Things that baffle me

(That's me, looking a bit baffled.)

I am an insatiably curious person.  Oh yeah, I'm one curious cat. Or one curious Kath. By this, I mean I'm crazily interested in knowing stuff. I want to know everything; well, except for the things that I really have no interest in knowing of course. (I'm talking to you, Miss 'I'm-on-the-bus-surrounded-by-undeserving-strangers-but-I'm-still-going-to-yell-into-my-phone-to-my-boyfriend-about-how-much-I-miss-his-giant-throbbing...' SHHHHH, you filthy rogue. Have ye not heard of the grandeur of understated eroticism?!

Back at school I was the incredibly geeky child (oh yeah, I was rocking geek before it was fashionable) who always felt the need to ask 'why'. When I'm silver-haired and wrinkly, I hope to be the Grandma who can bore the wits out of my lovely Grandchildren with endless knowledge and hearty wisdom. Ultimately, I just want my brain to be crammed with juicy facts and ideas and creativity and anecdotes and opinions, and every single funky thing that I ever did learn. Some of it will be brilliant. Some of it will be marginally useful. Some of it will be absolutely bloody pointless. But I want it all.

As much as I pursue answers to my never-ending list of questions, there are some things that I will never understand. And even if they can be explained, I can't help but feel that some things are just so magnificent or clever or strange that definition is all a little restricting. Some things are just baffling. Today I thought I'd share these things with you.

Space. I am absolutely fascinated by space, particularly the night sky. In fact, there have been various occasions where I have actually stumbled into parked vehicles and bruised my planet-sized hips because I've been too engrossed in gawping up at it, blissfully caught up in this mad scattering of stars and planets and darkness and the unknown and natural epic. I have never seen anything more beautiful. My telescope is one of my most prized possessions, I often contemplate becoming an astronaut (a Kathsronaut, perhaps, winkety wink), and although we haven't necessarily found any proof that ET is up there, I can't think of anything more exciting than getting chummy with a real, stereotypical, green alien. My tiny mind is blown.

The joy of the Macarena. There are probably only a handful of people in this world who would put the words 'baffling' and 'Macarena' in the same sentence, but it appears that I am one of those awkward people. I have a lot of time for the Macarena. Yup, you can always count on me to get the moves right and stay in time at all times. LIFE SKILLS. The thing is folks, it's hardly a work of musical genius. It doesn't give me goosebumps or make me feel raw human emotion. The dance routine is shabby at best. It does however always manage to cheer me up, and I don't really understand why. But heyho, move with me, jam with me, and if you're good I'll take you home with me... (Unless you're good and you're Justin Bieber.)

That rare, invisible magnetism between two human beings. If you or I were to write a list of all of the qualities that we would want in a partner, I can guarantee that we will have already met so many people with all of those qualities, and yet will have felt nothing romantically significant. When two people do develop feelings for each other, or just feel an intense primal desire to get saucy, there's some kind of invisible magnetism that I think is rather magical. Those sciencey folk might tell me that it's to do with hormones and ovaries and my fertilisation preferences (I promise never to write a sex manual), but even if it is, isn't it just so bloody bizarre that we can feel so drawn to and connected with and captivated by the presence of another human being beyond our own personal expectation? I think it's beautiful, and feeling that inexplicable thing for someone is definitely one of the best feelings in the entire world. (Sneezing is a close second.) I'll put my violin away now.

Marmite. It's an unsexy colour. It's thick. It's gloopy. If it gets on your skin it's sticky and awkward and irritating. If it gets in your hair; blimey, you're screwed. It's yeast extract, which sounds about as gruelling and unexciting as a date with a mouldy quiche. But although the odds are stacked against it, it is the most DElicious thing that has ever crossed my lips. How can something that should be so awful be so marvellous?! It takes a mediocre buttered toast breakfast and turns it into the best breakfast you ever had, even though you ate it yesterday, and the day before that. And the day before that. My mate marmite; I love you, you yeasty little minx.

John Green's way with words. If you don't know who John Green is, and you're into those super creative, 'wordy' types, I insist you educate yourselves at once. John Green is my idol. I am as in love as is humanely possible without actually meeting somebody. The way in which he puts words together is extraordinary. Every single book of his is tonic for the idle mind; an intellectual, philosophical, witty explosion of near-geniusness and lasting sentiment. His books have made me feel things that I never thought could be felt as a result of the printed word alone. WOAH. If I ever become half the novelist that he is, I will be damn happy.

The things that we are capable of doing in our sleep. A few nights ago, something bizarre happened. I had a horrendously filthy dream about my GCSE Maths teacher. It was like fifty shades of grey but with protractors and Pythagoras. Yup, thanks brain, thanks so much for the trauma, you kind and generous organ. To make the whole experience that little more concerning, I woke up to find my phone next to me in the bed with the calculator open. It's half sickening and half bonkers. I mean, how?! How did I do that?! Why would I do that? What on earth happened in my room that night?!

The mysterious ways of the world. I'm not a religious person, but I am a lover of philosophy and a keen contemplator of the universe. I'm certain that I will never decide what I believe about life in terms of whether there's some great meaning behind it all, or whether it's just an erratic sequence of blind inconsequence. I guess the way I feel about it alternates dependent on the things that are happening in my own life and the things that I see going on around me. Either way, there's no denying that sometimes it feels like the world is working in mysterious ways; that perhaps things we may not understand at the time are happening, or have happened, for a reason that will become valuable and useful to us. Spooky.

You. You're reading my blog. I find this exceptionally baffling. Are you okay? Do you require medical attention? It is remarkable that anyone could be even slightly interested in my extreme waffle, and to get to the end of the post?! Wow. That is some stamina you have yourself there. Muchos gracias, you delightful human.

So there we have it folks; just a small sample of the many things that astound me. I think it's always good to be astounded by things; how boring would life be if we had nothing to gawp at or debate or be chronically confused by?!

