Archive for the people Category

Episode 120. In which I am a terrible blogger.

Posted in diabetes, Henry, home, inanimate objects, people, Uncategorized, weather on September 8, 2011 by diabetses

Forgive me, reader, for I have sinned. It’s been about nine months since my last blog post. A lot has happened in that time.

Let me just cut you off at the pass here and reassure you that babies do not feature in those 9 months. At all. Complete lack of babies. No babies here.

So let me try and bring you up to date, month by month. I apologise if I forget anything, but do keep in mind, I’m not a very good person.

December 2010. *stares at screen for ten minutes* Well this is a good start. What the hell did I do in December? Oh, I know what I did. I went to bed on Christmas Eve happy, and woke up on Christmas Day with a big ugly burn on my arm. I slept on my hot water bottle, you see. Which burned my arm so I had a big blister. Mister had to go out and borrow a bandage from the first aid kit at the pub. This led to my new years resolution, on which more will follow.

January 2011. I started a new blog, called Clumsy Diabetic. Basically I am cataloguing all my self-inflicted injuries, and counting my new scars. If I get five new scars this year, I will, get a tattoo. *spoiler alert: I have more than five new scars already.*

February 2011. I got a manicure. I know this is lame. But I did. Mister went away for a week and while he was gone I just pottered around, as one does, and then I went out and got a manicure. I went to Lanes Health and Beauty, and had a nice relaxing half an hour. It was pretty.

March 2011. We moved house! From a flat, into a house, actually. With a garden. I know! It’s lovely.

April 2011. I don’t remember what happened then. Presumably we unpacked and got settled into the new house, the new commute and all that.

May 2011. May kind of sucked, and kind of didn’t, but I mostly want to cry when I think about it.  Our awesome cat, Henry, loved by everyone who met him, the cat most like a person that I will ever meet, I am sure, got sick very quickly and died. It was devastating, I was broken, and it hurt. It still hurts. I feel like I let him down, like it’s my fault, like if only I could hold him it would all be ok again. But he’s gone, and it’s shit. After a while, because the house felt so empty, we went to the RSPCA to start the process of adopting another cat, and happened to fall in love with two, a brother and sister, who we somehow managed to adopt really quickly. We named them Margot and Jerry, collectively known as The Leadbetters.

June 2011. I had my birthday! Happy birthday, me, you’re 32 now. I had a lovely, lovely day in the Northern Lights Scandinavian bar in Brighton, where they gave me a free shot of some liqueur that smelled very strongly of Fisherman’s Friend. It took me all afternoon to drink it, including watering it down as much as possible, and I still handed the glass back with more in the dregs than there would have been had it been, say strawberry cheesecake flavoured liqueur.

July 2011. Well, July was good. In July I was unemployed for a week, after my contract ended at my job, then I got another job, at the same place, and was employed again. Permanent contract this time, which is reassuring. And then, at the end of the month, I met Caitlin Moran. I went to an event for her book, which is brilliant in case you didn’t know already, and waited afterwards to get her to sign my copy. Which she did, very graciously. And she recognised my name from Twitter. And I totally spazzed out, because I love her work and her book and her sense of humour, and even just my name taking up a micron of her brainspace is amazing.

August 2011. August was my man’s 40th birthday month. I got him presents he had asked for, and we had a kind of dinner party, where I cooked a bunch of tapas type stuff that turned out quite nicely. Later in the month my mum visited, which was brilliant, and I made her a roast dinner, all by myself. And even later in the month, I got a Touchpad. It was a late birthday present from mister, he really is far too good for me. 🙂

September 2011. And here we are. So far, the rest of the year is planned out as a bunch of brilliant things. In a couple of weeks my sister comes to stay for a week. In early October I have to go to a conference in London which means I get to spend an evening with my best friend. And then at the end of October she is coming to stay for a weekend. In November my best friend from high school might be down here from scotland for a conference, and I will get to hang out with her, which would be cool beyond words. And then at Christmas, mister and I are going to Scotland. The flights are booked and everything, we’ll be up there for nine days in total. Mister has never been to my hometown, and I’m hoping to show him a proper white Christmas (one of the ones where you couldn’t leave the house even if you wanted to) and I can’t wait to show him where I grew up.

