The Ten Commandments of Adult Life

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I turned forty-five at the weekend, and it was all I could do, to keep the ball of abject terror down, and not run through the streets screaming like a banshee,  “I’m not ready!! I need more time!”  I was seriously close to a real-life, bona fide panic attack. 

The Ten Commandments of Adult Life are not that hard, but I appear to have failed on all but one of the counts….

and breathe…….

1.  Thou shalt actually by all the powers of science, grow older annually.  Thankfully for me, this is unavoidable, otherwise I might not have achieved this either.  I have therefore fulfilled (at the very least), this rule of adulting.  Although this is my least favourite of all the commandments, I can tick that particular box.  #Winning

2.  Thou shalt find a suitable partner, thou shalt settle down, and thou shalt (above all else), call that partner your best friend. Like, forever….. I did do all of that, during the entirety of my twenties –  met, lived with, got engaged to, had long-distance relationship with, married.  It wasn’t all that.  Got divorced.

3.  Thou shalt be a master of steady jobness.  I have worked in shops (shoe/wedding/fashion), hotels and cafes and The ASDA.  I studied journalism at Uni, during which time I worked on a couple of magazines and at a video production company….  I stuffed envelopes and manned the reception desk at a PR company with Simone Nylander from Grange Hill, for the year immediately after I graduated.  I worked in corporate events in London and public events in Liverpool, for four and nine years respectively.  I got made redundant in 2011, retrained to teach English as a second language and buggered off to Barcelona.  I fully expect to become a unicorn trainer, or a special operative within the next ten years.  #Winning

4.  Buy a house, and spend all your life making constant improvements.  I moved North to buy a house in 2002.  The primary purpose of which, was to re-sell quickly, to pay off a big debt.  What I found was, that the big debt all but doubled because of the house, and the big debt became a bigger debt.  I was hiding in a house with no lights or heating on and the volume turned down on the TV, for the three months it was on the market, to  avoid being pummelled by the men in black suits, who called around about twice a week at random times.  Tricksy men in black suits.  Every cloud and all that; I lost a load of weight due to the stress.  #Winning

Houses are expensive and overrated.  Rent.  (Unless you want to lose weight)

5.  Thou art woman, therefore thou shalt bear fruit (children, to you and me).  Well we all know, according to society at large, where I went wrong with that.  NEXT.

6.  Bank holiday trips to IKEA – see point four.

7.  Thou shalt hold and attend civilised  couples dinner-parties in your lovely houses with conservatories and gardens. At which you will talk about how many miles to the gallon, cost of the weekly shop, child prodigy-ness and potentially moving, so your postcode is correct for the best school…..  I make interesting meals for one, and invite the girls round/get invited to the girls’ occasionally to talk about unsolicited d*ck pics and the sad state of dating in your thirties and forties.  #Winning

8.  Essential possessions as indication of success.  I have a small television with a 23″ screen.  That’s it.  #Winning

9.  Thou should start worrying about the ‘future’ at about aged sixteen.  Thou shalt realise when in employment, that a state pension is worth shit, and immediately start paying into a work pension.  Thou shalt realise that a combination of state pension and work pension, will not be sufficient for a truly comfortable future; and in your thirties will take out a private pension.

I have none of the above, except the state pension.  I have spent any money I’ve ever had on travel.  I will die working.  #Winning

10.  Thou shalt be responsible for more than one’s own life.  I had a bonkers dog once, a gazillion years ago, and had to leave him with the ex-husband when we parted company.  Despite the enormous amount of love I had for the daft boxer, it was a bit of a relief that my ex had the house with the garden, and I lived in a shared shoe-box. In Liverpool I had a goldfish, who survived five years in my care (no mean feat), and I successfully kept a lemon tree and jasmine alive last summer.  But then they died.  I’m best alone and only in charge of my own survival.  I have managed not to die yet.  #Winning

Thinking about these adult rules to live by, I thoroughly shake all you successful adults vigorously by the hand, and grin at you like an idiot while doing so.  I’m congratulating you all, every single one of you because I don’t know how you do it, I honestly don’t.  It’s not easy to succeed at adulting, according to the above –  I am absolute proof of that, and for that reason we should enthusiastically celebrate all who manage to stay alive and achieve the commandments, as they rightly deserve.

