How to look good on coming through baggage claim after a 26 hour plane journey (someone please tell me)

It is now under three weeks until I land in Auckland and my boyfriend sees me for the first time since April 12th.

I have sent him a few carefully selected photographs (with continual thanks to the joy of digital photography and the honesty and patience of my SP who has the ability to tell me how truly awful I can look without resulting in the usual trembling bottom lip that is usually the compulsory response to such frankness, and to this date has never seen fit to get back at me for the awful graduation photo I managed to take of her family in which I lobotomised her dad's head).

But bar them, his last memories are most likely of a rather alcohol riddled, bread overdosed, pale to the point of transparent and, lets face it, a little bit on the 'healthy' side of 'in proportioned', girlfriend.

And when he next sees me I will have endured a 4 hour coach journey, an excruciatingly long wait at Heathrow and a 26 hour flight. And, I think it’s safe to say, I won't be looking my peachiest.

Now, after camping in the lakes for a mere 6 hours this weekend, I woke up near strangulation by my own hair and severely close to needing to be decontaminated. And I showered and straightened my hair just 30 minutes before we left Manchester.

Even Mitchum-so-affective-you-can-even-skip-a-day isn't going to help me out on this one.

I am, like any seasoned traveller (and Glastonbury veteran, who has managed to endure up to a satisfying 4 days in a row without washing, where I've discovered your hair manages to reasonably effectively cleanse itself in its own grease, and you actually begin to hallucinate that your body odour closely resembles a field of clover, although that may have not necessarily been a wholly organic thought process) taking a great deal of baby wipes.

And facial wipes. And deodorising wipes.

But, as I found out from a total of 36 hours in the lakes (and one 50p shower), they just don’t really cut the mustard and you feel, lets face it, a little bit wrong.

And my hair, well, that’s a whole other story. Approximately 12 minutes after straightening my hair, it will return to its puberty days by exploding into a mould-textured fuzz and, while one side of my hair will behave itself and curl under, the other will flick violently out in the same direction. Tying it up is sadly not an option as even the kindest of alcoholic retailers have been inclined to question whether I am even old enough to be allowed out on my own after dark. With my hair down I am able to vaguely masquerade the unfortunate youthful looks I have been granted. Up, my baby-face (now adorned with the first sighting of wrinkles) has nowhere to hide and no big sister to make it look grown-up by association.

I can attempt some sort of crumple-free-sweat-reducing-yet-sexy-and-alluring clothing. But I’m not promising anything.

I guess that means I’m left with only one option.

So, in my ever valiant quest to Reduce Back Fat and Gain Abdominal Muscles I am attempting to embark on a reasonably sadistic exercise routine and healthy eating campaign (note the 'attempting': I am writing this post-gin-pre-soya-desert, which incidentally I discovered today bares a terrifying resemblance in texture, colour and, most worryingly, taste, to the lentil and vegetable soup I had for lunch).

So today, after 2 months of relatively intense training where I lost around three pounds, and four days of consistently not exercising, which I seem to have regained those pounds plus several buddies they thought they'd bring along for the ride, I have achieved one run (which has regressed once more to a kind of lollop) and attempted half of Jordan's exercise routine.

I think by now I’ve become somewhat of a connoisseur of all things aerobic, especially when it comes to televisual delights.

I have been exposed to the grating delights of Rosemary Connolly (a good one for really fat people, as she gives ‘low impact’ walking alternatives which are barely above watching the damn thing from an armchair eating a packet of crisps), Billy Blanks Tae Bo (which I’ve found after several sessions he has a tendency to not do the same amount of repetitions on both sides, which can lead to an unbalanced, undesirable outcome) and a £5.99 pilates video hosted by a woman with the most offensive fringe I have seen in recent years (the cost speaks for itself regarding the quality of that particular routine).

But I never expected to be experiencing the delights of exercising in front of a shocking pink dance studio embellished with the words ‘Jordan’ in silver writing, with a pair of enormous breasts giggling gleefully in front of me while I’m trying to master an uppercut.