However, I will try to blog more.

Try.

I promise to try.

Diabetic moment of the day

So far ok, I think. Oh, I left the house without my insulin kit this morning and only realised when I was at the bus stop so I had to come all the way home for it. I am a twat. This isn’t news.

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Episode 116. In which my sister and I are involved in a road rage incident, and come out on top.

Posted in home, people, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on March 2, 2010 by diabetses

The other weekend I sneaked up to Scotland to surprise my mum on her birthday.  I hadn’t been home since I moved to Brighton at the end of 2007, I know I’m a terrible daughter, but it’s very expensive and very time-consuming and very tiring.  But it was mum’s birthday and she wasn’t expecting me so I sneaked up for the weekend.

On Friday afternoon my sister picked me up from Dundee station and we headed off for Kirrie, to stay with my brother for the night, before sneaking into my mum’s kitchen on Saturday morning while she was at the supermarket to jump out at her doing jazz hands when she came in to put the shopping away.

So we’re hurtling along the dual carriageway, absolutely within the speed limit of course, when some cretin in a white van comes shooting up towards the back of a car on the inside lane and tries to cut us up to get around it.  My sister is an excellent driver, but she’d no intention of doing an emergency stop to let this gimp out, so she carries on at her own pace, so the fella trying to nudge in front of us starts doing a very rude hand gesture out the driver’s window.

Then he eased off and slipped back, and as he fell behind us I looked out my window at him with my WTF?! face, whilst saying aloud, “what the fuck?!” just in case he could lip-read.  He was following for a while and when the inside lane was clear he did it again, shot up the inside with his middle finger pressed against his window in what I can only assume was his own version of triumph.  He cut up the car in front of us, which promptly closed up behind him.  The car in front of him had no intention of breaking the speed limit so he found himself pretty effectively boxed in, the tailgater tailgated.

My sister and I, whilst finding it hilarious that he’d gotten himself into that situation which was probably driving him insane, were pretty astounded by this behaviour, some middle-aged workman in a white van chucking abuse at two young women in a car, for not encouraging him to drive like a dick. Crime doesn’t pay, kids, not when you’re trying to commit a crime against my sister, for she is hardcore.  This guy got off lucky.

Eventually he came out from between the cars and shot further up the inside lane, and at this point we had a pretty good brainstorming session going on about what his problem was.

“Is he having prostate trouble?”

“Maybe he’s just dying for a wee”

“Did daddy’s little girl get shouted at at work today, is the little baby upset?”

“Is daddy’s little girl crying?”

“Is it somebody’s time of the month?”

“Is daddy’s little girl having her first period?”

“Is someone feeling a little impotent today?”

At no point did the guy go out of our eyeline.  Despite driving like a mentalist, he never pulled far enough ahead to explain his behaviour.  If he was in some massive rush I could understand, I couldn’t forgive and I still wouldn’t have suggested letting the sod cut us up but I’d have understood why he was behaving that way if his wife had been rushed to hospital or his daughter was having a baby or he was Keanu in Speed or something.

Eventually we came to a point where cars drive in the outside lane to turn off to Forfar on the right.

The guy in the van clearly wasn’t familiar with the road because he got himself stuck in the right hand lane.  Nobody was letting him out.  We debated what we’d do on our way past, but in the end my little sister stayed classy.

She didn’t do the “yap yap yap” hand gesture, or hold up a piece of paper with his registration number written on it.  She just cruised on by and gave him a flirtatious little wave.

And although we saw him in the rear view mirror when he finally got out of the queue he never wanted to be in, and although we cruised along perfectly within the legal speed limit, he never caught up to us and we never saw him again.

The end.

