***Crush watch***crush watch***

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OK people, it’s about time this PANK pulled herself the Hell together, and dragged her crush-addled head right out of her arse…….

When my head is out of my arse, I'll let you all know.

When my head is out of my arse, I’ll let you all know.

All-consuming crush, on unrealistic target has distracted me long enough to interfere with my otherwise tidy and uncomplicated life (read; brain).  Having today realised I may have f*cked up some travel plans, I’m plenty annoyed with myself for allowing myself to be swept up in something so completely and utterly ridiculous.  Emotional control freak, moi?  Yes, yes I am.  There, I said it. I hate letting my heart rule my head, for exactly this reason.

That doesn’t mean that the feelings have subsided, (well, maybe a little), it just means that they’ve been gathered up, tied neatly with red ribbon and stored in a conveniently handy place, stamped with the words, “Use with caution, handle with care and follow the instructions“.  This is precisely why I keep men at arm’s length, they mess with your mind people.  Although, I do take full responsibility for the pickle, after all, it’s me that’s in charge of my head and the things that I do and the things that I say.

 

*sigh……I suppose it IS good to know this cynical old bird still has a heart, and it IS good to know she is capable of feeling anything other than suspicion and mistrust, but really?   Must it always be with someone wholly unsuitable?  And to the point of utter distraction? (Though truth be told, that exact thing hasn’t happened for quite a number of years).

Note: that question is completely hypothetical actually, I’m really just thinking aloud.  But thank you, if you were pondering one of life’s great mysteries.

And so to try and undo the cock-up, find the information, re-book, or whatever needs to be done and get a good, firm grip (strangle hold) on these feelings and regain at least a modicum of that steely, PANKy control.

 

Paris part II – July 2014

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I’ve said it before, but I will say it again.  I’m a lucky woman.

Beautiful Paris

Beautiful Paris

For a start, I’m writing this from the beach. Which is 15 minutes from my place. Enjoying the hazy sun and a balmy breeze. (It’s the little things.)

But most importantly for me, I have infinite freedom.  I’ve learnt that the kind of freedom I’m talking about, is of course only a state of mind, and absolutely nothing at all to do with physical constraints or the trappings of beaurocracy and it’s silly bits of paper.  You only have to look at the high percentage of married/’committed’ people philandering, to see a more realistic take on freedom; it’s definitely, as Derren Brown might say, all in the mind.

But my freedom is actual. I only have myself to look after, I only have myself to please. And that means that I can pick up and take off, as and when I feel like it.

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I’ve just been to Paris for the second time this year, after 20 years away.  This time to spend time with friends, who are musicians, that I met in a previous life. I went to Paris to see Django a la Creole play, for pleasure for a change, for the first time in the seven years they’ve been performing together.  And to sit in the audience and get swept away with the rest of the crowd for a couple of hours, was blissful.  I think I’d almost forgotten how to relax and enjoy it.

Armed with my little Paris guide book and map, I explored a little more, and discovered a little more.

And I got to catch up with a very special old friend, and that’s important, we are lucky, that with a friendship that spans almost fifteen years, it’s so easy to pick up where we left off. And drink whiskey until four in the morning….. and tell each other things we really shouldn’t.  There are some people you meet along the way, that are truly special, and you might not be able to put your finger on why, but you connect.

And I got to meet new, fascinating people, and listen to their stories.  It’s what life is all about.

When in France, eat cheese and drink wine

When in France, eat cheese and drink wine

 

And I’m thinking about going to a festival in the Pyrenees next month, because I can, and the boys are there, and I can spend more time with them.  And I am thinking about spending some time off in Paris next Summer, to study the language, and write. Again; because I can.

This is the year I’ve said yes to everything.  Because you should take those opportunities when you can. You just never know when the offers will stop coming: and life is short.

 

But it can truly be one, big adventure.

I’ve got deja vu

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It only seems like a few months since I was sitting in the airport waiting for a flight to Paris.  Oh wait, it is only a few months since I was sitting in the airport waiting for a flight to Paris.

Different company, different circumstances.

I’m excited to see my long-lost friends, it’s been too many years. So when the invitation was offered to go and hang out for a couple of days, I couldn’t say no.  I get to see them play, I get to spend some quality time, I get to explore a little more.