This middle-aged PANK is in complete awe of you and double high-fives you.                

Many, many heartfelt congratulations.  Xx

<Counts out shrapnel from piggy bank, to buy a can of baked beans to stick on the hob for tea.  Looks forward to donning Wonder Woman pyjamas and switching  on catch-up of The Voice>

International Day of Happiness 

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For me, HAPPINESS is:

Being alive and being healthy.  Appreciate it. Every. Single. Day.

Love – this is not the exclusive reserve of couples.  Love yourself (a lot, if the mood takes you.  Err hheerrm), breathing, fruit, creatures – except the likes of snakes/cockroaches/earworms/penis-burrowing fish, and their ilk (that’ll get you nowhere).  Your world, your city, family and friends, food, wine, the sea.  You get the picture.

The sun on my face.

Travel – meeting people and finding out about different cultures, seeing the world from a different angle.  Breathing different air, eating different food, talking different languages (even if really, really badly). Travel is the world’s best classroom.

Laughter.

Music – ALL of it.  Especially live. (Though probably death, thrash metal a smidge less than jazz or funk or pop)

My nieces and nephews – they are my little (or not so little anymore) rays of sunshine.  My midlife meltdown was softened yesterday, by recorded chirruping happy birthday messages, a guitar/vocal rendition of Viva La Vida by video and a mention on Instagram.  

Freedom.

The total escapism of cinema.

Sleeping through the night.

And………. 

 http://youtu.be/6KRkEg5zUJg

Happy International Day of Happiness.  

Smile. 

Xx

Today I am forty-five

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Does it ever all make sense?

Firstly, I am writing this with a bottle of Moet open, accompanied by a meticulously planned dream breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee and a toasted bagel, smeared with cream cheese and topped with smoked salmon, a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkle of black pepper.  I feel like I’m on death row, and this is my final meal….  It’s mostly how I will be passing the time today.  In a pleasant fog, (and in complete denial).  And, I thought champagne might be a nice change from cava, as it’s quite a significant age, and I really should be doing something to mark the occasion.  It’s not that I am sad, no, not at all.  But neither am I happy or in celebratory mood.  And there’s the rub.

There is nothing.  I feel nothing, if only the tiniest smidgen of disappointment.  But just in myself and the things I appear not to have achieved, according to the *Ten Commandments of Adult Life. 

Happy birthday to me – simple pleasures

I never seem to learn anything with each passing year.  How to save, or have a plan, to prepare for the future.  And let’s face it, the future I’m talking about, is no longer so far away.  And with each significant birthday that arrives, I have the same conversation with myself, about how I never learn.  And I have every faith that I will continue to keep not learning.  I fully expect to drop down dead in a classroom, aged a whole one hundred and two years old, while midway through writing the structure of the present perfect continuous with my gnarly, arthritic hands.  To a room full of young, vibrant, high-flying executives, who no longer know what a pen is, and want me to **transmogriphamorph the information, directly into their brains.  I wish I was joking.

I would like to think that in a mere fifteen years, that’s FIF……TEEN…. (***in past-forty, warp, wormhole speed; that’s no time at all), my life will be so radically and sufficiently different, that I can teach more as a hobby; and not have to actually rely on it to feed myself six baked beans on half a piece of toast for my tea, and pay the rent.  That by some divine miracle, there will be enough money in my bank account to relax a bit and concentrate on working on that creosote tan, that pensioner expats seem to magically acquire, when they hit the big SIX-OH and retire to the Costa Brava.  But what are the chances of that happening?

