Day 122 – Sanctuary in the second city
Every year Salford puts on a two day festival called Sounds of the Other City. It has a little more grit than most two day inner city dos and plenty of good ales, fancy foreign beers and tasty fresh food more commonly found at a farmers market than a festival. The weekend has not started well but I’m trying to be a more positive person and so I pick out the prettiest dress, comb out my hair and with my glad rags on try to raise my spirits for what has traditionally been a slamming party.
Though it wasn’t meant to be the way the boy and I end up alone and having the kind of time alone together that we rarely have these days. It is one of those days when you find yourself falling in love just a little more than ever before, I hope you’ve had them. You remember why it is that you work through the tears and the tantrums because in truth this is the one in your life with who everything just feels right.
We go skipping through the shops like children, searching for a cardigan to keep me warm because I was too worried about looking good for my boy in the band. The weather is freezing and the boy does his best as usual to usher me into his hooded top but its blue and for boys and the dress is too pretty to be covered by it. We end up settling on a long grey cardigan from Wallis which will now be my new cover it up for work. The problem with the project is that I have lots of very pretty dresses which are borderline suitable for the workplace, some a little short, some a little low, this will make even the shortest shimmery shift suitable for the most conservative court appearance.
After sipping down strawberry beers and munching on chicken tacos and tasty chilli which even my soft-core taste buds can handle we slink back on the walls to watch a wailing guitar guy leads us in a chorus of She’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes. We glimpse an old friend who I haven’t seen for some time, she is looking well and loved up and there is something about seeing somebody so content that cheers me through just as much as my cherry beer; strawberry got sickly quickly.
We head over to the gig where the boy plays an acoustic set. The crowd seem to like it and I wish I could be playing the part of the reviewer once more. The venue has a great feel to it and the two girls who put it on are either extremely excitable or just pissed. Either way their enthusiasm is infectious and the crowd laps it up.
We end up hanging out with the other Onions and our friend Ben, who is just lovely. The last time we were here our gang was a lot bigger and I miss the rest of the crew, especially the girls; Anna, Clara, Ellen and Niki. They are all great company and I wish we had all found work in the same city. Sometimes I find myself a little jealous of London which has landed all these great ladies and I lament not making it down there to see them as I should.
We watch a surf band from Wales. They are playing at one of the city churches where they are selling beer and alcopops. It is surreal and though I fear my mother might not like it I lie beside the boy on a blown up sofa beside the altar. I figure its okay because this is the Church of England and I figure they do things different from us Catholics, we kneel.
Later on we head back to The New Oxford, where the boy had his gig. There’s a band Frazer King, friends of the boys who are playing and based on the last time I saw them they are well worth a watch. Though I do not tell the boy, there is something a little sexy about their lead singer who growls the lyrics. When we get there we find the band outside, setting up on the steps of Salford Magistrates Court, having decided they are too big for the venue. I am amused by their arrogance but their choice of setting is inspirational and the set is sublime. I shiver throughout and see traces of blue on my lips but I don’t want to miss a moment and dance and sway with the boy just to keep warm. They put on a show and its one of those gigs you just know you’ll never forget. I wish the crew were all here but its great and I’m happy and in love and I don’t care if it lasts, its here and we’re happy.
- The dress is from Topshop, a tea dress. I usually hate showing my back, its broad and has a mole which I would love to move but its an eight and when it fits I get a bit carried away and forget all my usual insecurities if only for one day. It is on loan from Kat Ingham, who is in Manchester but who I unfortunately missed out on seeing tonight as she was at the sound of the other city, or Maps.
Day 98 – My baby brother
My baby brother took the photos today on the one condition that he would not have to get up from his chair to do so. He has taken them before but got so carried away with finding cool angles and forgetting to include the dress in the shots that he has not been given another chance behind the lens until now. We did not start too well, the first three photos were of the armchair in front of him and the next two had the dress but no head. He pointed out quite rightly that had I wanted heads to be the focus I really should have named the project 365 heads and not 365 dresses. Darn him and his impenetrable logic.
The poor boy is not feeling so well today as he has been visited in the night by the dreaded Balti bug and after a day of drinking only water he is apparently too weak to move. I pointed out that Jesus had gone for 40 days without sustenance which unfortunately reminded him that I had recently misquoted the messiah in the local press.
When Paul was born I think it was a bit of a shock to everyone. My mother was not entirely sure how to care for a boy and we were all fascinated by the fact that we now had a baby brother. Luckily for my mother she had six willing hands to help to get him through his early years. Though none of us were ever keen on barbie dolls, preferring to play cops and robbers instead, the temptation of a real life doll to care for was impossible for any of us to resist. I worry we rather spoilt him to begin with, there was always someone to cut up his food, tie up his laces or tuck him in when he was having a bad dream. We adored him and our willingness to treat him like a little angel was not helped by his sweet nature, dusty blonde hair and baby blue eyes.
Every night before he went to sleep I would read him Goldilocks and the Three Bears to soothe him to sleep. It was the most adorable thing in the world to watch as his little baby blue eyes fought to stay awake to hear the tale. I do not think we ever made it to the point of the three bears arrival to the story but I like to think this meant no demons ever entered his dreams.
