Twas the night before Christmas...

So, it will have escaped no ones notice that the Christmas season has arrived. And what a season it always is, especially at my age and stage in life. Christmases always seem fraught with difficulties, what with being at that age permanently stuck betwixt child and adulthood (no kids see, that still technically makes ME the baby). Visit Mums house? Dads house? Extended family or even friends? I mean, Christmas aint THAT bad, after all presents, excess eatings and spending time with loved ones is always a good thing. However Christmas always seems to bring with it difficulties like no other, and now that the fantasy of Father Christmas is long gone, there is only booze and optimism to sustain us through such challenging times. Whether it’s long distances to be travelled, weighed down with both presents and the frustrations the British transport system always seems to lay at our tired feet at this time of year, or delving head first into the intricacies of complex family politics whilst imbued with all the disregard that 2 large ports and an after dinner brandy seems to bring, Christmas can be well, well troublesome.

This year, rather than face a family politics situation far away that I would rather not deal with for the sake of playing nice (& running the risk stoking a port & brandy fuelled fire), I decided to hunker down with the elder stateswomen of my family, and already, glass of port in hand, this seems to have been a fine idea. You see the women in my family have a reputation: part eccentric, part matriarch, all balls. It is a family reputation I am thrilled to notice with the passing years, that I am already osmosissing with aplomb, and this pleases me and scares me in equal measures. Especially after these last 2 days….

And what a festive false
window it is too!

You see, within the first hour of my arrival I had to rebuild one blown out window using no more than an ill fitting cardboard box, several plastic bags and some rather unsticky, but festive red electric tape (we couldn’t find the gaffer tape, though it reappeared the next day in the spice rack…. Naturally). All this Blue Peter style reparation was required because my cousin in all her wisdom and 
pre-Christmas panic hadn’t seen fit to get a professional in to see to the job properly, leaving a rather draughty addition to the celebrations. I was blessed in my room, having the full complement of glass required to keep a room toasty, if not the full complement of curtains, with half the curtain hooks seemingly abandoned in an attempt to rid the world of unnecessary modesty. 

Mind your chipolatas people!

One bulldog clip later and the problem was mostly resolved, the neighbours need not fear for any unnecessary flashings putting them right off their Christmas day chipolatas. Though to be honest, they wouldn’t have seen much at night at least, because none of the 3 bulbs in the room actually worked, meaning each night I light my way across the office to my inflatable airbed by the underwhelming glow of an ikea desk lamp. A lamp, which of course, is plugged in well out of reach from the rapidly deflating airbed meaning I have to grope that last but treacherous, 8 feet in the dark. The desk lamp behind which, by the way, we discovered the pork pie that had been missing for 2 days, which was previously assumed to have disappeared into the cavernous bellies of my cousins twin misbehaving Jack Russells, known to all and sundry as The Terrierists. 

Modesty thus saved by a bulldog clip

Oh you gotta laugh aintcha?

And I guess that’s the thing. You do gots to laugh, and laugh we did, so much so  we wheezed until we couldn’t stop.  Cos that’s what spending time with those close to you is really about innit? That kind of stuff really doesn’t matter. Whether it’s your actual family or your chosen for the day family, those people you spend Christmas with are special. They might annoy the living crap outta you sometimes, you might promise each year is your last with them, but if you keep going back, thems your Christmas gang. And no matter blown out windows, pork pie stealing terriers, accidentally waving your puddings at surprised neighbours or an airbed that deflates by the hour, this is my Christmas gang and I’m bloody glad for them, eccentricities and all.

So I am wishing you all a fabulous one, and to those of you not so fortunate to have such a Christmas gang as I, well, there’s always next year…..

Merry Christmas

xx

The rather shady looking Terrierists, 
without pork pie... fortunately

The Case of the Blue Bag Bomber of N16

My mind has been mulling over the subject of neighbours of late, which seems especially appropriate in this festive season of goodwill to all mankind and suchlike.  First of all, my attention was brought to the Instagram account Neighbours From Hell which has amused me if not for many hours, then at least several minutes. Secondly, we had our first apartment block neighbours meeting last week which I attended and met many of my neighbours for the first time. But perhaps most pertinently to this subject matter, it appears my neighbourly nemesis has returned….

