tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-329572182024-03-12T23:10:38.921+00:00Ladies Who Love DinosaursIt's not just for ladies, and it's not just about dinosaurs.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.comBlogger273125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-32641566782847503452013-03-29T21:20:00.003+00:002013-03-29T21:24:39.693+00:00Facing it allI've been having counselling now since Feb, through this fantastic organisation in Haringey called <a href="http://www.phasca.com/" target="_blank">Space to Talk</a>. My doctor referred me just before Christmas when I turned up with hair like a nesting box and a face like a war zone. She and I both agreed that I couldn't wait the regulation 6 months for NHS counselling, it had got a bit too extreme for that.<br />
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So now I go to Tottenham once a week and talk and talk and talk. I sit in a sparsely furnished room in a community centre and pour my heart out to a total stranger. Thank goodness I really like my counsellor, she's honest and sensible and I trust her advice. We talk about why I measure myself against everybody else in the world, all the time, and how exhausting it is. We talk about how I'm ashamed of my mental illness, she referred to my depression as my 'mad old lady in the attic', which I really liked, as I am embarrassed by it and afraid of it in a mildly gothic way. We discuss ways I can try and let people into my life when I'm afraid, instead of pushing them away.</div>
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It's working. I feel less scared all the time, and am starting to push myself to make some positive changes in my life. Most of the thinking goes on after the sessions, when I digest everything we've said on the bus home. Every twinge of neurosis has been discussed, even the stuff I'm mortified about discussing, like my sociophobia and hypochondria. And while I'm not battling these full-on, every second of the day, just being more honest with myself about everything (and feeling less guilty) is making a huge difference.</div>
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I've made some big decisions. Last week I told my work that I would like to reduce my hours to 4 days a week, as I was finding it difficult to maintain a work/life balance and my mental health was becoming difficult to manage. This has been apparent for some time, but I'd been struggling against it. I agonised for days over the wording of the letter - should I mention the D word? In the end I did, and I'm so glad. Work have been awesome, and from September I am going to have a little more of my life back.</div>
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Life is okay. I really am so lucky. My fiance is amazing, my family and friends love me unconditionally, and my work are supportive of me - all of these things have given me the courage to be honest. Being brave doesn't come naturally to me, but I think I'm learning...</div>
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Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-71559435706396449892013-02-27T07:09:00.001+00:002013-02-27T07:09:36.569+00:00Self-flagellation<br />
I"m writing this in my kitchen/living room at 6.40am where I am chugging paracetamol. I am recovering from something akin to flu. The time I'm taking off to recover is making me panic. I was awake over half the night worrying about it. <b>Lesson: </b>I really need to learn to separate my physical/mental symptoms. I have made myself worse.<br />
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OF COURSE people with mental health issues can be physically unwell. The two aren't always interlinked. I was absolutely fine until I started shivering/being sick on Sunday. I was in the zone. I was succeeding at life.<br />
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I was just unfortunate, I blame poor hand hygiene in others.<br />
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But there is a blurry line between what ails me physically and mentally.<br />
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Here is a list of my current physical ailments:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Recovering from flu - knackered, head aches - this is okay, I can explain this one, and I know it's non-fatal.</li>
<li>Nagging ache in my left shoulder - I've had this for years. <span style="color: red;">HEART ATTACK.</span></li>
<li>Stomach pains - I get these almost every day. <span style="color: red;">DEFINITELY DYING. CANCER.</span></li>
<li>Heartburn/indigestion - this occurs regularly too... <span style="color: red;">DYING. CANCER.</span></li>
</ul>
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Aaaaaand the two significant losses in my life up until now have been to? You've guessed it... HEART ATTACK and CANCER. I'm so cliche, I sicken myself.<br />
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There is a perfectly rational explanation for all of those physical symptoms up there, I'm just choosing to catastrophise matters. This is when I talk myself into total and utter self-destruction, real Armageddon Bruce-Willis-pointing-space-drills-at-my-brain stuff.<br />
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<b>Here is an example of me catastrophising last night:</b><br />
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"You need to sleep. You've been unwell. You have to recover to go back to work."<br />
"Go to sleep. Go to sleep now."<br />
"Seriously, go to sleep."<br />
"Why aren't you asleep yet?"<br />
"My stomach hurts. Ow."<br />
"Maybe it's cancer."<br />
"Fuck! It's CANCER!"<br />
"Well now you're not going to sleep. Well done, you berk."<br />
"Okay, it's 2am. You haven't slept yet. Now you're going to feel awful in the morning"<br />
"You probably won't get better now."<br />
"How are you going to manage this one, eh?"<br />
"You're going to spend all day worrying now too."<br />
"And all tomorrow night as well."<br />
"You're going to get worse."<br />
"You'll need more time off work."<br />
"People will ask questions."<br />
"You'll probably lose your job."<br />
"If you lose your job you'll have no money and you'll lose your nice house."<br />
"OH MY GOD, WHERE WILL THE CAT LIVE?"<br />
"YOUR FIANCE IS NEVER GOING TO MARRY YOU IF YOU'RE DOLE SCUM."<br />
"YOU WON'T GET ANY BENEFITS, THE GOVERNMENT HATE YOUR KIND.""<br />
"YOU ARE AN UTTER FAILURE."<br />
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This all took place gradually over approximately 2 hours. No wonder I couldn't fucking sleep, I was ending the world in my head.<br />
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<b>Now. Let's look at where I <i>should</i> have had a word with myself:</b><br />
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"You need to sleep. You've been unwell. You have to recover to go back to work."<br />
"Go to sleep. Go to sleep now."<br />
"Seriously, go to sleep." <span style="color: blue;">HERE. STOP BEING A DICK. </span><br />
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I should have got up, read a book, made some tea, anything. But I was so bloody desperate to sleep that I started to berate myself, and that's when all the DOOM started occurring.<br />
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The irony is, if I die of cancer or a heart attack, I won't have a job to lose and all of the worrying will have been in vain. I do know this. But it's like smack, I keep crawling back, I've become used to being terrified.<br />
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So today I'm going to try and have a word with myself. If I have the energy. It is much harder when you've been poorly, the germs have infiltrated my forest moon of Endor and disabled my deflector shield.<br />
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I'm going to call work in 5 minutes and tell them, truthfully and rationally, that I am still unwell and will be back tomorrow.<br />
<br />Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-25173456800290347112012-11-26T08:27:00.001+00:002012-11-26T08:32:35.531+00:00The Depression Card<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KpuHwX-ncdY/ULMfbdlPdOI/AAAAAAAAAMU/gDShhuY8Rps/s1600/card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KpuHwX-ncdY/ULMfbdlPdOI/AAAAAAAAAMU/gDShhuY8Rps/s320/card.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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Anybody with a history of depression will have been accused, either literally or implied (usually with one slightly-squinted eye), of playing The Depression Card. It's the stock response from people that are either afraid of, or simply too ignorant to try and understand, mental illness. It's how they think you are avoiding doing all the sensible and vital <b>surviving</b> that allows you to become a fully functioning member of the real world.<br />
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<b>Problems at work?</b> Use the Depression Card.<br />
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<b>Don't fancy going out tonight?</b> There's a Depression Card for that!<br />