When he first went to school he could sing the alphabet, read a book and even draw his letters. There was one little issue though. He did not have a clue how to do up his coat or tie up his laces. Sister Rosario, who had taught every single one of my mother’s girls, watched in sheer horror as my brother, asked to put his coat on ready to go outside to play, put his arms out in the air and waited for someone to dress him. It really was not his fault, he had never had the chance to learn because he always had one of his four mothers there to do the honours.
- Today’s dress is on loan from my sister. It is originally from Next but I think it is definitely better suited to her. She is taller than me and suits spotty dresses better than I do. I think I look a little too matronly and wide at the hips.
Day 73 – A hippy dress or a cunning ploy to disguise myself as a fruit salad
My mother was a fast reader just as am I and she constantly fell foul of a rap across the knuckles because of not being able to bear reading at the level of the class which was always just seven pages too slow. One of her funniest but saddest memories is the fate of her panda bear toy when she was a little girl. Being the kind, generous and caring person that she is whenever a child would get sick at her boarding school she would gift them her panda bear to cheer them up. Unfortunately one of the nuns spotted the link between sick children and panda possession and stole the toy away throwing it on the incinerator as my mother watched with horror. Perhaps it was this story which made me so fond of panda bears. I used to have a ridiculous collection of knitted panda toys when I was younger and believe they are still in storage as neither me or my mother could bear to give them to an unworthy home. I once went to see the panda at London Zoo after hassling my parents for months to take me and instead of russian dolls I have russian pandas.
After attaining an indecent number of As for her leaving certificate my Mummy travelled across the Irish Sea to study at a teaching college. It was during the 70s, thus today’s dress, but free love did not extend to many of the pubs and rental agents round London who displayed an offensive sign in their windows which read; No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs. My mother was lucky to have friends and family to take her in but whilst she was studying she stayed in Coventry at a girls dormitory whilst studying to teach English to the boys who would soon be out patrolling the streets of her home town as the troubles escalated. It was whilst at college that my mother met the giant. I will save their story for another day but to cut a long, hilarious story short they got married within a year of meeting one another and lived a terribly romantic hand to mouth existence until they were able to afford to move out of their first house which they had hated. My mother fell pregnant with my eldest sister two years into their marriage and had my other sister a few years after. She gave up work soon after she had Catherine but had planned to return to it once they were a little older. They moved with both girls to Market Harborough to what would soon be my first home on Coventry Road
Apparently my mother knew nearly straight away she was pregnant because she had to stop smoking as it would leave her sick, I like to think she would have stopped anyway for health reasons but I am not so sure as the minute we were all born she would return to the temptation and liberation of a packet of Malboro Lights. I remember her smoking when I was younger, in the kitchen only ever at night with a glass of Chardonnay. I would do my homework at the table in between chatting away to her about my day and hearing stories of her childhood and teenage years. The smoke bothered my sister and my brother but I rather liked it and put up with smoke filled eyes because I loved just being in her company. 
My mother has a warmth which surrounds her which draws everyone towards her. One of her friends once got upset because after introducing my mother to her friend who had come to stay for the week, the friend became more attached to my mother than my mother’s friend. It is not necessarily anything she does which makes her so popular with everyone she meets it is I think more to do with her presence. There are few people who are accepting of themselves, flaws and all, but my mother is one of them and it means she is great fun to be around. She will never bitch herself but I believe she secretly enjoys it when I dish the dirt and providing I remember not to swear or be unkind I will avoid her tongue lashing and make her laugh no end. 
I sometimes worry about her kindness as people have let her down in the past and though I am not a particularly confrontational person when it comes to my mother I am fiercely protective and my claws have been known to come out quicker than Wolverines.
I am in awe of what she does and even though I was against it from the beginning because I worried she wouldn’t be able to handle the loss which is a part of the job I am glad she took the job now. Although it breaks her heart every time one of her patients dies, she is able to bring people who are sick and their carers and loved ones some comfort and warmth in what is an impossible period of their lives. It is a testament to how good a person she is that after working at the job for years she has not hardened one bit and is still devastated when they die.- My sister reluctantly leant me this dress as she is rather keen on it and is saving it for the festivals. I do love it but felt like a cross between a pregnant sunflower and a fat fruit salad sweet. I wore it most of the day with a polo-neck but wish it had been warmer so I could wear it with flip flops outside. The photos were taken after a brilliant game of scrabble where we made the board wide open and where I got the highest scoring word of the night but still came fourth because I failed to get rid of my Z. I do love Scrabble but wish I could win just once.
Day 60 – It begins; the boy and I part three
At last I hear you say, the end of the story is nigh. Today I considered not finishing this little modern-day romantic fairy tale because I have had a bloody awful day. I thought that if I was going to write this blog, I was going to do so by waxing lyrical on how utterly awful I am feeling; how sick I am of taking tablets which leave me nauseous and sleepy; and, how awfully cross I am about finding I have put on weight, another joyful side effect of quetiapine. Instead however I have decided to swallow down the bitterness and rather than dwell on the present pain to immerse myself instead in the ghosts of my past in the hope I can fight off the persistent pull of negativity which has been weighing me down since yesterday. 