I would love to know what baffles you, whether it's something small and quirky like my adoration of marmite, or whether it's something big and epic and spooky. Leave your comments below, or get all twitterific on me over at @kathyb5710.

Kathy B's Guide to being a drunken idiot...

I've noticed something about us human beings. A fair few of us have a penchant for alcoholic beverages. We like to drink. We like to throw shapes and PAAAAARRT-aaaaaaaaay. Some of us like to 'grind our filthy, juicy asses' and 'pull f*ckin' fiiiiiit birds mate' and have a 'tactical chunder' in the toilets. (Sexy.) We like to get MASHED UP, MAN. (People actually say these things. Wow.)

Alcohol has become a huge part of British culture. Whilst we're not all necessarily the grinding, pulling, tactical-chundering types (I'd much rather a hearty chinwag, two hours of hysterical laughter, and the Macarena), many of us do still indulge in a spot of whisky/wine hysteria. We pour ourselves a few drinks of a weekend and find that the world starts to spin in directions we never knew existed. We crack open a bottle of wine after a stressful day and slur about how much of a 'twotal beeeeeeeetch' Juanita is, or how Luke is just too much of an arrogant 'sexxxxxyyyyymudafugga' . Guzzle, guzzle. We clink our glasses to good news and down our glasses to bad.

Ultimately, many of us are pretty damn good at getting royally intoxicated with or without intention, and out of those of us that do, 100% of us are absolutely at risk of acting like a complete and utter moron. Woops.

I decided to reflect upon my own drunken adventures, and observe those of the inebriated citizens around me, and rustle up my very own guide to being the ultimate drunken idiot. You know; life skills and all...

Stand up on a piece of unstable furniture and do a speech. This tends to be a regular occurrence in the world of Kathy B. Yup, climbing on wobbly chairs and humiliating myself is a particularly pertinent skill of mine. On my 20th birthday, I resolved to tell everybody about how suffocating my control pants were (svelte figure vs vital organs.... hmm), and at my 21st, I shrieked hysterically, confessing my undying adoration for every single person in the room. Ah, isn't honesty just grand?

Broadcast the night's developments across all available social media platforms. 'Aren't we just having SO much fun? I bet the world really, really, desperately cares about how much drunken FUN we are having. Say cheeeeeeese! Sexy poses, sexy poses. Okay, let's get that on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Youtube, Pinterest, Blogger, Snapchat....'

Trip over. Whether you stumble over a kerb, stagger like a flailing goat down a flight of stairs, or jump a little too excitedly into the arms of your loved one, creating a whirlwind of flying limbs and disappointment, every drunken idiot seems to sustain an injury or a mystery bruise.

Have a severe outfit malfunction. I often see drunken women staggering around with laddered tights,  dress-exploding breasts, and extension clips springing buoyantly out of their scalps, not to mention skirts that are riding up dangerously high. We've all found ourselves having one of those 'oh wow, your shoes are so gorgeous' moments with a kind stranger, only to find our attention unwittingly distracted by a peeping vagina. I've never been too keen on seeing genitals prior to the fifth meeting. Can we all resolve to buy a smidgen of extra fabric or wear bigger knickers? Or just keep a closer eye on personal exposure levels? Pretty please?

Laugh until you cry. Isn't everything just so bloody hilarious after a few drinks?! HAHAHA. You have no idea what you're laughing at whatsoever do you?! But isn't life just sooooooooo funny right now?! 'Oh my goodness, I'm crying, I'm crying, I can't breathe, my stomach hurts!! I'm 'rofling'. An actual ROFL. Why am I even laughing?!'

Cry hysterically. This may well follow in quick succession to the point above. One minute you're a human chucklefest, and the next you're spilling tears like a hungry baby, consumed by a desperate sense of theatrical misery. Sniffle. Oh, WHY did Bambi have to die? Why hasn't he replied to my text? It's been a whole four minutes?... SOB. SOB. 

Send an excruciatingly embarrassing message to someone you'd like to date/sleep with.  This one is my absolute forte. Just ask the last guy I half-dated. When we're sober, we tend to be better at keeping things chilled, or at least knowing which lines we just shouldn't cross. When we're drunk, we expect that the person we'd like to date/sleep with feels an overwhelming desire to date/sleep with us too. And so we go ahead and unleash our biggest emotional/physical desires, with no grasp of the fact that we might have to answer a few awkward questions in the morning. We get soppy. We spell badly. Yup, coming across those messages is a sure fire way to make a hangover significantly worse.

Flirt/kiss/sleep with someone that you probably shouldn't flirt/kiss/sleep with. This is fairly self-explanatory. And always very tricky for everybody involved. You might play it cool and decide it's 'HAHA-hilarious and definitely not a big deal', but the truth is, you will do everything in your power to avoid that person for the next four years. Good luck to you.

Strut around like you're the sexiest organism to ever grace the planet. Folks, why do we suddenly think we're a bunch of Channing Tatums and Beyonces when we're drunk?! Suddenly us ladies start the half-wonky catwalk parade, pouting in a manner that we think is seductive but is actually ridiculous, and flicking our hair like it's made of gold, and our male equivalents start doing creepy winks and walking around like their genitals are national monuments. The bizarre truth is that we feel like we're 'looking fresh', and I guess we are, if 'fresh' means rained-on farm animals.

Dance. (Badly.) If only uncontrollable legs, windmill arms, and awkward thrusts counted as sophisticated dance moves...

Eat. Eat a lot. Eat so much that you wake up surrounded by two hundred crumbs and a disappointing sense of mass-scale weight gain.

Spend the whole of the next day in bed, feeling ashamed, embarrassed, sweaty, horrendous, and sick. Wow, we're a classy bunch.