It’s here that I wonder, if the purpose of having children (apart from bringing endless joy into the world, natch), would have been to distract us all from our own failings, and worrying about our own rapidly impending old age?  If I was so very busy with the every day running of a family home, shouting instructions to little people, desperately trying to remember algebra, confiscating gadgets after 8pm, Googling household life hacks for getting dog poo out of my child’s recorder without damaging its magical tone, feeding, medicating, comforting; I quite simply wouldn’t have the time to mull over what I really should be getting on with, now that I’m a grown-up.  My time would be completely taken up with, parent evenings, Saturday swim classes, homework, healthy diet, their future.

So maybe I should have had kids.  Or is that too selfish?  “I haven’t figured out what I’m supposed to have done with me, so I’ll provide myself with a living, breathing diversion.”

It is just a number, yes, yes, I know, I know – trust me, the inside of my head is a constant fiesta of ball pits, jelly and ice-cream and giggling sleepovers.  But you can’t deny biology.  The outside of my head is grey and getting wrinkles…… I’m completely realistic, there are physical and financial limitations to being able to relax without a care in the world.  And the truth is; parts of me are beginning to ache and I have no savings/pensions/sugar daddies on speed dial…… 

…….. So, if I could just borrow a child for the next couple of days, until I get over the shock of turning forty-five, and having too much time to think about the grown-up things I should have done; that’d be great.  But only after I’ve sobered up. Natch.

*Ten Commandments of Adult Life – blog post coming soon

** transmogriphamorph – transmission of data, from one brain to another (or many) via an implanted, synced chip.  IT WILL HAPPEN.

***science provided by Stephen Hawking – you’re welcome.

Reasons why I don’t have kids #50

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Being crushingly disappointing to my kids.  In a world obsessed with Apple, Nike, Starbucks, with the likes of the Kardashians leading the charge – I’m afraid my kids would hate me.  

logo schmogo

I only just (three weeks ago) acquired my first iPhone, after being a committed Samsung user for years, and before that Crackberry.  And only then because it was the best deal with my particular contract.  I’m still waiting for the chorus of angels, and the appearance of a baby unicorn on my balcony…  It’s alright like, but it’s not magic, as many would have you believe.  But then, as a committed technophobe, I probably haven’t found the ‘fly me to the moon’ and ‘money printing’ apps yet…… I felt a strange and strong sense of disappointment in myself, like I’d let myself down by succumbing to the unbearable pressure of the tiny fruit and it’s gazillion (cult followers) devoted fans.  A similar sense of deep shame, as when I ventured tentatively, incognito, into Starbucks to buy a sugar-free blueberry muffin just before Christmas.  Because it’s THE ONLY PLACE TO BLOODY FIND A DECENT ONE!!!  (and breathe).  I felt sullied.

I used to care about names and labels a lot more, when I was much, much younger, in London and in fashion college.  I had Cutler & Gross, Gucci, DKNY, LKBennet, yada, yada, yada…… I also left London with a twenty-two thousand pound debt on nine credit cards.  Which rose to almost forty thousand, when I bought a house in equally high-maintenance Liverpool.

After I sorted myself out, I vowed never to revisit those dark days of hiding from the men in suits, for the sake of an unnecessary logo that I bought with money that wasn’t mine.  Don’t get me wrong.  If I won the Euromillions, I’d go bloody bonkers on Paseo de Gracia!  But let’s face it, that’s probably never going to happen.

I live well, but within my means (I will never be a millionaire, teaching English), because I prefer not to add unnecessary pressure to my life.  So the kids wouldn’t be a whizz on the iPad, because there isn’t one.  They wouldn’t have mobiles age nine, because I can just afford my own monthly bills, we’d all be watching the same programme (Masterchef/musketeers – sorry kids), on the same normal sized telly in the same room, because one in each room is unnecessary and excessive.  They wouldn’t be wearing labels, because they grow so blewmin’ quickly and they’d have basic trainers, because let’s face it, they’re not finely tuned Olympic athletes.  