I love being in transit, I love the idea that I’m always going somewhere else.  It’s exciting and interesting and I’m lucky enough to have the ability to be spontaneous and say ‘HELL YEAH‘, I’m coming to gay Paris!

See you on the other side.  I hope you’re prepared, my talented friends.

X

If I was the Brazilian national football team’s aunt, I’d….

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line them all up, like they do before a match and walk along, give them the pity face and silently hug them all tightly to my breast. And I’d really mean it. There might even be hair stroking and face cupping.

Then I would hand them all a gift-wrapped DVD of a Germany training video and say, “watch and learn. You cannot succeed on rested laurels and hype dear hearts, and the lauded skills of a lone twenty-two year old. (Cute as he may be).”

Complete and utter humiliation is never a pleasant thing to experience.

Trips to Paris are like buses….

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you wait twenty years, then two come along at once.  Kind of.

Bonjour Paris.

Bonjour Paris.

So having popped over the border to Paris in February, (for the first time since my marriage proposal in 1994), to visit Hot Frenchie, I find myself ‘popping over the border’ again to have some fun and catch up with my fabulous friends from a previous life.  Inspired by the visit of my musician friend in May, I figured, I needed more fun times with fun people and said a big, fat “YES!” to an invitation to see them play in Sunset-Sunside in Paris.  Twice.  (It might have a little something to do with my mega-crush too, but I couldn’t possibly confirm/deny that).

I was chatting to a friend at the weekend, about all us folk who arrived in Barcelona around the same time, almost a WHOLE three years ago.  It’s interesting to see us all now, comfortable and relaxed and settled enough to start branching out, taking up new hobbies, exploring.  I can of course, only speak for myself, but until now, I had a strange sensation of detachment, that I was no longer anchored anywhere, and for that reason, I felt, (until now) that if I went anywhere, Barcelona might somehow not be here when I got back.  That it might somehow have disappeared in a puff of smoke, and I would have to start, yet again, from scratch.

And, so focussed was I on simply getting by, securing work, paying the bills, (and scared by the limitations of my lack of Spanish and the possibility that the work would dry up in a matter of seconds), that I didn’t dare explore/do anything outside of my confort zone.  Fast forward to 2014, I feel sufficiently connected to know that letting go for a few days is not going to result in abject disaster.

So, excited to disconnect for a few days, enjoy some music and the company of my lovely friends (without checking out the PA and sightlines), I’m off to Paris on Tuesday.  I’m going to swish around, as if in a 60s French movie, eat good food, drink good wine, enjoy sterling company and R.E.L.A.X.

And honestly, I can’t wait.

Thought for the day

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Dear everyone

One of the most infuriating things in the whole wide world, is other (cosily coupled-up) people’s interpretation of a ‘good time, enjoying good company’.

The only option OBVIOUSLY being, a date.  As opposed to say, having a great laugh with a good friend,  enjoying some great live music, courtesy of another nice friend.  Who also isn’t on a date with you.  But is really handsome and kind.   Hhhmmm, go figure.

If you wanted to know if I was having a nice time in good company, you’d have asked exactly that. My man sabbatical is working out so well, it might be indefinite. It’s the way it is. I’m happy with the choice I made after Paris in February.

It’s the second time this week that a friend has questioned me, the first time was that, head cocked, slightly pitying question, people ask you when you have been single for a while. “And what about you? ”

Ever been single? Well, if you had, maybe you’d have been surprised to discover, there is a life out there to be had without a ‘significant other’.

Yours sincerely,
Exasperated of Barcelona

Inherited hang-ups

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I remember very clearly, a time when my dad told me off for having airs and graces.  I was round about thirteen years old, I was in the kitchen with him and mum chatting and I asked for a Nice biscuit, (as in the city of Nice in southern France).  My dad thought I had asked for a nice biscuit (as in pleasant or pleasing) and pronounced ‘nice’ with a posh accent, ‘neese’.  So vigilant was he in the prevention of any of us kids, ‘forgetting where we were from’.  My mum and I looked at each other, a little confused and somewhat amused.

Parent hang-up #1 – never forgetting where you’re from.

It was only a couple of months ago that I pointed out to my dad, that he was in fact, middle class.  Own home, no mortgage, car, savings etc. etc.  This fact was met with a little disbelief, incredulity, maybe even disappointment.