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<b>Dirty teeth and hair like an <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CwUNhZRaKc4/TuzzQJyZZvI/AAAAAAAAGpY/gyRlYkcMrWY/s800/Red-Great-Egret-Nest3.jpg" target="_blank">egret's nest</a>? </b>Slide that fucker across the table and just watch the look on their faces melt from smug 'judgemental' to bitterly resigned 'thwarted'.<br />
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It's your Get Out of Jail free card for pretty-much any unpleasant situation you wish to extract yourself from, and the beauty of it is NOBODY CAN TOUCH YOU FOR IT.<br />
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Let's get something straight right here. When somebody accuses you of playing The Depression Card what they are really accusing you of is being <b><u>LAZY.</u></b><br />
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<b>Problems at work?</b> You <i>could</i> go into work if you really tried.<br />
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<b>Don't fancy going out tonight? </b>Don't be ridiculous. Of course you <i>could</i> put a dress on, and do your hair, and apply makeup, and get the bus into town and go to a party and be sociable and talk to people. You just can't be bothered.<br />
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<b>Dirty teeth and hair like an egret's nest? </b>You <i>could</i> stand in the shower and brush your teeth and rub shampoo on your head, then blow-dry it and put some clothes on. You just don't want to because you're lazy.<br />
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They could be right. All depressed people could just be incredibly lazy. That's why so many of them can't be bothered to go to work, or the shops. Instead of Depression Awareness days we could hold Laziness Awareness days instead. We wouldn't even have to do any work in advance. We could just yawn or cry at each other simultaneously over webcams and feel immediate solidarity with our lazy brethren.<br />
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When I was 18 I went a bit mad*. My parents were going away for two weeks and I knew I was too sick to look after myself. Instead of discussing plans of how I'd cope with them in advance I kept all my fears of 'Oh GOD I am going to DIE here on my OWN' to myself until the night before they left. Then I collywobbled all over the floor in a snotty mess, terrifying them. Mum was upset. Dad was furious. He accused me of playing The Depression Card. I was dispatched to my nan's.<br />
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Much later, when I was in my twenties and able to synthesise my experiences more successfully, I discussed this period in my life with my mum. Her response set me free. "I just looked at you - the state of your hair, your red eyes, your shaking hands and thought 'How can she possibly <b><i>want</i></b> to feel this way?'"<br />
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Yes, Mum. Bloody YES. How can I possibly want to feel this way? I honestly felt right there that my life's work was achieved. One person in my life knew how debilitating this was, and right there the Depression Card vanished before my eyes. Because nobody with depression would ever want to feel this way. Ask any of them if they want to feel so awful. ALL of them will say 'no'. That's why some even try to end their own lives. We are foot soldiers battling against the Black Dog, we need as much rest, sleep, understanding as we can get. And we don't ask for it lightly.<br />
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So (and this blog had to end on a 'so' didn't it? It's a Sesame Street-esque lesson, is what it is!) if you've ever been depressed, and you've read this: Please stop worrying that you're using your illness as some kind of excuse for not living your life as successfully as everybody else. You can't live your life like that right now. But you will, given time. And if you've ever (either directly or inadvertently) accused anybody of playing The Depression Card at any point in your life I hope this has urged you not to do so again lightly.<br />
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<i>*depressed. I was depressed. I just thought I was mad.</i><br />
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<br />Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-50759327531812857052012-08-05T21:07:00.000+01:002012-08-05T21:07:25.917+01:00Zip, zap...Hello!<br />
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If you've read any of my older posts you might be aware that I'm no stranger to antidepressants. In fact, I've been on them since the age of 16, when my GP prescribed a low dose of venlafaxine for me because 'everything kept feeling like it wasn't real' (baby's first panic attacks). Since them I've had (cue Hartbeat 'Gallery Music'):<br />
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<b>Dosulepin</b> - when I went a bit mad aged 18 and had to go and stay with my nan for a few weeks.<br />
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<b>Sertraline</b> - at uni, mainly for panic attacks.<br />
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<b>Citalopram</b> - because the sertraline didn't really work.<br />
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<b>Fluoxetine aka 'Prozac'</b> - when coming off the citalopram, which murdered my libido. I had a horrific allergic reaction to this stuff and wanted to run out of my own skin for about 24 hours.<br />
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<b>Valproic Acid</b> - mood stabiliser, when I had 'manic depression', made my hair fall out - which made me more crazy - came off after about a month.<br />
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<b>Venlafaxine</b> - cos it worked when I was 16 and is quite strong. My highest dose was 150mg (when I was diagnosed with 'manic depression') but I switched down to 75mg about 3 years ago, and am hoping to come off this summer... This stuff gave me my life back when at times I despaired of ever having one.<br />
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This isn't a post about depression, cos I've done loads of those and am quite bored of them. I want to move forward with my life and I think that too much navel-gazing can be bad for you.<br />
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No, this post is just to record the fact that, after half my life on antidepressants, I'm coming off the venlafaxine. It's quite scary, because I can hardly remember being happy without it, but my life has stabilised and in the not-too-distant future I hope to get knocked up (venlafaxine taken when pregnant can cause harm to the baby, and cause neo-natal withdrawal). I'm also FAT, and think that part of that could be linked to the meds.<br />
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I started halving my dose two days ago and coming off has been slightly unpleasant. My brain feels like it's being zapped by a laser for about three hours a day and I'm a bit dopier than usual. Otherwise everything else seems to be going okay. I've got off lightly, if all the horror stories about venlafaxine withdrawal on the internet are to go by. Google 'venlafaxine + withdrawal' and all you'll get are reams and reams of results about excessive vomiting, suicide attempts, hearing voices and chronic insomnia. This stuff has a seriously short half-life, so your body starts freaking out when it realises it's not going to get its fix.<br />
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Going to update again when I stop the pills altogether. Hopefully not from my sickbed!<br />
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<br />Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-11982516247896450192012-06-23T21:50:00.004+01:002012-06-23T21:52:13.406+01:00Baby's First Risotto!How have I reached the age of 30 without ever making a risotto? Probably because I am afraid of cooking rice. I always over-boil it, even if I time it, and it turns to mush.<br />
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Sitting in the freezer were some lovely scallops and prawns and I wanted to do them justice; cooking them simply with very simple flavours. Risotto just seemed right.<br />
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Being a kitchen MAVERICK I followed a recipe for a completely different risotto to the one I was making (pea and pancetta), just to get the technique. This is how I did it:<br />
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<b><u>Scallop and Prawn Risotto</u></b><br />
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300g risotto rice<br />
750 ml chicken/fish stock<br />
150ml white wine<br />
Big double handful giant prawns<br />
Big handful scallops<br />
Zest and juice of 2 lemons<br />
50g butter<br />
1 clove garlic<br />
Bunch spring onions - chopped<br />
Handful parsley - chopped<br />