They would however, be dragged kicking and screaming down to the beach, for a delicious fresh, local produce lunch, on a Saturday (because that’s been budgeted for).  Taken to the bookshop, with their pocket money, after school a couple of times a month.  Be allowed to have friends round for tea and a myriad board games to play.  All the good, old-fashioned fun we enjoyed.  It’s very simple kids, Mummy doesn’t have the oodles of money needed for that pop culture, consumer-led way of life……  Why don’t you call up Kim K, and ask her for a handout, to facilitate the dream she’s perpetrating.  And despite protestations to the contrary, mummy’s  not actually magic.

Can you imagine the embarrassment and horror!?  And I do realise how important it is for kids to feel integrated and to fit in with their peers, and how cruel and competitive kids can be if you don’t.  They’d hate me for putting them in that position, and I couldn’t deal with their enormous disappointment in my inability to come up with the goods.

And so that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #50.

So Kim Kardashian posts ANOTHER…….

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….. naked selfie, and then followed it up with an essay, defending her right to post naked selfies, on her website after a mixed reaction from various celebs on social media.  And rightly so.

Now, Kim sweetie, there’s no disputing you have a bloody IN-CRED-IBLE (natural or not) body, {insert applause here}.  AND, there is absolutely no doubt at all, at all, at all, that you are, like, totally owning your own sexuality.  Bravo, {insert more applause here}.  The issue is, for me – and I can only speak for myself – that it’s quite simply getting tedious.  And honestly, in response to Bette Midler’s comment, it would not surprise (or interest) me, if you stuck a camera up your fou, and posted that.  She actually said stick it down the other end, but let’s not split hairs.

What does bother me a tad, is as Chloë Grace Moretz said: Kim K’s position as a role-model, and in that, her responsibility to send positive messages to those who follow her religiously.  Namely, young women.  It is positive, to celebrate our bodies, of course it is – but we don’t all look like you Kimmie.  Do we?  I quite like my body, but no-one needs to see it on social media.  How about posting a picture of yourself covered in spot cream, or grabbing a handful of cellulite and posting that?  I’m Kim Kardashian and even I, with all my treatments and potions and lotions and plumps and tucks, am not perfect.  Girls (and boys actually) need to see a more realistic representation of beauty, that’s achievable down the high street, and in a house where your siblings are running amok and your mother’s screaming that tea is ready and you’ve got homework to do.  And it doesn’t make you a million dollars.

 

a truly inspirational woman


 

Yes, I also applaud the fact you’re a multi-millionaire.  Congratulations.  But how?  Coming from a fairly comfortable background, giving you the opportunity to own a designer boutique in Hollywood, partying, being Paris Hilton’s bestie, having a sex-tape, a couple of failed marriages, partying and spawning Kanye West’s offspring.  It’s all tits, money, money, money, sex, tits and more material possessions.  All achieved by getting your baps out.  Little else.   You are the one percent Kim, and your followers are the ninety-nine percent.  It’s completely unrealistic.

It’s like the boy who cried wolf, only the wolf is ‘Kim K has done something new and interesting!’, when actually, you haven’t.  You’re just naked. Again. *stifles yawn.  Ms Midler’s right, what’s left?  What have you got in your arsenal Kim, for when gravity takes over, you’re in your fifties and quite frankly, the most painful realisation of all; that chronic boredom has set in and no-one actually gives two hoots any more?  Because it will happen, such is the fickle world of celebrity.  And despite the money you’ve accrued, you’ll be sad, because it’s actually those little hearts and thumbs-up that fuel you.  You won’t be ‘relevant’ anymore.  

It’s important to have pride in your appearance (and can I emphasise, whatever shape you are), and not feel ashamed of being naked…… But, it’s also desperately important to emphasise that, if you don’t have the perfect curves and the gifted exposure of the shoulders you happen to rub with, to help you on your way, you need a water-tight plan B.  And C.  And D.  What’s yours Ms K-West?