Caution must be taken, if dropped from a great height

Caution must be taken, if dropped from a great height

Us kids (43, 35, 34) are all expert at eating in complete silence and with absolutely no mess and on a scale of 1- resisting the urge to get all stabby, our intolerance and annoyance when others slap their chops, is completely off the scale.   My mum swears blind my dad’s obsession scarred me enough, to hate oranges for the rest of my life.  When last year, I was seeing Twinkle Toes Temper Tantrum, I tried to avoid sharing meal times with him at all costs.  So prone was he to talking and chewing at the same time, (I say chewing, but I’m not sure how you actually do that with your mouth wide open and your molars never making contact), making slapping noises, letting things fall out; and once, while eating a fairly inocuous salad, I found myself impulsively snatching a stray leaf left dangling from his chomping chops and saying through gritted teeth, “What are you, a bloody horse?”  it just came out.  I apologised, he was crest fallen.  It’s my issue (well, to a degree, manners cost nothing), I know.  It was like dining with a tumble dryer, watching empanadas being thrown around.

And it was only a week ago, that I had to completely rearrange myself on the beach, after Chompy, dribbly melón girl, lay down next to me and slurped her way through approximately twenty kilos of watermelon.  I came to the conclusión that this was a better option, than braining her with the remaining  fiifteen kilos.

Parent hang-up #2 – messy, noisy eating.

“I can do IT.”  But now I have a broken pelvis and a slipped disc, after climbing up a twenty foot ladder to stretch my five foot nothing self to reach the ceiling, to paint; and falling off said ladder.  (And I might have also dragged a tonne of furniture solo up four flights of stairs.)  But it’s OK, because I was not weak in asking for help.

Parent hang-up #3 – being totally and utterly self-sufficient to the point of stubborn stupidity.

I can spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, two, maybe three or four (depending on the circumstances), times a day…… cleaning my teeth.  My dad cleaned his teeth so well, so often, that he lost two of his front ones about ten/fifteen years ago.  Obviously, I’m acutely aware of that, so am careful not to do it so rigorously, but nice, clean teeth and fresh breath, are paramount.  My teeth aren’t perfect, but I do notice nice straight smiles, all the time.  When I meet you, I’m looking in your mouth.  Stray spinach, visible plaque???  Nnnnoooooooooo!  Poor teeth make me irrationally angry, because there’s no excuse for it.  If I can see your visible plaquey and brown teeth at fifty paces, you need to have a word with yourself.  You could be melting people’s faces when you’re chatting to them, you need to be aware of that.  And if you’re going to holler at me in the street, at least have brushed your teeth before you left the house.

Parent hang-up #4 – oral hygiene.

The only one of these hang-ups that I haven’t really fully embraced is the first one, because the lines are a little blurry somewhere in the middle where we reside.  What is working-class?  Someone who works?  Then Richard Branson or any one of the Dragons in the den are working class, despite being gazillionaires.  The other three hang-ups, however, are a heavy burden I have to bear every day of my life and are becoming more and more prevalent, the older I get.

*sigh, <looks into some kind of self-help therapy in local bookshop>

 

If I was Luis Suárez aunt, I’d…

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call him up and say, ” Listen Chops, what are you playing at, for the love of the Holy Mother of Sweet Baby Jesus??!!”  And I wouldn’t actually give him a chance to answer,  continuing, “What happened the last time you bit your Uncle Jose at the family barbecue in May, hey, remember?? Hm, hm?” …….

“No, after Uncle José, took a dive, and tried to get you sent off.  That’s right, I bit you, didn’t I? And it hurt, didn’t it? And you cried a little bit, didn’t you?”

“The first time I did it was when you were two (normal age of biteage and gnashing), and every time you’ve done it since, you promised it was the last time.

Suarez official statement

Comical explanation

Now, you listen to your Aunty Anne, young (over – privileged, overpaid, over-worshipped, stroppy,  childish) man; you apologise properly, you apologise right now.  There are children watching their football heroes, all around the world, and they do not need to see this type of terrible behaviour from you, and they don’t need to hear that, ‘these kinds of things happen on the pitch’, because they only seem to happen on the pitch when you and your out of control gnashers are in the vicinity. ”

“I’m very disappointed in you.”

And when he finally got home, I’d  sit him down and do a lot of finger wagging.

Which would be a pretty risky thing to do, all things considered.