Diabetic moment of the day

None today I don’t think, I had a salad and some boiled eggs for lunch which isn’t very carby and doesn’t demand a lot of insulin, so it was a pretty quiet insulin day.

On an unrelated note, is it possible to sprain your ankle without noticing?  My ankle keeps giving me stabbing pains but I don’t remember twisting it.  I really am some kind of special.

Episode 113. In which we have an unexpected visitor.

Posted in home, people with tags , , , on November 7, 2009 by diabetses

Imagine you’re fast asleep, wrapped up cosy in bed, with your other half wrapped up fast asleep beside you.  The cat’s on the end of the bed purring like a lawnmower.

You hear a noise at the door.  You’re half-asleep, you think maybe it’s the postman.  Yeah, it’s early, not light yet, and the postman doesn’t come til lunchtime if he comes at all, but maybe he’s making an early start to get through the backlog after the strike action.

Then you hear a key in the door.  You jerk fully awake and think the landlord’s coming in.  You’ve had no warning.  The landlord’s cool, you can’t think why he might try to come into your flat at who-knows-what o’clock in the morning, without notice, but who else has a key?

It becomes clear that whoever is trying to get in is using the wrong key.  You get out of bed, chuck on your dressing gown and peek round the bedroom door and see whoever it is through the front door window.  The front porch light’s come on and you can see it’s nobody you know.

You go to the door and the following conversation ensues.

You: Mate, you’re at the wrong door.

Man moans in a questioning tone.

You: Your key doesn’t fit, man, cos this isn’t your door.

Man: Let me in.

You look down and see the man has stepped up onto the doorframe, feet in the door.  Bare feet in the door.  And he’s wearing shorts.  You see a pile of clothes behind him and realise he’s taken his shoes, socks and trousers off.  You become very aware that you are, essentially, semi-naked, and although there’s a big strong man you trust with your life ten feet away, the man in front of you has taken his trousers off and is pushing the door to get in.

You: You’re not coming in.  What house are you looking for?

Man: *shrugs* Twenty-three, twenty-four?

You: This is thirteen. It’s not your house. You’re not coming in.

Man: Come on, let me in, it’s my house.

You: It’s not. That’s why your key doesn’t work. You’re not coming in.

Man steps off the doorframe and you shut the door.

Man spends a few minutes trying to get his key out of the door, cos it’s well jammed in there, him having been so convinced it was his house.

You stand the other side of the door waiting for him to go away, as he drunkenly struggles into his trousers, socks and shoes, and staggers away.

You go back to bed to find your other half in the process of getting dressed to come and back you up.

Other half: What time is it?

You: Half five.

Other half: Jesus, how pissed was he?!

You: You know, although that could’ve potentially turned really nasty, it’s actually very funny.

Other half: *snore*

Diabetic moment of the day

Nothing.  It’s all good.  And also, I just got up.

Episode 111. In which I tell you all my Favourite Quotes as they appear on Facebook, and explain what they’re all about.

Posted in Internet, people, Uncategorized with tags on August 29, 2009 by diabetses

I do like quotes.  I’ll hear something that someone says and it makes me chuckle, so I try to remember it and put it in my facebook Favourite Quotes, so that I don’t forget them.  The ones that are there as of today are the following.

  • When in doubt, use jazz hands

This is just a very good motto to live by.  Of course, you have to make the choice between jazz hands and spirit fingers.  But once you’ve made your decision, stick with it, and it’ll all come good.  Please keep in mind that if you don’t do the accompanying showbiz face then your jazz hands and your spirit fingers will mean nothing at all.

  • You’re so ETHNIC

Everyone lets their heritage show sometimes, be it through vocabulary, actions or reactions.  The best thing to do when this happens is inform them of it, just so they’re aware.  Also, it promotes pride in ones roots.  Be ethnic.  Be proud.

