I’m Blogging on a Friday Night

I’m Blogging on a Friday Night

Okay. So blogging on a Friday night doesn’t sound that fun BUT I have had a few glasses of wine and I have no idea what this blog is going to be about – I’m letting my hair down (very figuratively) and going rogue. It’s wild.

One thing I thought I’d write about is friendship. I was going to have the title “A Good Friend Is…” and then the blog would be a big list of all the traits of a good friend. It would have had stuff like they give it to you straight and you don’t want to kill them. Or you want to kill them but you can tell them you want to kill them and then you can have a laugh about it. Or they laugh at your outfit choices. Or they tally up the amount of favours you owe them. Or they’ll get drunk with you if you need it. Or they’ll stay in with you if you need it. They know your mum. They tell you that they prefer your mum over you. A good friend is sort of like having a partner but without the sexual attraction. Like, you could probably marry your best friend if you fancied them. Sometimes, you wish you did fancy them. That would make life easy. They’re always on your side – even when it seems like they’re not.

So yeah, it was going to be stuff like that. BUT THEN I thought I’d write about Nina Stibbe. I LOVE HER. Like, I actually really properly think I love her. She’s written four books and I love them all. One of the books was made into a TV show and I love that. I listened to a podcast with her in it this morning and she was warm, funny, intelligent, and NICE. I know some people hate the word “nice”, but it’s TOTALLY underrated. I love nice people – well, just as long as they have a bit of edge. Or not an edge – just something genuine, if that makes sense? But anyway, back to Nina. She’s had a reallly quirky childhood and I think that’s why I relate to all her stories so much. Her parents are totally fucking mental – like mine. If we met, we’d probably have a real good bond over our mental childhoods.

So then I thought I’d write about parents. The different parents you get. The different ways we can all be screwed up – or the different ways we can all turn out great, I suppose. But urgh, that all gets a bit grey, doesn’t it? And who really cares about the kinds of parents there are? I really just wanted to write about the time my dad tried to convince me that getting high would help me get an A in my English Higher.

Then I thought I’d write about Christmas. About how people tend to get a bit nuts at Christmas. But meh. I’m not ready to write about Christmas yet. IT’S TOO STRESSFUL. Not only do I not know what I want to get people, but I don’t know what they should get me. It’s SUCH a hard life.

Then I thought I’d just start writing and see what happened.

And then this happened.

Not Quite the Waltons

Not Quite the Waltons

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So the family dinner was quite nice. Mum didn’t actually make it for dinner, but we saved her some leftovers (minced fajitas – how ridiculously difficult is it to eat these things?!). She also brought pudding (chocolate eclairs and creamy meringues), but she’d accidentally kept them in her car all day in the sunshine, and so they were absolutely disgusting. Well, that’s what my brother and dad said anyway – I, at the time, had already eaten an eclair, and while I thought it tasted a bit funny, I powered through because I love nothing more than a nice, big cream pie.

Stop it.

The conversation around the dinner table mainly consisted of mum and dad swapping their barrister stories from when they were getting divorced. Dad said that mum’s was a right nutter, but I couldn’t really understand why. You had to be there, apparently. They also told us that they mainly fought over money, and that they didn’t really care who got the kids so that was nice. Nothing like the loving devotion of parents, eh? They then talked about their childhoods:

Dad: You know your mother was constantly high on marijuana when she was younger?

Mum: No I wasn’t!

Dad: Yes, you were.

Mum: I was not, I hardly ever smoked! I just drank a litre of cider every day.

Well, that’s much better mum.

I actually get a bit stressed about this. My parents were absolute rogues when they were younger. My dad started smoking when he was 11 (11!!!!!) and left school at fifteen, and mum’s parents went back to Ireland when she was 16 and left her in Glasgow with her two older sisters (you can imagine the shananigans they got up to – there were a lot). But they’ve done alright for themselves. It’s like dad said, one day they just cut their hair and went to work. I don’t have any hair to cut! I don’t smoke, I don’t constantly drink, and I would much prefer staying in with a cup of tea and reading a good book over going out and partying all night, and because of this, I am absolutely certain I am going to fail at life.

I’m actually going out to celebrate an 18th tonight. It’s the daughter of my mum’s best friend and we’ve sort of grown up together. The last time we saw them, her mum said that she couldn’t believe how sensible we are – because we’re their spawn – but her daughter hit the nail on the head, saying, “It’s really no wonder we’re so sensible. We grew up putting YOU to bed.”

That shut her mum up.

Ach weel, we are who we are, and as much as I wish I could be more crazy and fun, I’m not. I told my brother of my worries yesterday after a mammoth Facebook stalking of someone’s gap year photos:

Me: I worry I’m a bit boring sometimes.

Brother: Why?

Me: Well, everyone goes off travelling by themselves and sees the world, and hugs monkeys and things. They seem to do so much.

Brother: Well, why don’t you go off travelling? You could easily do that.

Me: But I don’t want to. I don’t like travelling – it scares me.

Confused glance from brother.

Brother: Riiiiiiiiight. So don’t do it then?

Me: But that’s boring!

The conversation sort of went round in circles. He’s not boring. He does all kinds of reckless things. He was once drunkenly playing with flares on a boat, and I was raging, telling him not to be so stupid and to give them to me. He laughed, asserting that I should just “live a little”, before the flares blew up in his hands, and, crying his eyes out, he had to be taken to hospital.

I bet you’re thinking that the moral of this blog post is going to be that, sometimes, it doesn’t hurt to be sensible, but my brother ended up having the most blissful sleep, gassed out of his mind while I was curled up on a chair in the hospital reception next to an old Greek man who did not stop farting.

It may be time to grow my hair.

Home Time

Home Time

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Ah, it’s so nice to be back in the country. So peaceful. So quiet. Nothing but the twittering birds and the frolicking deer; nothing but the slight breeze rustling through the trees and the sun shimmering on the surface of the pond. Ooh, if I squint I can see a wee red squirrel gracefully launch itself from one branch to another. It pirouettes through the air like a dancer, landing with such ease it’s almost as if it didn’t land at all.

God, I’m bored.

It’s only ten o’ clock in the morning and I’ve already done my washing, had my breakfast, booked some flat viewings and noted down jobs to apply for (I can’t actually apply for them until I have a printer, ok? Well, I guess I could prepare my answers, but…maybe later). It’s like that episode on Friends when Ross is not fired, but ON SABBATICAL, and he gets all his tasks on his to-do lists done before lunchtime. Joey tells him he needs to learn to spread out his tasks throughout the week so I guess, until I get a job, that’s what I’m going to have to do. Ah, Friends. It’s taught me so much in the ways of life. What would I have done without its wisdom?

Thank goodness for books. And at least reading feels slightly more productive than watching t.v. It probably isn’t any more productive at all. It just helps you feel a tad more intellectual, even if you’re reading the same, predictable crime novels over and over again. Although, actually, that’s not what I’m reading at the minute. I’m reading something about the holocaust – The Storyteller – and despite it having some questionable, uber cheesy lines such as the response to the question, “Miss, are you alright?” being “As if that were an easy answer. As if I could reply with a single word” (BLEH), it’s actually a pretty good story. It’s told from four different view-points. One is from an old man who was a nazi during the war and who worked at Auschwitz, and while you’re reading his story, you’re sort of contemplating how difficult it would be NOT to become a nazi if you were born into an antisemitic Germany. You sort of understand how something so horrific could have happened, but then the novel switches to a story from a survivor of the holocaust and you’re all like, KILL THE NAZIS, KILL THEM ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So yeah, it sort of plays with your emotions. I like it.

I’ll be going up to my dad’s later. My brother’s home as well and he, my mum, and myself might all be at dad’s for dinner. That’ll be weird. I don’t think we’ve all had dinner together in a VERY long time. Modern families, eh? The last time my mum, dad, and myself had dinner the conversation went a little like this:

Mum: How old are you now? 67?

Dad: Yep.

Mum: Hmm, you’re looking well for your age.

Dad: Oh, you should see me with my clothes off!

They laugh, while I try and bury myself in my mashed tatties.

Seriously, it’s embarrassing when married parents act like this, let alone DIVORCED parents. I really am considering therapy.

Staring into the Abyss

Staring into the Abyss

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This photo doesn’t exactly show an abyss, but it does show a big, expanse of space so it’ll have to do. I also apologise for the slightly melodramatic title at 8 o’ clock on a Monday morning, but I’m FREAKING OUT. You see, I’ve just completed my 4 year degree and have my whole life in front of me, and – while this should be cause for celebration – it’s causing me to lose sleep. The big knot of anxiety that told me I was going to fail my exams is now telling me that I’m going to fail life.

Great.

Maybe it would help if the big knot of anxiety got drunk, although then it’ll just come back louder and shriller when I’m hungover. Yeeeeah, alcohol’s probably not the best solution. Who knew? Not my Dad, anyway. Oh yeah, my Dad’s third wife has left him, and now he and my mum are flirting more than ever. Seriously, if they get back together, I’m going to have to go to therapy.

Aaaaanyway, I’m just first world whining. I need to give myself what my Dad calls a damn good talking to and look for a job, get a job, and keep the job.

BUT WHAT JOB?!?!?!?!?! WHO’LL HIRE ME?!?!?!? I CAN’T DO ANYTHING!!!! I STUDIED ENGLISH LITERATURE FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!!!!!!

No, shut up anxiety. I will not take this abuse. Deep down, I know you’re right, but I’m going to attempt to quash your opinions with books and television. Ooh, I’ve read some good books since I finished my degree – READING FOR PLEASURE DOES EXIST HURRAH. Everyone on my course has been talking about it actually, saying how they can’t help underlining things and thinking What would Derrida say? I smile and nod and exclaim, “I know, right?!”, but really, I didn’t even have that urge at University and I have absolutely NO IDEA who/what the hell “Derrida” is. After four years studying English Literature, ladies and gentleman, all I can say about a book I’ve read is “Yes, good” or “No, bad”. I’m like a caveman with the ability to read.

Anyway, I’m off to complete task one on my to do list: wash car.

It’s good to have goals.