So, here’s a tip; if you really, desperately want to ‘break the Internet’, (which in itself is a bit of a weird ambition to have), set up a charitable foundation for young women from war-torn countries, to help them with their literacy skills.  Or even for the kids on your own doorstep, from the poorer outreaches of your gilded world.

And truly surprise us all.

International Women’s Day 2016

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And so it rolls around again, and some of the men will get all upset that there’s a day for us poor, hysterical folk possessing of boobs and vaginas.  That we feel there’s a necessity to implement an International Women’s Day concerns them.  “But WHY?” we hear them wail in unison.  And it’s a good question.  Because, my dear fellows, every day is man’s day.  But I suppose you wouldn’t notice that, because you are one, and well, it’s just the way of the world.  And to that I say, come on guys, stop snivelling, grow a pair and man up……. oh, wait, those last two are a given.

To be fair, in the true spirit of equality, (because ultimately that’s what we want here) – nothing more, nothing less – give the boys their special day too, and let’s all stop quibbling.  Oh wait, what’s this?  They do have an International Men’s Day?  Since 1992…..  Well, while we’re at it, let’s give one to the unicorns, parking attendants and Father Christmas too.  If anyone deserves a day, it’s him, that guy performs miracles in December……  To be honest, I don’t care if they do have a day, because it doesn’t offend me. And I think that’s the key.  Why does it upset you if there is a day for women….. like there are Pride festivals all over the world, and Black History Month and other festivals in a similar vein.  For the love of God!  They have a day for the groundhog in America every 2nd February, and Rare Disease Day was at the end of the same month.  We’ve surely got to be nicer to celebrate than giant rats and deadliness?!  No celebratory day should offend you, unless the day is celebrating death or abuse or cutting off your penis.  Which it absolutely isn’t.  <looks shifty>

Im-Evil

Don’t believe a word of it

Let the breasts have their day.  Really, it’s just temporarily shifting the focus of the world, for a mere twenty-four hours, from all the bollocks (pun intended) we see every day.  What’s not to love about women; in work, in literature, politics, positions of power, in the home, just walking in the street and everywhere really?  We’re niiiiice. Come on, we’re not so scary and we’re definitely not evil (do NOT, whatever you do, cast your eyes left); and we’re not planning an uprising.  Certainly not to topple you champions and warriors from your thrones; that is not our intention at all.  We just want an equal chance to sit in some thrones next to you.  After all, we wear gems and ermine really damn well…….. we’ll look super fine sitting up there, crown all natty angle, working some velvet cape-age.  (While probably silently and stealthily plotting something utterly horrific, like free education for all and World peace).

I mean look chaps, we’ve had it pretty rough for thousands of years, take a look at some of the earliest known law codes from circa 2400 BC, (ancient Sumer – now modern-day southern Iraq) which show the introduction into written law, of where a woman well and truly stands in society – “If a woman speaks out of turn, then her teeth will be smashed by a brick.”  Pretty brutal, I think you’ll agree.Why?  Well, because: vagina.

cunkpenisBy anyone’s standard this is pretty bloody harsh.  Who constituted what was ‘speaking out of turn’, and against who?  Ah yes, the biped with the dangly thing between it’s legs.  So worried has man been about losing that, that witches (women) were burnt at the stake, because one of the worst things they were rumoured to do, was…… CUT OFF YOUR PENIS!!!!  NOOOooooo!!  Don’t cut off our penises, penes, penii.  Really (or metaphorically).  I wonder what life would be like if we smashed your teeth out, for ‘speaking out of turn’ (basically, not agreeing/having an opinion at all), or burnt you because someone made up a story about you stealing our fou-fous.  Or simply because our tits are far superior to your tits.  Not you Simon Cowell, your boobies are magnificent.  It’s just bloody weird isn’t it, to create such a violent divide in community, based simply on physical differences.