But the workout, all things considered, wasn’t bad. It was actually almost enjoyable, as exercise goes. I am sat here aching to a satisfying degree (although that might be because I’m perched dangerously close to the edge of the chair as the wheels beneath me are attempting to make a bid for freedom in the opposite direction).

And the best bit about it all was that she whinged all the way through.
And I barely broke a sweat. Well, obviously that’s not technically true, I did exude a fairly hefty amount of perspiration, but in the grand scheme of exercise induced ‘glowing’ I was doing pretty well.

So if the video’s to be believed, I will have achieved Katie Price’s figure (minus oversized breasts) by the time I leave on a jet plane in a few weeks.

I didn’t hang around to watch her ‘diet hints and tips’ at the end, which would have probably informed me that this workout was accompanied with a daily intake of a single lettuce leaf and 27 bottles of bloody Evian in order to achieve her pre-wedding figure.

But ignorance is bliss and a bean dessert calls.

Home Sweet Home

For the first time since 1999, I have moved back home to live with my parents.

Well, technically, I have lived at home for university holidays, where I cleaned old people for less than the minimum wage as the more appealing alternative to working for Ginsters or selling ice creams where the majority of my friends seemed to be distributed.

But this time (thank god) I am not faced with the prospect of moving into a rat/mouse* infested house, with a blow-torch wielding landlord or violent egg poachers (the rather unstable cartilage sticking out of the side of my nose, and an unnaturally flat bridge are my physical scars from one such experience when I was descended on from a great height by one particular pan).

*to be deleted as appropriate, but my second year accommodation had the luxury of an assortment of rodents, one being so kind as to appear in my toaster, the other dying ungraciously under my floorboard.

I'm home. All my belongings in the world are here (apart from an assortment of clothing that I left at my SP’s house, which she has since told me doesn’t fit and I am yet to decide whether to be insulted or flattered).

I have wardrobe space. I have a bedroom, although I have decided to commandeer two as my room, in true ‘parents-with-grown-up-kids’ syndrome, has now been adopted as the computer room, but I refuse to sleep in my sisters as it is unsettlingly cold and I have a strong feeling its on Ley Lines (although I don’t think anyone would be particularly impressed if I begun excavating in search of ancient burial grounds or the remnants of a Cornish stone circle so a suspicion it will have to remain).

I have a desk of sorts, situated by the kitchen door so I can try to overcome the terrible eyesight I have adopted through screen laziness and working in windowless/viewless offices, and close enough that if I push with enough force from the desk I can propel myself to reach the kettle (the chair has wheels, if that sentence sounds a little odd) although I am proud to say I have yet to abuse this discovery.

I know where things are. I know where my things are – they are where I’ve put them. I don’t have to ask to use the phone. I don’t have to tell anyone I’m having a shower. I don’t have to make any more mistakes. I don’t have to get things wrong. I don’t have to learn anymore ‘this is how we do it’. Because I know.

I have experienced more love and support than I could have possibly predicted since we moved in February, even more so since my boyfriend left over 11 weeks ago. I have slept in 10 different bed since he left, been given more glasses of wine than my liver will ever forgive me for, been fed more WebStress-friendly dinners than I believed possible outside of the remit of ‘anything including beans’.

But for the first time since I packed up the last of my belongings from my second floor flat in North London, jammed in between the sophistication of dinner party riddled, middle class homes and a questionable housing block (unruly youths and prostitutes as standard), for the first time, I’m home.

Help me Rhonda

As of Monday, I will be the proud owner of a brand spanking new (well, okay, 3 month old) Honda Civic that I really, truly cannot afford.

Last week saw me transitioning through a multitude of emotions (and left my SP and my boyfriend's sister trying to pick up the pieces and reassemble as best possible) and a lot of sleepless nights (I won't even begin to touch on the dreams that I had in those moments where I did achieve some variety of sleep, but needless to say it made me feel pretty uncomfortable, and I don't think objects in my room should really be continuing to talking to me when I do finally wake). I think I had a lot on my mind.

So last Wednesday I exchanged my Rover 214 for £50 and the exterior casing of my CD player stereo (and a few other miscellaneous obligatory car items, one of which appeared to be a PJ and Duncan tape, apparently owned by one of my boyfriend's friends, that I really didn't want but was too embarrassed to leave).

And a few days later I signed away the next three years of my life to repayments for a car that has (most excitingly of all) a bloody big horn in the middle of the steering wheel that even I can manage to hit in time of crisis or severe aggression. Ooh and it doesn't have your normal air conditioning (something that I only managed to vaguely achieved in the Rover by winding the windows down and cranking the stereo to an uncomfortable volume to try and find its way over the noise from vibrating tarmac and hefty exhausts on the motorway) but it has climate control.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

Obviously £50 isn't a substantial dent on any half decent used car down payment, let alone the end result (unless you are purchasing a perfectly good Rover 214 that may, possibly, need a new engine, but its cheaper than monthly payment for those incredibly unsettling china dolls and Diana plates that you get in the back of Take a Break and will make an excellent showpiece for your driveway, perhaps with the dashboard adorned with a variety of exotic orchids, or a daffodil or two).

So how I got from there to parting with a substantial amount of cash that I really do not have for a brand new car was the reason I spent a lot of time blubbing last week (instead of blogging).

My sleepless nights last week were largely caused by the contemplation of parting with vast amounts of cash for a car that may a. be horrifically over priced and/or b. break as soon as I drive it off the forecourt. And, probably most severely of all, the thought that I would have to communicate with a car salesman, and, being as though my knowledge of cars doesn't go much over the vague identification of various 'under the bonnet' oddities (in my new car they are all reassuringly uncolourful and not covered in spewing yellow liquid so I think I'm on to a winner) I'd have to, in effect, somehow bullshit the bullshitter.

This was, I might add, a ridiculous reason to get so unbelievably worked up to any grounded human. But, considering recent unfortunate circumstances, my hinges have been in need of a little tightening and my emotional sanity has needed confining to a padded room to have a long, hard think.

And I don't deal with stress well. At all. On any level.

Nor do I deal with parting with vast quantities of cash. Nor do I understand cars.

Not exactly a winning combination for a successful car purchase.

So, after sitting in every conceivable make of 5 door small family sized hatchback that exists in a used car salesman with my SP, I decided that the pros of having a new car vastly outweighed how irritating I was becoming (even to myself) on the topic of 'used car'.

And so I ended up in a car salesroom last Sunday, exchanging vaguely knowledgeable banter with a salesman while my boyfriend's sister, who had somehow landed the esteemed task of accompanying me, was attempting to nurse her hangover with vast quantities of water from the cooler and freeze her brain beneath the air conditioning.

Apparently I did, in fact, sound like I knew what I was talking about, at least according to my boyfriend's sister.

This may be partly because, whilst a Top Gear viewer like myself, her understanding of cars ends around about where my does (her contribution was that she liked the colour and the back seats were comfortable, even to someone who felt like their brain was slowly being mutilated with a spoon). Or this may be because I liked the website (oh they know how to appeal to the Flash geek).

Whatever I managed to extract from my mouth that day (including during the test drive, which from my perspective was an utterly pointless exercise as I was so utterly terrified of breaking one of the gadgets adorning the steering wheel, or crashing spectacularly into the car in front that I paid no attention to how the damn thing actually drove), even on breaking all of the 'buying a new car' rules that I had been laden with by various men, I managed to barter on including a measly £100 road tax into the bargain.

Let the little lady think she's got a deal.

So I signed (shakily) on the dotted line. And then began the naming process.

Well, I'd won on Clover (she would have been a he had my boyfriend had his way, and I would have been driving around in Roger). And seeing as my boyfriend's sister also suggested the same name (which would have been a little bit weird had there been any other female names to rhyme with either Honda or Civic), she was christened.

Which means that for forever more, my dad will have the opportunity to break into song whenever I mention her name (Beach Boy esque style vocals a bonus).

Deceased Car Discoveries

I have found that since discovering my beautiful car's pending departure, ex-Rover owners are creeping from beneath the woodwork to tell me their sorry tales.

It seems that the head gasket going on a Rover is not totally dissimilar to having recently lost a pet (bear with me here). You quickly learn that you are not the only one to have suffered such an agonizing yet apparently, to those in the know, predictable loss. You will hear story after story of those who have endured such (costly) pain as they attempt to sympathise with your recent grieving soul and you are obliged to, in turn, empathise with their own misfortune (even though you just want to sulk about it instead of reciprocating their sympathies). You receive knowing looks, understanding 'I knows' occasionally tinged with a touch of 'I told you sos' (even though they bloody didn't).

Veering somewhat from the whole pet analogy, when faced with the prospect of scrapping a car, you will also be faced with a vast array of contradictory opinions, suggestions and instructions that you are bombarded with and have to attempt to wade through, your own opinion being worth absolutely jack shit if your knowledge about cars is in parallel to your understanding of astro physics, as mine is.

Apparently my car, in its present state is fixable for a relatively small fee. Apparently there is no point in keeping my car because currently the steering lock is the most valuable thing within it (currently redundant in its role of locking a useless steering wheel). Apparently £50 is, and isn't (depending on who I talk to) a fair price for the metal carcass that was, and still still is to its besotted owner, a fantastic car. Any sharp word, any cursing, any frustration at its rather violent, low profile tyre ride I took back with regret 30 seconds in to witnessing her demise. I bloody love that car.

In the same vein, I have learnt quickly to acknowledge advice when tentatively mentioning that I am to buy another car (new or used is a whole other topic for opinionated discussion).

Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate the knowledge of others, especially considering mine is frankly soappallingg that if left to my own devices I'd probably either be stripped of every last penny (and probably have agreed to auction my kidney on E-bay to fund the rest) before I even set foot in a car dealership.

But I'm struggling to know what to retain and what to put in a boxlabeledd 'misc' at the back of my mind, to be redeemed accidentally when I instead want some informed, wittyanecdotall fact about bridges (if there is such a thing).

So far I have 4 cars on my list (incidentally none of which I can afford, but that's another matter).

Astra, Focus, Civic or Golf needed for one loving, devoted owner. Can't guarantee regular car washes but will attempt to keep interior reasonably free ofreceiptss, plastic bags and other miscellaneous crap*. Will cover back seats when transporting dogs. Good, responsive brakes essential (they'll be well used). Ability to pull away from traffic lights at light speed a bonus. Open minded musical taste beneficial.

*Disclaimer: the owner retains the right to not comply to this if she's having a bad/busy/stressful day

Bad Carma (and bad puns)

I have found out over the last 48 hours that bright yellow liquid spewing violently from the water tank of my car and cascading down through my previously pristine engine is not a good thing. And that nothing under the bonnet, under any circumstances, should be any more exciting than a dull grey (and certainly not bright yellow).

Two days ago on my way to, ironically, a motor racing event my car started to make unsettling grinding noises.

I thought initially that the noise might not be attributed to my car and perhaps it was some other poor unfortunate soul’s vehicle that was falling apart.

Then, as the realisation that it was actually my car slowly filtered through my deluded brain, I toyed with the idea of a loose mudguard was brushing over the tarmac. Or perhaps I was dragging a large rodent or a sizeable shrub along the ground beneath the car (oh such wishful thinking in hindsight).

Except I wasn’t moving. I was at traffic lights.

I hesitantly turned down the music. My car has an array of creaking and groaning noises that come from all manner of plastic fittings within its interior. I have affectionately come to know these inner rumblings as its quirks, the affection only being present when I can’t actually hear them because I have the music turned up as loud as is required in order to drown out these eccentricities that older cars acquire.

But, as the sound was cutting through my stereo, and it wasn’t a noise that I had already learnt to filter out (much like yelping puppies and squeaky toys), I knew something was very wrong.

The noise stopped. I sat very still, hoping that if I didn’t acknowledge what had just occurred and the possible existence of a problem, it would dematerialise and I could continue on my journey.

