Just under two years ago I met a lovely man. I asked him out and I was quite surprised and excited when he said yes. We got on really well, we went to the cinema and to a couple of gigs and out for food. One night when I got a lift home from a friend and our evening was cut a little short, he walked across the city to see me.
After the #WomensMarch for #WomensRights on Saturday and my last post ‘Streets of London’ I was reading back over old posts and found this for International Women’s Day two years ago.
This post contains some issues that may be triggers for people. Please do comment below if you would like to.
When I was 13 I was walking across the courtyard of school, just chatting to a friend and heading to a lesson. Three older boys were walking in the opposite direction, one veered towards me, groped my breasts and walked on laughing.
When I was 16 I was traveling on bus in Oxford, sitting by the window when a young man came and sat by me. When he sat down his hand brushed my leg, he apologised and I said not to worry. As the journey progressed his hand resting against the side of my leg started moving further up my thigh. I squirmed towards the window to move away but there was nowhere to move to. I got off the bus three stops early to get away from him, but he stood up followed me, pushed himself up against my bottom so that I could feel his erection. He smiled at me, shrugged and walked off.
Hello everyone! The next Northern Art is fast approaching and we’re really excited! It’s on May 26, from 7PM to 10PM, at Theatre Delicatessen on The Moor. As always, it’s free to …
Source: Northern Art: 26 May 2016
As Nancy Kerr and the Sweet Visitor Band are on tour again, I thought I’d share this…
I moved up to Sheffield carrying with me one large suitcase of general stuff, my travelling backpack, my tent, ready for Towersey Festival, and a big Ikea blue bag filled with things to make stuff from. When thinking about what I’d need to move to a new city with, I packed clothes, a few items for the start of school, and I knew that travelling up on a train would be a pain, but I couldn’t bear to leave behind my felt, embroidery threads, needles, bits of ribbon and other odds and ends for making bits and pieces.
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Things are becoming normal, I think. We get up, eat breakfast, fight over bathroom space, try to find our shoes, and go to school. I do not wake up every day crying because somewhere a fool has lost our batch of original documents again. I do not suddenly dump my class on someone else mid-lesson, pull my kid out of his own class, and race us across town to Social Welfare at two minutes’ notice. I have slept through the night (not just once, but two or three times!) since he was adopted in September. Monster and I discuss how the earth was formed over dinner. Normal stuff.
We are discovering different sides of each other. I see a little boy who has had to be so very grown up, who has been forced to be more mature than he wanted to be, who had to tackle strange events and…
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In the summer of 2014 I was fortunate enough to spend a week at the News UK offices on a journalism summer school run by the News Academy. We spent five days putting together our own paper, fuelled by workshops and talks from journalists from the three News UK publications – The Times, The Sunday Times and The Sun.
I learned a lot that week. I learned how to write better. I learned how to make phone calls. I learned how to sub-edit, where to place a photograph on a page and how to conduct an interview. I learned just how important contacts are in this industry.
But there is one tiny fact that I have relayed more times than any of the advice I was given; it was mentioned in passing and I was so surprised I didn’t need to write it down. I learned that The Sun has…
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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 8,300 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 3 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
The awesome Rosie and a story that should be read.
On my day off from The Farce, I went to work. I made it through the morning having thought about the court case only nineteen times, and at lunchtime I sat in the staff room next to another teacher: the first hero of this part of the tale, George. My munching was interrupted by George nudging me and showing me a comment on the end of the text message he had just received from his old pal, my judge. He looked at me enquiringly as I read: ‘I hope your friend is ready. Ruling tomorrow.’ He expressed slight disappointment that I had not informed him that I would be attending court the following day. There was no way I could have informed him though, I told him, as I had no idea what he was talking about. Was I due in court the next day? Was that actually plausible, when…
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I gave up smoking.
Four years or so now.
The last one was with Steve Lamacq at Reading.
Now I consider the smoking me as a ridiculous figure. I never had the face for it.
I gave up drinking. I managed eleven months, rejecting fine wines offered to me by Professor Cox, cheery after show booze platters at TEDx talks, rum cheer at Glastonbury, eventually defeated by a Red Stripe in a red room filled with re-faced and dripping people.
It was Michael Legge’s fault.
“That’s it, I can’t work with you sober,” he bellowed in his best marching and throwing things voice.
He stormed off to the bar, returned and placed a can on a center stage chair.
Why did I drink it?
For the sake of showbusiness, of course. It was the most stupid thing to do in front of the audience, bananaskin melodrama, so it had to…
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“…So they went down and they sat on the pier
He said I bet you got a boyfriend but I don’t care
I got no one to send a letter to
Would you mind if I sent one back here to you?”
“So the letters came from an army camp
In California then Vietnam
And he told her of his heart
It might be love and all of the things he was so scared of
He said when it’s getting kinda rough over here
I think of that day sittin’ down at the pier
And I close my eyes and see your pretty smile
Don’t worry but I won’t be able to write for awhile…”
When I was younger, one of my favourite things about school was being able to write in ink with a fountain pen. It was brilliant. Making the first mark on the paper, knowing that it would stay forever, blemishing the crisp white sheet in the best possible way. The scratch of the nib across the paper; the occasional blot if a hair got caught in the fine metal, dragging an extra bit of ink with it as it moved across the page. I had at least three fountain pens at any one point – one for blue or black ink as the school required and the other two with purple, pink, turquoise, red green, whatever I could get my hands on from WHSmith. I know I wasn’t the only 13 yr old to do this, but I wonder if it happens much any more.
I hated writing thank you letters, especially after Christmas, on Boxing Day, being sat down with a list of what I got to diligently copy out a seemingly endless number of letters to aunts and uncles and grandparents to thank them for their gifts. There were probably less than ten to write, but it felt like forever was being taken up, precious time that I could have been using my ‘My Little Pony’ fashion catwalk, or chemistry set or Duck piano…
Writing letters is not fashionable any more, sending things in the post often gets forgotten – my niece’s birthday card was in my bag for three days before I posted it this afternoon and her birthday is today (sorry!) – people don’t like the cost of stamps, the lack of instantaneous acknowledgement of their input into the world, the delay in response. We live in an instant world now. Who has time to wait for ink to dry? We have twitter, facebook, snapchat, instagram, wordpress and many more to get our instant fix. But what is there to leave behind with those?
I wish I could go back to college.
In college you know who you are.
You sit in the quad, and think, “Oh my God!
I am totally gonna go far!”
How do I go back to college?
I don’t know who I am anymore!
Well it’s not quite that extreme, but it is currently 19.06 on a Thursday and I’ve been home for ten minutes. This morning I woke up at 5, left for school at 7am and no matter what I do at the moment, I don’t feel like I’m getting anything right. I’m sure I am but i’d forgotten how much there is to do, how little time there is to do it and there’s loads of brand new stuff too.