To explain this a little, I must backtrack back in time to pre Sophington Towers blogging era, back to a time of my hedonistic youth, of wild parties, fun times and flat sharing. Those were good days with far more ups (see afore mentioned wild parties) than downs. Downs included the usual flat sharing gripes, never enough loo roll when you need it, cheese thievery, and waking up in the middle of the night to find your flatmate has invited half the pub back to yours for an informal party, for which the toilet queue is beginning right outside your bedroom door. But the biggest downer of all had to be that of the secret bag slinger. My nemesis.

Guilty as charged
Classic knotted blue baggery

For about 12 months, each day would dawn with the optimism of what a new day could bring, and unfortunately about three times a week this optimism would be accompanied by a plastic bag of disgustingess, oft found on our garden lawn. It was a deposit that varied with every drop off, sometimes a dirty nappy, sometimes a viscous meaty substance which one could only liken to the contents of a beef & ale pie (but more stinky) and occasionally, just to keep us on our toes I think, vomit, which charmingly splattered all over the inside of our garden fence. It was like a murder scene blood splatter, except with vomit. However one thing these deposits all had in common was that they were invariably sealed in a knotted blue plastic bag, lobbed from the hands of one of our neighbours. Nice eh? These bag bombs intrigued both myself & my fellow 4 flatmates.... and not in a good way. Putting to one side that a particularly well aimed shot had taken out the seedlings we were trying to grow to spruce up the garden, these bags were also frankly disgusting. Who would do that we thought to ourselves? And this was where the real game began.

My flatmates and I plotted, we schemed, we investigated contents, and we planned trajectories all in an attempt to figure out just which disgusting fellow neighbor was the culprit. Well, I say we, it was mostly I to be fair. We discussed with our neighbours that we actually knew, and discovered that we were not the only victims of such bin lobbery. Based upon trajectories and contents, we eliminated suspects, deducing it was unlikely to be anyone to the right (which ruled out both the caterwauling karaoke-ists on a diagonal right to the garden as well as the woman who hated us next door). It was someone with a baby (hence the nappies, unless the guilty party was prone not only to a spot of bag throwing but also bin raiding) and it wasn’t the squatters to the left as they had also fallen foul of the catapulting criminals in question.

Could these guys be the culprits?
Not as innocent as they seem perhaps...

But all our investigations proved fruitless, we had no idea who it was who could be committing these acts of devious bin flinging. It was time to call in the big guns… The police community officers. OK, not quite the big guns, more the small water pistols of the investigatory world, but we were living in a flat share for gods sake. We couldn’t afford the services of the otter himself, Benedict Bandersnatch, so the local PCSOs would have to do. They prodded contents with a stick and studied our trajectory map, but alas were as equally at a loss as we were. Then suddenly, joy of joys, one day it stopped, never to be seen again…. until last week when my former flatmate texted me to let me know ole blue bags was back.

So, in a festive spirit of helping out all of mankind, I am calling upon you reader, to help identify the perpetrators. All amateur sleuths out there unite! This could be the next big mystery, up there with Sherlock’s Reichenbach Falls cliffhanger. Unlikely, but y’know, aim high & that. Even though now six years on, I've moved out, it’s time to catch the Stoke Newington slinger, the bag bomber of N16 and put their dastardly exploits at an end.  All answers on a postcard please, and failing that in the comments section below.

A handy map to aid your investigations

 

Key

1 -  Our House

2 -  Vomit explosion on right hand fence

3 - Squatters

    4 - Karaoke caterwaulers

X marks the spot where the bags usually landed

Every super heroine needs her pyjamas

As we all know, Christmas is coming and the goose is getting well fat, as are the wallets of toy manufacturers the world over. Why is this of interest to me I hear you wonder? (I don’t really but I like to have an imaginary voice in my head as I type out my tea & biscuits fuelled rants) Well, toys are a bit of a thing for me of late, well toys and kiddy accouterment, because I’m in the market for a present and frankly, its gotta be a good one.