*Disclaimer. This blog post is intended for use in a light-hearted manner. I do not wish for this to cause offence or be misinterpreted in any way. I  do not condone regular excessive alcohol consumption. Also, if you're under 18, it is illegal to drink. Behave yourselves, kids.*

Cancer, roast beef, and the sweetness of relief

Hello chums.

It's been a fair while since I took a little delve into my tiny brain and released some Kathy B shaped thoughts into this peculiar little corner of the Internet. I wish I could say I'd been travelling the world searching for the finest wizardly beard, or getting hideously burnt under a fierce European sun whilst penning a best-selling novel, or engaging in a mighty, month-long spoonfest with a rugged creative type, but unfortunately, I have been doing none of those things. Bugger.

In March, life fed me a spoonful of the big stuff; the biiiiiiig, crazy, 'woah, please don't say this is actually happening' stuff.  My favourite person on the entire planet, Granny B, got diagnosed with bowel cancer. Gulp. Considering she had no symptoms and it was caught by chance through routine checks, it was a massive shock to us all which sent me plummeting into a glum, anxious, mascara-stained-face world that I've never really been a part of previously. You all know that I'm a pretty sprightly, optimistic person. I know that the world can be a terrible place and I know that bad things happen and that people get hurt and that good things come to an end. We all go through horrendous, painful, heartbreaking times, and unfortunately these times are an integral part of the human experience. But for the first time in my life, I experienced days where unlike in previous times, I just couldn't find a bright side or a silver lining, or some great, philosophical reason as to why this might be happening. Those positive things that I cling on to during the tough times were just non existent; there was nothing positive about seeing this sharp, funny, vibrant woman laying helpless and confused in a hospital bed. There was nothing positive about thinking that my Grandma, a woman with an incredible presence and influence in my life, might die at the hands of this vicious disease.

I've always strived to keep this blog a light-hearted, jolly little place that showcases my best side; the quirky, witty, half-bizarre and occasionally clever side who can make people chuckle and cheer people up and see the best in a bad situation. As I hadn't been feeling like that person at all, I  wasn't in the right place to create my usual calibre of blog posts. I've never been one to create for the sake of creating; I want to enjoy writing my posts as much as you might enjoy reading them, and I want everything that I publish on here to come from a genuine desire to share, not from just a dull, yawning sense that I 'probably should'. Added to this, I was almost scared to write because writing, to me, means acceptance, and until now, I haven't felt up for accepting that any of this was actually real.

And so, for the first time in my life, I took a clean cut break from writing. There's been no blogging, no novel-writing, no poetry, no lyricism, no speedy scrawls on post-its at work. Zilch. Nada. Instead, I threw all of my energy into supporting her, into dealing with this new feeling of absolute hopelessness, and into trying to navigate my way through a daunting situation that scared the bloomin' bojangles out of me. I accompanied my Grandma to the hospital and I promised her that everything was going to be okay, even though I didn't quite believe it myself. I surrounded myself with my lovely chums and spent many evenings drinking whisky and wine and laughing at nothing in particular, trying to escape my own infuriating pessimism. I ate lots of roast beef with my family, wishing that my Grandma's seat at the table wasn't empty. And I probably listened to a few of her favourite Westlife songs more than once and had a good, hearty cry on my bedroom floor. 

Granny B underwent major surgery to remove the cancer and ultimately to save her life. I've spent many recent evenings sat with her in hospital, chinwagging about the ways of the world, mutually spying on the occasionally sexy doctors, and generally feeling an overwhelming sense of insane gratitude to the universe for letting her live. There are no guarantees that this will have given us the absolute cure that we so desperately want, but she does now have time on her side. She IS alive. She is still in hospital but at last she's recovering well and she WILL be coming home. She's getting more and more back to herself every single day, which restores within me the certain sense of calm that had taken a bit of a wander. Wow, relief has never felt so good.

I've learnt so much about myself throughout all of this. I've learnt that it's okay not to be okay, and that I can still function as a human and be there for others even when my spirit is so low that I'm almost tempted to break into a Havisham style sob every five minutes. (I know, I know, an arousing thought.) I've learnt the value of human life and that we should make it a conscious task to never take the ones we love for granted. Things do change and nobody is immortal. Spread the love folks. Don't be afraid to show somebody that you care about them; there may come a time where the luxury of being able to do so will be stripped away.

In hindsight, there is now a silver lining to this situation. I've learnt some bloody big lessons. I've discovered a new sadness which will make me treasure happiness even more-so. And when the inevitable happens and a similar situation comes around again (because it shall; a side effect of living apparently), I'll feel better equipped to deal with it, because I know that I can. And on that note, does anyone fancy personifying cancer for me so I can give it one mighty kick in the balls?!

A normal Kathy B service will resume shortly. I can feel it in my bones. Oooooh-la-la.

Watch this space.

Everybody needs a happy jar

Back on January 1st, whilst nursing our annual 'let's drink to this being the best year EVER' hangovers (oh, sweet, Pinot-fuelled optimism...), two of my best friends and I made a vow that this year we'd make a bigger effort to remember those little moments in time where we feel absolutely content. And so, our happy jars were born.

Now folks, as many of you will be able to tell from this blog, I'm a fairly jolly soul. I spend a lot of time laughing/cracking rubbish jokes/getting ridiculously excited about nothing in particular. I spend a lot of time mocking my own misfortune, because as it happens, mockery is a treasured hobby of mine. But even though I have a pretty upbeat outlook on life, and even though it's all too easy to assume I'm from another planet, I am still human. And in the words of my idol-chum John Green (read his books right now, pretty please), the world is not a wish-granting factory. Shit happens, basically, and just like everybody else, it has the occasional habit of getting me down.

The idea of the happy jar is to capture the moments where nothing else matters but the moment itself; where we're consumed by happiness and hope and all things lovely. It might be a moment where we've laughed so much it's gotten painful, it could be an immense feeling of pride for ourselves or for someone we care about, it might be an epic kiss with a rugged, caveman type, or it might just be where we've thoroughly enjoyed doing the naked Macarena. Never under-estimate the satisfaction that the flailing of naked limbs can bring to an otherwise dreary day.