And then I saw my temperature gauge.

It was, admittedly, a fairly hot day, the country finally remembering that we were advancing to warmer weather and had not, in fact, skipped summer and headed straight on to autumn as it had incorrectly assumed over the last few weeks, forcing us to endure torrential rain on a daily basis. But my car doesn’t tend to get grouchy in hot weather, unlike its stroppy owner who is vocally uncomfortable for all but approximately 10 days of the year (and never appropriately dressed), and then I have numerous clauses and conditions (wind chill; sweat production).

I’ve only ever seen the gauge head northwards on one occasion. And that wasn’t pretty.

So call it female intuition, or call it just plain bloody obvious, but when the temperature gauge was heading steadily towards the red area (which I imagine is colour coded for a specific reason) I had a feeling something was very, very wrong.

I pulled into a side road and did the only thing I knew how to do under the circumstances: I called my dad.

Hesitantly, I did as he advised and checked under the bonnet, where I unwittingly unveiled the catastrophe that lay beneath. The bright yellow liquid was pumping itself effortlessly out of the top of the water tank and down through the rest of the engine as if there was nothing out of the ordinary and this was what it was supposed to do.

At this point my dad suggested gently that perhaps I needed to call my breakdown cover and that it wasn’t, let’s say, looking too good.

So, after silently praising my absent boyfriend for putting all the breakdown details in the glove compartment (and not filed away in a generic ‘car’ folder that was very much not in the car, where I would have put them), I called the breakdown and tried my best, in the way only a mildly hysterical woman who’s only understanding of the inner workings of her car is where to put the screenwash knows how, to explain the symptoms.

I waited to be rescued. And waited. And waited.

I phoned my dad. And my sister. And my boyfriend’s sister. And then I sat.

The car was sweltering. I couldn’t go anywhere. I discovered quickly there was nothing at all in any way fun to do in my car when broken down. I made a mental note to buy Travel Scrabble for the glove compartment. Or at least a bloody biro.

Finally, I was rescued and towed to a garage, where I abandoned my car and began trudging home, fighting back tears yet totally unaware of the fate that was bestowed upon her.

After an evening of drowning my sorrows in raspberry beer, I awaited the verdict.

The news had already been broken to me by my dad and a breakdown guy (who’d both never encountered yellow liquid spewing out of their water pipes, my car evolving quickly into a patient with an unsightly tropical disease that would have various disfigured genitalia attached to it in textbooks for years to come) that it might be the head gasket.

And that this was going to be pricey.

But I hadn’t even considered entertaining the notion that I wouldn’t ever have her back that had gently been eased in front of me by my parents. Not until the mechanic, with a total lack of gentle cushioning (which was probably for the best if I were ever to digest and actually accept the information), told me that I’d basically be a bloody idiot if I were to get it fixed.

72 hours ago, my car was worth around £900.

I was offered £50 for it today by the garage, to save having her towed and scrapped. They’ll most likely strip her down, for her alloys and tires, or rebuild her and sell her on.

I keep thinking about her, sat on the forecourt, wondering, waiting. I keep imagining her being torn apart, her faulty guts ripped out. My boyfriend’s sister blames Disney for our unsettling relationship with inanimate objects and, yes I admit, it probably wasn’t wonderfully healthy to stroke the dashboard and apologise when I’d completely failed to put the car in any sort of gear. But she was mine, my own, something I so badly needed when I have no home and my partner is on the other side of the world.

She was my space, my comfort, everything in her was where I’d put it, where I felt it belonged. I chose where to drive, I chose what tunes to accompany me. She was my consistency. She’d taken me through everything. We’d bought her together, my boyfriend and I, just a year ago. Our first joint purchase. And she’d taken me home the night he left for New Zealand.

So tomorrow I will go and exchange my log book and MOT for £50 and the internal casing of my car stereo.

But my sister pointed out that £50 will buy 10 bottles of wine. So if you see what may appear to be a very small child purchasing wine in bulk (with a few tins of beans thrown in), give her a wide birth. Trust me, she needs the booze.