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1. Shell the jumbo prawns and remove the veins (actually their <b>digestive tract</b> but, oh well). This is LONG, but it stops them from being gritty. Shelling prawns is really easy, twist the heads off (WARNING: brain juice will <i>explode</i> on your fingers), remove the legs and peel the shell off from the bottom up. I leave the shell on the tails cos it's pretty and they do it in posh restaurants. Take a sharp paring knife and cut down the prawn's back, you'll see a <b>manky</b> brown/black vein. Pull it out. Wash the prawns and put in a bowl in the fridge.<br />
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2. Fry the garlic, lemon zest and spring onions in the butter for approx 2 mins until soft.<br />
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3. Add the rice and cook in the butter mix for 2 mins, stirring constantly (this bit FRIGHTENED me, I kept expecting it to pop/explode or burn - told you I was afraid of rice).<br />
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4. Add the white wine and boil, stirring constantly, for 2 mins. <i><b>This bit smells lovely.</b></i><br />
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5. Add the stock, a bit at a time, as the rice absorbs it gradually (or you can chuck it all in, I suppose, I got bored halfway through and did just that). This process should take about 20 mins. After that time the risotto is more or less done. Stir it regularly to prevent the bottom burning.<br />
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6. About 5-6 mins from the end fry off the scallops. Put the raw prawns into the risotto. Stir.<br />
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7. At the end add the scallops, lemon juice, parsley and seasoning and serve. Nice.<br />
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<b><u>I'd add a picture here but I ate it too quickly. Soz.</u></b>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-28299900403744823362012-02-06T18:59:00.004+00:002012-02-06T19:08:53.701+00:00Mediocre Mediums<div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A Groupon offer caught my eye this week: 30 min psychic reading for £10 (instead of usual £45). Now, please don't think that I believe in clairvoyancy, tarot, angels, fairies etc, I was just really curious as to how these people made their money. My grandmother has spent many years chucking money at what I believe to be charlatans and I wanted to have a little slice of it for myself.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On finding out that I could spread my 30 mins across various readings I decided to conduct a little experiment (kinda, sorta an experiment...). I chose four mediums and told them the following information:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><ul><li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My D.O.B.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My mum died.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have a boyfriend.</span></li>
</ul></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The rest I left up to them. This is what they came up with...</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>The First Psychic:</b> Male. A little Richard Madeley-esque in that he was condescending. ('This is your <b><i>first</i></b> psychic reading, isn't it?' ) Attempted to contact the spirit world to make a 'connection' for me. Failed. Apologised. Hung up. <b><span style="color: red;">FAIL.</span></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>The Second Psychic:</b> Middle-aged, cheerful, voice like me nan's. Told me that mum was reluctant to come forward, that she was 'hiding' and that she'd 'dragged her out' because she was hiding behind her maternal figure (<i>Who</i>? My nan? Who is very much <i>alive</i>?<b> <span style="color: red;">FAIL.</span></b>) Saw a 'big contract' for my 'funny boyfriend' coming up in the near future and a curly-haired baby girl. 'But what about conception?' I ask.Then proceeded to lecture me about healthy eating </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">'You've got to get enough fruits and vegetables' </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">for about five minutes, while I gnawed on a Kit Kat.</span><br />
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</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>The Third Psychic:</b> Made of much sterner stuff. Saw a tall nurse with white hair around me. <b><span style="color: red;">FAIL.</span></b> Kept asking me for a number between one and ten. Chose 7 - 'The World', packing boxes in my future, apparently. Then chose 5 - 'The Magician', I'm going to be 'decisive' and 'charismatic' this year. I took decisive action and terminated the call.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>The Fourth Psychic:</b> Brief. Advised me to go to my local spiritualist church because my mum was 'all around me, always' and that 'When people pass to the spirit world they don't remember the pain of their passing'. I ask how she can be so sure of this. 'Well, you can't remember being born, can you?' Then told me my mum had 'mid-length sandy hair' - <b><span style="color: red;">FAIL. </span></b></span></div><div><b><span style="color: red; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Not one of these people came close. Not one of them told me anything I didn't know already, or couldn't get from a horoscope or self-help book. </span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><div><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Conclusion: I was right all along. I wasted £10. <span style="color: red;">I FAIL.</span></span></b></div>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-25008872074993270812012-01-30T17:30:00.002+00:002012-01-30T17:30:55.930+00:00Typical day...<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;">Form time (am): Equipment check, over 25% of kids have no pen. Register taken. Lecture delivered to class regarding expectations for this week. Always late kid arrives late. Berate her. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;">L1: Yr 7. Class arrives hyper on Powerade. It takes 10 minutes to calm them down. Kid reads Demetrius so beautifully I think I'll weep… … then proceeds to spend the rest of the lesson calling ot</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left;">her students 'shag-haired villains'. Explain that 'shag' in this instance means scruffy, not 'sex'. Kid shouts 'SEX HAIR'. Students write mini essay.</span><br />
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L2: Yr 9. Fourteen year old has full on tantrum for receiving a 'satisfactory' level 5. Forgets both book and homework at the end.</span><br />
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L3: Yr 10. Class are 5 mins late (PE). Spend ten mins explaining that their essay q does not require discussion of Lady Gaga's gender… … still, half write 'Lady Gaga has a dick' in their books. Headteacher comes in with visitor. Pray to Gods to let kids behave. Gods on my side today. GCSE assessment tomorrow! Woo! </span><br />
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L4: Yr 11. "Who's Tiny Tim?" asks student who's been studying A Christmas Carol since December. Consider purchasing gun and shooting self in mouth. One kid calls Tiny Tim a 'retard'. Another tells me he refuses to read the novel because 'it's of no relevance to my life'. Throw book at him and shout 'READ'.</span><br />
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L5: Yr 8. Class takes ten mins to settle (Powerade and Haribo, again). Class task: to describe Portia. 'Elegant' 'Desirable' 'Big Nose'. Child has epileptic episode in class. Class take five mins to calm down. Sullen child refuses to write, look me in the eye or hold a pen, then realises it's a colouring task and participates with gusto.</span><br />
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Form time (pm). Half of my form have not completed their homework. 20 minute detention + 40 mins to call home and inform parents.<br />
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SO YEAH, I WENT HOME AT 4.10. FUCK YOU GOVE, I WAS TIRED!</span>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-53503125891974718892011-08-31T19:31:00.001+01:002011-08-31T19:35:45.637+01:00Love me, love my Mooncup!I'm one of many thousands that have scoffed at the Mooncup ads on the backs of doors in health centres and festival loos. "Ha ha ha!" I said, "A plastic egg cup to collect your PERIOD BLOOD! Nyuh nyuh nyuh... GROSS."<br />
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That was when I was young.<br />
<br />
Now I am thirty and, quite frankly, getting bored of my periods. Sixteen years of paying tax on tampons. And remembering to buy them. BORING. So when I discovered that a close friend used a Mooncup I quizzed her like a Mastermind contestant. So if you're at all curious, below are the questions I asked. And my own answers. Reader, I married it.<br />
<br />
<b>How do you get it up there?</b><br />
<br />
Like this: <br />
<img src="http://pics.livejournal.com/flybane/pic/00004h10/s320x240" /><br />
<br />
