Camping and me.

I've never been a real "outdoorsy" person unless sitting outside with a large Bacardi of an evening counts. Of course I like being outside, by a swimming pool, doing a bit of sightseeing, usual stuff, but I seriously don't fancy living outside which is basically what camping is all about isn't it?

As a kid, pitching a tent in the garden and sleeping in it overnight sounded so cool and exciting. Unfortunately my sister and I only had a Wigwam, the dimensions of which did not constitute lying down, or a Wendy House which provided free accommodation to Spiders and other varieties of Creepy Crawlies. 

Needless to say, the great Camping experience was not a highlight of our young lives..

When I was in my late teens my best friend and our then boyfriends took a little camping break - How I persuaded my Father to let me go I can't remember, it was possibly the maths, Two girls, two boys, two tents, one for the ladies and one for the Gents! Bless him.

On arrival at the Campsite, which I thought was vile, it was apparent that our equipment was somewhat more than inadequate. It wasn't that we didn't have anything to sit on, sleep on cook on or eat on, much much worse, we only had one set of tent pegs for two tents. This tiny mistake I'm afraid was mine, probably too worried about what pants to take I'd left them on the Bedroom floor, Duh. 

That night is possibly the worst in my memory, I'd honestly rather give birth twice in succession and with forceps that re-live the discomfort. We had no beds, not even a blow up job, no sleeping bags only blankets, and I, being used to holidaying in the Med, had no warm clothes. My best knickers did me no good and it was too bloody cold to think about getting warmer in any fashion other that which nature invented - shivering.

The wind howled which was no help to the peg challenged tents and my friend and her boyfriend had an almighty row which the whole of South England probably heard. It was awful, I lost my Camping Virginity without so much as a sausage on the Barbeque or anywhere else for that matter, dammit...

Now despite having been Canvas phobic since those days, I've always been fascinated with Caravans. In my opinion, if in intent (no pun intended) on sampling the Camping experience, then Caravanning is a no Brainer. I mean call me weird but I would prefer to have a solid, well at least semi-solid, roof over my head any day than a flimsy piece of nylon. We're talking Britain here and most of the time the Weather is somewhat inclement! I'm no expert but I'm damn sure a tent doesn't give you an awful lot of confidence in a force nine gale with things being blown off and chucked about, or birds dying in flight and plummeting to earth like torpedoes, especially Seagulls which are the size of dogs.
There's the privacy issue too, I mean under canvas you may as pretty much advertise all your personal stuff on a Billboard. If you snore, suffer from flatulence, Sleep walk or talk, or any other night time occurrence, EVERY other person in a hundred meter radius is going to know, and the worst thing - You are going to know about THEIRS too! Oh and the best thing, Caravans have toilets so you don't have to share with everyone else and their dirty habits, OK so you have to empty them, but that's why God invented men to do the jobs like that, no pun intended again sorry..

Right, so where is this leading, well, a decade or so ago we were somewhat financially embarrassed  and the likelihood of a foreign family holiday was below zero. My Husband suggested buying a tent at which point I considered divorce proceedings but I had a light bulb moment and decided to source a cheap Caravan. Frenzied Ebay bidding ensued and I managed to secure "Jan the Van" for around five hundred pounds complete with awning, yes still tent like I know, and, even better, a Porta Potty, absolute bargain! 

We towed Jan back from South Wales ever so slightly less excited than we planned to be. Jan was a small girl for her berthing capacity of four, I reckoned it to be more like one and a quarter, but hey that's what the awning's for, extra daytime room and for chucking the kids in at night. I was upbeat, even when the Neighbour fell about laughing on our return, she was the worst sort of bitch anyway.

We thought it would be a good idea to give Jan a trial run reasonably locally before we ventured further afield. I booked two nights at a holiday park near Cirencester, purchased picnic chairs and utensils, sleeping bags and probably spent the same amount as the cost of a week in the sun. The weather forecast was grim and our elder daughter was less than keen to join the "fun", but somehow we all managed to get motivated and set off.

Upon arrival at the site it was obvious than Jan didn't quite cut the mustard in the Caravan world, our pitch was surrounded by the newest sleekest vans and Motorhomes that money could buy, poor old girl. Undeterred, for first timers we did bloody well, the awning was put up in record time which helped make Jan look a little beefier if that's possible for a caravan. Unfortunately that's about the only positive..
Elder daughter went into a complete meltdown demanding to go home and ringing her friend to come and fetch her. Younger daughter went exploring and discovered the presence of an amusement aracde which lead to a full scale money demanding tantrum. I proceeded to cook tea at which point I realised that in time honoured tradition I was under-equipped and had nothing to cook the sausages in. The Husband got crosser and crosser and resorted to shouting. I drank some wine and then some, and then the kids started shouting too.