  • Get your gay on

We all need to get our gay on from time to time.  If you need to click your fingers in a Z shape in mid-air whilst wiggling your head on your neck in a similar fashion, do it.  If you need to camp it up to accentuate your innuendo, go for it.  If you need to be with someone of the same gender as yourself to be happy, get your gay on.  All the way on.

  • A lovely dream, all about the Times Law Reports

We can’t control our dreams.  Sometimes we can nudge them in a particular direction, like if a gang of scary biker mutants is chasing you and your legs won’t move so you jump up and fly away instead (to chuck in a bit of personal information there).  Every so often you’ll dream something work-related, and that’s not cool, but just make the most of it.

  • Christ, he’s only Jesus, he’s not Paul Daniels

My little sister and I have this ongoing conversation whereby sometimes Jesus borrows my mobile to text my sister and let her know he still wants her for a sunbeam.  At one point I was explaining this to a friend, and she expressed surprise that Jesus needed to borrow a mobile, she thought he could probably just make a text message appear on my sister’s phone just like that.  Fancy thinking Jesus did magic.  Christ, I said, he’s only Jesus, he’s not Paul Daniels.

  • Rainbows and kittens and meat on a stick

I have very little recollection as to where this phrase came from.  I think it was from a friend, a list of her favourite things.  Way better than that “raindrops on windows and whiskers on kittens” or whatever that other crap was.

  • In your face, diabetic

Unfortunately for me, this is becoming more of a catchphrase than a quote.  Basically, every time something yummy is consumed that I am not allowed to eat, my good friend the expatter is all up in my grill with “in your face, diabetic”.

  • They make hot dogs out of parsnips

When the expatter came to visit me in Brighton, for the first time I think, we went to a vegetarian pub for lunch.  5olly and dotmund chose to go to a ‘normal’ pub instead, and this phrase was one of several texted to us in what was presumably a show of superiority.  The expatter’s answer was “yeah, well, in your place they make parsnips out of hot dogs”.  Which makes every bit as much sense as the first version.

  • Of course I don’t like him, he ate his wife!

This statement was made by me, it is totally not true, it is a horrible thing to say, but I said it, and the sentence makes me laugh.  The man in question did not, in fact, eat his wife, and he does not carry her fingers round in a little bag for snacks.  It’s all fictional.  The product of my diseased mind.

  • Does he stink?  Yes he does.  No he doesn’t.  Yes he does

This should be sung to the tune of the Spiderman theme tune.  From the cartoon, not the movies.  It’s a good tune to use when you’re making up songs, as I do fairly often.  This one was sung to our cat, Henry.  I said he stank.  Then I thought that was mean, so I took it back.  Then I realised that as mean as it was, it was true, so I restated the fact.  That is all.

  • It’s granola, it’s not a fucking souffle

I like homemade granola.  At one point I was making some and I wasn’t sure if it was done, so I went to check on it.  5olly told me to be careful, maybe I shouldn’t open the oven before it’s ready.  As I said, it’s granola, not a fucking souffle.

  • I always get Eels and Elbows mixed up

The bands, he meant.

  • Mr: “I like the Kings of Leon, I couldn’t say why though”
    Me: “I couldn’t either”

This is self-explanatory.  I wouldn’t know the Kings of Leon if I fell over them, but I couldn’t resist a little dig.  It’s my way.

  • Me: “Why are we watching this?”
    Mr: “It’s either this or Extreme Fishing with Robson Green”

Sometimes all your choices suck.

  • Monster Jam! It’s like strawberry jam! BUT BIGGER!!!

He likes Monster Jam.  Me?  Not so much.

  • 6. What did you have for breakfast?
    Drugs in a bowl with milk and sugar.

This was someone’s answer to one of those stupid facebook quizzes.  I like it, though.

Diabetic Moment of the Day

Not today, not a lot, I feel weird, I feel like I used to feel when I was about 20 and had a hangover, which is not pleasant but not the worst I’ve ever felt, and yet given that I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since I had one bottle of San Miguel with dinner about two weeks ago, it’s Freaking Me Out.