It may all sound particularly nerdy, but whenever I'm feeling a tad glum, I crack open the happy jar and read and reminisce about some of these little moments of magic. Life is, after all, about the small things, and I think it's a lovely way to remember that good things do happen and that we can sometimes feel completely marvellous, and that the world is a truly spiffing place. Even when it's not. (That's the clever thing about this world, it can be two things at once.)

Let me know what you think of the 'happy jar' concept. I'd also love to know if you do anything similar! Or you can tweet me happy stuff at @kathyb5710. I have a lot of time for compliments, half-naked men, and farm animal jokes.

Human dinosaurs, buoyant breasts, and fucked up ideas

With the TV and magazine industry as popular as ever, and a hearty increase in social media stats, we live amidst a complicated visual culture; our coffee tables are laden with magazine images of beautiful people, our Twitter feeds are getting clogged up with half naked snaps of the fame hungry, and even here, within the blogosphere, hundreds of beauty related images pop up on our dashboards every week. Yup, the widespread social conversation about body confidence is one that remains vibrant amongst us all, and I'm pretty sure that every one of you who reads this blog post will have suffered, or will be suffering from body hang ups/insecurities.

I'm certainly no stranger to body confidence issues. Whilst I've made it my mission to become my own best chum and focus on the things that I like about myself, my insecurities have the occasional habit of being feisty little bastards. There have been times where I've described myself as a human dinosaur and vowed that no man will ever fancy me again. There have even been times where I've not wanted to leave the house because I've felt so bloody monstrous, and I know I'm not the only person who has ever had this problem. Awkward face.

It's absolutely ridiculous that so many of us have compromised on enjoying our day to day lives due to this inherent, fucked up ideology that we don't look 'right'. How many times have you cancelled on a night out, or felt uncomfortable in a bar, because you couldn't achieve the 'look' you were going for? How many times have you felt on par with a flea infested Rottweiler just because your hair decided to throw a party on your scalp or you woke up with a blemish on your chin?

When talking about body confidence issues, many of us are quick to blame the magazine industry. After all, cover shoot after cover shoot, feature after feature, image manipulation plays a crucial role in the editorial production of these publications. And yes, I do agree that the magazine industry is partly responsible for the body confidence crisis that many of us face. We are, after all, bombarded with heavily enhanced visuals of a world where facial features are immaculate, blemishes don't exist, and any woman beyond a size eight may as well be an alien. (Curves?! WOAH. What the devil are they?)

We also have a terrible habit of playing the comparison game, forensically examining the way that others look, trying to establish where we fit on these inbuilt 'hideous beast' to 'SEX-aaaaaaaaay' scales. We all have those friends who we deem to be 'slimmer', 'sexier' and 'more beautiful' than us. Every now and again, we find ourselves wishing we could wake up and look like that, convinced that if we did we'd fall in love with our own reflection and live happily ever after. Nope; the truth is folks, we'd spend 24 hours prancing around feeling like the sexiest organism to ever grace the planet, and then we'd just invent a new problem and find something else to be insecure about. That, my friends, is what we call human nature.

Absolute contentment with the way we look is a luxury that the majority of us will never acquire. The desire to look better and be better has become so intrinsic to human life that we're practically carrying it around as an extra limb. I for one can easily admit that the beauty-related habits I've developed are not going to change any time soon. I'm not going to suddenly house a forest in my nether-regions, or sprout a monobrow, or never again coat my lashes with an overpriced mascara, because the reality (the sad reality, perhaps), is that I do feel a lot better about myself when I'm a little preened. I am however, on a mission to make a healthy shift in attitude, and I think, that if this blog post is ringing a few bells with you, that you should probably join me.

You see, people of this world, the pertinent problem is not that the magazine industry manipulate and enhance their images; the problem is the way in which we consume these images. Instead of drooling over the pages, cursing ourselves for falling out of the ugly tree, we need to be critically aware that although beautiful, these images are not a fair depiction of reality. Welcome to the cruelty of advertising; nobody looks like that in the flesh, those pictures are there to sell.

The problem is not that we look at other women and think that they're beautiful; the problem is that we assume that we're not because we don't look like them. The problem is that we are a magnifying glass to our own insecurities. I often refer to my planet-sized love handles, but I'm pretty sure that nobody has ever actually looked at me and thought 'fuuuuuuuck, I've discovered a new planet!! Oh wait, it's just Kathy B and her excess waistline fat.'

And who said beauty was all about physicalities, anyway? So you don't have a radiant smile, or a nipped in waist, or buoyant breasts? The chances are that you sure as hell make up for it elsewhere. You might have a cracking sense of humour, or a heart of the finest gold, or an insane talent. You might be the loveliest person in the entire world. Our inner qualities really are the parts of us that matter the most, and though it may all sound a tad cliche, once we've got those sussed, we're pretty sorted.

I shall round this up with a wise ol' fact that you may pass onto your future Grandchildren; buoyant breasts alone do not change the world*. Remember that, you fine bunch.





*despite what a geezer/LAD may try to tell you whilst attempting to dry hump you in a bar.

A Valentine's message for you, yes, YOU

Dear Reader,

Once a year, our calendar is graced with a heart shaped extravaganza that fills supermarket shelves with an array of suggestive looking stuffed animals, and rams our Facebook homepage with hundreds of arty bouquet shots,  published proudly with captions such as 'aren't I a lucky girl?' and 'my boyfriend is the absolute best!!!! xxx.'

Yup, St Valentine's day is upon us. Smooch. (Is this an appropriate time to tell you that I love you? I do, I do, you beautiful stranger, you.)

