Drowning In Life's Dramas

Everyone has bad days when everything seems to go wrong and it's impossible to shake that sluggish feeling. Today has been one of those days so somewhat distracted and unfocused, I decide to treat myself to the end of season three of the excellent United States Of Tara.

I find it hard regularly keeping up with TV shows and continuing to have a life away from the box so often watch programmes in large chunks once a season or series has ended. As usual, I've finished season three of Tara months after the last episode was televised.

It's common knowledge that the appeal of magazines with real life and “true” stories lie in our own failing self-esteem. People generally read these stories in the hope that the subject has a sorrier life than theirs, to make themselves feel better and less freakish. Watching Tara was supposed to have a similar effect.

For anyone who doesn't know the show, get watching! It's a comedy-drama, created by Diablo Cody (Juno, Jennifer's Body) with Steven Spielberg as Executive Producer about a suburban mum (Toni Collette) coping with dissociative identity disorder:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociative_identity_disorder

Collette unsurprisingly picked up two awards for her outstanding performance as the titular character.

More surprising, was the news I read after watching season three's final episode. Rather than providing me with the warm cheesy glow I craved, the final episode left me feeling drained and of course, wanting more. A quick google search and I discover the show has been cancelled, despite one website's dubious advertisement for DVDs of season four! Why Tara is no more remains a mystery – the first season had ridiculously high ratings and after just a few episodes of season two, the third was announced.

Discovering a favourite show is ending is always a hollow blow, especially when you've invested so much time with the characters and feel almost part of their lives. Studio bosses never consider the viewer when axing shows with unresolved plots. I just hope, like Prison Break, a TV movie is made to tie-up the many loose ends and in the meantime, may even join the Tara facebook campaign for its return.

http://www.facebook.com/USOTS4

The Post-Student Paradox

I've been waiting for a taxi for some time now when a huge group of students wearing false glasses arrive. Preoccupied by the “Geek Party” they're soon to attend, they're oblivious to anyone else around them, excitably chattering and unthinkingly rushing forward as soon as a taxi arrives. We've followed the system and are doing the British thing - waiting in a queue of equally weary folk. Realising I may well spend the night outside Royal Cars if I'm not assertive and continue to allow this queue-jumping, I charge towards a taxi as it pulls up, climbing in the back, ignoring the protests of a wide-eyed boy and girl who claim I'm being aggressive.

Living in a “student city” like Leeds guarantees a population surge every September with the influx of returning students or newbie freshers. Although I was a student once in this very city, it is now over a decade since I graduated and at times, I find it almost impossible not to be exasperated by the flocks of fresh-faced students over-running the city.

Having been infuriated last summer by the tendency for everything to shut down during the university holiday period, I recognise the positive impact the student population brings. As an ex-Leeds student, I'm also of course grateful for my degree and all the fond memories I have from my student days but I can't help but quite illogically resent this student invasion.

Perhaps I'm envious of their lack of responsibility and the prospect of new beginnings but this inexplicable feeling I have, seems to be one I share with a lot of friends who were frankly grateful to have finished their degrees and finally be earning money. There may well be the perfect basis for a sociology thesis here but lacking such a degree and the jargon that accompanies it, for the moment I'm going to call this phenomenon The Post-Student Paradox and continue to display the unfathomable symptoms that go with it.

A Meal With A Poorly Hidden Agenda

I'd describe myself as entirely apathetic to most spectator sports, except of course when the virtually year-long football season begins and I suddenly migrate to the inferior-sized bedroom TV in search of alternative entertainment. Despite this, I'd go to a live football match just for the experience to soak in the scene, so stumbling across Howard's during an Internet search gives me the excuse to finally visit Leeds United's home stadium, Elland Road.

When I first discover, a new restaurant has opened, I'm expecting a packed-out pub environment with chanting beer soaked fans chowing down pies, burgers and chips in a garish backdrop of blue, yellow and white furnishings. Studying the almost elusive on-line menu is enough to convince me Howard's is worth a go and I'm soon travelling across the city, trying my best to ignore a radio discussion about the state of Arsenal.

