Days out: Black Country Living Museum

It was my Mother-in-Law’s birthday last Sunday so I suggested a trip to the Black Country Museum. M-i-L is in her 70s so has memories of some of the things there and, from a selfish point of view, I haven’t been for years and really fancied it!

The museum recreates life from the 1900s through to around the 1950s in the “Black Country”, which is the part of the West Midlands in the UK that was dominated by heavy industry during the industrial revolution and became known such because of the black layers of soot and coal dust which settled over the area. Legend has it that Queen Victoria drove through and lowered the window blinds on her carriage so not to have to look at the grimy landscape. Despite all that, people from the Black Country are known as “salt of the earth” – hard working, straight talking, down to earth people with no airs and graces.

I’m originally a Black Country girl, born in West Bromwich, although now I live in South Birmingham and have done for the past 10 years.

The museum has a range of “living” exhibits; houses reclaimed from demolition or clearance that have been painstakingly rebuilt brick by brick within their grounds; a working mine to demonstrate the conditions of miners during the industrial revolution, chainmakers, old cars, a running tram, an old fashioned fairground, chemist, bakery, sweet shop and general stores. Many of the buildings are manned by volunteers in period dress who will chat and answer questions and show the history of the time. Two of the main attractions are the pub (The Bottle & Glass) which serves traditional ales and the fish and chip shop which serves traditional fish and chips cooked in beef dripping and served in paper. I can confirm that they are very very good indeed!

There’s also an 1800s school where visitors can partake in “lessons”, a canal boat trip which takes visitors through the canal tunnels and into open caverns which were mined in years gone by, and horses being led along the street!

I think it’s so important for places like this to exist, and I do wonder what the future of them will be when the generation of people that remember some of the details first hand are no longer around. Considering a lot of kids these days don’t even remember time before mobile phones, I can imagine this is quite mindblowing for the younger generation!

Here are some pictures from the day.

The museum is great value at £16.95 for an adult ticket (or £15.95 if booked online in advance) and the ticket is also valid for a whole year, so you can return as many times as you like, which is ideal if you live not too far away, like me.

Have you ever been to the Black Country Museum? Let me know!

Thanks, as always, for reading! x

Anger management and Pretty Woman

Remember the scene in Pretty Woman where Vivian and Edward are in the bath, and he’s talking about being angry?

“I was very angry with my Father. It took $10,000 in therapy for me to say that, I do it very well, don’t I? I’ll say it again. Hello, my name is Mr Lewis and I’m very angry with my father”

Pretty Woman very angry

It doesn’t take therapy or thousands of dollars or even having a bath with Julia Roberts for me to realise I’m an angry person. I go through phases, and sometimes it’s completely irrational, but there you have it!

Some things that have made me angry recently:

  • The sentencing in the high profile US rape case (you can read yesterday’s post about it ICYMI). As more details come to light, including a defence letter written by Turner’s friend who claims it wasn’t rape, it was just alcohol and that the judge shouldn’t be so politically correct, the more angry I get.
  • Idiot drivers (to be fair this happens most days, I have a 30 mile motorway commute to work and the inability of some people to drive like a sensible human being astounds me regularly)
  • Rude drivers (seriously, you drive badly and then have the cheek to flick me the bird?)
  • Stupid decisions made by people who should know better
  • My appearance, more specifically why have I allowed myself to gain more weight than I would like but yet I still can’t stop eating (mmm, food)
  • The Stradivarius website for not making it clear how to return an order
  • Reports of restaurants and businesses still turning away Guide Dog owners from their premises (I work in the sight loss industry and it’s amazing and astonishing how many people still flout the law)
  • My arrogant downstairs neighbours and their annoying offspring who seem insistent on spoiling my peace and quiet
  • The people who think it was ok to break into my friends car and steal his possessions that he worked hard for
  • Life in general. Yes, sometimes I’m just angry with life!