As quick as the awning went up, it came down. Three hours after departure Jan was back on the driveway and no doubt the Bitch neighbour had another bloody good laugh. Jan stayed with us for a little while, provided a sleep-over place for the kids resulting in major ant infestation, and a hidey hole for elder daughter revising for exams, or phoning her friends more like. Eventually, recognising our total failure and missing the driveway space, Jan went back on Ebay and was passed to what I hope was a happy home in her golden years.

We didn't have a holiday that year, unless you count the three hours, and didn't contemplate repeating the experience until such time we didn't have to take the kids. I think fondly of Jan and thank her for the opportunity she gave us, the most bloody expensive meal of mash and beans ever....

Love 
Mel  - Not cut out for camping..




 







 










 

 













 

I was born to be on the Stage

I am a Thespian, I am truly a Thespian! Actually I just really like that word. It rolls off the tongue and It's posh and British and best said with a plumb in your gob, unless you have a lisp in which case it's probably best to avoid, or if you're in a club being chatted up by Mr Hot who thinks you've said you're a Lesbian - Game over.

Anyway the definition of a Thespian is basically an upper class way of saying Actor and that dear friends is exactly why I feel justified in sharing my Oh so varied Stage career with you. I have acted, I have I have, I ruddy have!!!

My debut appearance was at St John's Nursery School, Orpington where I starred as the King of Spain's Daughter in "I had a little Nut tree". I almost was the Nut Tree but was the only child to have a Bridesmaids dress that fitted. Actually the Nut Tree had a bigger part but wasn't nearly as glamorous and had to stand still and wear brown and look wooden with crepe (crap) un-bloody realistic leaves . I also managed not to wet my pants on stage, hanging on until we visited the Library Later - "Cleaner to Children's fiction, Aisle 3"

The next appearance was that of a Fairy in the parent dreading School Christmas Concert. Why School's torment parents with these occasions baffles me especially when the school orchestra is involved. I still hear those recorders screaming in moments of extreme stress, trust me.

We fairies wore green dresses, not Christmassy Tree Green Velvet , more sludge sackcloth. Someone obviously had a surplus of the stuff, Lord only knows where it came from but without doubt it was from a location where garments were made to torture. The stuff itched, gave you a rash and stank of kerosene. Thank God the school hall was non smoking and thank God twice we didn't have to wear matching knickers.

We stood on those wooden blocks that sufficed as a stage though when you're only 2ft no-one could see you beyond the first row anyway. Probably just as well because 99% of the audience missed the parting of the blocks resulting in 4 of the six fairies falling off. The hysteria was masked by the screaming Recorders, maybe they did have a purpose other than a migraine trigger, maybe that's why God invented them - Hey there has to be some Goddam purpose! We were allowed to go to school an hour later the next morning due to a "late night" -Yea right,  this was obviously to allow for parents and teachers to have a much needed bloody drink, or two, or five.

In my final year of Primary School some Goddamn genius of a Teacher / Lloyd Webber wannabe decided to put on The Wizard of OZ. Mucho excitement as you can imagine! Every bloody girl in the place wanted to be Dorothy, they walked, talked, ate and slept freakin' Dorothy. Friends and enemies were made, the cool kids became cooler and the un-populars became more so.

Auditions were held for the main parts and of course if you're wondering, YES I DID AUDITION! and if you're wondering again YES I GOT A PART!! and NO, IT WASN'T BLOODY DOROTHY!! It also was not either Witch, the Lion, The Tin Man or the stupid Scarecrow. It was not a Munchkin or Jitterbug or even a Freakin Tree. I was cast as a Skeleton, Yep a Skeleton that took the place of the Flying Monkeys in the real film cos the school was too goddam lazy to winch kids up and fly them around the stage DUH.

The Irony of the whole thing was that I was the fattest skeleton in the tomb. They picked the small emaciated kids to be the Munchkins, and the dainty pretty ones to be Jitterbugs. The ones who they weren't quite sure about became foliage and the no-hopers became Arsehole skeletons. Bloody skeletons , they didn't sing or dance just jigged about in a weird bony, calcified fashion to a really piggin catchy Death march - Great.