This is officially called the 'Labial Fold' but to make it more interesting I like to call it <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>'Rosebud'</i></span> in a whisper. You can fold it like an 'M' or an 'S' shape, but trust me, this is the best way to make it as small as possible. Unlike tampons (which sit quite high) it only sits about 1-2cm up your vagina, so really it's no more difficult to insert than a non-applicator tampon (which I can't insert, btw). Once it's in it pops open (if you remember the 80s, it's a bit like <a href="http://www.inthe80s.com/toys/images/user-image-1173954110_thumb.jpg">this</a>), creating a vacuum, and your vag muscles hold it in place. Done.<br />
<br />
<b>Can you feel it?</b><br />
No more than you can a tampon. Unless you don't trim the stem. I did this straight away because I don't relish the idea of sore bits.<br />
<br />
<b>Does it leak?</b><br />
Mine leaked, a tiny, tiny bit, once, when I put it in sleepy as hell and smacked off my tits on co-codamol, at 4am. This was the only time and it was no more than any tampon ever did. Honest.<br />
<br />
<b>How do you get it out?</b><br />
Most internet horror stories about using Mooncups cite this as the most horrific part. But this bit is FUN. It simply involves the art of BEARING DOWN. This just means squeezing your vag muscles, although having a wee will do a similar job. If you've never squeezed your vag muscles before (why wouldn't you? It keeps them taut!) then just have a wee before you try to take it out, the squeezing during the weeing will do half the work for you. You grasp the bottom, and give the base of the Mooncup a little squeeze until you hear a delicious <i><b>slurping</b></i> sound (this is the vacuum breaking). Then you just pull it out, keeping it upright the whole time.<br />
<br />
<b>Can you pee/poo with it in?</b><br />
Yes. The fanny vacuum makes it easier to wee and poo with one of these babies in than a tampon, which is basically just floating around in your vag. I could never pee with a tampon in, I'd end up birthing it into the loo halfway through. Ditto number twos. The Mooncup is stuck up there like a plunger, dude, urinate away. If it comes down a bit just give it a gentle push up.<br />
<br />
<b>Isn't it GROSS when you empty it?</b><br />
Underneath, and all around the outside of the Mooncup it is clean and dry. I just want to reiterate this fact: CLEAN AND DRY. Thank the fanny vacuum. It is cleaner than a manky tampon cord. It is cleaner than a sanitary towel. Your hands needn't touch blood at all during the entire process. Yes <b>inside</b> it will contain a small amount of period blood, but to date I have never even hit the 5ml mark, and I thought I had heavy periods. Tip it down the loo. Rinse your Mooncup under the hot tap. Admire how clean it is before inserting it again.<br />
<br />
That's it. It's not foul at all. You see no more gore than you do with tampons. So calm down, ladies, and embrace the fanny vac. You'll save over £5 a month!<br />
<br />
Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-22308965613098844272011-07-10T11:54:00.001+01:002011-07-10T11:57:42.354+01:00Why I am fat...I rarely talk about weight. I watch the debates scrolling before me on Twitter, or in the Guardian, and keep my comments to myself. So this is probably the only post about weight you will ever read by me, and it is about being fat. So for starters I'd like to hammer home that this is about being Fat, not being Thin. 'But people are mean to me because I'm so thin!'. Yes. Sorry about that. 'Thinism is the new Fattism.' Not true. Fatties get it worse. Always have, always will. Complain at me again when Topshop start selling size 20 jeans.<br />
<br />
I was a skinny child, like, really skinny. I was a slim teenager. When I was sixteen I woke up one morning with an arse the size of a DFS sofa. When I was twenty-four I suddenly grew two pendulous breasts. I have absolutely no recollection of these features developing on me. Fat snuck up on me, I never saw it coming.<br />
<br />
I knew I was getting bigger, my clothes were, so I stopped buying clothes. Problem solved. Then all my clothes got holes in and I had to buy some more. Leggings looked so comfortable, but I refrained from buying any for years because I thought I'd look ridiculous in them, and offend the general public by deigning to wear them out. I grew livid with Topshop for only stocking clothes size 6-16, and then introducing a size 4, but not a size 18. Now I hated my body, and was ashamed of it. Me!<br />
<br />
I look at my arm next to a normal person's arm. My arm is fat. It is nearly twice the size. Sometimes I flick it with my finger to see if it hurts like it did when it was thinner. It really doesn't. I have Fat Armour. If I was a pisshead people would feel concern for me, but because I am a carbhead people just think I'm lazy. I don't care, I have my armour, throw cannonballs of prejudice at me and they will just bounce right off.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I need to eat to be able to do my job. There is nothing worse than teaching on an empty stomach. Trust me, if you had to stand in front of a class of thirty eleven-sixteen year olds for five hours a day you'd need some fucking Shreddies inside you too. And a flapjack for elevenses. And a baked potato for lunch, with cheese. Up until recently I haven't had a penny to spare on anything other than food or bills. It costs nine pounds to attend a yoga class in Crouch End. That would buy me lunches for a week. </div><br />
"The problem is cake. Stop eating cake" remarks my boyfriend, helpfully. I glance down at his growing sponsored-by-Kronenberg paunch and think 'Okay love, when you stop drinking beer'. He won't, he loves his beer. I LOVE cake. My mum used to bake once a week. Big, hulking rock buns that your teeth would crunch through to reveal a sugary-soft, almost ethereal, core. Victoria sponge with homemade jam, and sugar flowers on the top, looking like a photo from Woman's Weekly. Scones that we'd eat hot, so that the butter we piled on them would drip down our chins as we scoffed them. I swear I once found Jesus in the soft core of a meringue. Mum didn't make these to make us fat. She made these because we were poor, and because she needed to feed us. So yes, I love cake, but who wouldn't after that little prologue? My boyfriend drinks two or three cans of beer a day, I eat, at most, one slice of cake on average every three days. Who has the real PROBLEM here? No, it is not cake.<br />
<br />
I forget all the rubbish food I've eaten the second I swallow. I look closely at my diet. I can't see that much wrong with it: breakfast, lunch, tea. Five portions of fruit and veg a day. Water and tea to drink. I am all over that shit. Apples and bananas are my best friends, I see them every day. But this is the shit that counts, this is what I CHOSE to forget, this is what I REALLY digested yesterday: Maltesers (regular bag, I was nearly seduced by the larger bag, and felt smug for rejecting it), Rice Krispie cake, ice cream (plus cone), Coca Cola x 2. The problem is I had to sit down and think really hard before I could remember I ate all that. Somewhere in my brain there is an auto-delete button that I am not in control of.<br />
<br />
This is the problem. And yes, I know exactly what it is. The problem is, that in my <i>mind</i> I have not really progressed physically since the age of eighteen (or mentally, but that's another post). I look down at myself. I know It is there, it is just that It is something I choose not to acknowledge; like casually racist remarks made by my nan, or the Sun newspaper. So in my mind I am a size twelve, always have been. How would I know if I wasn't? I don't own a full length mirror. All of my mirrors are less than 30cm long. It is only after a birthday party, or family get-together, and the documentary evidence appears in Facebook albums, that I truly get to look at myself. 'That's never me!' I think, aghast, sneakily untagging myself and hoping the photographer doesn't notice.<br />
<br />
People are stupid. They try to give you advice gleaned from too many years of watching Trisha or Vanessa and advise you to admit to the problem. Many people think that once you acknowledge a problem it suddenly floats away into the atmosphere, never to bother you again, like a vanquished demon on Buffy. This is a myth. I owned up to writing 'Bums here please' on a toilet seat at school once, and it made my life hell for at least another two years. I 'owned up' to being mentally ill when I was eighteen and I am still mentally ill now. So truly acknowledging my fatness will not bring me any kind of inner peace, looking into a full length mirror in a dressing room will not reveal any secrets to me, it'll just be boring, and a bit unpleasant.<br />
<br />
But I think about my pancreas, glowing inside me like ET's heart and calling cancer cells to it like a mermaid singing to a ship full of sailors. It is a beacon, emitting helplessness, sending out an SOS to my brain. Being overweight causes cancer. So do drinking and smoking and an unhealthy diet. I am going to die of cancer. Or I am going to get diabetes. Or I am going to have a heart attack running up the stairs at work. I might even be found dead with cake in my hair.<br />
<br />