And so the boy and I after spending a night and day together but had parted ways with no way of contacting one another. Luckily our mischievous matchmaking friend had more up her sleeve having decided we were the perfect match. The next day whilst I was daydreaming about the boy and puzzling over whether or not I should go on a date with the other Chris, the boy was sending a message to our friend along the lines of, “Niki I’m a total idiot, I forgot to ask her for her number. Please can you send it to me.” Niki did not hesitate to strum the strings of fate and shortly after I received a text from the boy asking if I wanted to come and see him play a gig at Glass in Fallowfield. In all honesty I wasn’t terribly impressed, in spite of taking a fancy to him whilst he was on stage, I was certainly not about to behave like some kind of groupie girl and go along to watch adoringly as he drummed away like a toy soldier. 
Instead I went out with some friends and it was not until he invited me on a proper date, to see Gideon and The Deadbeats, now known as The Ten Bears, that I conceded to come along.
When I went to meet him I arrived early so I could catch up with my friend and after admitting I was rather terrified about the prospect of going alone to a gig with a man I barely know she decided it would be best to come along to assist with the magic, and also because she really fancied seeing the band. As this was the wonderful hazy days before the smoking ban, the Academy looked rather magical and with the hippy smoke floating about it was hard not to relax a little and take in the music. Gideon Conn is a bit of a lyrical genius and when he played the little ditty, Londonderry, which is about a first date between two people who are from Derry gosh darn it not Londonderry, I leaned back into the boys chest and felt rather loved up. 
We ended up all going back to his place for some drinks after the gig and when my friend and her lover went to bed we shared a little kiss before I went on home. I was mad at myself because i was being so careful to take it slow, because I knew I really liked him and was aware most of the last years affairs had ended as a result of me becoming too quickly involved. Though the kiss was nice it was a little too much down to how much we had drunk to steady our nerves.
After this date I tried to back away a little bit and after talking to some friends decided the best thing to do was to play it cool. I was in the middle of doing a dissertation on dating literature and though I had condemned the Rules as utter rubbish more dangerous to women than sexist males there were a few things I had taken from it. For example if you make it too easy for a man it can take away the fun of the chase and they will soon be looking for another lady who is willing to treats them mean. Though there is no way of knowing whether the boy would have been as keen on me if I had turned over on the night we first shared a bed and given him a good snogging, I am always glad we took things a day at a time. 
It made everything so much fun and meant we went on a host of date nights including a disastrous cinema outing where I demanded we leave after 10 minutes because it was so dire and a pub crawl which was rather messy but all of them ended in the same civil manner with a bit of a peck and then a goodnight sweetheart.
As our first date was spent in the company of a chaperone, we have come to the conclusion over the years that the night on which we should celebrate our anniversary is the first date we had by ourselves. I was completely nervous about the whole experience as by then I knew I really rather liked him but was still technically dating the other Chris though I knew it was just a matter of time before it fizzled out. 
After several hundred outfit changes I settled on a knee-length reddy brown leather skirt, a pair of black Red or Dead pointy ankle boots with a silver spike heel and buckles which one of my exes had brought me, a black T-Shirt and a frilly sleeveless black polo neck over the t-shirt to hide the ridiculous print on the t-shirt. Over the whole thing I had to wrap myself in my Burberry Mac which I was cross about because it meant the first thing he saw when I walked in would be the coat and not the carefully chosen outfit.
We were both late for the date, though I had messaged ahead to tell him not to hurry he still got there before me and was sat with a drink and a cigarette looking nervous. I couldn’t spot him when I first came in and the butterflies in my stomach started to dance about. He smiled when he saw me and I myself felt all a flutter when I saw he had made an effort to look nice. 
I fancied him and we had the nicest evening chatting about music, life, art and even our mutual friends and our own families. The evening took a bit of a turn when he decided, or maybe it was me that it was only fair we brought a second bottle of wine so as not to leave the other person out-of-pocket. I am by my own omission a total light weight and when we got on the bus I was horribly aware that I had drunk too much. He had suggested going for another drink in Withington at Solomon and Grundys which would soon become our local hang out, but when the bus started to move I was suddenly aware of how much I needed to get some fresh air. Turning to him I muttered something vague about having had a lovely evening and how it really was time to go home, then I lurched off the bus. 
I still could have retained some of my dignity if he had not stepped off with me sensing something was amiss and had the pleasure of watching his date throw up outside a building site in Fallowfield, a friend of mine later moved into the flats and I never had the courage to tell her I had thrown up in the foundations of her flat.
In all credit to him the boy was an utter star. rather than leave me to stagger home poorly and vulnerable he looked after me and took me back to his house. He tucked me into bed fully clothed but got me lots of water and a bowl, just in case. He shared the bed with me but surprisingly enough didn’t try anything funny and when he got up in the morning to go to work he kissed my forehead and brought me a cup of tea and left me some money just in case to get a cab home. I was utterly humiliated and as soon as he had gone I pulled on my jacket and bolted out the door. After a daytime nap I came clean to my flat mates about the dreadful date and was subjected to hours of teasing and even drawings to illustrate the incident as well as cries of, “well at least you’ll know he is not calling you because you slept together.” After it got past three however they seemed to have exhausted their insults and were now acting quite sympathetically as it had become clear he was never going to text back. 