Our costumes were black leotards and tights, a white swimming hat to resemble a skull that left huge welts across your forehead and black and white face paint. The body bones were made out of some rotten white sheets sewn onto the black Leotards and Tights which some kind hearted Mums did for us. Unfortunately this was done when we were wearing the costume and hence mine were attached to my Goddam Knickers which deemed it impossible to take the costume off without A) showing everyone my front and back bottom, or B) Ripping apart my Skeletal embellishments and freeing my pants. After opting for plan B (sensible) my Mum then was forced to trace and cut some more bones out of less rotten sheets which caused huge bloody upset and re-attach to my then Knickerless outfit in the privacy of my own home. Hurrah for the ensuing bloodshed.

On to Senior School and my illustrious career continued. Our English Teacher put on a short play called the Ragged School, a sort of Oliver Twist type thing. I auditioned using my best Cockney accent and YES I GOT A PART, and YES it was a Goddamn SPEAKING PART!

I was cast as a Ragged Child, actually we were all cast as a Ragged Child - I think I was number 30 out of 35. But Mine was a speaking Ragged Child with one line, actually two words which technically do constitute a line. In my speaking scene us Ragged Children were hauling another somewhat unlucky Ragged Child onto a roof. My words became immortal, on perfect queue I boldly said, in my best Cockney Accent, HE'S COMING!

Thank you English Teacher for giving me that line and making all the other Ragged Children fall about with Laughter. It meant nothing to me, at this point I thought a baby still came out the top of your leg....

And this dear friends was really the end of my Stage Career, Oh apart from dressing as a chicken in a musical adaptation of Rooster Rag. I was so fat, Bernard Matthews would have salivated. Also I had red ballet shoes but all the other Chickens had pink and I had huge feet and was such an unhappy bird........

So that's it friends, was it destiny that has put me where I am today, in an office, crunching numbers on crappy spreadsheets? No, possibly not, It was the fact I couldn't act or sing, had large feet and was a fat rubbish Skeleton (Although the make up introduced me to the idea that Black Eyeliner quite suited me!), an unhappy Chicken and an itchy fairy.


I have acted, I have I have, I ruddy have!!!

Mel
   

When to Dye...

The closest I have come to dyeing my hair was back in my teens when Shaders and Toners were all the craze and probably the only thing your Mum would allow or indeed  even notice.

My mates were all Blonde haired and how I envied the effects of those squidgy little sachets of colour applied before Youth Club on Wednesday night. 

Being a very dark brunette the effects on me of course were somewhat less striking, actually lets face it, invisible, but oh how I tried to keep up.

In moments of defiance my Fair friends managed fabulous streaks using food colouring and felt tip pens. I have a lasting memory of waiting for the school bus in the rain, green rivers running down my face - Oh the shame.

 

Of course in those days I'm guessing that the products weren't there to covert. I don't remember any of my commrades actually changing their colour as such, only maybe in the late 70's when the Fair ones got streaks to go with their curly perms and I just got a curly perm that was more frizz than curl.

My daughters all started young in the hair colouring department. They too are dark like me but have been a variety of shades to which my towels are testament. There's been highs and lows or rather highlights and lowlights along the way. One of the best was middle daughter attempting Blonde, ending up a rather unpleasant hamster colour and wearing a wooly hat despite it being mid-summer. We did laugh...sorry.

So here I am, a vitual hair dyeing virgin at almost 51, and if I'm honest a rather smug one at that. To me it's almost my party piece!

I have a box of colour in the bathroom cabinet purchased on a three for two offer when buying or rather dyeing for daughter 3. It's probably out of date if that's feasible in the colourant world and it's gathering dust. I'm not even sure if it's a suitable shade, I grabbed it and ran, heaven forbid that I bumped into someone I knew and they suspected me of faking it for all these years.

The trouble is I am faced with taking the plunge in the not too distant future. I can't keep blaming the silver "threads" on my shedding scarf for much longer and if I keep plucking the little white critters from my temples I am soon going to be bald.

My plan is to discard the dusty box and make an informed purchase. I am loath to pay an unearthly sum of money at the hairdressers for the sake of a few unruly follicles and if I do it at home the packaging will go in the re-cycling bin and no-one will be any the wiser (Unless something goes horribly wrong of course).

Ok, so how do I choose between the seemingly vast array of products out there? Well just maybe I'll ask my well informed daughters at the risk of turning out like some weird rodent or worse.

Well dear friends wish me luck on the loss of my colouring virginity and yes I do have a wooly hat available should disaster strike.

Love

Mel