Valentine's day remains an event which continues to divide opinion. Some people turn starry-eyed and bonkers, and some barely acknowledge it at all. Some mark the occasion with a candlelit meal and a marathon of ravenous intercourse, and others spend it stalking the love interest that doesn't even know they exist. (WOAH, naughty.) Some choreograph an enthusiastic finger click and declare that they're 'an independent woman who don't need no man', and others spend it sobbing discreetly, gazing mournfully at the empty mass of bed sheet beside them. (If that's you, I'm going to say this in the nicest way possible; you need to sort your shit.)

Personally, I sit firmly on the fence. You see, I can't help but like Valentine's day a little bit. I happen to have a penchant for heart-shaped frying pans. Do you fancy cooking me some eggs on Thursday morning? I'm also a hopeless romantic, and if it's going to inspire the lovebirds of this world to get affectionate/cosy/naked, then I'm happy to champion the cause. And for those of us that are single right now, the day is always shrouded in that little, shiny gleam of sweet anticipation; will we receive post from a mysterious, anonymous admirer? Will a deliciously handsome, rugged caveman type leave a charming note on the inside of a dusty, antique book, and follow it up with an offer to take us to Nando's? (Okay, okay, I'm probably out of luck.)

The other part of me (the more opinionated, less naive side) is absolutely adamant, that heart-shaped frying pans aside, Valentine's is the biggest, most ridiculous commercial spectacle of the entire year. I also begrudge Valentine's due to the implicit ideology that romance is primarily about 'stuff'. Where's the imagination in the purchase of cliche junk, inspired purely by a half-wonky banner in a supermarket and a social pressure to please? Nope, spontaneous, sentimental, creative romance is definitely more my thing. Fuck Cupid. (Not literally, you saucy devil; that would defeat the point.)

And of course, at the other end of the love bus, Valentine's makes it all too easy for us single folk to find ourselves ever-so-slightly disappointed when our fantasy mystery admirer doesn't suffice. Let's be honest, while it's not exactly worthy of a Havisham moment, it's always nice to feel wanted, unless of course we are wanted by the aforementioned stalker-type, who eats ravioli for breakfast and spends hours staring intently at half-naked photos of us which were taken through our bedroom window, from a wheelie bin hideout. Lessons in how to fancy someone like a civilised human being, anyone?

Anyway, the point of my letter is to wish you a very happy St Valentine's day, whether you're treating it as the biggest, wildest, most awe-inspiring day of the whole year, as just another mediocre Thursday, or as a bittersweet inconvenience that may well drive you temporarily bonkers. I hope that the day brings you whatever you're wishing for.

It's also to remind you of a little piece of sparkly wisdom that tends to get lost amongst the schmaltziness at this time of year. Whether you're single or completely head over heels in love, a fan of Valentine's or not, the most important, fulfilling, and valuable relationship in this life is the one that you have with yourself. Falling in love is a beautiful thing, but we should always embrace our own definition.

So please, this Valentine's, take a moment out of your day to appreciate your own brilliance, because I'm pretty sure there's brilliance inside of us all.

Lots of love,

Kathy B (your not so secret admirer)


PS: I think you should know, you're looking damn beautiful today.

The theory of the 'resolutionist'...

Last New Year, I was a self-confessed resolution junkie. Yup, armed with a list of about a zillion things that I was oh-so-absolutely going to do/change/tweak, I convinced myself that come January 1st, I'd be a brand spanking new me. A complete reinvention of self, initiated entirely by a slight numerical change in the calendar.

Of course, come January 4th, the immense pressure that I'd bestowed upon myself ensured that I was a) bored stiff of the idea, and b) still exactly the same person that I'd been 5 days previously. I wasn't en route to being any slimmer, any richer, any more organised, or any funnier, and I certainly wasn't an accomplished novelist with a penchant for yoga and gourmet cooking. I know. Gourmet cooking?! What the devil was I thinking?! This New Years, I reflected upon the resolution apocalypse of 2012, and I decided to approach the whole event a little differently.

I don't doubt that the dawning of a New Year is a good time to re-evaluate our lives and create new pathways. I'm a firm believer that the pursuit to better ourselves is one that we should all actively embrace, and any event that has the power to inspire us to do so deserves champion status. After all, we could draw up a list of resolutions somewhere in between burnt pizza and Eastenders on a rainy Thursday, but the majority of us don't. We evolve into creatures of habit; developing routines, and becoming too demotivated or too apprehensive to say 'fuck this. I'm going to do this, or learn that, or finally stop launching wads of post-it notes like missiles at the innocent heads of my colleagues'. Chuckle.

New Year is a fan-bloody-tastic time because it snaps us out of that. Huzzah! Temporarily, we become over-excited, incurable optimists. We can suddenly do/say/be whoever the devil we want to be. We become our own best friend, full of belief and confidence that this year will 'be the making of us'. This year will be 'AH-maz-ing.' This year will be the 'BEST YEAR EVER!' Yippedy-doooooooo-dah! Let's wrap our porky, unshaved legs around our heads and make a million pounds in a week to celebrate!

So yes, New Year is brilliant because it bestows upon us this feeling of great personal empowerment; a sense if you will, of the direction we should be heading in. However, for all of the aforementioned, 'BEST YEAR EVER!' reasons, it's also a tad dangerous, as the euphoria of the occasion seems to hijack our basic sense of logic. It may well have the power to inspire us to be better, but it also has the power to send us galloping gleefully into the peculiar world of resolution bonkerism; the kind of world where we completely forget that we hate yoga, that we never will get that date with Channing Tatum (sob), and that the snooze button will always win. (Zzz. Alarm. Snooze. Zzz. Alarm. Snooze. Zzz. Alarm. 'Shut up!!'. Snooze. Zzz. Alarm. Alarm clock/phone flies across the room in an angry rage.)

I've come to the realisation that the trick is to think like a one legged pigeon. During the art of 'resolutionising' our lives, we should take small, wonky pigeon-like steps, from A to B. A for Ambition. B for Brain.

When the impending New Year hijacks our basic sense of logic, we do entirely the opposite. We find ourselves thinking like a beady-eyed eagle, soaring from A to Z; missing out all of the important stuff that we need to do along the way. This has a terrible habit of making our resolutions a tad far fetched. Accomplished novelist and a gourmet chef? In 365 days?! Whilst I know there are of course a rare species of super clever, super militant resolutionists who can actually pull these tremendous feats off (a hearty bow to you all), I can assure you, that I am not one of those people, and you probably aren't either. The only thing that I learnt to cook in 2012 was a massive, meaty slice of humble pie, and apparently that doesn't taste so good.

Whilst I was of course still tempted to spice up my resolution list with things such as 'abseil naked', 'win the Nobel peace prize', 'blog every other day', and 'become a wizard', I decided instead upon 4 fairly attainable goals, which were bred by taking my biggest desires for the foreseeable future, and working out the next step towards achieving them. B for Brain folks, B for Brain.

We're now 13 glorious days into a glorious new year, and I haven't yet slipped up. So here we have it; my first incredibly enlightening theory of this year...

'In order to be a good resolutionist, you must stop being an over-excited, beady-eyed eagle, and release your inner pigeon; the asymmetrical version. Or, to put it more simply, A for Ambition, B for Brain.'

If anyone would like to refer me to Mensa based on my obvious, supreme intelligence, I would be exceptionally grateful. Insert pigeon noise here.

My dear companion 2012...

I can barely believe that the time has come for me to bid a fond farewell to you already. It seems like only yesterday that I woke up on day one of our beautiful relationship, bursting with hundreds of resolutions that I was to forget all about by day four. Give up alcohol? Stop eating like a ravenous boar? What the devil was I thinking?! 

I'm a firm believer that life is one long learning curve, and this year has certainly been no exception. I've learnt many-a-fine-thing; clearly that I'm not too brilliant at honouring my resolutions, that my best friend makes a hideously awful Cupid, that you can be 'exceptional' in an interview and still not get the job, and that I am incapable of walking beneath a night sky and not gazing up at it. I have also become particularly talented at gleefully star-fishing my bed in a onesie, laughing at moments where it is not socially acceptable to laugh, and staring in a lecherous manner at any man who has sprouted an impressive mass of beardy goodness. Oh, I do love a good beard. I will work on taming that one, I promise.

There have been moments of deliriousness, happiness, hysterical laughter, grumpiness, sadness, and obsessive marmite eating. Though I never thought I'd find myself writing this, the Olympics were definitely my ultimate highlight. I never expected that I would spend every available second of my free time glued to BBC coverage, but apparently I have the well-loved sofa, and the hysterical tweets to prove it. In fact, I refrained from attending at least twelve social events throughout the Olympic fortnight, purely because I just couldn't bare to miss out on any of the magic. I laughed, I cried, and I excitedly threw myself into the air to punch the sky (aka the lampshade) on many occasions. I sat on the edge of my seat in painful anticipation, I shrieked with joy, and I even attempted the high jump in my front room. I shared in delight, and in devastation, and I witnessed sporting brilliance from start to finish. Jay zeus and javelins; it was a momentous occasion that made our Britain great again, and it was an absolute privilege to be a part of it. The whole event exceeded all of my expectations, and then lapped them. Fourteen times. Can we go back in time and do it all again? Pretty please?

I also saw 'Madness' live with Daddy B, started my hysterical, amusing, and particularly long-winded attempt at learning to drive (walrus on crack, anyone?), and spent a good couple of weeks engrossing myself in the sadomasochistic world of 'Fifty Shades', trying to determine what all the fuss was about. As a cheap thrill on a mediocre Thursday, I can confirm that it worked, but I will never understand how Christian Grey's twitchy palm surpassed Harry Potter as the fastest selling book of all time. Serious, serious bonkerism and crimes against literature. I much prefer those fine wizardly folk. 

I investigated Internet Dating and found myself presented with various wonky penis photos that I had absolutely no desire to see, got forced into a double date at the fair with a man who suffered a very amusing emotional breakdown on the ferris wheel, developed a whole lot of love for Miranda Hart, took a stroll down the real Diagon Alley, thoroughly analysed the technicalities of waving with a fairly awesome manfriend, doubled the height of my antique book tower, had a bit of a 'One Day' moment upon an epic hill in Portsmouth, played poker on the train with a bunch of strangers, walked into a door whilst gazing at a particularly dashing man (low moment), enjoyed at least two minutes looking at pictures of a very naked Prince Harry, and spent endless hours sitting by the sea in a wonky hat, scrawling my heart out.

2012 has been a pretty good year for my writing. I now have two books well underway, and although I don't feel as if I've achieved anything vastly spectacular, it's been a cracking year for creative ideas, and I can't wait to explore them properly over the next few months. I have also continued to blog with brutal honestly about the beautiful chaos that is life, and I've made a fair few people chuckle along the way. A lovely French man even described this blog as 'the best UK contribution to humankind since Doctor Who', which I was pretty impressed with. Knowing that there are people mad enough to actually read my blog is the most invaluable feeling in the world, and I am bloody excited to ensure that I heartily waffle on throughout 2013 in the same undignified manner. Tatty-bo-jang. Chuckle. 

2012, you have helped me to grow in confidence (great for me, not-so-great for those that have to put up with me...), helped me to value the most important things in life, given me some incredibly odd and hysterical memories, and once again blessed me with the ability to enthusiastically gallop into the sea naked and not get caught/arrested for indecent exposure. 

I cannot wait to get stuck into 2013, try new things, visit new places, make new friends, experience the giddy euphoria of first dates with new men, continue to chase my planet-sized ambitions, and of course, spend endless evenings drinking good whisky with my fine chums, contemplating the universe. 