I've done plenty of restaurant reviews before but this is my first surprise review for a new website. The venue normally know I'm coming and I have to interview the manager and tour the restaurant as part of the review. I've even had to write “favourable” reviews for higher paying clients advertising on the site but never an anonymous review.

I'm instructed to take pictures of all of my food and even the wine bottle label. I'm really not sure how I'm going to subtly carry this out and soon realise this is virtually impossible. I've attempted to make a few unseen notes and have taken a picture of the menu but as we are currently the sparse restaurant's only customers, I'm pretty sceptical I've managed to elude detection.

My doubts are confirmed when the waiter comes over handily bringing me a print-out of the menu but I'm still keeping my mouth shut, hoping I look more like a stereotypical Japanese tourist.

Later, we're given peach granite to tide us over until the starters are ready and I feel somewhat suspicious I'm getting preferential treatment until I see other diners arrive who are also presented with the same attractively presented fruity slush.

Alarm bells ring again when we're handed two champagne flutes, but I'm once again appeased as I realise everyone in the restaurant is now toasting to a Birthday celebration with the same impromptu Prosecco. It seems the restaurant manager, Philippe Lopez, is just exceedingly skilled at making all his customers feel special without hijacking their meals.

I pay up, carefully tucking away the receipt and head-out towards the taxi that awaits, cluelessly asking Philippe who Howard's is named after. He's keen to oblige, taking me to the entrance and pointing at a photograph of Leeds United's second most successful manager. “Perhaps you'd like to take a picture he says?” and I'm again wondering whether my under-cover reviewer's identity has been blown. One thing is clear, tonight has certainly been a guessing game for both Philippe and I.

Donkeys Need a Holiday Too You Know

This is the second week that I have been back from my holiday and I'm already planning the other European based break we've agreed to go on. Doing my daily sift through all the press releases I get sent, I come across something that fits my holiday mood and makes me smile. As it's unlikely many will ever see this, I've decided to share it here. The following is taken from a client survey carried out by holiday property rental website, HomeAway.co.uk:

Top 5 most unusual questions:


1. Can you guarantee the pool heat at a constant 88 degrees and if not can we get a discount for every degree under?


2. Can we have a machete/cutlass to keep under our bed?


3. Can you move the house 180 degrees?


4.Where is the nearest shop for kosher foods and what are the exact measurements of frozen food space in the villa to store the supplies?


5. What is the distance between the toilet seat and the nearest wall?



Top 5 funniest questions:



1. Is there any way to stop the church bells from ringing at 7am?


2. Could you please send a picture of the toaster?


3. Do you cater for UK swinger holidays?


4. Is it all right to jump naked into the pool?


5. What are the floors in each room made of and can we see some pictures of them?



Top 3 funniest animal-related questions

1. Where can we keep our donkey at night?


2. How many mosquitoes do you have? (The owner replied “3, one called Fred, one called George and one called Mildred”. The amused holidaymaker subsequently booked!)


3. Am I likely to get eaten by an alligator? (for a property in Florida)


The Failed Prude

As my body is propelled forward, both skis are ripped off and ill-fitting bikini bottoms solely worn for very occasional beach holidays determinedly attempt to heighten my already growing shame. Ever since I can remember I've been a bit of a prude but for some unfortunate reason my clothes seem to have their own rather contrary opinions about flesh coverage.

Recently attempting and failing to water ski in St Lucia, I was actually relieved in many ways I never managed to properly stand-up. After a strange “10 minute lesson” spent squatting and leaning forward on a wooden jetty, my first attempt was unsurprisingly not so successful. Ever-determined I tried five more times to stand-up, occasionally managing to briefly be dragged along partially stood. On these few occasions, rather than fear of speed or failure, I was more concerned I might expose myself as the action of the boat suddenly moving forward and me being dragged out of the water seemed to be some kind of signal to my bikini bottoms, telling them it was time to meet their watery grave.