So, let us have our one solitary day, it’s not offending anyone, and it’s really not intended to.  We’re not speaking out of turn, we’re just speaking……… and singing, and dancing, and writing, and celebrating, and managing some of the biggest companies in the world, and drinking wine, and laughing, and having fun, and shenanigarising, and for the most part: just getting on with our normal, everyday shit.  A bit like you.

Happy International Women’s Day folks.

Love
Annie P
xxx

Mother’s Day 2016

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Happy Mother’s Day.  To the mothers I know, and the ones I don’t, you are wonderful, ethereal creatures.

My own mum will turn seventy in October of this year; and I have never valued what she is and what she does, more than I do now that I am older.  With each passing year, I try harder to push the thought of her not being here, as far away as possible. It is only now that I am older and living a life child-free, that I fully appreciate the level of sacrifice, every mother on this planet makes.  For my own mother, I cannot imagine a time when she will not be at the end of a whatsapp message (a fairly recent progression) or a Skype call.

She still worries about the three of us every day, and her nights are sleepless.  When a woman makes a choice to be a mother, for the most part, she makes a choice to sacrifice her life for her kids.  And if she didn’t, she soon realises – that’s exactly what it is. 

That instinct to nurture: Never. Goes. Away.

I don’t have that in me.  I never wanted to have that in me.  It’s a talent and a gift and a calling and infinitely skilful; and something I would never be good at.  It’s not for everyone.

No one says it’s easy, especially now, and it’s so refreshing to hear increasingly honest accounts of motherhood.  The tears, the tantrums, the exhaustion, no privacy, no down time, no me time, no mummy and daddy time, the worries – about now, and the future – the extreme highs, and devastating lows, and the lifelong commitment until the grave. No-one mentions that when they’re extolling the virtues of motherhood, and telling you what you’re missing.

I am fully aware of the rewards for all this.  But, the positives and negatives come in equal measures.

I live my life happy in the knowledge that I could not juggle those successfully enough to take the risk, of ‘you’ll feel differently, when it’s yours’, not working out…… 

mother’s (or not) ruin

And so, even though I’m not a mother, I’m going to raise my glass of mother’s ruin to all those mothers out there, who are giving and will give their lives and souls to the kids that they adore.

You are remarkable, you are awe-inspiring, you are inspirational.  And at one time or another, even though it doesn’t feel like it now; your kids (like me now), will know and appreciate just exactly what you did for them, by simply taking that decision to be their mother.  And caring for them with every fibre of your being, until you depart this world…..

Have a wonderful day.

With love, as always 

Annie P x

Amsterdam for PANKS

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beautiful Amsterdam

WWhhoopp!!  Oh Amsterdam how do I love thee, let me count the ways…..

It’s been more than twenty years since I was in you.  I went with my ex-husband and we stayed with friends, and I never saw the canals or the museums or the red-light district. We never made it there, because my ex-husband flipped out at the top of the main street in that area, and refused to walk down there, in broad daylight, in the middle of the afternoon.  Because he felt ‘weird’.  He was such a p*ssy…..or maybe he’d been a sex-worker in a previous life, and his experience had not been a positive one.  Whichever way, he annoyed the crap out of me.

Fast forward twenty four years, and I was there again, (sixteen years husbandless), for a flying visit with my equally PANKy friend from London.  Not the red light district, the whole city, you understand.

Staying a thirty minute walk from the city centre was perfect.  After arriving on Friday afternoon, we took a gentle mooch to the centruum area of the city, and pitched up at Seasons restaurant for an early dinner, us being on the other side of our New Year, new us-ness; had only nibbled on some healthy nuts all day.  We took a zig-zaggy  stroll back to the apartment, stopping here and there on the way, to have a glass or two of wine….. My dry spell well and truly ended last Friday night.

