The British Summer Officially Starts

Anyone who actually follows these entries and read the last one where I was about to enjoy basking in the sun on the patio as a “penthouse housewife” can be reassured that any feelings of jealousy were completely unfounded. Having spent every summer for the last ten years or more for the majority abroad or in the south, I've never experienced a Leeds summer and had forgotten an unwritten rule.

Term finished for the majority on Friday so today heralded the official beginning of the school summer holidays – as weekends were never a “school day”, the summer always felt like it started on the first would-be-work-day. As both a teacher and student, the hottest days always seemed to be during the last four weeks of term, especially in final exam-sitting season. I remember both the distracting humidity when trying to frantically scrawl exam question answers and the pain of trying to persuade disgruntled students to do some work.

This year is my first full British summer and the first time I have spent it in Leeds, despite living in the city for over a decade. It is also the first time the start of the summer holidays has been something I have been dreading. As a supply teacher, summer holidays means no pay and little work prospects, whereas full-time staff are paid but also have to endure all the other hardships and stresses that come with contracted work.

Every year I can remember, the weather seems to change as soon as the holidays begin from baking punishing heat to dreary wet humidity. I have always thought in order to compensate for this summer holidays should begin and finish earlier but LEAs don't seem to consider this an appropriate action.

Today, unfortunately followed this infuriating pattern - I woke up looking forward to a good read on the hammock and instead faced wearing a borrowed hoodie and a wet stroll into town (having had weeks of humidity and sun in London, I failed to pack any appropriate school holiday attire). I have also discovered that it is not only the weather that is against my fun – for some reason every Leeds and Bradford theatre shuts up over August so all my reviewing intentions have been shattered. I can understand that the summer is supposed to be outdoors time but what about when the rubbish weather predictably kicks in and what are all the tourists supposed to do? I guess temporary housewives should really occupy themselves with housework anyway...

Supply And Demand Dwindles

I am not a TV show style doctor, nurse or surgeon on call but still have to sleep with a mobile phone by my head. Every morning a series of three staggered alarms go off around 7.20 and then sometime after that, I hope for the call.

Being a supply teacher is living in a world of uncertainty and having the ability to act on the spur of the moment. Every night I have work clothes laid out, a smartish bag packed with a timesheet and things to amuse myself, my lunch prepared for the next day and the phone and alarms laid out next to me.

When you are a student in school, you have no idea how hard teachers work and how much they have to contend with, in terms of poor behaviour, work load, paper work, unsupportive parents/colleagues and difficult parents. On top of all of this, disgruntled children can apparently now review your performance on ratemyteacher.com.

Being a teacher is a juggling act but being a supply teacher is a whole different ball game. If you have never been one, you will probably have some idea of the amount of crap you have to take but not this bizarre night and morning ritual that is gone through, regardless of whether there is work to be had or not.

When I get the call, I have to quite literally jump into action, showering and grooming myself at top speed to get to wherever I am sent to “asap”. With no money for iphones, I don't have the luxury of maps so rely on a series of directions sent via text messages from the agency. Up until a few weeks ago, the agency who actually ring me and offer work had only ever sent me to two schools but now having been to a couple of others I feel like a proper supply teacher.

Every school I have been to has been different – one is all girls, another mixed, one is all boys, some have six lessons while others have five, some give you a free school dinner and the strangest of all I have encountered was a mixed school I went to where lessons were single sex. Each of these schools has one thing in common – they aren't even vaguely as “challenging” as the school I spent a five year prison sentence working at and my arrival at each classroom is always met with joyous cries of “supply”.

I am always amazed that despite being a temporary entity and covering a whole host of subjects I know nothing about from P.E. to Spanish, Geography, Science and Technology, I never get as much grief as when I worked in one place as permanent staff. Another thing I have noted is the difference between single sex male and female schools; In all girls schools pupils can be incredibly bitchy, whereas the boys I taught were rather stereotypically testosterone fuelled – two fights broke out two lessons running (in one a small boy kicked another in the head and then punched him). Being permanent staff is a bit like crowd control whereas supply is all about keeping them occupied – sometimes the work set has been either far too easy or difficult for the kids and I have no idea so am left to try to make-up another activity or just somehow keep them in their seats.