Regular readers of my blog may be aware that I have a very dear friend who has a keen interest in kids toys, for she is after all, a child herself. That’s right, it’s my 5-year-old chum Ellie who last appeared in this blog back in July when I was driven near mad by her keen interest in loom bands. And while my less than nimble fingers (along with my sanity) barely survived the loom band incident in question, our friendship is going from strength to strength. In my mind, such a friendship deserves Christmas gifts and it is here that I have arrived at my quandary.

You see Ellie is a complex creature. She casts off the 5 year old sized shackles of gender stereotyping with a passion for robots and dinosaurs in addition to dresses and sparkles. She does have a Barbie, but given that she recently introduced said doll to me as ‘Skanky Barbie’ I think any hopes Mattel might have for her as a brand ambassador would be sadly misplaced. But she is a brilliant little girl, and being the feminist that I proudly am I wish to encourage not only her brilliance, but also her wide ranging interests to grow up to be the fantastic young woman I know she will eventually be. So with all this in mind, I knew I needed something good from me (via Santa) this year.

Innit. I'd be angry too kid.

Now there has been a lot in the news about ‘toys for girls’ of late. Whether it is letters to or from Lego, photos of the thankfully now removed Tesco's signs also featuring a rather annoyed 7 year old girl, or news of Barbie’s complete failure to design computer games, instead handing them over to the superior brains of Steven & Brian to actually make it work (hat tip to Pamela Ripon for that one http://pamie.com/2014/11/barbie-fucks-it-up-again/) gifts for young ladies have been making the headlines. And frankly after my recent foray into sourcing a halfway decent present for Ellie, I can see why. 

Boys get science, slime and superheroes. On the other hand, the toy aisles (for girls!) are littered with pink & purple infused gifts dedicated solely to anatomically impossible dolls, hair, more dolls, shopping, makeup and yes, you’ve guessed it, even more more dolls. On a side note, don’t even get me started on Barbie herself.... Did you know that if she were a real person, based on her upscaled to human measurements she would be she would be 5’9” tall, have a 39” bust, an 18” waist and 33” hips? Thereby ensuring a BMI of 16.24, fitting the weight criteria for anorexia & making her likely unable to menstruate? Or the fact that if she was a real woman, she’d have to walk on all fours due to her proportions? Grumble grumble. Ellie’s Skanky Barbie epithet is too good for her I say, but I digress….

Am not sure which is stranger,
her impossibly massive boobs or
her impossibly tiny head?

Anyways, where was I? Ah yes. Shopping… Well I am sorry to say, the clothes aisle is no better. Little girls get t-shirts or pyjamas saying ‘Mummy’s little Angel’ or those featuring either cute fluffy animals with twee little faces or the members of One Direction (less cute fluffy animals than hormone riddled teenage ones) whereas boys get Superman, Batman or Iron Man. All certainly, if not role models, then at least strong, heroic, relatively moral characters to idolize or impersonate. What does it say about women that their only clothing based icons are mummy, a strangely dressed fox/cat/puppy or men? IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR WONDER WOMAN PYJAMAS I ASK YOU? No (just in case you were confused by my ranting), it is not.

So what does that leave me with? Where are the female superheroes? The science? The slime? The EXPLOSIONS? (apart from this explosive rage, natch) Well, over in the US they have made a good start with Lammily, the genetically more probable anti Barbie, who is apparently based on the proportions of the average 19-year-old American woman and for whom you can buy stick on ‘flaws’ including bruises, grass stains and teenage acne. However, at $25 + $13.95 shipping to the UK and a Christmas cut off date of umm, tomorrow, that is an increasingly unrealistic gift for my Ellie, so it looks like a hand crafted superwoman pyjama set it is. Apologies in advance Ellie for my loose stitching, saggy hems and wonky superhero badge. I do hope you’ll understand in years to come and appreciate that just like Lammily we all have our flaws, it's just a complete ineptitude at sewing is one of mine.

Lammily.
The future face of feminism rocks double denim

Hell hath no fury....