Staying in the Staatsliedenbuurt area of Amsterdam, afforded us great connections to Centrum and the Grachtengordel (the Canal ring) areas of the city, the public transportation system and also the airport.  But honestly, walk; you can see so much more and stumble across little gems, hidden off the tourist drag.  It’s not such a big city that you can’t pick a zone and walk around it in one day, taking in all the sights and places of interest there.

Vermeer

Having fallen off the healthy wagon, quite a bit more than we expected on Friday night, we stumbled home about 1 am (we think) and despite having a great dinner, we munched out way through ten kilos of cheese straws, that were part of the generous package provided by Luna and Jeroen, our AirBnB hosts; Saturday was approached with a modicum of decorum.  

We did not partake of the coffee shops’ special brand of hospitality, as we had drunkenly enthused about the night before, but decided instead to be respectful of our older bodies and more sensible heads, and not spoil the rest of the weekend by regressing to our twenties uni days!!  As we only had the best part of forty eight hours to cram as much as possible, we decided that we would adopt a two-pronged approach to sightseeing.  

Saturday, Centruum and the Van Gogh museum and museum of contemporary art, which were all in and around the same area.  And Sunday, Grachtengordel – including the red light district.  But as with all the best laid plans, we needed to return on Sunday to the Rijkmuseum, because there just weren’t enough hours in the day…. On Saturday we took in the Van Gogh museum, which was wonderfully curated, and spent the best part of the morning being blown away by this prolific and tragic artist.  I had no idea quite how much work he had produced, in his desperately sad short life.  In need of a pick me up after our emotional morning, we went to close-by popular clean food restaurant, Blushing Amsterdam.  Go. The place is great, the food tasty and heathy.  And the staff are fabulous and hot!!  I resisted licking the tricep of the angel boy waiter, who brought our bill, much to the relief of my friend…… and after dragging me away, we then wandered around in the rain  

pretty tame sauciness

towards the red light area, en route to our studio.  There’s nothing like the sight of an enormous metal bum ball, or a poster of two greasy bodies going at it, or a bored looking nana in a leather bikini, to shake the final tiny remnants of a hangover.

Ditching plans of getting the glad rags on, on Saturday night, due to the weather and forty-something fatigue; we found a wonderful place, at the end of our road to get great steak and fries with mayonnaise – don’t judge us – (when in Rome, an’ all that), and sample some local beers.  Rooster is a find and a half, warm and cosy with lovely staff and a simple but spectacular menu and excellent value for money, away from the touristy centre.

I’ve never tasted mozzarella like it!  And my steak was cooked to perfection….. We were in raptures.  As a newly committed health fiend, and a frantic searcher of decent steak (due to the lack there of in BCN), it was like heaven on a plate.  The Dutch know how to do meat.

On the last morning we tracked down Bakkerij Kwakman, to have our fill of foodie naughtiness, before returning to the straight and narrow.  A cute little artesan bakery, standing room only, offers everything you could wish for from a buttery baked good.  And then headed off to the Rijkmuseum for our final jaunt.

The thing that stood out for me the most, apart from the postcard prettiness, is how friendly and kind the locals are.  Genuinely adorable humans, from our hosts, to the staff in bars and restaurants, to people in the street (no really.  En route to Centruum on Saturday morning, a tailor waved enthusiastically and beamed at us as we walked past, out of the window of his workshop); I couldn’t believe their good nature.  

I need to go again as I missed so much, and I advise four or five days, to have a more relaxed time to see as much as possible, because it just isn’t possible in forty eight hours.  

Although we made the best of the time we did have, and I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed it – I feel there’s definitely more to explore……… 

An open love-letter

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tolstoyYou’ve changed my life, (and probably the lives of millions, around the world), but let’s not talk about them.  I want to think that I’m your special one.

I can’t thank you enough, for the things  you’ve introduced me to that I might never have experienced, had I not met you.  From the moment we connected last year, there’s been so much fun.  Oh, the japes.  The deeply moving, philosophical words that accompany the photos of beer-chugging, goofy-glasses wearing, double-thumbs-up, globally significant monument star jumps, have made me guffaw while walking around the streets.  But I don’t care about the stares of passers-by, because you make me laugh  every day.