I started to cry a little and decided to stop obsessing about it and leaving my phone in my room I joined the boys for our Friends and scrubs marathon. When I came upstairs to bed later on it was to find he had sent me a message after all: “Hey sweetie, you looked really pretty this morning. Was horrible leaving you. Hope you are feeling better, thanks for a great date x The rest as they say is history.
- Today’s dress is on loan from my lovely Auntie Bridgeen. It is from Primark and she loves wearing it on holiday. I managed to do something to my hair in spite of being fed up, put it in a bun after washing it then letting it down in the rain, and am wearing it with a vest for the cold and some suede black boots and opaque black tights for the warmth. The giant took the photos today thus why they are as my mother said a lot more demure than usual.
Day 56 – “Was it you in the Harborough Mail?”
The reason Market Harborough is a fantastic town, in spite of our lack of cinema or bowling alley is because everyone knows everyone. This of course is also its primary flaw, whatever you got up to as a rowdy teen or God forbid if you ever pull someone whilst on a night out at Enigma, by morning everyone but the priest will know and he’ll be in the know by the time the coffee is being poured immediately after mass on Sunday.
the dress I am wearing today is a beautiful one leant to me by my Fairy-God-Mother. Although I was away in Manchester when she called round, she dropped off three beautiful dresses, some cream, cakes and some beautiful house plants. The dress is extremely difficult to wear as my God mother still today is rather slight and so when I try to get into a dress which she would have worn in her teenage years I nearly fracture my ribs. It is impossible to bend down, reach up or breathe more than a quick sharp intake at a time. Nevertheless it is gorgeous and when paired with blue and white shoes, a FrencH connection blazer and tartan scarf it looks brilliant.
My article got published in the Harborough Mail yesterday, the town’s paper which has been going for more than 150 years. It has been about ten years since I was last in it for passing my Grade 7 flute exam and I must say I am feeling rather proud, particularly as it was I who wrote the article. I make the mistake of thinking nobody I know will see it and if they do they might not recognise me, I was rather wrong. I had a doctor’s appointment this morning and my GP thought the whole thing was great fun wondering whether I actually had to like all of the dresses and later when I saw one of my dad’s employees who I have known since I was a baby he ripped the mic out of me and suggested I just pin-up some shirts of his.
For all of you who do not fall in the area of the Harborough Mail, here below is the article which they ran. Do visit the site if you can it is a very good little local paper and some of the stories are hilarious.
A dress a day gives Elinor plenty to say
A JOURNALIST is planning to wear a different dress every day for a year to raise awareness and money for a mental health charity.
The novel idea is the brainchild of Elinor O’Neill, of Burnmill Road, Harborough, who is also writing about the experience in an online blog.
Miss O’Neill, who started the challenge on January 1, cannot wear the same dress twice during the challenge and said the only other rule is that none of the dresses can be bought during 2010.
The 25-year-old, who works as a freelance journalist writing music reviews, said she is using the project in an effort to remove the stigma so often associated with mental health issues.
The online blog has proved popular so far, with even PM Gordon Brown’s wife following her updates via the social networking website twitter.
Miss O’Neill said the most difficult part of the challenge has been sourcing the dresses.
Although she has a large collection of her own frocks, stocks are getting slim.
She said: “Friends have been great, buying me dresses as presents or lending them for the cause but I could really do with help from local people and shops.”
All of the dresses donated will be sold on to raise money for the mental health charity Mind.
The feature has been popular with fashion followers and environmentalists for encouraging people to get involved with freecycle groups and start up swap-shops to revamp their wardrobe.
But it has also attracted a big following from those with experience of mental illness.
Miss O’Neill has suffered with depression herself in the past.
Miss O’Neill said one man who has struggled with depression for years approached her to say how much the blog has helped him on days he was feeling low.
She said: “I try to keep the content light but I have had a few troubles in the past and so sometimes these experiences filter in to the posts.”
“A lot of bloggers remain anonymous but I don’t see any reason to.
“You should not feel ashamed of who you are.”
- To donate dresses or to read Miss O’Neill’s blog visit http://lostinnotation.wordpress.com
Day 53 – Rose petals recycled and an unusual series of searches
The problem with 365 dresses; the Mind project, is not so much the difficulty of sourcing the dresses; this is tough but if all else fails I’ll get out the old Singer and get creative with some bed sheets or become an expert in towel wrapping; the main difficulty one has is trying to think of interesting photo-shoots day after day.
This then is why I found myself today lying on our bed like an eejot trying to emulate one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood.
Since being informed about this piece of good news, the boy has unsurprisingly been having an almighty sulk. Whilst putting together the shoot for today he made a few sarcastic comments one of the best being, “I bet Dave Musson would have ironed the bed sheets before letting you lie down on them.” Bless his heart, he is a big silly at times.