As a child I apparently ran around the garden naked in yellow wellingtons. As an over-weight teenager I dreaded changing-room showers at school and as the years have passed little seems to have changed; In Virgin Active's poser's playground, I'm the one either waiting for one of the few changing cubicles, seeking solace in the extremely under-used more private family section or carefully manoeuvring clothes under the cover of a strategic towel. Any beach holidays I have been on, I've always been reluctant to put on a bikini and have never walked around in one, grabbing for a t-shirt or wrap instead. Of course this all boils down to a lifetime of being overly conscious about my body.

Despite my obvious hang-ups, I seem to be pretty bad at assessing the most appropriate attire to modestly undertake some of the more adventurous activities out there. The most memorable part of my New Zealand bungee jump was my water “touch” landing. On the morning of the bungee I purposely planned my outfit to avoid exposing flesh but failed miserably in my selection. Having tried my upper arm strength on the pole in the past, I'm well aware of how annoying loose-fitting clothes can be when you're upside down. Thinking I'd found the perfect bungee ensemble, I was pretty gutted when I was dunked below my knees into Taupo's river to bounce back up exposing a full tummy and soaked high-risen bra. The guys reeling me in with a pole couldn't resist commenting on the British tendency to “get our tits out”.

Although I was pretty devastated, The exhilaration of the bungee managed to over-ride my shame, until I examined the still souvenir shots on sale for all to see. Needless to say, I didn't purchase any photographic evidence of this wardrobe malfunction and I'm grateful to say no-one managed to capture last week's bikini bottom near disappearance.

The Tables Will Turn

I know it's wrong to be jealous of a cat but having spent the majority of the last few weeks in the company of Major Richard Parker, I must confess it has been very difficult not to feel that way. Constantly exhausted and suffering from a “splitting headache”, I've often had to smear my head with Tiger Balm in a vein attempt to perk myself up. As I move from one room to the next to give myself a change of scenery, I've constantly been tailed by a large ginger familiar, a being who loosely legitimises talking to yourself in order to avoid impending insanity.

Having recently visited a doctor, The Major has been diagnosed as bordering on the obese. When we adopted him, he'd come from a schizophrenic owner who'd clearly over-compensated for her neglect of him and his siblings with copious amounts of food. Normally I'd revel in his tubby good-humour but as he's predominantly a house cat, he potentially gets less exercise than the average moggy. Weighing in at around a stone, despite having stumpy legs and an impossibly short tail, The Major has had to go on a diet. Naturally this isn't a self-imposed diet.

Each day, we are woken by his hungry yowls and each morning I hear The Boy trying to appease him with small snacks. We've decided to apply the dieting rule that frequent small portions are better for the metabolism and easier to digest.

Later, as I settle down to my daily batch of 130 product rewrites, I hear strange noises from the kitchen and a jangling bell that are both getting closer to the bedroom. He enters the room with a ribbon and two small white pompoms draped from his mouth, looks at me and drops it, yowling to ensure he has my undivided attention. He then picks up his comfort pompoms and noisily returns to the kitchen where he begins the whole process again and does so repeatedly until his next meal.

Watching him, I'm jealous that someone can enforce a diet without him “cheating” but that's not the main source of my jealousy. Between meals, sporadic checks on my status, and the occasional trip outside to sniff around the patio or bask in the sun, The Major sleeps for the majority of the day. He sleeps on the third tier of his “cat tree”, on the storage box by the window, on the sofa, on the carpet in the bedroom, by the door of the bathroom, on various favourites spots across the laminate and on the terrace... Watching his peaceful slumber gives me enormous contentment but then I yawn and I'm jealous that he can just curl up whenever he wants to without any guilt or product rewrites.

