The Reality Of Wonderlust

I have a confession. I am in love with a vampire. Along with the rest of the world's female population, I have fallen utterly and hopelessly in lust with Edward Cullen - he of the Twilight fame. However, being a relatively late uptaker to the whole vampish phenomenon, it wasn't until I watched the Extras on my New Swoon (sorry, Moon) DVD that I realised what extraordinary powers make up can have. On screen, Edward is a figure of beauty - that chiselled jawline, the brooding eyes, the marble chest, etc (sigh). But in real life, Robert Pattinson is ever so disappointing, with his lame stubble, blemished skin, bad teeth (even for a vampire) and over-styled hair.

But that's the reality of film and TV. And perhaps celebrity in general. You are always slightly disappointed in real-life. Yet there are exceptions and some fantasy crushes will remain for an eternity.

When I was 12, Morten Haarket took over my world, controlled my thoughts and 'made' me graffiti the walls of our family house (I was subsequently grounded by my mother, unsurprisingly). He was my first and probably most extreme crush, but oh, those moody eyes and cheekbones...never mind the fact that he sung like a girl and had a penchant for leather necklaces. Through a contact of the family, I was smuggled into the TV studios of Saturday Superstore at Television Centre and waited patiently for 6 hours in the grotty BBC canteen for A-ha to make their appearance. Dressed in my finest 80's clobber, armed with pen and paper, I hurled myself across the Norwegian hunk's path and made him stop short in his tracks. 'Morten...', I squeaked. 'Yah?' he replied, rather bemused at the neon-clad, Chinese midget with badly applied blue eyeliner, standing before him...'Er...are you giving any kisses away today?'. To this day, I don't know where I found the courage to ask him that - for a 12 year old, I wasn't particularly advanced and certainly didn't hang out with the 'cool' girls at school (the ones that later went on to be teenage mums, incidently...) so why I asked my pop idol to kiss me, in front of lots of people, is still a mystery. But they say 'if you don't ask, you don't get' and so it was rather fortuitous that Morten was in a generous mood that day and proceeded to plant a huge smacker on my left cheek. I don't really remember much after that, apart from the other fans hissing around me in disbelief that I'd (a) had the cheek to ask him, and (b) been lucky enough that he'd obliged!

My luck didn't stop there. In my twenties, I discovered rugby boys and Lawrence Dallaglio. Now HE was a hunk of a chunk. I met him too, this time at a photo-shoot. A very good friend who worked in PR was covering a story about a charity, of which Lawrence was a patron. The 'news' piece, to be published in the Daily Mirror (!) on Valentine's Day, would feature a number of women describing how they would 'dress' the rugby-god IF he was THEIR boyfriend. What my friend had forgotten to tell me was that I was supposed to bring my boyfriend to the shoot, to be photographed together. Slightly problematic in that I was most definitely single. So, upon arrival at the studios, they 'found' me one. A total stranger. Unattractive, drippy, bad breath, horrendous shoes. The sort of man you would make plans to escape from on a blind date. Not a good start.

Anyway, the 'couples' photo-shoot involved me seductively draping myself over this random person's body on a chaise longue, whilst lustfully gazing into his (beady, wonky) eyes. At that exact moment, I wasn't sure what was worse - being outed for being single in the first place OR the thought of having my face published in a trashy tabloid with a fake (ugly) boyfriend. But the reward was so worth it.

After the boyfriend shoot, the women were ushered into another (less sleazy) studio. And there he stood. Mr Woof-meister himself. He came over, shook my hand and introduced himself and... I squeaked. I opened my mouth again and nothing came out. Not a peep. It was mortifying, excruciating and cringe-worthy all rolled into one. NEVER one to be lost for words, I stood there, waiting for something, anything to come out of my mouth. Eventually, Lawrence gave up and moved onto the next adoring female. To make matters worse, once we'd all sat down on the comfy sofas, I found myself staring at his enormous thighs (so big, he couldn't put his knees together...) and found him and the rest of the room watching me watching his crotch. Awful. Then, if things weren't bad enough already, we had to give our answer regarding how we would dress Lawrence if he were OUR boyfriend. Before I knew it, I shouted out, too excitedly 'Forget clothes, I'd have him straight off the pitch, in his muddy kit, covered in dirt...phnarrgghh!'. Oh god.

BUT it wasn't a total disaster and there is an upside to this painful experience. After about an hour of hanging around, waiting for the poncy photographer to make his mind up about light levels, exposure, etc, I eventually found my voice and a little bit of courage. Persuading the photographer to take a polaroid of me with my hero was easy. Prising myself off him was another thing. I still have that photo and it makes me chuckle every time I look at it - me, brimming with happiness, smiles-a-beaming, clinging onto this huge hulk of a man, as if my life depended on it. He, looking rather nervous, as if he'd finally met the Stalker From Hell.