It's been a pleasure. 


Kathy B



PS: I would like to take this opportunity to wish every single one of you a New Year filled with love, laughter, happiness, and all things fine and wonderful. Thank you so much to all of my readers; you bestow upon me a certain kind of confidence that I know I would never have if you didn't exist, and my gratitude for that knows no bounds. Allow me to give you a cuddle and buy you a drink.

PPS: A very special thanks to my incredible family, my best chumfolk, and the beautiful, hilarious and distinctively odd girls at the office. The year would have been less magical without you guys. Also, to every single human being I ever did meet. You inspire me every single day.


xXx

Wrong o'clock, the technicalities of waving, and a fairly soiled fan...

Back in the summer, before festive temptations (dis)graced my waistline, I met a fine male creature. JJ was in possession of at least 34562 brain cells, incredibly creative, witty, charming, super silly, and as sarcastic and bizarre as I am, and after our first non-date (we both agreed that adding the 'non' made the whole experience seem much less terrifying), I gleefully galloped around my house like an intoxicated horse/mild lunatic, chuffed that life had presented me with such a beautiful evening. Whilst sitting next to him in his car on the drive home, after hysterically laughing together about the technicalities of waving (seriously, what constitutes as a socially acceptable wave?!), discussing our biggest dreams and fears, and putting the world to rights, I couldn't help but feel like I'd met the guy that I'd always waffled on about wanting to meet. Please do cock your head and smile at the soppiness of it all; my blog rarely presents the opportunity to do so.

Having split with his ex earlier this year after almost seven years together (wowzers trousers, people can barely put up with me for seven days), JJ told me upfront that he wasn't ready for another relationship, and so, as nothing more than two human beings who three-quarters fancied each other, we spent the next few months developing a wonderful chumhood; growing as close as a middle-aged divorcee and her copy of 'Fifty Shades'. He became somebody that I spoke to most days, and I could always count on him for a super interesting conversation, which is important to me, as interesting conversation is definitely one of the integral pleasures of being alive. He never failed to make me smile/chuckle/both with his nerdy enthusiasm for life, his quick wit, and the stories of the funky stuff he'd been making in his shed. I loved spending time with him, and in less than half a year, he'd transformed from a total stranger into somebody that easily made my top ten 'favourite people on this planet' list. Don't look at me like that, you cheeky deviant. I know there's a similar list floating around in your brain somewhere too. (If I'm not on it, you're in trouble.)

JJ referenced a future in which seemed to lay the assumption that we'd end up together, eventually, and my commitment phobia started to diminish. In fact, I found myself getting pretty excited by the idea of us, and when he cracked me up by presenting me with a grubby hot tap as a belated birthday gift, fate was sealed. A fine piece of sciencey folk once told me that we tend to go for people who are similar to ourselves. Jay zeus and fiddesticks; JJ might as well have been me, with a penis, and his amusing display of serious bonkerism only confirmed to me that this guy was something special.

However, in true Kathy B style, things didn't quite go to plan. When the supposedly mutual feelings started to strengthen, JJ told me that when with me, he felt as if he could 'easily be cool' with me being his girlfriend, but reaffirmed that a girlfriend was not something he wanted. The general gist of his explanation was that it was completely wrong-o'clock and that he needed to distance himself from me because he didn't want to fall for me properly; the idea of which, after his previous break up, absolutely terrified him. He told me that I was 'too awesome' to be the girl that he got his head straight with and that he hated the idea of hurting me, which he was convinced he'd do if we started getting more serious. He suggested that we weren't 'meant' to meet until a few years time. But woops, we did meet. And so the whole situation turned from being absolutely cracking to absolutely shize-and-slacking in a speedy turnaround of no more than a few days. Oh life, why do you tease me so?

JJ told me a lot of things, but I'm a firm believer that even if it's all a little tricky, if you care about someone as much as he said he did me, you make it your mission to keep them in your life, even if as nothing more than a distant chum. I quite possibly tried a little too hard trying to keep him in mine, but his efforts have been at the entirely opposite end of the spectrum, (aka non-existant), and so the whole thing culminated in an exchange of fairly heated text messages last weekend. I may have made a peculiar, distressed-walrus type noise whilst reading his last message (clearly he's missing out on some serious sex appeal), and I probably made another whilst sending my fairly aggravated reply. I hate it when things end badly, particularly when things end badly with good people, but truth be told, I doubt we'll be on 'waving technicality' chinwagging terms again any time soon.

I have no doubt in my mind that I've bongoed his banjo as much as he has mine, which, when looking back at how cracking our little chumhood was before the shit hit the fan, is just a massive shame. When the devil did we go from heartily chuckling about thinking caps and leather onesies, to bitching at each other via walrus-noise-inducing text messages?

JJ tried to tell me that there's a difference between being ignored and being hurt, but I can't agree with that at all. When you meet a wonderful man, and you hit it off, and he tells you how awesome you are and how much you make him chuckle, and how he has these feelings for you, it hurts if he then follows suit by eliminating your entire existence from his awareness. I understood that I couldn't be his girlfriend and I completely respected his reasoning for that, but his sudden ease with not having me in his life at all baffles my tiny brain. So yup, whilst it's hardly worthy of a hysterical kitchen floor breakdown, it definitely feels pretty damn crap. It makes me feel a tad glum when I think about what could have been if that exciting, brain-binding, half-bizarre future hadn't have crumbled as quickly as we'd created it.

When you're as insatiably curious as I am, it's pretty hard to move on from situations/people that just don't make much sense, but I shall, because, well, what else can I do? The only conclusion, really, is just to stop thinking about it. And have, perhaps, a consolatory gallop around the house.

My heart's making the transition from my sleeve to my pocket for the forseeable future.