Back to Pretty Woman, which most definitely does not make me angry. It’s my favourite film of all time, I can pretty much speak all of the dialogue when I’m watching it (which is a real treat for whoever’s with me at the time, obvs). Not so long back I posted a pic from the polo match scene on Instagram and my friend Ellen and I (Hi Ellen!) had a “quote off”. There was not one phrase or saying that Ellen posted that I didn’t immediately recognise and could place within the film. It’s an achievement I’m strangely proud of.

It’s a bit of a funny film really, when you look at it overall, because although it’s a romantic fairytale, let’s not forget that Vivien is a lady of the night and Edward pays her for sex. So, at it’s core, it’s a cheap tale of a rich man exploiting a young girl for sex.

But it’s so great!

I recently read an article on alternative film endings; details of what the director planned originally. The Pretty Woman one broke my heart to even think about! Can you even imagine?!

The screenwriter J.F. Lawton revealed that the original ending was “completely different”. Firstly, they don’t end up together; even worse Edward drags Vivian from his car, throwing her onto Hollywood Boulevard, where he first picked her up. He then chucks money at her, saying: “You’ll regret it tomorrow if you don’t take it. You’ll regret it the minute I drive away.” Lawson added: “The film ends with Kit [Vivian’s prostitute friend] and Vivian on a bus bound for Disneyland… with Kit anticipating a fun day financed by Vivian’s week with Edward, as Vivian stares out emptily ahead.”

You can read the rest of the alternative endings on the Glamour Magazine website.

Thanks, as always, for reading!

A shocking miscarriage of “justice” against women

There are so many things wrong with the story that I’m posting about today that I can’t even fully articulate how I feel about it.

http://nymag.com/thecut/2016/06/stanford-swimmer-brock-allen-turner-sentenced.html

In case you haven’t seen it or don’t have time to read it, let me give you a précis.

A student went to a party, got very drunk (by her own admission) and then woke up in hospital having been sexually assaulted by a student behind a rubbish bin. She had no recollection of the assault, or the perpetrator, but luckily two passers by had seen the attack and dragged him off, keeping him pinned to the floor until the police arrived.

So far, so standard, right? I mean that not all flippantly. But unfortunately this is not an unusual story. Too many males of the species seem to think that a drunk woman is fair game for them to treat as they please. Thank god for the passers by, who not only reported it, but actually got physically involved to ensure the attacker was caught.

Here’s where the story gets nasty, and the victim of the attack gets assaulted all over again. Despite an overwhelming 100% guilty verdict by the jury, the attacker was sentenced to just 6 months in prison. To put that into context, the maximum sentence the judge could have passed for the crimes he was found guilty of was 14 years.

Miscarriage of justice

The reasoning the judge has given for his leniency is that this was the attacker’s first crime, and that a lengthy incarceration would have a sever impact on him.

Yes, that’s right, the judge is considering the feelings of the attacker over the victim.

At this point it’s probably worth noting that the attacker is a white male, a privately educated student with a promising swimming career ahead of him. He hopes to become an Olympian.

It’s also worth noting that the judge is an ex student of the same university.

I don’t necessarily believe white privilege is a thing, and I certainly believe it’s bandied about recklessly and inappropriately by those wishing to excuse their own behaviour, but in this case it seems a worthy explanation. If this was a black guy with previous convictions from the wrong side of the tracks, I have no doubt that the sentence would have been more severe. But the crime would have been the same. The effect on the victim would have been the same.

Incidentally, the victim has done everything she can not to be a victim. She stood up in court and faced the scumbag who tried to take away her dignity and privacy that night and she read a 7000 word statement detailing what she has been through and how it has made her feel. That statement has been released publicly and you can read it here. I implore you to do so. It’s lengthy and at times hard going, but it’s honesty and rawness should be read my men and women alike. A sexual assault isn’t just something a woman can get over, whether justice is served or not. It will remain with her, in one form or another, forever. It will shape her future, regardless of how she tries to not let it.

What we are seeing here is another example of the feelings and rights of women not being taken seriously. Instead, the attacker – who’s name is Brock Allen Turner – has the law on his side, despite he fact that he broke it. The judge said he doesn’t believe Turner is a future risk. Really? Because giving him the message that he can rape a woman with little recourse for his actions certainly raises a green flag for him to believe that his behaviour wasn’t “all that bad”. Further not helped by his deluded and arrogant father, who asked the judge not to throw away his son’s future on the basis of “20 minutes of action” during his 20 years of life. I kid you not. “20 minutes of action”. If that’s not a living breathing misogynistic pig then I don’t know what is. He points out that his son, who likes to cook, hardly eats anymore, and will never be his previous happy go lucky self. Really? That’s a defence?

He also believes his son can play a powerful role in spreading the message about excessive drinking and promiscuity.

Let’s be clear here. There was no promiscuity. This was a predatory and non consensual attack. Let’s also stop any suggestion that the victim “deserved it” because she has been drinking. She did not invite this attack. She did not want or choose to be violated. She shouldn’t have to apologise for being drunk. She shouldn’t have to apologise for anything.

There’s a petition in place to recall the Judge on account of his appallingly bad sentencing and inability to understand the severity of not only the case, but his leniency.

Please sign.
Thanks, as always, for reading. x

My first…part 4!

Another first of the month – wow! And it’s a pretty grotty one here; rain and cloud and general gloom. Welcome to Flaming June!

What June does mean is Download festival! Which is something I never thought I’d hear myself say, even as recently as 3 years ago, but here I am preparing for my 3rd one in a row and feeling very excited.

The decision to go to Download was a flippant drunken one. You see, I’m not the festival type. I don’t do rain and I don’t do camping and I don’t do wellies. I don’t do big crowds and I don’t do stinky toilets and I find a lot of rock music too heavy or shouty.

What the hell was I thinking of even suggesting it?

Honestly, I don’t know! It seemed like a really nice thing to do for the husband after a few glasses of wine (he’s a lifelong rock fan and used to go to Donnington when it was Monsters of Rock). By the following morning I was already half full of regret but it was too late; the tickets and accommodation were booked.

As I said, I don’t do camping, so it was staying in a guesthouse or nothing! I like home comforts, a dry bed and a bathroom. I can’t possibly imagine how anyone can enjoy themselves if they’ve had a quick wipe down with a wetwipe and their clothes are swimming in mud. But to each their own!

Oh, and we booked VIP guest passes in additional to the standard tickets, so we could go in and out of the guest area which has better toilets, less queues, bars, places to sit, undercover areas and additional entertainment, At £100+, on top of the £160 ticket, it’s pretty expensive, but £35 a day just for a more hygienic loo break is worth it!

So the car was packed full of clothes for every eventuality and we had plans to meet up with friends who went every year. We got ourselves settled, got ready, and called a cab to the festival site.

And it was AMAZING! The buzz collecting our wristbands and walking into the main festival arena was electric. There were hundreds of people, some dressed up, some dressed down, some already drunk. Everyone excited and up for having a good time. The sun shone all weekend meaning we could sit on the grass and chill out with drinks when there were bands that didn’t interest us that much. The food was really good; with food trucks and cuisines from all around the world. We went on the fairground and I screamed my head off. We drank Sambuca shots from a converted VW Campervan. We sang along at the top of our voices to Aerosmith and swooned over Steven Tyler.

I loved every minute.

This is my favourite picture of the weekend.

Download 2014 me and my husband

In fact it’s one of my favourite pictures EVER! It was taken by an ex work colleague of the husband’s, who is now doing very well as a photographer. I love the reflection of the circus tent in hubby’s sunglasses. It never fails to make me smile and fade off into hazy memories of an amazing weekend.

Read about last year’s wet and muddy Download here!

Are you a festival go-er? I’d love to hear from you!

Thanks, as always, for reading! x

Wanting it all

I wrote a post last year about being overcommitted in terms of time and events and money. It was a note to myself to not let it happen again this year.

Yet, here we are, 5 months into 2016, and our calendar is as full as ever. And it’s pretty much my fault.

I most definitely suffer from FOMO (fear of missing out). I want to do everything, see everything and be everywhere. This has become magnified since my Dad’s illness was diagnosed, and only escalates as time goes on.

FOMO

I think we live in a want it all society these days. When I was younger travel was less easy to arrange, flights were more expensive. High Street shops would carry the same stock for weeks on end. There was no internet, or online shopping, or even Sunday and late night shopping! Eating out was an every so often treat we used to get dressed up for and takeaways might happen once every couple of months.

(I’m aware this is turning into a “when I were a lass” diatribe, which is not my intention at all!)

The point I’m trying to make is how different things are now. The flight for my trip to Lyon and back cost less than £100. A weekday train ticket to London for work is more than that! Stores get deliveries of new ranges on a weekly if not daily basis and the number of items they stock and supply online is into the thousands. Next day, or even same day, delivery means not having to wait. Popping to the pub for a bite to eat and a drink after work is no big deal, and a takeaway at least once a week is more or less an expectation. Sites like Groupon and Wowcher offer cut price hotel stays. Websites like Red Letter Days enable people to fly a plane, drive a tank or go in a hot air balloon. All of these things are out there, seemingly for the taking, and we’re bombarded with them through email, advertising and the media.

Social media has a big impact on the want it all society. There have been studies on the mental impact it can have when we’re looking at photographs of perfect people on perfect holidays in perfect bikinis when we’re sitting at home in our scruffs and unwashed hair watching Friends on repeat. The trouble is, in an age where we can follow people we’ve never met on Instagram and Twitter, our minds and expectations aren’t just confined to the realms of what our families and friends are doing. We’re seeing people our age with what we perceive to be better lives than we have. We have an insight into the worlds of people we probably wouldn’t mix with or even meet in real life. And it magnifies FOMO.

Me? I’m a realist. I know that I’m never going to have the gorgeous bronzed bikini body because I like food too much. I’m never going to be a constant traveller because I have a life at home with family to think about and a mortgage to pay and a car to run. I can’t just give up life and follow my dreams. I’m never going to be posting pictures of fancy hotels and fancy restaurants serving fancy foods because that’s not my comfort zone; I’m too down to earth and clumsy to feel at home anywhere with fine china or silver service!

But it doesn’t stop me wanting the most out of my own life, within the realms of what I know is possible for me. Which is why I never say no to a gig I want to go to, in case I don’t get chance to see the band again. Or why I’m always pushing for a city break or a holiday or a day out to soak up everything that’s out there to see. Or why I cave when husband mentions takeaway, even mid week, because food is such a joy and a pleasure and I love eating more than I love being the skinny minnie I was when I was 20 (damnit!)

I’m lucky that I have disposable income to do (most of) the things I want in life. It hasn’t been handed to me on a plate though. I have studied and worked to reach this point, as has the husband. We’ve also made conscious life decisions that facilitate our lifestyle. We don’t want children and we don’t live in a big house. We choose life over possessions (apart from shoes. Because, well, shoes!)

I also control my expectations, to a certain extent, by not overexposing myself to social media accounts of people who will make me question my own life. As a rule I don’t follow aspirational blogs or instagram accounts with millions of followers, because they’re unrealistic. I don’t see them as something to aim for, I see them as a way for me to belittle myself and my own happiness. Which I really don’t need, thank you very much! It’s not being jealous, it’s just being truthful to my own mind.

