…is kind
…is a bit of a charmer
…has a wicked sense of humour
…understands my sarcasm
…is good looking in an understated way
…is tall
…has a girlfriend
Bugger it.
Do you remember back in July I wrote out my saucepan list? A shallow little list of things I wanted to do before the big 3 – 0 in March? With just over three short months to go, I thought it was a good idea to do a little update for you.
The slightly shallower, slightly shorter version of a bucket list.
Still to do. Look – you should just be thrilled that I’ve written twice in a week considering the big fat block of writers I’ve been trapped under.
I haven’t got the picture yet but I have been a tad more adventureous with exploring the beauty that is Switzerland. Off skiing in February so I will get my picture then.
Done! Dixie Chick and Maple (a Canadian friend) recently held a Thanksgiving and asked me to do some cooking. Since I’ve never made a) American style stuffing and b) bread sauce before, I had to follow the recipe (sort of. I messed around with the measurements a bit. But it was mostly there so I think it counts) and my, did it taste good. Success!
SCaL and I have done *one* photo day where, I have to say, I learnt a lot. We keep meaning to go up some mountains together too but haven’t really got round to it. January.
No knitting needles in sight but I have asked for a sewing machine for Christmas. I have no idea why.
I don’t know if skiing counts as something “a little bit different. But fun. With added wine” but that’s one holiday already planned. Also on the cards is a trip to Texas for Dixie Chick’s hen do (yes, the Squire finally popped the question) and I’m incredibly tempted to get my arse out to see Mud, wherever she happens to be at the time.
Well, I’ve bought some frames. Which I think counts. The “other” pictures which were waiting around to be hung up have been hanged. Now for the rest.
This is my biggest achievement so far. Student loan – paid. Credit card – paid. Overdraft – paid. Now anything I save is mine. Anything I spend on a credit card is paid off that month. *pats self on back*
How are y’all doing with your lists?
I’ve been told off. More specifically, (for there are many things I could be told off for) I’ve been told off for giving up on my writing.
There’s lots of things I want to write about. There’re lots of things I’m confused about and annoyed at myself for being confused about them. But putting them in prose? I’m not sure it’s something I can do at the moment.
Whereas I used to be able to tell this space anything I wanted (and regularly did) now I’m feeling disconnected somehow. As if this space will judge me, mock me, not understand me.
But why would it? This space is me. This space is controlled and determined by the person who writes in it. Is it because my conflicting thoughts and feelings are things that I don’t understand, that I mock, that I judge?
There are people and situations that are all clamouring for my attention. There’s work confusions, men confusions, friend confusions, me confusions. And no one to share them with. No even you, dear space in nowhereness of mine.
Merde.
I’m drowning in work.
I’m drowning in stress.
I have a headache.
I’m getting nosebleeds (weird)
I’m grumpy.
I’m tired.
I’m being horrible to people who want to help me.
I’m not smiling.
I’m not sleeping.
I’m worrying.
I’m constantly writing lists.
The tears are waiting in the wings.
The end doesn’t seem any closer.
But this, too, will pass. And the sun will come out. Just not yet. Just not now. Soon though.
I love November. Apart from the obvious things like autumn leaves, the scoffing of “comfort foods” (followed by the obligatory big jumpers and jeans to cover up my winter fat) and the general run up to some time off at the end of the year, November also heralds the advent of “Mo-vember”.
At last! An excuse for me to grow a moustache! For 11 months of the year I hide my moustache, ashamed to go out in the open at the risk of people pointing and laughing. But no, in November, I can grow loud and proud.
Ok. So maybe not me (I am not that hirsute, thank you) but November does mean that I get the opportunity to laugh at my various male friends and colleagues doing their thang and attempting to grow some form of fluff on their top lip.
In order to help spread the love around the office, I came up with the following posters. I’m stupidly proud of them so I thought I’d share them with you. Aren’t you oh so lucky!
It goes without saying, if you want the artwork, ping me an email and I’ll send it over.
In the meantime, why not go and sponsor one of my chaps? No amount too little or too large.
Hm.
If you saw me on over the weekend, I’d rather appreciate it if you could answer a couple of questions for me:
Answers on a postcard please.
Entirely by chance, I realised that today marks 5 years of the reincarnation of my blog.