Now, as summer approaches, my days of supply are dwindling. I have gone from a seven week slot in one school to two or three days a week, down to one and now none – the salad I made on Sunday, ready for Monday's lunch still sits in the fridge on Thursday. Every day this week I have had an interrupted lie-in where I wake up feeling jet lagged. Sure supply can pay well and there is no marking or preparation but it's certainly not much good when no-one is ringing you! I now look forward to the coming weeks of being a "pent-house house wife", mooching around a sunny Leeds rooftop patio, writing the odd review and applying for any job vaguely suitable.

Entering The Three Step Plan

Back in June I wrote a blog entry entitled “Boomerangs, Beaters and Moodles” that referred to Jeff Green's hilarious men's singles guide and his seven stages of a relationship; I also posted “Another Chapter Begins” in memory of me passing to the dark age and in celebration of Old Maid's Day. Since then life has thrown me some good and bad hands and I have both willingly and reluctantly entered further into adulthood. Several of my more organised and perhaps more ambitious friends have life plans to be carried out within a certain time frame, consisting of three or four stages. The main pattern here in no particular order is:

Marriage

Buying a house

Having kids

(Promotion)

For years I enjoyed living in my house of University days (almost a decade!) and was happy to keep far away from mortgages or indeed any murmur of them. Marriage is often discussed and still seems rather grown-up, despite the fact I am virtually married, just without the paper/rings/photos and currently from a distance. Having children is a thought that still terrifies and repulses me. Despite telling you all how much like my dad I am, one thing I definitely inherited from my mum is her attitude towards children. I am never going to say never but I can safely say that right now I equate the prospect of having children with my life being over.

All that said, now I am back from my travels and The Boy began contemplating renting in Leeds, for the first time in my life I found myself encouraging him to buy. As the recession has been against us all in so many ways, buying a pad while prices were down seemed like a plan.

After various battles and disappointments I let myself in to our “penthouse” flat last weekend. We actually got the keys a few weeks ago and I have spent one night in it before but unlocking the door alone with my own keys was a different matter. I am now in the “homeowner” category and have to admit, it doesn't feel so bad. Of course I am still predominantly in London persevering with the writing malarkey but at weekends, I now have a chill pad and the prospect of hours trawling around shops like DFS each Sunday – something that surprisingly terrifies me less and less.

Although I have entered into the rigid “life plans” of others, I don't think I have an exact “life plan” - perhaps just trying to remain contented, keeping busy and prolonging entry into each of these expected stages is enough for me?

Tiger Delivers Broods For The Boys

“Can we have your boxers?” An embarrassing line delivered with alcohol-fuelled determined composure.

Looking at the dare card still unsure of whether this request is to be taken seriously the lone vulnerable-looking unsuspecting male, who has already been assessed as an “easy target”, asks: “Are you serious?” Realising this to be the case, he calmly and most obligingly trots off to the men's toilets returning with the sought-after “treasure”.

This is the first truly traditional Hen night I have ever been to - naturally members of the Hen party who are the Hen's oldest and dearest friends have decided to supplement her original plans with Hen games and dares. Our night begins with a disastrous round of that old classic, “Mr and Mrs”. Our hostess seems to be struggling to find the correct answers - something I can sympathise with having not so long ago played this game myself; I made a legendary faux pas involving a confusion of comedians called Bernard – something I am clearly never going to live down. Enough said.

Moving on from the hotel in our 70s and 80s attire, we're a brightly-coloured brood walking through the streets of a slightly bemused Manchester in broad day-light. Our destination for the entire evening is Tiger Tiger who apparently offer reasonably priced “Big Night Out” Hen packages that we are due to take advantage of. A mere £23 gets us a two course meal, comedy show and night club “entry”. On top of this all drinks are half price until 9pm – arriving at 5pm this is surely going to be a messy night. Somehow, knowing all of this, doesn't quite prepare us for our fellow clientele.

Sitting behind us is another Hen party and on my way back from the cash machine, I spot our nemesis group - all clad in black t-shirts especially printed with the Hen's name and each reveller's, this group are also staying in our hotel and checked-in at the same time. As the meal comes to an end, the number of Hen parties around us increases. For an all inclusive meal, it wasn't bad, it's just a shame the comedy “show” is more of a trial than a treat.

The majority of the audience are rival Hen parties all decked out in their selected theme – army, princess, space, bunny, glitter... Incorrectly the compere and “comedians” all decide sex is the theme to satisfy such a crowd and the opening description of the make-up of a typical Hen night is thankfully a far cry from our good-humoured unslutty crew.