Without you, I might never have known what true confidence looks like.  Raise that camera high above your head, take a photo down your top, show your breasts to strangers!!  You are beautiful, and don’t you forget it.  Pull your boxers right down to your pubic hair (but obscure your face, always obscure your face), rub your barely hidden p*nis until it’s hard, and take a mirror selfie of those killer abs you’ve been working hard on.  Because it’s the abs you’re proud of.  And why not snap yourself having sex.  We are all beautiful.  Sex is beautiful.  Don’t hide.  I see that now.

You’ve opened my mind to so much too.  I just never imagined that blatant extra-marital affairs and threesomes (or moresomes) and sex parties and swinging, are all perfectly healthy pastimes for couples.  And how many couples?  Who knew!  As long as you’re open and honest, (to everyone except your partner, in that first one) – it’s all good.  I’ve lived such a sheltered life.  You’re the Michael Hutchence to my Kylie.

You’ve shown me that there’s enough love for everyone in this world, even if you’re a werewolf or a vampire.  I thought these were only figments of someone’s imagination, but they’re not, they exist.  I’ve seen them.  The photos of Diego, 44, fangs/fierce face – looking for love, George, 36, growling, aggressive posturing, blades for fingers – looking for someone to share life’s treasures.  Because that’s not at all scary.

But of course as with any relationship, it’s always bitter-sweet.   I’ve reached levels of disappointment with you, that I didn’t know existed.  There have been days when the level of anticipation has been enormous.  When I have shown that I wanted to see  you, and for that split second of waiting for the swiping confirmation of your desire to see me too, and it didn’t come.  As if romantic life wasn’t disappointing enough, your sometime lack of interest was crushing.

And so at Christmas, I made a decision to end our relationship.  The rollercoaster ride we’d had for the best part of twelve months, was over.  But it doesn’t mean that I don’t miss you sometimes Tinder, it’s been very quiet without you these last few weeks.  And so I say:

Thank you for the good times, and the bad (they’ve actually been the ones that provided the best times, in a loosely Schrödinger’s cat way), they’ve given me bitchin’ stories to tell.  The laughs and the fun and the unsolicited d*ck picks. Who else could offer all that in one place…… Thank you Tinder, thank you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.
LOVE and LOVELINESS
Annie P
xxxx

p.s.  And mostly, thank you for Vladimir from Montenegro who I chatted to while he was passing through Barcelona on his travels and whose name and brooding, dark good looks, fiercely fuelled my swashbuckling musketeer fantasy………

Reasons why I don’t have kids #49

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Broken limbs and other injuries. 

I just got off the metro, having watched a super sweet papi, politely (but nervously) engaging with a batty old woman.  The batty old woman had nudged me, to alert me the presence of a baby in a buggy, presumably to notice it’s cuteness.  Said baby was cute, undoubtedly, but I am not really one given to billing and cooing – unless the baby has four paws and fur.

So, having nudged me, established eye-contact with the bairn and buoyed by a swift exchange with dad; she felt it appropriate to lunge in and grab baby’s face.

don’t mess with my kid

Now, mama Pank, having found herself in this compromising position (that being offspring in imminent danger), would have let out an earth shattering roar – in manner of lioness, employed claws – in manner of Wolverine……. and mauled the woman to pieces.  In manner of the bear from The Revenant.

With that in mind, and given people’s annoying propensity to touch babies and toddlers, imagine the carnage here in Barcelona.  The path to nursery would be littered with arms and legs, there’d be entrails strewn around the place, and the carcasses of kindly passers-by, tossed aside like the bones from a Henry VIII feast.

The health and safety of people who love the little ones of strangers, enough to stick their germy, dirty, bacteria-riddled hands all over them without asking permission from the parent, is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #49