, too, went into automatic. She wiped my tears, pushed the hair from my eyes and told me what we were going to do. We were going back to her's, finding the first train to Bristol and putting me on it. She ran to grab Emma and hail a taxi. But I couldn't wait - I had to get home that second. My shaking fingers scrolled through my phone book: who has a car?

I called friends I hadn't spoken to for months, ex-boyfriends and colleagues - anyone who owned four wheels. I knew one man who would always be there for me - Nav. I dialled and re-dialled but his phone went straight to answerphone. I prayed and yelled out loud for him to wake up and turn his phone on because I knew if he could only hear my calls he'd do anything to help. Nav had always been there for me, without agenda, but tonight my fate lied in the hands of First Great Western trains. 5:30am - the first train home.

Once more - I couldn't wait. I left Ashley's and Emma's flat on the first night bus I could get on and headed to Paddington. At 3:30am I was ordering a chamomile tea from Costa coffee. Mum always gave me chamomile tea when I was upset. No matter what I did, my mind just conjured images of my mum lying in a hospital bed. I'd never seen her with anything worse than a cold before so even imagining it was impossible. But thank God for Costa's! I would have gone stir crazy with the sound of my thoughts otherwise. For two hours I tried not catch anyone's eyes - worried they thought my tears were flowing because I'd been jilted by some arsehole.

Two stops from Bristol station and I shivered with adrenaline and the lack of a coat. I felt like a twat. Sat with sparkling eyeshadow and a short black dressed because I wanted to look nice for an evening out with the girls. I was worried what Dad would say about the length of my skirt - but what the fuck was I thinking? Like he'd even notice today. Nav called me: 'Jen I'm so sorry... I switched my phone off... What can I do?' I smiled. My friends were amazing and I'd been too pre-occupied to thank them.

Dad met me outside the hospital. His face was sleep-deprived, long and drained. I buried my face into his chest, biting my bottom lip to stop me from crying again. He smelt like he'd smoked a hundred cigarettes - it wasn't far from the truth. 'Do you want to see Mum?'

Nervously I pushed back two heavy white swing doors which led into an empty ward. Empty that was, except for one bed. A motherly nurse held my hand and softly talked me through the wires, the drips, the woman lying in the bed curled up into a ball. Mum looked like she was asleep - but not at peace. Full of angst and dreaming about something terrible. 'You can talk to her, she can hear you.'

'Hi mum,' my voice broke and tears burnt my swollen eyes. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I felt stupid and embarrassed - I couldn't talk to a body. I wanted to talk to my Mum. She was hiding inside the broken and bruised figure I was staring at, but she definitely wasn't ready to hear me.

From then on in there was no noise - only pictures. The doctor shining a light in her eyes. No response. The nurse stroking her head. Nothing. Dad squeezing her hand. No squeeze back. Then all of a sudden - sound. A disgusting unearthly groan like Lurch from the Aadams family. It was mum. The swelling in her head affected everything - her speech, her mobility, her memory. The sound still rings in my head today. It wasn't human. It was just pain in it's loudest form. It made me feel sick and sorry for myself.

I joined my sister Katie in the family room. We stared at each other, our faces mirror images of each other - red, wet and exhausted. We hugged, but it did little to comfort either one of us. It just made everything seem much more real.

The days that followed were awful and beautiful at the same time. As mum, slowly and surely got better - every small step felt like a victory. Mum saying her first words. (I want a cup of tea.) Mum saying all four of the Beatles' names. Mum saying our names. Mum sitting up.... eating a meal... walking... coming home.

Me, Dad and Katie became Team Day - a stupid name we gave ourselves to make the situation seem cartoonish and distant. If one of us caved in to the awfulness, the other two would repeat Team Day until we eventually cracked a half-arsed smile. We cooked meals than went uneaten and did more pointless cleaning that we'd ever done before. We talked about the future and made promises that we'd all help out mum more, make her the most important thing in our lives. We said empty phrases like 'bad things happen to good people', 'at least we've got each other' and most poignantly 'we might look back and laugh at this in a year'.

Well one year to the day later and I can't laugh about it but I certainly can think about it without bile rising up in my throat (an improvement, no?) Life changed for me last Valentine's day. I quit my job, moved back home and left my friends. I became aware of how fragile life was and worried about everything and everyone. I prayed every night for two months as a thank you to God (even though I'm still not entirely sure He exists - I'll be really annoyed if I found out he doesn't). I hugged my mum tighter and longer than I'd ever done before.

Now, I'm not normally quite so heart-spilly and I do apologise whole heartily about this entry but I want to let these demons go. Not one day has gone by since when I haven't thought about it and I think enough's enough. I am the luckiest person I know to have come close to losing one of the most important people in their lives and actually got them back, not even slightly worse for wear. So many people go through worse than me, so I'm basically telling myself to let. it. go.

But before I do - here's to my wonderful friends. Especially Emma and Ashley who got me through the worst night of my life. This is a dedication, I guess, to Mum, my family and my friends - and how much I love you.

That's what Valentine's day means to me.

Low Expectations

2009-01-19T10:02:00.001-08:00

My friends could describe me as many things, (I choose not to think too hard about this) but being cynical isn’t one of them. If anything I’m often mocked for being stupidly positive about the dreariest of situations. Been dumped? You could have done better. Been fired? You never liked your job anyway. Got crabs? Erm, well… at least it’s curable. On the whole, I love to look on the brighter side of life. That is, until it comes to expectations, when you should always expect the very worst.

And you should expect the worst about EVERYTHING. Presents, New Years Eve, boyfriends – the lot. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a depressed moany over-grown teenager (even though they could be the words my friends use to describe me) but I honestly believe when you think something will be rubbish you can only be pleasantly surprised when it turns out to be really quite alright.

This week, as a handy example, I decided to put New Year’s Resolution #428 into motion and ‘watch more films’. When I was a student I loved spending days lying in bed watching movies or going to the cinema to see the latest release. But two years later (minus a moving-loving boyfriend and his flatmate, who just so happened to work at said cinema and gave us free tickets) I can’t think of the last film I paid to see.

But with a bit of rummaging in a purse I never clear out, I find a torn ticket stub for Sex and the City. I study the faded writing. ‘Screen 1. Row J. Seat No. 5. £8.50.’ £8.50?! Oh what a wonderful thing hindsight is. The problem was my expectations were too high. I was one of the last girls I knew who went to see the film and was therefore forced to sit through plenty of after-work drinks that went along the lines of, ‘you haven’t seen it?! You have to – it’s amazing. I laughed, I cried. You’ll love it.’ What deadly words they’d turn out to be. When in fact the three words I thought after seeing the film were: It was ok. I was so disappointed the sex could have been faked, and the city could have been Bristol. (Boom Boom –Cch!)

But would I have cared had it not been for all the hype? To test the theory, this week I went to see the critically trashed, ‘Yes Man’. Despite its 2* reviews I was determined to watch Jim ‘bendy face’ Carey take on Danny Wallace’s best-selling book. Having been a fan of Danny’s for, like, ages and having never been a fan of Carey’s I braced myself for the worst, prepared to see Danny’s beautifully witty writing turned into a Hollywood farce. But, I was wrong. Yes – parts of it were ridiculous, as most American film comedies are, but by and large it was laugh out loud funny, heart warming and left me with a real urge to say ‘yes’ to everything (just like the book). Seeing Rhys Darby from Flight of the Conchords in action again was definitely a highlight and the appearance of Danny as an extra was a treat. (He did some fantastic ‘pretend conversation’ acting. I really believed he was having a conversation! Now I think of it, maybe he was actually just having a conversation. That would be disappointing.) If nothing else, I feel the urge to watch every poorly reviewed film, read every slated book and listen to every rubbished record that has ever been. (I may regret that.)

Next on my hit list was Memento. Having owned it for almost 10 months I thought it was time I threw away its cellophane and hit play. I had no expectations about the film whatsoever. The only clues I had were it’s 5* rating by FHM on the front cover, somewhat dampened by it’s £2 price tag. With unbiased eyes I watched the film from start to finish, and I loved every minute. I can’t completely admit to ‘getting’ every reference and spotting every clue, but I thought Guy Pearce was fantastic and the story was compelling. I’d love to give it the tribute it deserves by name-checking directors, comparing it to similar films and thrashing out the plot – but my movie knowledge is such that I can only say: it were well good.

Finally, in my weekend movie marathon (well, sprint) was O’ Brother Where Art Thou. I’d heard nothing but good things about George Clooney’s performance, the soundtrack and well-written script but I’m embarrassed to say that I fell asleep about ten minutes in. In fairness, this has nothing to do with expectations or how good the film was, it was mostly down to a short attention span and it being the perfect time for a Sunday afternoon nap.

Now, all I ask of you is that you completely disregard everything I’ve just said (Memento stylee) because otherwise all those preconceptions could taint your own opinion of the films (should you choose to watch them). If anything, imagine that I just wrote “Dull… Mundane… Blurgh” because sometimes low expectations can be the greatest of them all.

5, 6, 7, 8

2009-01-13T11:20:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I did something that made me feel embarrassed, ashamed and full to the brim of self-loathing. And not in the good way. I bought my first ever get-fit video. ‘Did you go for the classy Cindy Crawford classic?” I hear you cry. No, no I didn’t. Instead I went for “Claire-from-Steps ‘Fat Attack’”. (I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling that with no other claim to fame she may have changed her name by deed poll to ‘Claire-from-Steps’. In the same way that Celebrity Big Brother contestant is Ben-from-A1 and every member of Hollyoaks is forced to be reborn as ‘Thingy’.)

There are many ways to find the right video for you. You could judge it by which celeb you think would irritate you the least. In which case I would have to disregard Davina McCall and Letitia Dean. Or you might chose the celeb you most want to look like at the end, therefore targeting Cindy Crawford and Kelly Brook. But I opted for option three; the celeb that lost the most weight. So it was a toss-up between Claire-from-Steps and Michelle McManus. But I can only assume the agonising cringing I felt in my soul would only be magnified if I swapped cold-hard-cash for Fatty-Mcmanus’ get fit tips. No offence, Michelle.

Walking into HMV I felt like a 15-year-old boy sheepishly going to the corner shop to buy his first porn mag. I half-heartedly flicked through the feature films, bravely moving my way closer to the “fitness” section. I suddenly became aware of how my little chubby self would look blindingly out of place among the muscular young men casting an eye over the latest steroid-fuelled-muscle-making DVDs. I wasn’t ready. I headed back to the relative safety of “Comedy”. I pick up Jim Davidson’s “Bulging Package” by accident. Oh God. Do I look like a racist now? I hastily shove it back in a rack. (Shoving Davidson back Iraq however, would only make matters worse.) Maybe I should actually buy something, I wonder. I could casually blend the offending article in between something else to disguise it’s awfulness. The Mighty Boosh? Already own it. The IT Crowd? I’m going to need something stronger if it’s going to outweigh Claire-from-Steps. Derek and Clive? I have a winner! Painstakingly cool and pretentious that I may not be judged by the cooler-than-thou staff. But would that be enough? Maybe a book for good measure? A Johnny Cash biography? Do I need it? It’s £2. It’s mine.

So, with my two useless buys under my arm, I strutted towards the fitness section. That’s right – strutted. Because I was going to pick it up in one quick motion, not slowing down for no-one. But, to my horror, as my arm swung to grab the DVD, my bag flung off my shoulder and slapped one of the beefcakes (urgh) on the bum. I froze. He didn’t notice. Maybe his oversized muscles were numbed by their ridiculous size. Or maybe he was just used to strangers smacking him on the bum. I didn’t hang around to find out.

With Claire-from-Steps tucked neatly between Peter Cook and Johnny Cash I headed for the till. To my delight there was only one person serving; a Goth girl. She’s bound to hate everyone – she’s a Goth! At the very least she’ll be so unbothered my existence that she won’t put the energy into mocking me. But all of a sudden a Noel Fielding look-a-like with a sexy smile and a glint in his eye logged on to the cash register next to her. ‘Can I help?’ he asked with an Aussie lilt. What is it with modern culture? Why does everyone want to be so bloody helpful?! Leave me to queue! The British love to queue! I reluctantly handed everything over and awaited his reaction.

‘Aah, great,’ he exclaimed. ‘I love Derek and Clive! My dad was a huge fan. He recorded all their radio stuff…’ the lovely Aussie continued as he swiped my items through the till. Amazing! He didn’t even mentally register Fat Attack! I smiled a genuine smile and concluded, ‘yeah, they’re brilliant.’

I pushed my card into the chip and pin machine. “ERROR”. He pushed it out and back in with extra vigour (back to the 15-year-old with porn mag imagery, then?) “ERROR”. Panic set in once more. I half expected the Aussie to throw back his head and say, “spent all your money on pies did you fatty? No wonder you need a get fit DVD!” Before collapsing in a fit of laughter.

‘Oh, is there a problem with my card?’ I attempt to ask casually. ‘Ah no,’ he said, getting so infuriated with my card I fear he might break it. ‘Damn thing never works.’ Phew.

Walking out the door I breathe a sigh of relief. The ordeal is over. Now – time to go home and watch the arsing thing.

A whole new ordeal has begun.

The Best Things In Life Are Free

2009-01-06T10:06:00.000-08:00

I have many things to thank my friend Natalie for. She’s fun, witty, caring and kind. But above all these things: she introduced me to Charlie Brooker’s column in the Guardian.

I was always aware of Charlie Brooker. When people mentioned him, I knew the correct response should be, ‘He’s hilarious! Especially his Glastonbury article,’ praying they didn’t expect me to elaborate. Even though I bought the Guardian every Monday, Charlie’s column was always neglected in a desperate rush to throw open the media section and find the job of my dreams. I’m not entirely sure what the job of my dreams would be. I think the advert would go along the lines of:

“JENNI! WE NEED YOU!
Are you Jenni? Because we’re looking for a Jenni to do Jenni-like work for £100k pa.
15hrs p/w. Flexitime. With benefits. And a car.”

On the off chance that you see an advert like that, please let me know. But ever since Natalie sang Charlie’s praises I’ve been hooked and I started a love affair with Brooker. (He’s completely unaware of it. It’s more of a stalk than an affair. ) I’ve become addicted to his screenwipe series (as equally funny as the column) and the very un-funny Dead Set series.

Talking (or typing) of which, romance is the subject of his column this week.

“…authentic romance has been in short supply of late. Authentic romances makes life more enjoyable, but more importantly it costs nothing. Buying flowers and baubles and Parisian city breaks – that’s not authentic romance. That’s lazy showboating. Authentic romance could flourish in a skip. Prove this to yourself. Invite someone on a date and spend the evening sitting in a skip making each other laugh with limericks or something. Get through that and you’ve bonded for life. Or maybe a week. It’s hard to tell when you embark on a new relationship. Still, if you split up: time for more romance with someone else. Everybody wins.”

Mwah ha ha. He’s so funny.

And so true! For me anyway, my best relationships have been the ones where no matter how shitty the situation, you can still find the person you’re with vaguely attractive. With my first boyfriend, I knew we were on to a good thing when we went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We were in line to go to an Amnesty International gig and our two tiny teenage faces couldn’t hold their excitement - for the first half hour. But as time slowly dragged on, the crowd grew weary, desperate to rest their tired feet and inebriated bodies. Me and my fella were fine, though. It didn’t matter how cold it got, or how long we had to wait – we had a back up. We had two-people charades! Now, we all know that charades is dire at the best of time, but when there are only two of you - so that you’re forced to work on the same team and therefore scoring and competition is obsolete, it ain’t that much better. But, to quote the lesser-known version of Kipling’s poem, if you can wait in the cold for hours and still find a mime to Free Willy funny then you’re in love, my son.

We had a similar experience at Reading festival where we awoke to find that one of my boyfriend’s trainers had been stolen. I stifled a giggle. But he was not impressed. He just couldn’t see the funny side – weird. So as he begrudgingly squelched his feet into his spare pair of damp shoes we packed our tent and waved goodbye to the mud. Waiting for a ride home we spotted a fire in the distance and decided to huddle around it, savouring the last minutes of hippy-dom. Holding hands, and fighting the urge to sing “ging-gang-goo” we saw a shape emerge between the flames. “That’s my shoe!” my fella screamed. “My f***ing shoe!” We looked at each other. We looked at the shoe. My boyfriend, resigned to his toasted trainer, looked at me once more and smiled. “My shoe.” I smiled back.

More specifically, Charlie’s article was about how a bit of romance and old fashioned good will is what’s going to get us through what is set to be a slightly dim 2009 (even though I’ve made it an aim to make it the best year yet.) So take the good man’s advice and “share a meal with a neighbour. Or maybe a bath. A bubble bath.”

And as for Charlie himself, I can now say with complete authority: He’s hilarious! Especially his Glastonbury article.

Not So Well Read

2009-01-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

In keeping with my New Year Resolution to finish reading any book I started during 2008, I find myself night after night in bed with Michael Parkinson. Not literally. Although that might be more interesting than the book itself.

The tag line of Parky’s autobiography is “meet the man who’s met everybody” – fantastic. But don’t make the same assumption I did – that the man who’s met comedy legends, sporting heroes and stars of stage and screen will be interesting in his own right. Because he’s not. That is, unless, you like cricket. Because Michael Parkinson bloody loves it. And he talks about it. A lot.