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am going to try and be a bit less fat from now on. Not because of how I look, but because I am scared of dying. Now excuse me while I run off and do a little cry.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-37465503395589384272011-07-05T11:27:00.000+01:002011-07-05T11:27:34.302+01:00Why you should have gone on strike.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Tahoma, 'Sans Serif', Arial; font-size: 11px;"></span><br />
<div class="x_gmail_quote"><div><div><div><div><br />
</div><div><strong>1. I will lose a day of pay</strong></div><div>If you are genuinely concerned about losing a day's salary, the union does offer a hardship fund - simply get in contact with your divisional secretary. In addition, please try using the NUT's pensions calculator which can be found on the NUT homepage. most teachers stand to lose between £150,000-£250,000 if pensions reform goes through. A day's pay is nothing in comparison.</div><div><strong>2. Children will lose a day of education</strong></div><div>This was not an issue during the recent royal wedding - why is it only important when we are trying to protect our rights?</div><div></div><div><strong>3. Strikes do not work</strong></div><div>There is one course of action which will definitely do nothing and that is if we actually <em>do nothing</em></div><div><strong>4. Striking is unprofessional and damages teachers credibility</strong></div><div>This is the argument made by Michael Gove. He followed this statement up by asking parents to step in for teachers to keep schools open - do you suppose he would suggest the same for doctors? The sad fact is that the Government does not place our professionalism very highly - this is why they are open to free schools which could hire untrained staff as teachers.</div><div></div><div><strong>5. I'm in a non striking union</strong></div><div>The only teachers union not on strike is the NASUWT. Membership to the NUT is currently being offered for free so anyone can be part of the strike if they are willing to invest 5 minutes to sign up to our union.</div><div></div><div><strong>6. Public sector pensions are too high when compared with private sector pensions</strong></div><div>Private sector pensions are too low and this argument is backwards. There are plenty of nations with appalling human rights records - surely the government would not suggest reducing our level of human rights to fall in line? The government should be regulating the private sector pensions so those workers get a fair deal. Incidentally the average teacher's pension is £10,000 per year - hardly an excessive amount.</div><div></div><div><strong>7. Negotiations are still ongoing</strong></div><div>This is the line which Westminster council have taken. Having spoken directly to senior union staff who are involved with these negotiations I can tell you that the negotiations have not gone well. This is in fact the reason the unions have called for strike action.</div><div></div><div><strong>8. I don't want to confront my head</strong></div><div>It is not a requirement to name who will be going on strike, you can simply give the numbers to the headteacher. The NAHT is also balloting for strike action and you may find that many heads are more than willing to back your action - Headteachers have the most to lose after all as they have the highest salaries.</div></div></div></div><div><br />
</div></div>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-861287104322414282011-04-30T13:11:00.001+01:002011-04-30T13:12:29.546+01:00When MissGembles met Mr G...A gang of people are assembled at Pimlico station, waiting to set off for a picnic which I am co-coordinating. On a concrete bench outside I spot a man with a mass of unruly curls and a baguette sticking out of his backpack. "Are you here for the picnic?" I ask.<br />
<br />
We walk along the Thames. I teach the man my 'Favourite Hits of the 90s' game. He doesn't know it's a potential suitor test, but he passes with flying colours.<br />
<br />
At Battersea Park he produces smoked duck from his backpack, and steals all my crisps. I fall a bit in love.<br />
<br />
I'm peddling furiously on a pedalo in a pond. He is sitting on the stern of the boat, swigging wine from a bottle and smoking Marlboro Lights. All the time he is talking and talking about himself, and his life, and his dreams, and I imagine tiny fireworks exploding and dancing around his head. Then we switch places and I start nervously swigging from the wine.<br />
<br />
We retreat to a pub where we each drink a pitcher of Pimms and start comparing notes on our likes and dislikes. Nerd alarms ring loudly.<br />
<br />
We sit through a show. I don't know how we managed this. I just wanted to maul him.<br />
<br />
We end up in another pub. He buys us red wine and we talk about Blake's 7. He offers to show me his box set, and we head back to his flat in Chelsea. He snogs me on the night bus and tells me I am beautiful.<br />
<br />
And...<br />
<br />
Yeah...<br />
<br />
The next day we can't bare to be apart. I float through a hangover in a state of bliss. I go out wearing his jumper, because all my clothes are at my friend's house. I stay another night.<br />
<br />
Now he has to get up and go to work. I have to go back to Norfolk and go to work. He tells me to stay in bed and promises to come back and bring lunch before we say goodbye. He brings salad, and smoked mackerel and we kiss again.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-20143206084923885092011-04-20T13:19:00.001+01:002011-04-20T13:22:48.976+01:00Hints & Tips for the Discerning Mentalist<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Don't stay up late.</span></b><br />
Be in your bed by 10.30pm, at the latest, even if you're not tired. Once midnight has ticked by the gremlins enter your brain through your ears and gnaw on your mind. You might think you're beating them by <i>choosing to stay up of your own free will,</i> but this is what they want. They want you to get sucked into a crap and depressing film on TCM. Or a Jerry Springer repeat. They want you to stare out of the window at the stars and ponder the futility of your own existence. Do not satisfy the gremlins! Do not feed them after midnight!<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Feeding time</span></b><br />
When I am depressed I lean towards <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000;">beige</span> food (bread, biscuits, tea). It usually requires minimal preparation, fills the gaping void in my soul/stomach (same thing) and is bland enough so that I don't want to vomit it back up. But this is wrong. The key to surviving is to eat <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">c</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: yellow;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: orange;">l</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">o</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;">u</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">r</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">f</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;">u</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">l</span> food.<br />
<br />
<b>This is what I really, really wanted to eat yesterday:</b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000;">- croissant/brioche</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000;">- bread roll</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #7f6000;">- KFC</span><br />
<br />
<b>This is what I forced myself to eat:</b><br />
- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">strawberries</span><br />
- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">a pear</span><br />
- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f1c232;">an omelette</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: lime;">& salad</span><br />
- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">a yoghurt</span><br />
<br />
... and guess what? I had almost picked up by 9pm. Almost. Until I found out <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-13137674">Elisabeth Sladen had died</a> and it set me off again.<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Choose your entertainment wisely</span></b><br />
For example, I can't watch loud things, or stupid things on TV when I am depressed, even though I generally love loud and stupid things. They frighten me. And give me a headache. I can just about manage knitting. And I can read a classic (Austen/James/Eliot). I try to avoid social networking, because it makes me paranoid, but generally fail miserably. Take my advice: stay away from social networking. Nobody wants to look at pictures of their horrible, old classmates' fugly babies, sometimes they can persecute you with their eyes "You have failed at life. Look at me. I am living proof that somebody you hated when you were fourteen is more successful and fulfilled than you".<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>Go Out</b></span><br />
Of course you don't want to go out. Look at the state you're in, who'd want to look at you? What could you possibly offer the universe in your current state of mind? Your face is covered in anxiety spots, and untreated dry patches, and your good clothes are all lying in a spent heap at the end of your bed. Tough. If you work, I'm afraid you're going to have to go. If you're off, stick a big, baggy jumper on and go for a walk. Nobody is going to look at you. Get over yourself. It helps to have a small MISSION. For example, "Today my Mission is to buy some toilet paper from Budgens and go to the Post Office". Then you can get home and say to yourself "Mission Accomplished" which makes you feel nice, and important.<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">CBT</span></b><br />
Stands for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Ask your doctor about it. It's ace.<br />
<br />
Of course these techniques won't work for everybody. Depression is the most personal, most self-centred, most eclectic condition of the bunch. But perhaps, just perhaps, some of these scenarios will ring a bell with you. And maybe just feeling that you're not alone will help you recover for a brief second. If that occurs then "Mission Accomplished".Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-9755441082518659822011-04-07T20:10:00.001+01:002011-04-07T20:11:18.482+01:00Sick/depressed/uselessI'm really not going for the sympathy vote today. If anything, I'm going for the opposite. If I read this post on somebody else's blog I'd definitely want to comment something like "You absolute gimp. Pull yourself together."<br />
<br />
I'm sick. I've been sick for over a week, and I'm no better than I was seven days ago. My voice is squeaky and cracked, and because I have to teach I am unable to rest it, so it just gets worse, rather than better. My nose is blocked and I can't smell anything. I feel feverish when I wake up in the morning, and drag myself through the school day, only to feel guilty at 3.15pm when I drag myself home again to collapse on the sofa. I can't ring my dad, or my sister, it just hurts. Instead I send them weary texts, or Facebook messages.<br />
<br />
James' birthday went largely uncelebrated last weekend, due to the fact that I was unable to get out of bed, so I have stacks of residual guilt about that too.<br />
<br />
When I'm at work I am constantly berating myself for only being able to give about 60%, and worry that my colleagues are looking down at me.<br />
<br />
I haven't worn any 'nice' clothes or makeup for over a week. I haven't blow-dried my hair, or straightened my fringe. I haven't cooked any meals, or undertaken any kitchen activity greater than heating up a ready meal.<br />
<br />
I can't do any more job applications. Just thinking about filling in another form makes me feel like I'm about to cry.<br />
<br />
It could be worse. It has been worse. I felt the cold kiss of dread creep across my body as I cradled the telephone receiver after discovering my mother had terminal cancer. I should really pull myself together. I want to. But knowing that I can't is making me feel utterly useless.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-12486257881539106932011-03-22T20:24:00.001+00:002011-03-22T20:24:19.061+00:00Oh and also...... I'm turning into a hermit again. Help!Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-4066103165249715062011-03-22T20:17:00.001+00:002011-03-22T20:18:35.667+00:00I can't do job applicationsI need a new job. If I remain in my current job beyond the summer I will go mad.<br />
<br />
Job applications freak me out. I don't know how to sell myself to people I've never met. I feel awkward using flowery words and pretending to be ten times more productive and efficient than I really am. I am so teachered out at the end of the day that I have no words or knowledge left to impart to anybody, and application forms feel like a mental trek.<br />
<br />
What I'd really like to do is just brain vomit all over them. If I wrote what was in my heart on these forms it'd probably go like this:<br />
<br />
<b><i>Take me! I'm great! I love teaching and can make a really good cup of tea. Look at all this stuff I've done! (insert list of awesome feats here) See how awesome this makes me? Please give me a job. I want to buy a house. And a dog. </i></b><br />
<br />
I could do more. I want to do more. But I don't know how to say it. Blerg.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-35187109081553977662011-01-02T00:07:00.000+00:002011-01-02T00:07:01.614+00:00A Tribute to MumMum died a year ago today. I don't want to make too big a deal of the date thing, but I can't let it pass without remembering her at her best.<br />
<br />
So here are four reasons why I continue to miss my Mum every single day; four reasons why nobody that loved her will ever forget her.<br />
<br />
<b>She was the BEST cook:</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-15uLhPTI/AAAAAAAAAIE/THi4dOIIAjA/s1600/photo-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-15uLhPTI/AAAAAAAAAIE/THi4dOIIAjA/s320/photo-3.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Look at her here on Xmas day. Look at the RANGE on food on the table! This was the last Christmas dinner she ever cooked for me in 2007, she made it to 2010, but was too sick to help with any of the preparations. Rather than remembering that heartbreaking Christmas I'd much rather remember this one, when we were all healthy and happy and together.<br />
<br />
<b>She was a great daughter:</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-2Jyrxe3I/AAAAAAAAAII/7zoEK5pebX8/s1600/mumandnan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-2Jyrxe3I/AAAAAAAAAII/7zoEK5pebX8/s1600/mumandnan.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This picture of Mum and Nan was taken about five months before her diagnosis. In this picture nobody has any idea of what's to come, and that it why I love it. I am so glad she didn't have to suffer for too long, and that we all got to say goodbye to her before she died.<br />
<br />
<b>She was funny as hell:</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-2mts2vPI/AAAAAAAAAIM/XGaQpcbXODk/s1600/photo-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-2mts2vPI/AAAAAAAAAIM/XGaQpcbXODk/s320/photo-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Mum's misbehaving on a boat ride up the Thames here. On her last night I lay with her and thanked her for the million or so things she'd given me. Her sense of humour is the one I'm most proud of. She got funnier as she got older, God knows what she'd have been like at 70!<br />
<br />
<b>She was my best friend:</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-2-gifrKI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/f8g1tslzXn0/s1600/photo-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TR-2-gifrKI/AAAAAAAAAIQ/f8g1tslzXn0/s320/photo-4.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
I adored spending time with Mum. Even at 28 I'd still drag along behind her on trips to the supermarket, just for the pleasure of sharing her company. That's why I can grieve for her so openly; there is no baggage, and no pain, just love and loss and laughter.<br />
<br />
We both knew that God and the afterlife were a myth. We both laughed at psychic reading shows on TV. I don't believe she is an angel floating around outside my head, or standing behind me. But I feel her inside every day. Rest in peace, Mummy. Love you.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-60694696461927504092010-12-31T23:10:00.002+00:002010-12-31T23:12:57.334+00:002010 RoundupA bit of a shit year really, with a few shimmers of joy. I suddenly feel very old and grown up. Today I spent over a hundred pounds in John Lewis - entirely on household items.<br />
<br />
It is one of my resolutions to blog slightly more frequently. So here is my grisly annual roundup. Seems like a bummer ending it on a depressing note. So let's start with The Bad:<br />
<br />
<b><u>The Bad:</u></b><br />
<br />
<b>Work</b><br />
My boss is still insane. My school still teaches creationism. My commute is still an hour each way. This must be rectified, and soon.<br />
<br />
<b>Family woe</b><br />
My relationship with my father is ten times more complicated than it was a year ago. This is partly due to 'The Awful' (see below) but mostly due to the fact that he's been dating a Shameless version of Tracey Stubbs since about 3 weeks after Mum died. My brother is, essentially, an overgrown puppy with a sex addiction.<br />
<br />
<b>Mentals</b><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I'm still a bit mental. Sometimes. Oh well.</div><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><u><b>The Awful: </b></u></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Mum died. </b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">At times I wanted to join her. At times it feels like she only died yesterday. Grief festers in your brain like a canker and dulls the sheen on the most uplifting and exciting days. </div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b><u>The Good:</u></b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Getting out of debt</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I am £4800 less in debt than I was this time last year. At some point in 2011 I will owe HSBC £0 for the first time in over ten years. Money will enter my account on payday and be MINE, ALL MINE and with it I will buy glitter and moonbeams and puppies, and probably more jay cloths (why this constant need to buy more jay cloths?).</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Mr G</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">He's been absolutely wonderful this year. Best boyfriend, ever. And very clever too. If I had the money I'd buy him a yacht and a big car and a solid gold watch. But he hates all those things and I'm too poor, so I'll just keep bringing him tea in bed.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>New friends</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Thanks to Twitter and despite crushing social retardation I have three lovely new lady friends to quiz and titter with. We quite often win. Hi Jesus!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Big sis</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Unchanged and reliable in times of hideous overhaul, I am beginning to appreciate my sister in a Hallmark-cards-kinda-way. </div>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-42567282336650964452010-12-08T21:37:00.000+00:002010-12-08T21:37:46.523+00:00Powdered milkIt's just over a year since I found out mum was sick, and as you'd expect, I am not doing very well. I'm haunted by frequent and vivid flashbacks in which I am mixing milk powder into full fat milk for my mum. It was all she could manage in the last week of her life. I can see myself measuring it out, feeling utterly pathetic and hopeless at the good it will do her. Then I can see her hands shaking as she tries to drink it and the floodgates open. This crying is like nothing I've experienced before. It hurts, and it makes me breathless. I bellow into cushions or the empty flat and worry that I am going insane.<br />
<br />
It's going to be a tough Christmas.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-48903065274059804992010-11-10T19:32:00.005+00:002010-11-10T19:37:45.914+00:00Shyness is nice, and shyness can stop you, from doing all the things in life you'd like to.Hello, my name is Gem and I am a social phobic. I get anxious about meeting friends for Sunday lunch. Work dos make me feel sick. Parties terrify me. Sheer willpower prevents me from hiding under a blanket on my sofa every time I'm required to go out and converse with people that I have never met before. For every social situation, from going to the pub to attending a friend's wedding, I am forced to choose from one of the following options:<br />
<br />
A - Force myself to go out. Stand in the middle of the room and feel like I am drowning. Feel sick. Get very sweaty. Panic. Come home.<br />
B - Force myself to go out. Enjoy it. Forget myself. Feel better.<br />
C - Stay at home. Feel safe. Go to bed.<br />
D - Stay at home. Feel horrifically guilty. Commit mental Harakiri until I pass out on the sofa from shame.<br />
<br />
A has only occurred a few times, and when it has I've felt like a total failure as a result. B is occurring more frequently recently, but is harder to psyche myself up for. C, if I am honest, is the option I take most regularly, for less-pressing social concerns such as drinks after work or one of James' work dos. D occurs when I let down a friend, or feel unwell. It happens fairly regularly. <br />
<br />
Many sociophobes, <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/7274825.stm">like these guys here</a>, have hang-ups about the way they look. For me, it's not so much what I look like, exactly, more what I sound like when I open my mouth. I'm quite loud, always have been, so my voice stands out (I have since given a name to this; 'Teacher Voice', and it's very useful). And to further compound my shame what came out of it in school was quickly deemed to be abnormal. I withstood years of persecution by my peers for saying 'weird' things that simply came naturally to me. I'd quote Oscar Wilde at opportune moments in class, or attempt to engage others in a discussion on the merits of Reeves and Mortimer. I thought these were all very normal topics for discussion, they were at home. But apparently, in school, you are only allowed to discuss two topics: shagging and each other. <br />
<br />
Awareness of this condition has only made it worse. Meta-cognition has ruined conversation for me, to the extent that whenever I talk to somebody I don't know very well this monologue will run in my head:<br />
<br />
I AM HAVING A CONVERSATION. THIS CONVERSATION IS GOING WELL/BADLY (DELETE AS APPROPRIATE). <br />
<br />
AM I SAYING THE RIGHT THINGS? PROBABLY NOT. <br />
<br />
AM I SMILING ENOUGH? I DON'T WANT TO LOOK MEAN. MIND YOU, I DON'T WANT TO LOOK EAGER EITHER.<br />
<br />
SHIT, THEY'VE STOPPED TALKING. I'VE SPENT TOO MUCH TIME THINKING OF WHAT TO SAY AND HAVEN'T LISTENED TO THEM. <br />
<br />
JUST NOD AND GIVE A LITTLE HALF-LAUGH, THAT SHOULD WORK FOR MOST SITUATIONS. <br />
<br />
OK. DID THAT. WHAT CAN I TALK ABOUT THAT ISN'T MENTAL? <br />
<br />
THE CAT, GEM, GO WITH THE CAT...'<br />
<br />
It'd be so easy to blame those bastards at school, wouldn't it? But the fact is that I am a grown woman and should be able to look back and learn from my own errors, and the errors of others. No, it's mostly me. I could spend all day reeling off a list of the reasons why I feel safer indoors than out at some cocktail bar. Let me begin to count the ways:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul><li>People, generally, annoy me. High voices annoy me. Quiet, timid voices annoy me. People with expensive clothes annoy me. Loud chewers annoy me. And people that sniff.</li>
<li>People are mean. They make snap judgements about people based on ridiculous things, such as their tone of voice, or their clothes, or the fact that they sniff.</li>
<li>People are noisy. Well, lots of people together in a room are. I have a real problem with noise differentiation, so I find rooms with lots of different conversations going on in them really scary and disorientating.</li>
<li>People smell. They really do. Some people smell worse than others.</li>
<li>People are stupid. Show me one clever person and I bet I can find at least ten stupid people to outnumber them. I'm not, by any means, a genius, but I genuinely have no idea what to say to people with marshmallow-fluff brains in a social situation. Where does one start with these people? The weather?</li>
</ul><br />
<br />
Occasionally I attempt to explain my 'problem' to people I meet, but it just confuses them. Or makes them think I'm mental. Or, worse, they nod sagely, join their palms in a symbol of shamanic wisdom and make snap proclamations of cod-psychology that they've gleaned from too much <i>Trisha</i> such as: "You know your problem, Gem? You think too much." <br />
<br />
Thus reinforcing my opinion that I am better off indoors.<br />
<br />
So that's it, then. I'm a sociophobic. So now what do I do? I would like to get better. I would like to be able to attend work events with my boyfriend and not feel like I am melting into the carpet, or being trodden into it. I'd go and see my GP, and perhaps try for cognitive therapy, but she's put up with enough harassment from me recently, and would probably just tell me to 'go out more'. She'd be right, wouldn't she?Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-22118314054976987042010-11-08T17:35:00.000+00:002010-11-08T17:35:50.149+00:00PoorJesus Christ I am so sick of being poor. It started at university, when I received huge cheques for over a grand and had absolutely no idea how to spend them correctly. I bought <a href="http://ladieswholovedinosaurs.blogspot.com/2009/01/debt.html">a load of shit.</a> <br />
<br />
Then I graduated and bought a load more. I got greedy. I borrowed money to buy more shit. And so on for another few years until...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://ladieswholovedinosaurs.blogspot.com/2006/11/back-to-future.html">A bank machine ate my card.</a> I went home and threw up. My work closed, and my hours were drastically reduced. Minimum payments went unpaid. Bills arrived at my parents house, and I was too scared to open them so just chucked them straight in the bin. At certain points I imagined myself banged up in a debtor's prison, like a character from Dickens. <i>Poor Mistress Gemblesnuff, she got behind with her payments and ended up in the Marshalsea.</i> I was terrified of bailiffs and checked my windows to make sure they were locked before I left the house. <br />
<br />
I fell in love. I moved to London. Now I knew I had to get real and sort myself out or lose everything. I contacted a <a href="http://www.payplan.com/">debt management agency</a> on the recommendation of a friend and added it all up. I was sick countless times. It felt utterly unmanageable. <br />
<br />
The debt management company were excellent. They contacted all my creditors and got them to agree to reduced payments. I started paying £300 a month to them, which was shared equally between my debtors (of which there were seven). <br />
<br />
Years passed. I became a teacher, with a proper wage. I was even able to increase my monthly payment to try and pay my debts off more quickly.<br />
<br />
I don't earn enough, in my opinion, for the job that I do. However, I could probably have a reasonably good quality of life if I didn't have to pay £402 to my debtors every month. I am skint within ten days of payday, and have to dole tenners out to myself to ensure I can eat until the next payday. On days like today, when I see £200 left in my account until the end of the month I want to cry. <br />
<br />
Next year one of my most enormous debts will be cleared, a debt to HSBC totalling over £9000. This will mean that my other debts can be cleared much more quickly, because my monthly payment to each will increase. I know it's not the end of it, but I'm going to celebrate nonetheless. And whenever I see £200 in my account and want to cry I have to repeat this mantra: 'Soon. It will be over soon.'Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-84090343568188208072010-11-02T17:46:00.002+00:002010-11-02T17:46:41.964+00:0025 things about me1. I once wrote a letter to Jim'll Fix It, asking to meet the entire cast of Baywatch (I was 8).<br />
2. The idea of terrapins existing makes me feel sick.<br />
3. I once ate a whole box of Maltesers in under half an hour.<br />
4. I am, despite often seeming otherwise, quite a solitary person.<br />
5. When I was 17 I once sat outside the King's Lynn Corn Exchange for five hours in the middle of a freezing cold winter night, waiting for Mansun to come out, warming myself on the exhaust fumes from their tour bus. I caught mild hypothermia. It took me two days to thaw out.<br />
6. The person I can't stand the thought of anything happening to is my little brother. I would crumble.<br />
7. I listen to Prince, on average, every 3 days.<br />
8. I know all the words to 'Snooker Loopy' by Chas & Dave.<br />
9. Dogs love me.<br />
10. And small children.<br />
11. I don't really like small children.<br />
12. I hate being overlooked more than anything.<br />
13. I jumped off a tube train and followed a man down the platform to give him back a £2 coin that he'd dropped on the floor of the train. <br />
14. I have had the same pillow for about 6 years. It's moulded to my head, flat as a pancake, and probably mouldy inside.<br />
15. I once spent £500 in one go in Topshop. The £500 was part of my student loan.<br />
16. I know A LOT about the Chinese Cultural Revolution.<br />
17. As children, my sister and I were encouraged to refer to our genitalia as a 'doody'.<br />
18. Christmas always makes me really depressed. I get fed up of being around people at close quarters by 3pm and storm upstairs for a nap.<br />
19. I have a Moomin themed bathroom, with a Moomin soap dish, a Moomin toothbrush holder, a Moomin hand towel and Moomin pictures.<br />
20. I smoked for about 10 years, until I gave up two years ago. I never told my parents.<br />
21. I had 9 piercings at one point. I got bored and took them all out.<br />
22. I thought Heath Ledger's Joker was sexy.<br />
23. I use certain songs/tv shows/films as benchmarks when assessing potential suitors, but I never reveal what they are.<br />
24. I sometimes stop and stand in the street, looking up at the London sky and feeling grateful for being alive.<br />
25. I am petrified of ketchup.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-30672598677484874092010-10-28T08:54:00.000+01:002010-10-28T08:54:41.525+01:00Bad DaySo yeah, my last post was a bit intense, right? So glad to have drawn a line underneath yesterday; a Bad Day all round. Managed to convince myself that I was dying of cancer before passing out in a co-codamol-induced coma at 4am. Definitely need to try and get some more sleep this morning, babysitting an eight-year-old in a few hours' time.<div><br />
</div><div>Thanks for reading and kind comments via Twitter. They make it less painful, honest. xx</div>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-15094432705051759512010-10-27T19:18:00.001+01:002010-10-27T19:30:35.661+01:00Autumn letter to Mum...(I'm not going for any writing awards here)<br />
<br />
It's getting really cold outside now, you'd definitely be wearing your pink wool coat in this weather. Dad rings and says your grave looks sad and barren without a headstone or any plants to keep it company. It's too soon to put a stone over your remains, and your death is too raw to work out what we'd write on it.<br />
<br />
In a few weeks it'll be a whole year since you made that phone call to tell me about the scan. Your voice was so tiny on the phone, and I melted into a pool on the living room floor after you'd rung off. Blind panic gave way to an odd kind of autopilot, and somehow time passed. That night I woke up at 2am screaming 'I don't want my mum to die', and managed to calm myself down by convincing myself that you wouldn't. If I'd let myself think for a moment that you would I would have been useless to you.<br />
<br />
Do you remember how I took the next day off work and came straight back to Norfolk to see you? You looked tiny. Shrunken, and yellowing. After you'd gone for a sleep I broke down in the living room and retched all over the carpet, I was terrified that you'd leave me, the world without you in it seemed sick and horrific.<br />
<br />
I lost your voice for a while, Mum. White hot fear set in for a few days until I found it again. I got it back by remembering the time I took you to the ballet for your birthday, and how you'd bought chocolates because 'everybody has to have chocolates at the ballet'. I miss your sense of humour so much. On days like today I would give anything to hear you speak again.<br />
<br />
I hardly ever say the word 'Mum' anymore. Sometimes I say it to myself, when there's nobody around, just to feel the sensation of the word on my lips. But it's forced, not like the 'Muu-uuuum' I uttered as a teenager, or the 'Mummy' I repeated as I stroked your hair in your final hours. I've lost you, and the word, it seems.<br />
<br />
Nobody warns you about the loneliness. It's terribly lonely without you, Mum. In the past, whenever life threw shit at me I could always somehow think my way back to you, and feel safe again. In the picture by my bed you are holding me as a baby. It's a snapshot, so neither of us is posed. I'm gazing dreamily at the camera, and you are holding me and watching me, the weight of motherly responsibility very clearly on your shoulders. Now it's much harder to find a way out of the darkness without you acting as my spine. I knew this would happen. As I watched you fight for your final few breaths I wanted to grab your body so that you could take me with you. I didn't want you to be alone. I didn't want to be alone. <br />
<br />
I'm so grateful for the perspective that your death has given me, your final gift to me; you made me 'grow up'. You'd be so proud of the way I handle life's trivial ups and downs now. But I'm scared of this winter, and the memories it might throw up. I almost feel like I should stock an arsenal of happy memories to see me through it. <br />
<br />
I'll write again Mum. Sorry it took me so long to write this one. I love you.<br />
<br />
Gemmie-Lou xx<br />
<br />
P.S. I need to buy a cardigan. The only warm cardie I have is the one you bought me for Christmas two years ago but wearing it makes me sad. I think about how you'd tease me mercilessly over this and I giggle through my sobs. I pine for you and celebrate you in equal measure. I think you'd be okay with this.<br />
<br />
**edit**<br />
Felt this needed a photo. Don't want to forget your face as well as your voice!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TMhvvaGAMwI/AAAAAAAAAHw/9HTJj9AJ54Q/s1600/Mummy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_39mJiwtOBQc/TMhvvaGAMwI/AAAAAAAAAHw/9HTJj9AJ54Q/s1600/Mummy.jpg" /></a></div>Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-86571854273459339972010-09-26T19:21:00.000+01:002010-09-26T19:21:20.994+01:00And the result is...... my wee is...<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-large;">NORMAL</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-large;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Found out on Friday, and was instantly relieved. Yet another example of me tying myself up in knots over something very minor indeed. Have decided to CTFO (Chill The Fuck Out) and laugh at myself for making shit mountains out of tiny little dung-piles.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32957218.post-13342913559829920852010-09-20T22:24:00.000+01:002010-09-20T22:24:10.751+01:00The vicious cycle of hypochondriaI decided to write down my spiralling thoughts, with the idea that reading them back to myself would embarrass me enough to stop having them.<br />
<br />
<b>To Wee or Not to Wee?</b><br />
<br />
I need a wee<br />
<br />
Oh God, was that a twinge?<br />
<br />
My back hurts a bit<br />
<br />
I’ve got a kidney infection.<br />
I’ve got diabetes.<br />
I’ve got cancer.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I feel sick. <br />
<br />
I feel sick because I AM sick.<br />
<br />
I’m going to get sicker, I might even die.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I’ll have to have time off work.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I’ll lose my job.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I’ll lose my boyfriend. And my house.<br />
<br />
I need a wee.Dino Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16582440631060701462noreply@blogger.com0