(Or until I find another devilishly handsome, tap-giving man who is as weird as me and appreciates space as much as I do/until Channing Tatum turns up naked on my doorstep, in which case I can assure you I will make no consideration towards my emotional wellbeing prior to ripping my clothes off.)

Dear Father Christmas...

My name is Kathy B, and I absolutely love Christmas. I am a glittery tinsel bandit and an absolute festive junkie, and I love the optimism, jolliness, and general sense of magic that accompanies this time of year. Galloping around the house terrorising my neighbours with my atrocious rendition of 'all I want for Christmas'? Eating my weight in turkey and cranberry sandwiches? Having a few too many glasses of wine and dawdling under the mistletoe like a yuletide desperado? Yup, Christmas is my absolute forte. In fact, if it didn't already exist, I'd have gone and bloody invented it anyway. Ding dong merrily on high; the works. You're welcome, world.

As tradition informs me, this is the time of year where all us Santa-loving folk (aka everybody under 9, and me), get scrawling to you with a list of all of the wonderful things that we hope to find under our tree this year.

You will be pleased to hear that I have been impeccably behaved this year. I haven't mocked half of the nation profusely via a series of overtly sarcastic blog posts, I haven't terrorised a handful of strangers by dry-humping them in the false belief that they were my best friend, and I definitely haven't found myself a new penchant for whisky that has turned my every Sunday since July into 'wooooaah-the-world-is-spinning-I-feel-absolutely-horrendous-and-why-have-I-woken-up-with-a-bra-on-my-head' day. Me? Stray so far from being a socially acceptable, sophisticated human being? Oh Santa, you must be mistaken. Wink. (In all seriousness, if I'm on the 'naughty' list, you're in trouble. I take no shit, big man.)

Once upon a fine time in my life, before a mound of breast erupted upon my dwarf-like frame, I used to attack the Argos catalogue with a red crayon of desire, a crazed expression on my face, circling 75% of the contents. Now, over a decade on, I can't remember the last time I flicked through an Argos catalogue, and the wish list is heavily dwindling. Bloody norah, is this the first sign of maturity? Will I be sprouting greys soon? Gulp.

The moral of this story is that I don't need much from you at all this year. I'm not the kind of person that needs a lot to get by anyway; in fact I'm fairly happy as long as I can write, and as long as I have the night sky, the sea, a bunch of interesting chum-folk, and a daily fit of hysterical laughter. Oh, I do enjoy a hearty chucklefest.

However, if you're feeling generous (you're definitely feeling generous), and would like to reward me for being such a kind-hearted, witty human being who brings so much joy to this world (am I pushing my luck?), there are of course a few things that wouldn't go amiss.

So here goes Father C; the Kathy B Christmas wishlist, short and sweet, just like me. (Okay, I'm definitely pushing my luck now).

A bit of festive romance. If you've read my previous blog post, you'll know that I've been feeling a little, well, single, which is perfectly fine at every other time of year, but a tad disheartening at Christmas. In light of recent events, please don't send a super awesome man into my life only for a case of 'bad timing' to royally screw things over. Nope, I definitely don't want to have feelings for anyone any time soon. I would however appreciate a romantic 'moment', if you will. Could I perhaps steal a cheeky smooch with a Sherlock Holmes type under the mistletoe? Could I perhaps, receive a beautiful bunch of flowers in the post? Could you bring me an overtly saucy dream about Channing Tatum, or better still, could you arrange for a very naked Channing Tatum to pop by for a spot of Christmas lunch? Pretty please?

A third arm. This may sound a tad peculiar, but recently I've been finding myself thinking about how glorious it would be if I could sprout a third arm, particularly if the hand of said arm could cover the radius of one's back. I could carry at least 3 more bags full of dusty, antique books, and I could scratch my own back. It would be bloody marvellous!

A trip to space. I am fascinated by planets/the universe/stars. Every night without fail I find myself gazing up into the sky, completely baffled by its spectacularity. I don't think I've ever seen anything more beautiful. I think I'd make a brilliant astronaut Father C. I would love you to the moon and back if you could sort out a little weekend trip for me. And if space travel isn't quite in your remit, please could you at least bring me an adequate level of telescopic skill? So far, when attempting to be all clever and scientific with my scope, I've managed to see nothing but the washing line or the guttering on the side of my house. Astronomical uselessness.

Legal permission to stroll around naked in the summer. Whilst I'm more than happy to wear a zillion layers in winter (I will forever love oversized jumpers, dorky scarves and knitted socks), it seems like such a chore having to dress myself once that devilish sunshine starts peering through the clouds. Short summer dresses make me look like a baby walrus, maxi dresses make me look about 2ft tall, and my feet are so small/chubby/duck-like, that beautiful sandals only draw unwanted attention to the monstrosity that is me, from the ankles down. Come on Santa, let's become full time summer nudists.

A little more self belief. Whilst I'm perfectly confident when it comes to chinwagging with strangers, throwing hideous shapes for no apparent reason whatsoever, or standing on tables and telling party guests that my control pants are restricting my lung function, I lack a little confidence when it comes to the pursuit of my biggest dreams. It's not that I don't think I can achieve them; it's just that when the inevitable setbacks occur, I shy away from it all for a while, convinced that I'm completely deluded and a total failure. I don't want to feel like that again. It's futile. Sort it out Santa!

My Hogwarts letter. I've got a lot of time for those wizardly folk. A few months ago I went to a party as 'Kathy Potter', and I was so over-excited by the whole event that I slept in my Gryffindor robe and wore my scar with pride for an entire, hungover Sunday. I quite fancy myself as one of those wizardly folk.


Muchos gracias, you fine man. I do hope you have a cracking Christmas, and I shall look forward to seeing what delights are waiting for me under the tree on Christmas morning.

Lots of love and festive cheer,

Your biggest fan, Kathy B x


PS: I like your beard. It's an impressive mass of hairy goodness; an exceptionally impressive mass of hairy goodness indeed.