So, one of the many things you may not know about me is the fact that, ahem for my sins, I was brought up a Catholic. I munched on the dusty Jesus wafer aged 8, went to convent school complete with it’s wholly (or should that be holy?) unflatteringly uniform, got taught by nuns, the whole shebang. And among the many things I picked up in my time, apart from the fact that maroon is a very unfortunate colour for a Celtic ginge to be wearing for the best part of five years, is that Hell is a Very Bad Place (Fact TM St Anne’s Catholic high School for Girls, 1991-1996) However, in recent weeks, my entire concept of hell has been turned upside down, and let me tell you why…. 

Indoctrination dictates that Hell is a place full of bubbling brimstone and spewed fire, in fact a state of, according to Catholic catechism, ‘eternal fire’. Now, as a smoker, this might be useful, after all I never need worry about losing my lighter ever again, however I have discovered my now lapsed Catholic definition of hell is a much wetter place to be, for it is no further than my local swimming pool changing rooms.

Vomit or a recently deceased
canary? YOU DECIDE 

I don’t know what it is about these eternally damned cubicles that gets my goat so, well actually I do, so please excuse the diversion before I get to ranting. For they should be, if not a heavenly place, then certainly a damn near euphoric place, what with being the home of respite and transformation post a good exercise session. Not so! After all, since when has heaven featured such delights as abandoned hair extensions, indeterminable cubicle stains, discarded plasters (band aids for the Americans out there) and the stench of rapidly multiplying mould spores? *Gaks* My local swimming pool has featured all of these recently, and much, so much more (Clissold Leisure Centre, I’m looking at you *points finger*)

Let us take one of my particular bugbears, that of over sharing. No, I’m not talking nudity, I am as indifferent to the sight of an aged bosom swinging pendulously through the changing room as anyone else – it’s a changing room, nudism is on the cards, and justly so. No, it is more the concept of treating the changing room as one’s personal (grooming) home from home. Whether it’s shaving pubes or legs, clipping toenails or fingernails, I’ve seen it all in them there showers and am astounded & disgusted in equal measures every single time. Why on earth do people think this acceptable? No one wants your cast off body parts sluicing over their tootsies in the communal showers! Darn it, I barely want my own, let alone anyone else’s pubic hairs nestling between my toes as I dechlorinate myself.

Nancy, happy to help...
Also, happy to smear crap on walls

And the mess! Oh the mess! From Nancy from ASDA’s ID card (she would be happy to help if she only had her name badge to remind her but she’s left it in the changing room), to abandoned bags of facewipes / sweets/ crisps littering the grubby floor. And forgive me, for I am about to get started on the stains, stains which I can only liken to what one might otherwise see down at one’s local Ebola walk in clinic. Stains in the showers, stains in the cubicles, stains on the floor. I dis-stain them all. And stains of such a multi coloured hues I am only left in wonder from which orifice they could have possibly been evacuated from. Brown ones (natch), grey ones, black ones, red ones, yellow ones, I swear Dulux could make up their next line in asylum chic hues from the colours I’ve seen displayed on those cubicle walls. Whether it’s low-level smearage or high arcing spatters adorning the walls, my leisure centre has enough to offer a starter course in crime scene pathology.

As for the oft ignore sign declaring ‘we check this changing room every hour, please report any problems to reception’, yeah, good luck with that! The last time I pointed out to reception that they appeared to have employed a time travelling cleaner, who has marked off their cleaning slots until 5pm (it was midday at the time), it was met with the ubiquitous British customer service shrug, topped off with a side order of blank stare.

So what to do? Well I could join a local, high-end private gym. It’s an option, but a pricier one. I could shower at home, but I don’t favour this as an option, considering that it’s now well into wintertime and I am not an admirer of a soggy, cold 20 minute bus journey home to my own shower (albeit in my own scuzz as opposed to someone else’s). So what’s left? Well, I guess my only option is to get myself some Ebola couture and invest in a hazmat suit cos I’m continuing my swimming, come hell, or quite literally, high water. So if you see an angry ginge in a space outfit down at Clissold, don’t be afraid, unless you’re trimming your pubes in the open showers, in which case, mind where you put your clippers.

It's the latest thing in changing room
couture dontcha know