The first act has us with our heads in our hands as he delivers corkers like “Call him Mr Bond and he'll have you squealing like the slut he wishes you were.” He seems to think it's acceptable to encourage rape and paedophilia, bragging about “all the pleasure of paedophilia without the social stigma.” He considerately remembers the few male members of the audience: “Guys, one piece of advice... if you get the chance to have sex with someone, just say 'Yes' – it's the only way you'll discover what your type is” and leaves with a hearty round of applause as we all celebrate his departure.

The next act intersperses appalling sex gags with a barrage of gingerist “jokes” but is mildly less offensive. The crowd is thinning - those who can, have discreetly left. After the first act a row behind us have disappeared and another have turned their chairs to face the back wall, quietly chatting throughout - by the end of the second act, both rows are empty.

As 9pm draws near, we stock up and brace ourselves for “the piece de resistance”, presumably how the organisers of this painful “comedy” club view their final act. Three of us chip in and get two bottles of wine, a cocktail jug and a Gin and Tonic (all for £28), having to request glasses for the cocktail. Although equally as unfunny as the first two “comedians”, this final stand-up is harmless in comparison, preferring to joke about buying a locket for his Gran's Birthday engraved with “I leave everything to...” Finishing up, he gets loud cheers as his audience have been getting steadily more inebriated and are sincerely grateful it's all over.

Outside near the bar there are a disturbing number of wigs resembling my David Bowie style Labyrinth ensemble. Heading out into the dance floor, we're surrounded by girls so when the dares begin, it's hard to spot likely male victims. In the “club room” the male/female ratio is seriously unequal and we decide Tiger Tiger's “Big Night Out” presents single males with the optimum pulling conditions - before 9pm, they can generously appear to buy targeted ladies a drink without stretching the wallet and after 9pm the quantity of females wearing high prescription beer goggles is likely to be up.

Our clan manage a a drama-less evening and safely make it back to the hotel, passing the aftermath of a stabbing, without coming to any harm ourselves, although there is one casualty of the night - we do have to convince one “liability” to abandon the donated dirty pants to the floor of Tiger Tiger.

It's A Family Affair

It's the time of year I normally hate – no, not summer, but that season when sport seems to rule the TV and a large section of the population's lives. This year is a first for me because since September I have been living without a TV in a house where TVs are not considered an essential item. This means that for the first week of the World Cup, I managed to entirely avoid seeing any footage. Sure, I walked past the odd pub and caught the occasional glimpse of green pitches and heard that familiar sound of fans cheering on or commiserating team performances.

For several reasons this year seems to be the year of firsts... Perhaps, I should have waited until 2010 to do my degree. Tennis is something I have always grown up with: every year my Olds tune in to Wimbledon; at family gatherings a trip to the local tennis courts is not unusual; at school I was forced to “play” and my Aunt and Uncle are both line judges. My travels left me open to trying pretty much anything at least once so this year I decided to give myself another first by taking advantage of my Aunt and Uncle's position, utilising their easy access to Wimbledon tickets. Not a huge fan of tennis, I justified the expense by viewing it as a rare chance to spend a day in the English sunshine and something else to file away in the experience bank.

I began my day meeting my Wimbledon date – Old Dear; Spending a day with my dad seemed to be a fitting way of continuing this link between Tennis and my family that I always unwittingly make. Faffing around in Waterloo getting supplies, I painfully recognise myself within him; I am truly my father's daughter and this unavoidable fact is something that I will be reminded of throughout the day. I watch him rummaging in the characteristic luminous orange rucksack, burying things deep in the bag he will clearly need in a few moments and perpetually thinking he's lost something. On the train we are virtually wearing the same glasses and later on in the day after he's given me a tour of the grounds and we are sitting with Pimm's another embarrassing personal characteristic is mirrored – he clumsily manages to explode a bottle of carbonated water and immediately afterwards succeeds in knocking over a champagne bottle – thankfully empty.

All refreshed and having watched snippets of women's singles and my Aunt line judging a men's doubles game, we head over to court 18 to bask in the sun. It's not long before another irritating Owenism I seem to have inherited pops up uninvited - nose blowing that resembles a fog horn heard through a megaphone at close range; Luckily, this isn't something that happens during a vital match point, especially as the crowd are fully engaged in this rather tense exceedingly close match between American, 23^rd seed, John Isner and Frenchman, Nicolas Mahut. I actually feel quite sad to be leaving at 4.30 when it's time to meet my Aunt in the Umpire/Line Judging area for tea.