Before “Parlez-vous moo?” came along I was simply “nuttycow” – a blog which has since, sadly, been occupied by spammers and only available via the wonders of the Way Back Machine. The nuttycow blog had been, in various incarnations and platforms, live since around 1998. How things have changed since those heady days of teenagehood. And how things have changed since I moved here.
This blog started off with a dream about Rupert Penry Jones (ok, so maybe not everything’s changed!) and has tracked my course over the trials and tribulations of my 20s.
And, of course, when I say “this blog” I mean you.
Thank you.
Here’s to another 5.
It’s a Sunday evening. I’ve spent the weekend being a happy Billy No Mates, making chutney, roasting chicken and generally chilling the fuck out. Not a bad weekend at all. Sir Charmsalot popped round earlier – I think I said the whole of three words to him, so engrossed was I in my 7 month old Sunday newspapers (one of the downsides about living here, no proper Sunday papers – I can get the paper bit (for the princely sum of £7) but none of the supplements. And, as you know, those great inserts of “things you never knew you wanted but believe me, you do” magazines. Those make a Sunday for me. That and copious amounts of Earl Grey.)
Where was I? Oh yes, a relaxing weekend. And, because I am sitting here, waiting for Downton to start, I thought I’d continue the story I started the other week.
As you know, I was at N’s wedding in the idyllic little Costwoldian (is that a word?) village, slowly drowning any residual memories in vats of wine.
I’ve known J for a long time – well, ever since N and I first visited his parents all those years ago. Of course, I wasn’t surprised to see him at the wedding. He’s one of N’s best friends and was playing the part of usher. What I was surprised about was the fact that I’d forgotten what a cheeky grin he had, how kind he was and how unlike N he was. We wandered up the lane towards the reception arm in arm.
“It’s good to see you again”, he said.
“How’s my hair?” I asked.
“You look lovely.” He grinned and brushed my hair back behind my ears.
Fursty Ferret and I were on the raucous table. There’s always one at every wedding. Generally made up of the random waifs and strays, this one was no different. FF sat on one side, the charming (if slightly inappropriate) Australian sat on the other. Various rugby club bods filled in the seats in between.
J sat on the table behind me.
N’s niece had taken a shine to FF and I (it all started with a very stupid game FF had made up in the pub. He really should know better than to play with children who have a higher intelligence than him) and so most of the wedding breakfast was spent hiding a bunny and drinking wine with not a lot of eating (which may account for my behaviour later). As I padded my way round the marquee (high heel shoes had been taken off due to the active nature of the game that N’s niece had decided on), I noticed eyes on me.
The “local” locals (you know the type, those who are relatively new to the village act as if they’re the oldest family there. They consequently look down on everyone around them and, in turn, are looked down on by everyone else – albeit quietly) glared at me. Surprised to see me, I think they were the only people who were actively hostile to me.
The Australian watched me through increasingly drunken eyes.
And J just smiled at me.
The rest of the evening blurred into dizzying dancing, rivers of red and the obligatory flirtatious chatter with the old boys of the village.
N and his new wife left at around 10 and then, suddenly and quite by surprise, I found myself in a marquee surrounded by enough dry ice and lasers to host Stars In Their Eyes*. J was there with me and, enveloped in the haze, he pulled to me towards him and suddenly we were two 13 year olds at our first disco. As the smoke shielded us, we danced to cheesy pop, old rock and cringeworthy ballads. That cloying, fantastically flirty dancing that you only do at a certain level of drunkenness but which is fun, giggly and unbelievably sexy.
It’s at this point it all gets a little hazy (and I don’t think it has to do with the choking dry ice). I remember laughing, I remember dancing with the father of the groom and I remember more and more red wine. Suddenly it was the witching hour and Fursty Ferret was telling me it was time to go.
“I’ll walk you to the cab” J said.
Fursty Ferret staggered in front of us.
“Where do I go?” Fursty Ferret sounded bemused. “There’s no line!”**
J and I meandered. I can’t remember the conversation, I can’t remember how he looked or how I acted. I can’t remember who made a move on who (although knowing me, and as my friends will probably attest, it was probably me – I can be such a drunken hussy. I know! Shock!)
I do remember a sweet kiss before I got into the cab.
I also remember grinning all the way home.
*Thanks to a member of the Swiss family for that comparison!
** one of the last times FF and I were in the countryside he managed to get home by crawling down the middle of the road. This is why our local pub is called the White Lion – you have to follow the white line home.
“What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What am I doing here?”
Despite the words of encouragement and love I’d received from various friends and family all morning, the angry birds in my stomach seemed to have launched a full-on attack.
The weekend had started in a semi-relaxed manner. A leisurely flight to Heathrow, Fursty Ferret in his impossibly dirty car waiting for me. A drive into the Cotswolds punctuated by laughter, random snippets of song and Radio 4. The small village pub with its relaxed opening hours and friendly, if slightly bemused, locals (“You’re going where love? Your ex’s wedding? And you’ve come over from Switzerland?”). A late lock-in was followed by the sleep of the dead in an all-encompassing duvet and smothering pillows.
The day itself dawned. We went for a short constitutional before finding a nearby pub for Bloody Marys and a harrowing game of rugby.
Soon though, I couldn’t put it off any longer. The day I never thought I’d see, or at least, the day I thought I’d be slightly more involved with, had to begin.
And so there I was, sitting at the local pub, memories assaulting me from every angle. There was the corner where the best man and I danced round like loons after one too many gin and tonics. There was the bench we spent all summer on. The little church that we went to midnight mass at fortified by nips of sloe gin. The little lane that led onto rolling fields and stunning views over the Cotswold countryside. As much as I wanted to forget it, this little village and I had history.
And there was the biggest chunk of history ambling towards me now.
Wearing shorts (they lucked out with the weather! 27 degrees? A summer bride could only dream of that) and an old rugby shirt, he strolled up to the pub.
“Hullo” he said. And that was that. All nerves vanished and suddenly I realised that the man in front of me was nothing more than that – a man. A slightly older, slightly fatter, slightly more tired version of the man I used to go out with.
He walked up the stairs and pulled me into a hug. “Lovely to see you Miss Moo” he said. “You too”, I grinned. And it was.
Having not seen N for over 2 years, I wasn’t sure what I was going to think when I saw him again – let alone how those thoughts might be amplified due to the situation. The conversation flowed easily, there was no hesitancy, there was no fear. It was just two friends on a wedding day. Fursty Ferret was tasked with helping with ties and button holes. I was tasked with buying N’s brother beer and amusing the guests (both of which I performed admirably, I hasten to add).
The wedding ceremony itself passed without a hitch (except for that part when the vicar asks if anyone knows “any just cause” etc. The rows around me all turned and looked at me just in case I was going to do a Hugh Grant esque type declaration of love). The libation undertaken before we made it to the church ensured that the motley crew on the back pew belted out the hymns with abandon (for those of you keeping score, they were all cracking rugby based hymns – Bread of Heaven, I vow to thee and Jerusalem).
Outside of the church we did the usual “lovely service Vicar” and “you must be so proud”s and then suddenly there I was, in front of the new me. “You must be NuttyCow”, she said. “Thank you so much for coming along”. “You look lovely” I said, meaning it.
And that was that.
It occurred to me then that, despite all the warnings of doom and shunning and escape plans (believe me, there was an escape plan), this whole day was going to be fine. It was going to be a blurry whirl of too much champagne, inappropriate dancing and the kissing of people that one really shouldn’t.
But you don’t want to hear about that part… do you?
It was never going to be a tough sell. When the email came through late last year, I don’t think I’ve ever responded so fast.
Oh yes, oh yes, I’m so up for that.
My fingers almost blurred on the keyboard I was so excited.
5 days in Munich over the start of Oktoberfest? Hell yes. What more could a girl want? I mean, what’s not to like? Beer, German men, German food and the added bonus of feeling like you’re on holiday because you’ve had to get a plane to get there.
As the weeks and months passed, I got more and more excited about the impending trip. Research was done, dresses were bought and I became very adept at saying things like:
Oh sorry, I can’t make it that weekend. I’ll be in Munich. You know, for Oktoberfest?
(side note: as I get older, I find myself becoming more and more organised. I like to know “stuff” like where the nearest tube stop is, how much taxis cost, the best way to get from the airport to hotels, what the normal tipping practice is etc. I’m not sure if this is a good thing but hey, it means I’m always prepared and I can come out with stonkingly attractive chat up lines such as “Did you know that the going rate for a stein is about 10 Euros in Oktoberfest but only about 5 Euros at one of the many beer halls in central Munich? Hello…? Hello…?”)
And then, finally, the day arrived. I was Munich-bound. And so, as a mental note to myself, and others planning the trip, I hereby give you a list.
But, when’s all said and done, a cracking weekend. Who’s up for joining me next year?
Prost!