Episode 109. In which I discuss current affairs.

Posted in people, Uncategorized on June 27, 2009 by diabetses

The fact is I haven’t blogged in a long time.  I don’t even know how long.  But a long time.  The other day something happened that I had an opinion of that I thought was blogworthy, and I thought I’d fire this monster up and get it going again.  Then more things happened, so this is a combination post.  Two deaths and an assault.

It has not been a nice news week.

So here it is.  Chronologically.

Perez Hilton.

Perez Hilton has made his career out of being nasty about people, making snide, petty comments about people, about their looks or their careers or their talents or their social lives, being judgmental and generally horrible about people.  This week, after quite some time spent being horrible about the Black Eyed Peas, he was at an event they were at, some things were said, and some guy with the BEP crowd punched Perez.

Perez called the police, they didn’t come quickly enough so Perez tweeted that he’d been assaulted, posted pictures online, and now he’s suing for assault and, I believe, humiliation.

I have a problem with this.

Assault is not OK.  Nobody should get hit.  I’m a firm believer in people having done unto them what they’ve done unto others, particularly where the victim was innocent and/or defenceless and/or smaller and/or had reason to expect better of the attacker, but in an ideal world nobody would get hit in the first place and therefore nobody would need to get hit back.

However, humiliation?  Really?  You’re going to sue someone for humiliating you, when the reason the whole world is aware of what happened is because you told them?  When you posted pictures on the internet so everyone could look at you?  When everything that you have achieved in the last however many years was done on the back of humiliating other people?  I don’t think so.  You can take that and shove it, Perez, you’re a publicity hound.

Apparently he actually said he didn’t tweet for the publicity.  Who on earth is fooled by that?  If you text your friends, that’s one thing.  If you tweet your X thousand followers (I do not care enough to check how many he actually has, I’m not one of them) knowing full well that amongst those followers are (at least) several journalists, then it is your fault when people find out about the fact that you got twatted as a direct result of your bullying.

In conclusion, if Perez Hilton gets any damages out of the humiliation side of this law suit, then the law’s an ass.

Hilton’s a hypocrite regardless of the outcome.

Farrah Fawcett.

Farrah Fawcett passed away on Thursday, after a long battle with anal cancer.  I don’t know anything about this woman at all, I know of a couple of roles she played as an actress and that her hairstyle was iconic.  However, knowing so little about her makes it all the more tragic to me, somehow.  Any death is awful, of course, and the sooner someone finds a way to stop people dying of cancer, which is a vicious disease, the better.  But in Farrah Fawcett, I’m not mourning an actress, because I wasn’t a fan of her work.  I’m not mourning a fashion icon, because I never actually liked her hairstyle.  I’m mourning a woman who, despite being massively famous, I never heard anything about other than the two things I just mentioned.  Famous people who are famous these days without being scandalous, or publicity whores, who are just well-known without coming across as desperate for attention, are rare.  And it makes me respect all the more those who maintain a life in the real world, or at least not in the tabloids.

Don’t get me wrong, not being a massive fan I’m not in actual mourning.  But I can respect her as a human being who went through something awful and she is in my thoughts.

Michael Jackson.

On Thursday, Michael Jackson died of cardiac arrest, seemingly without warning, at the age of 50.  And now half the world’s gone all weird.

I was never a Michael Jackson fan.  I did not like his music, and I thought he danced like a twat.  If, right now, you’re thinking anything that starts with the word ‘but’ then I would ask you to just stop right there.  Whatever you’re about to finish with, whatever achievement or memory or innovation you’re about to spit out, that’s what he was to YOU, not to ME, and this being the internet, I’ve just as much right to an opinion as anyone else.  You may think I’m wrong but then I think you chose a role model based on weirdness.

I have no idea whether Michael Jackson was guilty or innocent of the things he was accused of.  I do know, however, that he was seemingly incapable of living in the real world.  He was lucky, privileged, talented if you were a fan, he had everything he could have wanted, and instead of making himself a life anyone would be envious of, he insisted on constructing a fantasy world to live in.  Not content with being too good to spend his life in an office or on a building site or in a call centre, he decided he was too good to breathe our air.

He had his troubles recently and he leaves behind him three small children, who will now have to learn what the real world is in the absence of the father who prevented them from having to live in it while he was around.  I am not happy he died, I do not laugh at his death, I do not take this opportunity to accuse him of the most horrific of crimes, because I genuinely do not know whether he was accused justly or whether his own lack of ability to handle reality was turned against an innocent man by opportunists.

Neither am I wearing sack cloth and ashes, wailing in the street, crying on NBC or holding a vigil in his honour.

I did not know the man.  Let’s be honest, nobody knew the man.  To put a definition on ‘knowing Michael Jackson’, if you never met him and he never called you by name, or remembered your existence when you were out of earshot without being reminded of it, then you didn’t know him either.  He was utterly unique and he constructed a world around himself that few can comprehend in itself, never mind translate what was on the other side of it into the terminology of the life that the vast majority of us know.

I read an interview this week with a man who claimed to have known Michael Jackson, and he said they’d sneaked him out of his hotel to wander around shops and suchlike, because he was so eager to know how it felt to be normal.  He had every opportunity to feel normal.  Britney Spears is huge, she used to be massive for her music, then her scandalous lifestyle, now her efforts to get back on the straight and narrow, but she still goes to Starbucks.  The Queen still goes to Ascot and holds hands with her husband to sing Auld Lang Syne and breathes the same air as her subjects.  Michael Jackson wore a surgical mask, and allegedly slept in an oxygen tank, and called all three of his children after himself.

I do not mourn Michael Jackson for the things he did which people have interpreted as the miracles required for his sanctification.  His children are in my thoughts, and I am not happy he died, but I am not capable of putting either his life or his death into a context that relates even vaguely to my own sphere of reference, and so the outpourings of grief strike me as ridiculous.

That’s just my opinion.
And that’s the kind of week it takes to get me to blog again.

Diabetic moment of the day

Today I had a caramel frappucino from Starbucks.  It was sugary, but it was icy and it was lovely.  Today was a hot day and I am sunburned.  But I am not sunstroked, because I had my caramel frappucino.  And I’d do it again.

Episode 105. In which shit happens.

Posted in people with tags , , , , , , , , on March 26, 2009 by diabetses

Today I have had one of those days.  By ‘one of those days’ I mean one of those days that makes you question your abilities.  I have questioned my ability to do my job.  I have questioned my ability to manage my time.  I have questioned my ability to find my way home.

However, with hindsight, I was just being blue.  I rock my job, and I rock it hard.  I don’t have any problem with time management other than not enough time in the day.  And I can get home just fine, if I just sit still and let the train take me there.

I intend to wake up tomorrow bright as a freakin’ button.  Wish me luck.

Diabetic moment of the day

I had a bit of a shaky moment today.  Luckily it was right before someone’s leaving do, which was tea and cakes.  I had a tiny little square (seriously, like half an inch squared) of millionaire shortbread, which sorted me right out.

Episode 102. In which stop spamming me

Posted in Internet, people with tags , , , , , , on March 23, 2009 by diabetses

It seems like every day now I’m deleting comments from my spam queue.  Don’t get me wrong, I love comments on my blog, especially from people I know (handbag suggestions very welcome) but strangers are very welcome too.  But there’s always something in my spam queue.

The WordPress spam queue is pretty much perfect to be honest, I don’t think anything’s been caught by the filter that hasn’t actually been spam.  I just don’t understand, really, what it’s all about.  I assume there’s some kind of automated nonsense that just finds my blog and the random bullshit just appears there.  But if you’re advertising diets, or knitting, or whatever, I’m not interested.

Just leave me alone, spamface.

Diabetic moment of the day

I want marmalade on toast.  I didn’t have any, though.  That would be cheating.