Roll on 20 odd years and the reality of your wonderlust hits you. Inevitably your heroes age - Morten must be knocking on for 50 now (eeuuugghh) and doesn't prance around the stage too convincingly any more - although he STILL looks divine. As for Lawrence, he doesn't have much hair on top these days. I spotted him on TV last weekend, covering the Six Nations, looking less sporting hero, more old man. However, the camera did zoom out briefly but long enough for me to catch a glimpse of those thighs and yes, ladies...he still has it. Woof woof.

Princess Susie Moments

You all know a Princess Susie. The perfect woman with the perfect life. Perhaps with perfect children, a perfect partner and/or a perfect house. She exists (mostly unintentionally) to make you feel inadequate.

By definition, a Princess Susie Moment (PSM) is an unexpected occasion when you are genuinely appreciated by someone - your family, your friends, your children or your partner - for being truly fabulous. Because the real Princess Susie (who will remain anonymous for the purpose of this blog) gets this ALL of the time. And if she wasn't so bloody perfect (and nice) I'd have kicked her hard by now.

This blog entry is dedicated to all you ladies out there who despair about your own LACK of PSM's.

It started off with a phone-call between two friends. Over the course of an hour-long conversation, the following revelations were exchanged:

'I'm really fed up with my other half.'

'I just don't feel appreciated.'

'Who am I? I don't recognise the person I see in the mirror!?'

'I want things to go back to the way they used to be, when we first got together.'

'I do everything around the house - clean, cook, iron - as well as manage a full-time job. Do you think he notices? Does he hell!'

And so it went on.

What's annoying is that you might think the above mutterings (at first glance) came from two bitter, ungrateful, moaning, whinging minnies who had nothing better to do than to berate their other halves. Or you might think these were extracts straight from an agony aunt column in a trashy magazine. Sadly, it was more serious than that. Both women had reached a point in their relationship where they were utterly fed up, exhausted and at breaking point. A sense of identity loss was looming. A hark back to their previous lives was calling. So, they escaped. Only for 48 hours. But in defiance and in need of a spa treatment plus wine. Minus partners, minus children.

It was only when discussing their life issues in more detail that they came across the phenomenon that is Princess Susie. As per the definition at the top of this blog, Princess Susie DOES exist. She is a real person, living a real (perfect) life, with her perfect prince. She is beautiful, intelligent, funny and popular but most importantly, she is treated like a real princess, by her prince. He (also remaining anonymous) buys her flowers (proper flowers from a posh florist, not limp ones from a petrol forecourt, past their sell-by-date), takes her for romantic meals, continuously thanks her for being the mother of his gorgeous children, whisks her off on regular mini-breaks in trendy boutique hotels AND notices when she's had her hair highlighted.

Now, the reality of this phenomenon is that Princess Susie's prince probably has bad breath and a small penis (one can hope) but in all seriousness, this modern fairytale existence did highlight the shortfalls in the two womens' relationships. They wanted more than what was currently on offer - not the flowers or the mini breaks as such - but just a little bit of appreciation and respect from their other halves...their own version of being adored.

And so, the Princess Susie Moment phrase was coined...a reference point to come back to when you are ranting about the things you can't/will never have or situations you can't/won't ever be able to change. Like being stuck in a bad relationship, putting up with a needy, ungrateful friend, dealing with a commitment-phobic boyfriend, living with a messy husband who leaves his dirty pants on the floor, or coping with an interfering mother-in-law.

They say life is too short and that it's not a rehearsal, blah, blah...but if you, like many women out there, need an excuse to rant about YOUR life, feel free to dump it all here. And don't forget to breathe...

So Sorry, I Didn't Mean To Kick You In The Head...

...is not a phrase I thought I would say to anyone in my entire lifetime (ever). And certainly not in my sedate Pilates class last week.

Now, I'm sure you are conjuring up images of a very flexible, sporty, athletic type - with supple bones and limbs that could take out the enemy in one foul swoop -but this is me we are talking about so at least we both know that this isn't the case. I was actually participating in an Improver's Pilates class - not sure why I am classed as an Improver when I haven't even mastered the art of breathing properly (and no, it's not a simple matter of 'breathe in, breathe out'...there is actual skill involved, honest...). But as I took to the mat, amidst a sea of toned, lithe bodies, all the while thinking that my wobbly reflection in the large mirror rather sadly (but truthfully) told me that I needed to be doing something more aerobic than trying to 'reach out' to my pelvic floor, I was not anticipating the accident about to happen...