The most dangerous time of the day is before bed when he starts to get a hunger on again. We've taken to giving him strategically timed snacks throughout the day to try to avoid visits in the early hours. Having a Major in the confined spaces of a flat is like Groundhog Christmas Day – every day we are woken by the patter of tiny feet and excited jumps on the bed, telling us that it is “time”.

Now my 31-days-in-25-days stint is over, I'm gearing up for my holiday and rather disturbingly, I'm most looking forward to sleep. I suspect when I come back the tables will have turned and The Major will be the one harbouring resentment towards us for abandoning him. Although if our regular across-the-hallway companion for The Major is less strict with his diet regime this possibly won't be the case. Time and the scales will tell.

When Magpies Attack

I'm taking a weekend “break” from churning out product rewrites. It's ten to eight in the morning, The Boy's alarm went off some time ago and we've slept through it. I've spent the last 15 minutes charging around, only briefly stopping to check my watch and realise it's actually an hour earlier than we originally thought. Now showered and semi-awake, there's regrettably no turning back to bed. Anyway, as time does, it speeds up and despite having much longer than planned we're once again nearly running late.

We pull up about twenty minutes later and I'm clutching the cherry Lucozade I hope will steer me through the day. We're ushered towards “a pitch” and pull-up. Before we have time to contemplate unloading, we're surrounded. Battling our way out, we nervously push past the crowd and attempt to set up shop – a task that increasingly becomes near impossible.

The few boxes we have got out of the car are already being rummaged through. I'm in a dilemma – do I watch our “goods” being man-handled or continue to unload an exceedingly full car?

“Got any jewellery?” he says peering through the car window, hands on the glass to conceal his eyes from the non-existent glare of the non-existent sunshine.

I curtly respond and continue attempting to place the contents of several boxes on a roll-out table.

“How much for that violin?” Another vulture says pointing through the boot at the still boxed instrument. Not happy with the answer, he tells us he regularly gets “them” for a tenner and we're left imagining some kind of bizarre dump specialising in nearly-new violins.

Choosing to get on with the task in hand, we continue attempting to unload, except I've become the watcher, the amateur security guard, attempting to safeguard our potential earnings. Taking on the manly role of removal man, The Boy lifts all the boxes out of the car and leaves me to interact with the increasingly demanding crowd.

There's another half hour until we're officially open to the “public” but it seems “the public” don't know this. We're actually both feeling a little over-whelmed and perhaps a tad uneasy. Deciding as an ex-teacher I'm well equipped to deal with the situation, I firmly but politely ask them to let us be so that we can unload everything and lay it all out properly, making it easier for them to look through. I get a few snorts of acknowledgement but the rummaging continues.

The jewellery fan seems to have had enough looking through my wares and single-mindedly asks: “Got any gold or silver?” I'm confidently doubtful but place the final box on the table. “Just costume then?” He outwardly projects his disappointment having eyed-over the goods.

Less perturbed, a sea of snake-like hands grab at the box and I feel like I'm part of a magic trick watching where each clutched item has gone. I'm dumbfounded when someone actually asks how much a necklace is and even more surprised when they start to try and barter with my two for a pound pricing.

In less than half an hour the quantity of jewellery has seriously diminished to mostly plastics. A hatted man is pouring at a large Oliver Bonas necklace box full of fake and exceedingly tacky plain and pink diamanté, mostly from C & A and New Look. "How much?" he asks me. I look-over the contents of the box counting the number of items inside, aware everything needs to go and of the sorry provenance of this tat. “Four pounds for the lot.” He challenges me to drop by fifty pence and throw in the box, claiming he fixes up damaged jewellery. For whatever reason, he's clearly telling porkies as none of this “jewellery” is broken. Taking his money, I'm just grateful to see it go.

Ten minutes later, a lady leans over and smugly says, “He had you” with a wry smile on her face. I'm really not sure who she means. She describes the hatted man and tells me she saw him find a silver mark. Never one to believe in the impossible, I brush this remark aside, finally able to finish setting up what's left now that the vultures and magpies have gone.