Although the photos shown here are the best of a very bad bunch, putting the scene together was a giggle. The boy kept teasing me throughout, telling me I was not allowed to move unless he said so whilst throwing random buds of petals at me; at one point a particularly large posy hit me square in the nose which was hardly romantic and I muttered under my breath about how I was sure Dave Musson doesn‘t physically assault his models. We came to the conclusion at the end of the shot that Hollywood sets have a larger budget and that someone other than starlet or photographer throws the petals.
Today I had one of my most busiest blog visit days receiving almost three hundred hits. One of the things that happens when you begin a blog is that there is the potential for you to become an extremely sad person, especially when one’s feature requires regular posts and daily photography. Luckily it has been a pleasure to post and when I became aware of having regular readers I nearly cried with gratitude. The problem is however that wordpress allows one to monitor one’s statistics throughout the day, week or even year; because of this it is very easy to become a tad obsessive about one’s ratings and on more than one occasion I have been left disheartened when having spilled my heart into a particular posting only 40 people log on to read it.
- Thin Bra
- Busty women
- Market Harborough Job Centre… very nice
- trouble in my mind notation
- Cumbyea
- Catholicism in Lost
- Rio Ferdinand’s Summer Outfit
- Designer dress transvestite
- Does a woman dress for attention
- Chav wedding
Day 48 – The last day before lent
Today has been one of those days where my mood lifts but only for a short period at a time, much like the periods during which I managed to find a live stream of the United match the highs are short lived and unsatisfyingly fuzzy. I blame the dress; although it is gorgeous; a mac design by Topshop which has to be pinned together at the bottom to stop any Cheryl Cole esq front rump, (yes I know she is having a hard time but really why did this mean we had to see so much of her) but even still I am not a fan. It is partly because I feel I look too healthy to be wearing it, the last time I wore it I was decidedly more slender. The other reason is that wearing it reminds me of a bad decision I once made in it when I had too much to drink and trusted someone to look after me who was a friend, but isn’t any longer.
The details are unnecessary but it is foolish decisions like this and my tendency to feel low for days after if I have had too much that has led me to want to give the booze a rest during lent. I am not giving it up as such, I find that as soon as I give something up it is all I can think about so I am going to treat alcohol in much the same way as I did cigarettes. I’m not giving up, I’m just not having it at the moment. This way I don’t put myself under too much pressure and if I fancy a glass of wine one night or am out for a friend’s birthday I wont feel the need to be a total kill-joy. I just feel I need to get back to the point when I have a limit on what I can drink which I know suits me and which I can stick to. . 
The last time I tried to give alcohol up for lent I was in an incredibly intense but simultaneously extremely destructive relationship. I was utterly in love with the guy, not at first but he wore me down and eventually I let myself go to him. 
Unfortunately when I met him I had just recovered from my first episode of depression and having left my first boyfriend I was vulnerable and although the euphoria of falling in love at first kept the lows at bay, once they returned he couldn’t cope especially when I drank to try to get me back to what everyone expected me to be, fun.
To be fair to him he was younger than me by a year and prior to meeting me was widely known as a man who played the field. It was inevitable that something so intense would end in tears, and it did when he got with someone else whilst I was back at home trying to put myself back together. I had sunk too low and he wanted to be with the girl I was when we had first got together, I tried desperately to get her back but with being away from home and a doctor that was keeping an eye on my moods I couldn’t lift myself and so understandably he went elsewhere.
What was so strange is that when I decided to knock the booze on the head for lent he brought me a shot of vodka and placed it in front of me. I don’t know why, perhaps he too hoped the drink would cheer me up and it did if only for a time. After things fell apart, as all destructive relationships do, I was left a sad little soul and it wasn’t until a year later that I really began to recover from our affair. Eventually I got my drinking back under control, I learned what my limits were and avoided drinks that had a tendency to send me tearful and other times just chose not to drink.
The one person who helped me throughout this period was a boy I lived with in my flat in the halls I was President of at the time. He was a muslim who was enjoying his first taste of freedom, loved getting down to R&B as I did and cooked the nicest curry I have ever had in my life. He also shared my insomnia patterns and so we would stay up watching Godfather together and playing silly computer games and pranks. He kept an eye on me and never let me unravel too far and even put up with my pathetic tears. If it wasn’t for him I think I had the potential at the time to fall into full-blown alcoholism simply to escape the hurt and sadness which had as much to do with my mental health at the time as it did with the humiliation of being publicly betrayed.
What my friend taught me which was extremely important at the time was first and foremost to hang on; that I needed to get my confidence back because I was a good person I just couldn’t see it. The other was why it is that we give stuff up during lent and the importance of sharing ones wealth for one’s happiness. During Ramadan I joined with him in his fast, unfortunately I only lasted two days because of my delicate disposition, my low blood pressure and my tendency to faint if I stand for too long. What the experience and my friend taught me is that we give things up to recognise how much we have available to us. although for me it is essentially a religous tradition it is equally a chance for me to reflect and be grateful on all I have.
He also told me about how it is the done thing in the muslim world (and forgive me seriously if I am getting this wrong I am happy to be corrected but this is what I remember) to give 10% of ones earnings to the poor. I always thought it was such a brilliant idea as if we are lucky enough to have money why not share it. Even when I’ve had jobs that paid I’ve always been struck with how much I have compared to how much I need. 
The boy told me I was crazy when I suggested this to him as he pointed out that tax means I don’t need to give it away as someone will do it for me but it is a nice idea and I hope i will one day get paid again so I can carry it through.
For the meanwhile though this will essentially be my last day of chocolate and sweets. Also because I want to make sure I can and because I am concerned about what the latest drugs may be doing to my liver this glass herein pictured will be my last glass of wine for 40 days and 40 nights, I’m gutted it isn’t bordeaux.
Day 39 – The vices of a polka dot vixen
Today I am wearing a dress from Marks and Spencer which I wore to my graduation. I was a tad tubbier back then so it feels lovely and loose over my skin and I wish it was the summer so tights could be a thing of the past. I am also wearing a hat and some velvet gloves from accessorize which make me feel both french and a bit of an idiot at the same time.
I decided today; or maybe it was when I crawled into bed feeling rather tipsy la-la; that the time has come to challenge myself over my drinking. I am not as the kind young gentleman previously suggested an alcoholic, but of late I seem to be having a glass of wine too often and seeing as these tablets are ripping into my liver as it is it may not be a good idea to combine the two. I drink too much usually when I am low, to give me a lick of confidence its silly because it inevitably has a negative effect on my mood the next day and yet I love alcohol; particularly wine and Belgian beers. I love having it with dinner, I revel in locating a good wine on offer, and I especially love the warmth I get from Krupnik and blackberry vodka distilled by the boy’s mother at Christmas and the taste of rum on hot chocolate when I have had a life threatening fall on the slopes in the alps.
I love these things but I am trying to love myself and my family and friends more and I need to keep a check on my drinking. My personality has always been of extremes and so I find it easy to become hooked on things. This is why I stay away from gambling all together and why when I took up smoking at 21 I went straight to 20 Marlborough mediums a day with little trouble. I don’t do things by halves.
Partly because of how I got carried away and had a glass too much this evening, partly because of health and poor finance and also just because I need to prove to myself I can, I am thinking of giving up alcohol over lent. I may make an exception for our anniversary and the boy’s birthday but other than that I think it will do me good to give something up and with cigarettes a thing of the past alcohol, coffee and loving are the only vices I have left, and no one is taking away my coffee.
Day 33 – Socially unacceptable faux pas in the fashionable world of social media
Today was an incredibly exciting day for me for two main reasons. Firstly because I went to a meeting of Manchester’s social media café, (yes I know it sounds silly but they have quite interesting lectures and debates and a lot of very nice people go) which was held at the BBC building in Manchester. 
I heart the BBC, quite the opposite of the visitor to Craggy Island on Father Ted who was sacked by the BBC and therefore hated them with venom, I am the complete opposite, I love the BBC, nearly as much as I love JLS. They always do really great news coverage on their website and in spite of the occasional ill-judged decision are still putting out really interesting intelligent shows. As a result when I arrived there yesterday wearing what is essentially a slightly long T-shirt dress with a chiffon see through long black frilly short-sleeved shirt for smartness sake which I got from swap shop yesterday, I was feeling a little nervous; so nervous in-fact I tripped on the way in to the building and then gushed to the staff about going to the “mocial seedier cafe” meeting and giggled like a school girl when the man let me through the gates and escorted me up in the lifts.
I was in such a flutter and admittedly so nosy that I missed the room all together deciding the people inside didn’t actually look particularly social and carried on walking through the corridors in search of Jeremy Clarkson and the cast of The Wire; eventually however I forced myself to face facts and returned to the venue ready for networking and lectures about media cities and charity fund-raisers through the medium of twitter. The café is actually a really cool idea as it links up bloggers, business people, charities and journalists and is a way for people to give and get advice on various topics. 
I must admit me and the world of social media had a bit of a shaky start. When I went along to the first meeting I was very much set in my ways about wanting to be a print only journalist and thought twitter and blogs were for people with too much free time, a point which admittedly is hardly contradicted by my own posts and at times somewhat trivial updates about funny stories and the delights of dresses.
In spite of meeting some really nice people who were up for a giggle and a good old debate I just couldn’t shake the idea of a blog as being far too self indulgent and undisciplined; a bit like feature writing, which I love because it gives one so much freedom to write creatively within boundaries less strict than in newspaper copy which has to be to-the point and simple which is an art if you can do it. I was especially pleased when I passed my news-writing exam as I have an unfortunate tendency to get a bit carried away with long sentences, extended metaphors and ever so slightly off topic ramblings… What was I saying? Oh yes. Last nights social media cafe, well it was very good overall. There was a man who was explaining about the advantages of having an open data city in Manchester and the positive knock on effect this could have for our life. There was also a girl who is trying to raise interest and support for her charity project seven wonders of the world in seven days. Information on this can be found at http://www.7wondersin7days.com/about/
The one difficulty I have with social media in general is how much it tends to tie you to one place and how available it makes us to the outside world. Obviously this has its advantages for blogging and promoting charitable causes or for magazines or companies trying to generate interest in their product. For me however I have never been really that interested in my phone. I generally keep it on silent and just call people back when I have the chance. I like to concentrate on one thing at a time and if I am out with a friend I don’t bring my phone out of my pocket unless I am sat alone for a long period or if I am expecting a call on something which is time sensitive and even then I will only have it on discreet. I hate being tied to anything, especially a piece of technology and I must admit that although I recognise the necessity of people within the world of social media providing regular updates about their activities there were times yesterday evening, particularly when the lecturers were talking that i felt uncomfortable about how attached a lot of people were to laptops and mobile devices. 
I understand why they were, people had been encouraged before the event to tweet and video log the conference for those unable to make it, I just still can’t help but see it as a little unusual to not give a person your full attention especially when the person is speaking on a topic close to their heart. I guess this is the world we live in and maybe I am just programmed into paying attention for long periods of time from standing to attention during ATC marches and feast day masses so I shouldn’t judge but it does seem a bit sad at how much we are tied to a tool of communication which can at times seem to be more adept at blocking our social interaction than it is at enabling them. I remember walking out from having a drink with a friend once after she spent the time texting, she later apologised but when I had too much respect for myself to be second bested by someone who wasn’t even in the room.
The other reason for my excitement yesterday was that for the first time in what seems to be years, I, was chatted up by someone. Not just anyone but a boy who I’m pretty sure I could have realistically given birth to in biblical times. I took it as coolly as possible; as the incident occurred whilst i was in the middle of reviewing a band at Ruby Lounge where I was very conscious I was having to take photos whilst getting a feel for the music, making notes and making sure I didn’t show too much leg due to the dress I was wearing; but inside I was all giddy and couldn’t wait to tell the boy. It may have been something to do with the way I applied my make up yesterday. I came across a whole set of MAC brushes on the internet, ebay, for £20 and snapped them up quickly. 
One is a foundation brush which I previously thought was just another money-making venture but it really does work and I think the young man had no idea I have lived in four decades and haven’t even lived them in a particularly health conscious way.
The last cherry on the icing last night was the moment I realised that generally, most people in Manchester are actually quite nice after all. As I started bopping around trying to take photographs and get little snippet quotes I reached for my phone to txt the boy to see if he fancied coming out. After foraging in my bag, my coat and even my bra (well you never know) I started to get the horrible feeling which only comes when you know you have lost something irreplaceable. In spite of my reluctance to become too attached to my phone, it has all my best friends numbers, fantastic photos and sentimental texts. I scoured the venue and just as I was about to start crying and go home I came across two boys sitting on a sofa who had found it and were looking to find out who it belonged to. Admittedly I may have scared them slightly with my gratitude and considering that they may well have been underage I probably shouldn’t have offered to buy them a drink but the two of them restored my faith in humankind after the meanies from yesterday and I left the gig with a spring in my step which even the scallys smoking dope smiled at.
Day 32 – Swapping clothes, stroppy men and a really rather good gig
The dress I am wearing today is one of the boy’s favourites; he has been a bit of a grumpy of late ever since he realised many of the dresses would be sold. He has a bit of a thing about me lending my clothes to people as it upsets him as he then struggles to look at me in them without the memory of happy times of me wearing the dress; anniversary dates, meals out, summer days etc. are apparently tainted by someone else having worn it. It is strange but he assures me it is a boy thing. It is perhaps because of this I am unable to persuade him to go with me to a clothing swap shop in Manchester today. 
It is being put on at the 8th day by some students, one of whom has assured me they can set me up for dresses for the year. I am wary however as I have been fooled before by such gushing support so I try to approach the evening as cynically as possible for a person who loves the idea of getting newish clothes for free. I smile as I enter to see a swarming mass of foxy, feisty, women, trying hard to look as though they are not waiting for the whistle to break from their friendship groups and fight as politely as possible for frocks, tops or the ever coveted brand new with labels designer item. These sales are a great way of getting money for old rope and if you are lucky or selective about visitors you can get some really good finds. I have heard an awful lot about swap shopping but at first thought it sounded a little too much like swinging; however, desperate times and a lack of dresses mean I have no choice but to investigate.
In credit to the volunteers who have put this evening together every effort is made to aid visitors; strong sustainable bags are re-distributed, clothes are laid out nicely and in relatively well organised tables and they even make a flawed attempt to filter the hoard. The problem with a lot of the things available is the quality of the clothing; there was more Prada-mark than one could believe, and though I should have been more wary after seeing the waddling shuffle of ugged hooves I had carelessly handed over my bag of high-end well washed barely worn finds before seeing the state of some of the clothing. A lot of it is from the lowest possible end of the high street and some of it is neither washed, pressed or even unstained. I would be embarrassed to put my washing out in this state let alone give it to others in return for a new wardrobe but many people seem quite happy to hand over questionable clothing with no scruples.
Interestingly there is no limit to the amount of items you can walk away with which is quite good as in spite of feeling rather forced together the lack of rules means the atmosphere is fairly relaxed. I find most people reasonably polite, many of them excusing themselves after shoulder barging you or ripping a vest from your finger tips, which is unnecessary in this shop but sweet nevertheless. 
I end up with one or two dresses and a horde of tops but all will need some level of adjustment or dry-cleaning to make them blog worthy but I guess that’s just part of the fun of swapping.
I am considering organising my swap shop with tea and home-made cakes where people can bring unwanted dresses and swap them for luxe items from my extensive wardrobe or for other items of clothing brought by other swappers. There will be a bit more enforcement on the door as I will not have dirty hockey tops messing up my home and though we usually run a shoes on in the house policy, any Uggaly wearers will have to leave their slippers at the door and legging lovelies showing front rump will be provided with a modesty pashmina for their own good.
Today I am feeling a little bit vulnerable. It may be a result of the flimsiness of the dress which is pure silk from Topshop unique and which once gave everyone on my NCTJ course a rather raunchy display when I entered our office after being caught in a rain storm. 
Never forget to check in the mirror when you come in from outside and if wearing a thin dress such as this make sure you pop on some French knickers and a covering cream bra or even a slip. That is unless you think you might enjoy a day spent blushing as red as your underwear.
I think the real reason has nothing to do with the dress which is transformed easily with thick woollen tights and cashmere cardigan; it has a lot more to do with the attitude of duplicitous and down right rude men and women. Yesterday a horrible person, stole my friends wallet whilst she was dealing with the baby on the bus. What really upset me and her is they must have kept an eye on her to see whether she became distracted so they could swipe the bag from the pushchair. I don’t really understand people who rob mothers, perhaps it is because they are on crack and think of them as an easy target, or maybe they have childhood issues. Either way it seems rather rude that they take from their fellow bus riders and not going and getting a bit itchy fingered in HMV. 
Not that I am advocating a shop lifting campaign at this establishment for crack users, but one must admit it would be a lot better than stealing from a Mummy. I find myself thinking today that I hope rumours of the power of karma which us Catholics are kept ignorant of are true and the person in question comes back as an assistant for Naomi Campbell and gets regularly beaten and exposed to class A drugs they are not allowed to touch for fear of punishment. Obviously none of this would be the result of them being around Naomi who has apparently softened in old age like a mature but tasty brie.
I like to think such incidents of crime are isolated but two things which happened yesterday made me realise that not everyone in this world or indeed in Manchester is a nice person. I know this will seem obvious to the majority of you but I have always been a bit blinkered when it comes to spotting the b-words of both sexes. Yesterday whilst at a cash point I saw a man who looked like a student, carrying a blackberry and wearing expensive sports gear barge into a woman as she walked away from the cash point only because she had taken too much time. I muttered abuse under my breath but other than rip out his headphones and demand he follow her to apologise I wasn’t sure how to make him see that pushing a girl half your side in the chest is just plain rude.
The other incident occurred later on the same night at the students union. I was killing time after the swap shop and feeling quite pleased with myself for managing to rescue back my Next suede coat from out of the clutches of an Ugg wearer, in my defence i am saving it for the theatre starlet when she returns from London this weekend and as a reward I thought I would treat myself to a coffee/ beer in the students union whilst transcribing an interview. I have never actually been into the students bar since I was at Manchester University four years ago and fancied seeing whether all the hype about its splendour was for real. It turned out that it was but it took me such a ridiculous amount of time to get inside that the novelty was a little lost on me after a run in with a horrible bouncer who refused at first to let me in. I tried to explain I was reviewing a gig and I had a student card still but in the end let him continue his unending rant whilst getting out my sd card and silently flashing it at him at which point he backed off a bit. I tutted at the grey giant and muttered the offensive statement, “for goodness sake” at which point his uglier even larger friend decided to join in with the fun and told his friend he had made me an unhappy lady. 
The charmer responded crossly he didn’t care whether he had upset the stupid cow or not. Well, I was so upset I ended up telling on him to the girl behind the bar who gave me a drink for my nerves where upon I went off to hide until the boy arrived. We crossed paths with him before going to see Adam Green only to hear him threatening to blow the place up because he hated students. Now I must admit I am not the biggest fan of students myself. It is probably because I am a bit jealous of their freedom but I also get annoyed when I hear the horrible ones on the bus who dress as though hey are wearing clothing from the original fifties, not the nice fitted flattering stuff but the clothing my grandmothers mother was probably wearing whilst saying the word like a lot and asking over and over if their long-suffering friend knows what they mean and slating the North. In spite of this the majority are quite sweet and even the annoying ones don’t deserve to get blown up by a grey student despising giant.
It is horrible how some people feel they can treat others and I do wish my general response was a lot more effective than the occasional mutinous muttering. I am going to have to work on quick responses to amateur terrorists and cash point cjawhatsits or else I will run the risk of ranting for eternity without ever making a stand against them. Watch out for your handbags wear them in front of you where possible and keep your phone out of sight. Make sure you build up your arm muscles so bank barges bounce back off you and if you go to a gig at the academy make sure you do your best to avoid the wrath of the warlord.