When are you are not very good at something but have nowhere to hide/run, you have two choices - rise to the task or leave the room very quietly. NEVER one to shy away from a challenge, I decided that the smug skinny minny standing next to me was not going to show me up and that I would do everything in my physical power to keep up with her. So, I took to the floor and before I knew it, I was rocking backwards and forwards on my generous rump, legs and arms raised in the air in a V-shape (are you picturing this?) gathering momentum. What I was supposed to do was rock backwards/forwards in a 'controlled' manner, using my 'core muscles' (haha) to aid the movement. What I wasn't supposed to do was jerk in a rather erratic fashion, legs and arms flaying wildly (due to missing core muscles) and eventually kick my Pilates instructor very hard in the side of the head. 'OOOOWWWW!' she cried. 'OH MY GOD!!' I cried back, mortified, followed by silence and dumbfounded looks from my fellow athletes...

If this was an isolated incident, I would think nothing of it and put it down to sheer bad luck. But there was also the time when I managed to facially wound the Social Captain at my old tennis club (the irony in that being she wasn't particularly sociable with me afterwards). It has been said, by people who have played tennis with me, that I err towards the more aggressive side of play, that I 'hit like a bloke' and that there is nothing particularly graceful about my technique. In my defence, I would argue that grace is for wimps and that slugging a racquet around for an hour is utterly satisfying, especially when you imagine that your worst enemy's face is on the small green ball coming at you. There is also the assumption that I am able to change the pace of my strokes but this would require an element of skill which I do not yet possess. So, for the time being, I will continue to grunt, continue to whack and absolutely love every second of it. And in any case, it wasn't my fault that she got the ball square on between the eyes. She should have ducked. A bit like my Pilates instructor...

Till Death Us Do Part

Death is a strange affair. It's the inevitable finale of life and the one thing which we all have in common. But when it happens, regardless of whether it's expected or sudden, nevertheless, there is always an element of shock.

I'm still reeling from my Grandpa's death nearly 15 months ago. My beloved Grandpa, the man who once stood strong and tall, the man who always sat at the head of the table at our family gatherings, the man whose annual ritual was to put a Santa's hat on at Christmas time to remind us all that deep inside, he was still full of fun and youth. His was a slow demise and it was painful to witness. I took M to see him one morning and despite his fragility and inability to speak, he spoke with his eyes and I could see that it was the best gift I could have bought him. He passed away that evening.

After his death, I told M that he'd gone to be a star in the sky. The brightest one up there, in fact. For a 2.5 year old, this gave her no end of joy, the permission to holler up to the sky and shout 'night night Great Grandpa'. In fact, I recall many a time when we both looked up and hollered together, much to the amusement of the curtain-twitching neighbours.

Speaking of whom, a slightly embarrassing situation presented itself last week - upon checking in on my 89 year old elderly neighbour to see how she was coping with the recent snowfall, M asked her if she was going to die soon. Thankfully (in this case), with old age comes near total deafness but it didn't stop me booting my daughter into the house before my neighbour had the chance to say 'pardon?'...

I have struggled with my parental instinct and general common sense recently, in that I just don't know how much information to part with, when discussing life issues with a 3.5 year old. In my household, the comforting background noise comes from BBC News 24 (always BBC, never the darkside aka SKY News - ugh). Unfortunately, this means that M is inevitably exposed to many things outside of her little, fluffy, pink world (which is normally inhabited by princesses, tea parties and more recently, Hannah Montana). In the last few weeks, I have had to explain earthquakes (Haiti), dead soldiers' bodies being repatriated, and so on. What she chooses to absorb, I have no idea. Michael Jackson's death was an interesting one too. We spent many a moment, normally in a public place (routinely the local supermarket checkout) discussing his fate and the fact that he had probably taken a lot of 'bad medicine', which according to M, was very, very naughty. A couple of weeks ago, I was caught up in a conversation with M and her 4 year old cousin, C, who were both watching a newsflash about yet another British soldier being killed in Afghanistan. It went something like this:

M: 'Mummy, what's that they're bringing out of the plane?'

Me: 'That's a coffin, darling'

M: 'Just like Grandpa's'

Me: 'Yes, darling, just like Grandpa's'

M: 'Mummy, what's a coffin?'

Me: 'When you die, your body gets put in a coffin'

M: 'But Mummy, who died?'

Me: 'The soldier'

M: 'But what are soldiers?

Me: 'Soldiers are very, very important people, who fight against the baddies and make our country a very safe place to live'

At which point, cousin C (all 4 years of him), turned to me and said, 'don't be silly, Aunty C, they're not called baddies, they're called the Taliban'.