An hour later and we return to Court 18 pleased and amazed the battle continues – in the fifth set neither player has a clear upper hand and the number of games played is already so ludicrously high there are murmurs of world records being beaten. Both players are grunters and the occasional softening and quietening of their animalistic sounds perpetuates unanimous giggling from the crowd. John is already clearly tired but somehow my sympathies lie with the Frenchie. John is a lobber with once world-record breaking speed serves, “Nico” on the other hand is a runner darting all over the court, seemingly expelling more energy despite John's appearance. Both have dedicated supporters – a group of fellow Frenchies repeatedly chant ascending “alle”s while American spectators yell “John” in an accent I can't help but associate with the cheesy Amanda Seyfried and Channing Tantum film, “Dear John”. Two kids in front, one wearing an Arsenal t-shirt, both start yelling “alle John” and one shouts out a plea for the “ref” to ignore one of his faults.

As the game continues with no clear winner in sight the crowd whoop, making firework appreciation noises and attempting Mexican Waves. The umpire relishes announcing the ridiculous score, laughing each time as he updates us. Outward appearances suggest John is now not merely tired but completely exhausted. He stands looking dismayed with his hands on his hips. Good-natured yells of “We want to go home” start to be emitted from random spectators and are always followed with a peel of laughter. At 40 match point games there is a big cheer – it's impossible not to admire the dedication and devotion of these two equally-matched players.

I'm just as impressed by the ritualistic military style of the ball boys' and girls' routine and there is also plenty to revere in the line judges who stand centrally at the other end of the court from John, bravely facing the wrath of one of his high-speed balls. Hearing the loud bang as one of his serves hits the spot these line judges stood in only seconds before and watching Nico's almost panicked looking self-defence style returns, I'm glad I'm not in the path of those balls.

Munching on Percy Pigs, I feel exhausted from the heat and the constant crossing and uncrossing of my legs on either side for nearly three hours. As time passes, John becomes the underdog - his T-shirt isn't the only now transparent garment as his sweat-soaked shorts become that way inclined. Sitting to the side of the court, his legs splayed with his racket between them, the self-recognition in his exhaustion produces empathy. I am pathetically reminded of all those times I'd be walking uphill from the gym after swimming and using power plates, carrying shopping and contemplating just giving up, stopping and sitting down or the also equally “painful” uphill walk to University first thing in the morning. Through all John's sweat and frustration, Nico appears unfazed and I find myself starting to unwillingly change my allegiance.

At “47 all” the scoreboard ceases working as if it has maxed out, having never gone to such a score before or through pure exhaustion like the more determined players. At 50, we leave this Herculean effort to engage in a final stubborn argument over which station we'd arrived at. Unfortunately “bloody-mindedness” is another father-daughter trait I'm constantly reminded of – sometimes it proves useful and for others around, I'm sure it's frustrating. On this occasion, like the tennis players we'd recently watched, Old Dear and I are perfectly matched, except on arriving at the station it was clear I'd obviously got my overs and unders mixed and would have to admit defeat.

On the way home, we discover a desperate Nico has lunged for the ball propelling himself across the court and launching his racket but is still fighting for his victory. At Waterloo, I say my farewells and on the bus home I'm told the match is postponed due to dwindling light until the next day – a wise decision I think as I contemplate the damage John's service could do in the darkness.

For the first time in my life, the following morning, I actively seek out Metro's sports pages on my way in to my supply booking. Surely if either player was to win it'd be due to a cardiac arrest? I'm strangely disappointed by the lack of a resolution and keenly await a text update later in the day. When I discover John eventually won the 138^th game of the fifth set at 70-68 to a standing ovation, called Nico an “absolute warrior” and claimed to have not felt tired, I am no longer sure I wanted him to win; Players fresh-faced from sleep, rest and food, it doesn't feel like the same match. As the crowd had suspected the day before, the game broke twelve world records (http://community.guinnessworldrecords.com/_Wimbledon-RecordsAced/BLOG/2409912/7691.html) and the players received a crystal bowl and champagne flute to mark the feat.

Played over three days (the fourth set was halted on Tuesday night) for eleven hours and five minutes with the final set lasting a staggering seven hours and six minutes, this was the longest match in the history of tennis, beating the previous 2004 record at the French Open of six hours and thirty-three minutes by Fabrice Santoro Arnaud Clement. The 118 games in the final set beat the previous record in men's singles of 46 by Nicola Pietrangeli and Nikola Pilic in 1962 and Pancho Gonzales and Charlie Pasarell in 1969. Although Andy Roddick now has the fastest serve at 155 mph, Isner managed to set a new personal world record with his 113 aces. So not only was the day a first for me but a first for many world records and somehow I was jammy enough to witness them. Watching such an exciting game has me contemplating returning for more sweat and blood at next year's Wimbledon but without a TV, I won't be following the rest of this year's action.

Boomerangs, Beaters And Moodles

Ever since April, morning showers have become a whole different experience. One sunny Oxford day towards the end of that fair month, a friend secretly purchased something for me that I had been admiring in a charity shop. What was the item? An amazing shower radio in the guise of a penguin whose two fins act as the volume and tuning dials and whose tie can be skewed to change from AM to FM and vice versa.

Back in a previous Leeds' life when I had a steady job, fixed-abode and a vague sense of security, I had a fish shower radio that helped me feel marginally more alive in the mornings by pumping out cheesy tunes of old courtesy of the cheery folk at Magic. You see, even back then, I had moved on from Radio One, preferring the Magical blend of 80s tunes with new music and friendly DJs. My new shower buddy's first run was actually hours after I was presented with it - not in a shower but inside a gazebo as we lay around in star shapes apres barbecue. Listening to an unidentified radio station, I found myself enthused by new artists again who maybe weren't the most current releases but were certainly unfamiliar to me. Hours later, several artists' names were scrawled on old receipts in my wallet. And what was the station? I should be ashamed to admit this but anyone who read my turning 30 entry will know I am well beyond shame... the station was Radio Two.

Since that illuminating day, the penguin showers with me every morning, channeling Chris Evans' voice into the cubicle. Evans' show is no match for Magic mornings of old and some of the features are clearly aimed at my seniors but the penguin's selective nature and my rushed mornings mean that for the moment, failing to find a better option, Evans' voice is the first I hear every weekday. I am particularly happy with the random nuggets of information I occasionally acquire from the show. On Friday, I was informed the average person reads about 10,000 words a day - a figure I have since tried to confirm elsewhere but have been unable to.

From the 10,000 plus words I have read in a twenty-four hour period, I have learnt some new vocabulary and as I love words, I thought I'd share these with you. Re-reading notes I made for a film review, I came across “Moodle”. “Moodle” is one of my favourite types of word creation – a blend, combining “Man” and “Poodle” to describe the kind of guys girls think are cute and like to just take out for a walk, rather than date.

The next day but still just within my 24 hour time-frame, browsing a Liverpool charity shop, a friend came across a cracking book - one so appallingly bad, I had to purchase. And the title? The A-Z Of Being Single – a tongue-in-cheek self-help book for men written by comedian, Jeff Green. Trying to predict "Z's" entry, we flicked through the book and found Green's opening advice – something we could have never guessed and was both so surreal and awful, it was enough to convince me to part with 60p:

“Zealousness (Over-)

Be careful not to show excessive interest in your new partner's life, especially during the early days of the relationship. Remember, you're a bloke; you're not supposed to be that keen. There is a thin line between healthy attention and downright creepiness. You will raise her suspicions and possibly drive her away forever if you look deep into her eyes and say in a sincere voice things like:

• Please tell me about your cat's operation again...

• I wish I could have your periods for you.”

Cruising towards the beach, money parted with and book in hand, I enthusiastically opened up at “A” and started to skim through, stopping at particularly ludicrous entries to share my dismay with my companions. All of us coupled up, we were amused to discover we have already nearly reached Green's fifth stage in his “Seven Stages Of A Relationship”:

Stage 1 - Holding hands

Stage 2 – Pet names

Stage 3 – Flatulent familiarity

Stage 4 – B & Q

Stage 5 – Matching tracksuits

Stage 6- Twin Beds

Stage 7- Death

I hope the last three stages are a long way off, although I guess The boy and I are kind of going through a temporary version of Stage Six, in that we are currently living in separate cities so most definitely sleeping in different beds.

The two nuggets of information that less personally affected me and satisfied my love of words were the definitions of “Beater” and “Boomerangs”. According to Green, Beaters are: “A socially unskilled friend who comes along with you on the pull for the sole purpose of driving any available women into your range”. He goes on to formulate a hypothetical situation, illustrating how men can use this friend by pretending not to know them, agreeing with the disgusted women trying to escape the “Beater” and offering to save these damsels with his company or suggestions of a new venue to accompany them to. Green implies that a “Boomerang” is another socially inadequate person who “as adults actually chooses to live with their parents”.

All that amazing information in a mere 24 hours! And my top three, rather bizarrely, are all belittling negative categories for types of men. I look forward to the next day's worth of reading material, I have time to reflect on. I am yet to finish my delightful new purchase and something tells me, it might not be the last time you hear about it.

The Cruelty Of Strangers

I’m sweating in the oppressive heat of the underground on my way from Angel to Kensington Olympia. I’m on the first leg of my journey on the Northern line on the way to Kings Cross and I have just sat down. Almost immediately, I have the misfortune to hear the guy wearing sunglasses sitting beside me loudly say: “Gays should be put in line and shot. They’re disgusting”. This remark is said without any shame in the kind of voice intended to be heard by all around, inviting controversy. His friend opposite heartily agrees before the original imbecile goes on to theorise: “Being born gay is bollocks – come on, do you see two year old boys trying to make out?” I struggle to ignore the temptation to respond to this ludicrous line of argument and manage by internalising my rant.

This is the fourth thing I have heard or witnessed in one day to shake my faith in humanity and genuinely shock, surprise or disgust me. Earlier in the day I encountered a child arguably more unfortunately named than God’s Promise. Who names their son Endurance? Calling the register, I struggled to stifle a smirk, immediately thinking of condoms and later of the Japanese game show. Towards the end of the same lesson, I stopped another student from walking out of the class. When asked where they were going, they cockily informed me they needed to fart and could they please leave the room. A few hours on and another child I have expressly told to stay put abandons ship. I go to challenge him but a learning support assistant stops me and calls me over to tell me she has given him permission because he needs to "break wind" and this isn’t something I want to witness. I don’t remember fellow students ever pre-empting such an event while I was at school or recall ever encountering this request in the five years that I was teaching in Leeds. I’m sure the accepted approach was to hope for a “silent but violent” variety and cause class uproar while strongly denying any involvement – there was none of this unabashed pre-admittance and this class avoidance technique was unheard of.

Leaving Victoria train station early one Sunday night slightly bleary eyed I saw what appeared to be a man hosing down the pavement. As he got nearer to me, I narrowly missed the projectile stream of urine. The sight of men peeing against a wall is fairly commonplace but not a man walking in broad day light seemingly sober towards a crowded train station with his flaccid dick out, weeing as he moves. I was horrified and things seemed to have reached an all time low. If I had been in India this everyday sight would have been no more shocking than seeing a woman squat in the street or someone pooing in the slums and beyond. Obviously things deemed unacceptable in one culture are the norm in another – in the UK abandoned dog turd incurs a fine, whereas horses seem to live by a whole different set of rules but if we were in Hungary you wouldn’t bat an eyelid if a horse trotted past wearing a giant diaper.

Being called fat in India is often intended as a compliment, suggesting wealth and good health. The Nigerian guy in Malaysia who told me I was a “big girl” had intended to woo me, rather than mortify me. If someone in England was to call you “fat” or a “big girl” defences would go up and they would be judged as rude. Yet, in the last month and a half, two rather distressing encounters have occurred. Browsing the sales rack in Primark, I was flabbergasted when a woman looked at me and told me “You’ll never fit that over your bump.” Completely startled and far too polite to retaliate, my face flushed and my internal monologue began. This woman was the kind who in age had retained a trim figure and had obviously enjoyed the sun bed throughout her life. She clearly persisted in buying clothes far too tarty or young for her age and was pawing a skimpy tight-fitting mini dress as she gave me this uncalled for and frankly unnecessary advice. It was only weeks later telling the story to my sister, that we formulated the perfect come back – I am aware I do not have the figure of a model but at least my skin fits me.

Having survived such pleasant commentary from an aged skank, I should have been prepared for my next shock. Talking to a hotel receptionist in Bristol, a rather rotund fellow guest listening in unasked decided to share his opinions about our destination and then proceeded to ask me: “Do you have a bump?” Initially oblivious of his meaning, I looked to me knees thinking that perhaps I had unknowingly knocked them. As I began to look back up, the penny dropped and that same characteristic rosiness returned. Once again too stunned to speak and too polite to retort, it wasn’t until days later we decided I should have asked him if he was hungry.

A few days ago on the radio, I listened to stats claiming most people worry about giving up a seat on a bus or train for a seemingly pregnant woman for fear of getting it wrong and causing offence. Since my travels, I am fully aware I need to get back in shape but pregnant! It is just my luck to have met the few individuals who manage to fall outside these statistics. A steady build-up of these disturbing encounters has left me severely doubting humanity. I am in serious need of a door holder, bag carrier or “bless you” to remind me such individuals are thankfully in the minority.