When you break it down, the book is a heart warming tale of how a young lad from a mining village in Yorkshire because a world-class journalist working on fleet street, going on to help create Granada television and then, finally, hosting his own TV show. But I couldn’t help feel a bit miffed that it all seemed to come a bit easy to ol’ Parky. Even if it didn’t, that’s how it came across. Maybe it’s his modest northern slant on life but, even when Parky describes his time as a war correspondent, he simply comments how he didn’t enjoy it, so decided not to do it anymore. I’m sure there must have been emotional turmoil and struggle for Parkinson, but he seems to have been at the end of a lot of ‘in the right place and the right time’-ness. And good for Parky! You can’t deny his talent and unashamed icon status, but the story of his life just doesn’t translate into the written word.

It was only when I went to see Parky in conversation it all made sense to me. Normally when I go to a book reading or author’s Q&A session no matter how much I enjoy it after half an hour I become very aware of how numb my bum is, or how much I need to cough loudly in the silent room. But at Parky’s talk, he kept his audience captivated with anecdotes, video footage and tales of his childhood for almost two hours. I think that’s where his book falls down – it lacks… Parky. You need his warm dulcet tones to soothe you like a cuddle with his near-perfect timing and cheeky glint in his eyes.

What he has to say is fascinating, but you need the man himself to tell you the story.

“I feel Christmassy… Do you feel Christmassy??”

2008-12-24T09:34:00.000-08:00

Michael Mcintyre:
“Every December I go through the same dialogue with my friends and family: ‘You know, I don’t feel Christmassy at all this year. Do you feel Christmassy? I don’t feel Christmassy!’ “What is this thing; ‘Christmassy’?

“But something will change around the middle of the month. You start to feel ‘Christmassy’! And you feel so happy you declare it to everyone:

“For the first time this year, I feel Christmassy. Do you feel Christmassy?? I feel Christmassy?!”

That is the same piece of diatribe I had with my dad this morning. And it’s about bloody time, after all it is Christmas Eve.

For some people Christmas starts when they see the famous coca cola advert, for others it’s when they hear the first Christmas song of the year. But for me, this year, I started to feel Christmassy when I saw an OAP driving a scooter wearing antlers on his helmet.

Maybe it’s because my family have never had a strong set of Christmas traditions that get me in the mood (so to speak) but each year it takes me longer and longer to feel festive. Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. Mostly for the right reasons (friends, family, goodwill to all men), and partially for the wrong ones (presents, food and drink). But either way, in recent years I’ve found myself ho-ho-ho-ing at the more sinister side of the season.

For example, last Boxing Day Dad kindly took me to Curry’s horrific sale. Still bloated from festive food and fine wines we hauled our chubby bodies into the car and plodded our way round the country lanes of Wiltshire. Singing loudly to the Phil Spector’s Christmas CD Dad left in his car my body almost flew through the windscreen as he slammed on the breaks. There, lying in the middle of the road was a dead reindeer. The news was in: Rudolph had been killed. It was a scene that would have ruined thousands of childhood fantasies. And yet, I couldn’t help but laugh when my sister returned to the scene the next day to have her photo taken next to it. It was this year’s Christmas card.

My belly also shakes like a bowl full of jelly when my parents recall the Christmas day when my doting dad left the house to go and buy batteries for some since-forgotten toy. As he got to the till at the local petrol station, Dad couldn’t help but notice the man dressed as Santa standing in front of him buying 20 B&H. Dad smiled, full of seasonal joy, and said those famous words: “Merry Christmas!” The Santa turned round, his nose as red as Rudolph’s and his breath as bad as Dot Cotton’s and said those slightly less famous words: “Fuck off!” Happy memories.

But now I’m feeling those Christmas feelings I’m off to drink my body weight in cider, sing loudly and stuff a nut roast (not as easy as it sounds).

Merry Christmas!

In the beginning there was the word, and the word was... erm...

2008-12-22T08:13:00.001-08:00

I've never been good at first impressions.

I mumble and stumble my way through awkward conversation, appearing too aloof and disinterested in what the other person is saying because I'm distracted by my brain yelling, 'dear God, please don't think I'm an idiot!' I come across as some sort of twit.

Fortunately it doesn't stay that way forever. The pointless rambling, complete lack of common sense and clumsy flaling of limbs seems to grow on people until I've secretly coerced them into thinking being friends with me is a bloody good idea.

I hope that's what happens with this blog! One day it might turn into something magnificent and profound, but imagine this first post to be the crap chat-up line that starts the relationship off.

Sure, you might be reading this thinking, 'well this is a waste of five minutes', but I promise you that third, fourth and fifth impressions are much more fun. Also, I had to pop the proverbial cherry somehow! (I've owned this blog for a good six months already.)

First impressions may be the most important, but for now I'll just stick with this:

Hi, I'm Jenni. Nice to meet you.