I’d much rather read about someone living a real life that’s similar to mine, with all it’s failings and foibles. A funny story about falling over. A day out at the UK seaside. A new pair of shoes from New Look or Primark. Look at Instagram photos of pretty flowers in a local park or a bright Rimmel nail varnish.

On that note I will stop my waffling and look forward to all the nice things I have coming up in the next few weeks whilst most definitely NOT thinking about things I’d like to be doing but can’t. Because really, what’s the point? Whilst I’m engulfed in FOMO about something, I’m AMO (actually missing out) on the things happening in the moment.

(P.s, if you fancy giving my realistic Instagram account a follow, click here!)

Thanks, as always, for reading! x

Living with dying

This is a post I never wanted to face up to writing. Despite knowing the time would come, I of course hoped it wouldn’t. Naively, ignorantly, optimistically hoping something would change.

This is not an attention seeking post, or an attempt to bum anyone out. If you’re feeling emotionally fragile or only drop by for the fun stuff then I won’t be offended if you don’t read on.

2 years ago, about now, my Dad started passing blood when he went to the loo. Not being one to neglect these things, he went to his doctor, who referred him to the “2 week clinic”. A cancer doctor.

Dad researched the internet (as we all do these days) and feared it may be bladder cancer. When he went to the clinic he was told there was an issue with his prostate. Ironically the passing of blood was completely unrelated, a one off.

My only knowledge of prostate cancer up to that point was:

a) It’s very treatable

b) It’s an “old man’s” disease.

My Dad was just 57.

As for the first point, yes it is very treatable. Mortality rates from prostate cancer are difficult to measure, because many older men who are diagnosed with it will, ultimately, die from something else rather than the cancer – maybe old age, or a heart attack.

But somehow my Dad, at the age of 57 and with no previous symptoms ever, had stage 4 prostate cancer. Inoperable. Too far gone to treat, and with no possible cure. It had already spread out of his prostate and into his bones. The only options were treatments to halt the growth, the spread, the virility with which it was attacking his body.

He’s had two years of treatments; hormone therapy, injections, radiotherapy and chemo. And now there are no treatments left. Only pain management. Treatments that will ease the pain that the cancer will cause in his bones.

Living with Dying

The head fuck of all this is that my Dad doesn’t look or seem ill. He hasn’t lost weight, stopped going out, become immobile or lost his appetite. He’s travelled to Greece, Italy, Cambodia and Vietnam since his diagnosis. He’s currently having a brand new kitchen fitted. He still tells me off for drinking too much and regales me with tales of what he’s been eating for dinner. He still sees friends and goes greyhound racing. The only problems he’s had have been as a result of the medication he’s been taking.

When he was diagnosed the realisation was almost too much to bear. The thought of finality and an end. Of knowing what’s to come. Cancer is a horrible disease, and I saw what it did to my Grandad, the physical effect it had on a once strong man. It’s a scary prospect.

But then, for a while, cancer became a word again; something that was there but we couldn’t see it. We lived from month to month with Dad going for blood tests to see how the medication was working. We breathed a sigh of relief and wept with joy when the results were good. We cried with sadness and despair when results were bad and yet another treatment option was exhausted. And now there will be no good results. There are no more potential highs to combat the crippling woes.

I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared. I’m scared for my Dad – I know he hates pain and fears what’s to come. I’m scared for his wife, who he’s only been married to for 5 years. She’s the same age as my husband, and far too young to be widowed. They were supposed to have a really nice life together, a long life, a happy retirement for my Dad filled with travel and days out and all the life affirming things they love to do together.

And I’m scared for me. I’m scared of how I’ll cope. If I’ll cope. I have no idea how to comprehend the fact that he’s not going to be here. That I can’t phone him up to talk about my holiday. To not see the animation in his face as he describes a meal he’s had at a restaurant.

My husband has told me on many occasions that at least this way I get to spend time with my Dad, not leave anything left unsaid, make memories that will carry me through the times we’re not together. And I know that’s true. But I wonder if sudden death is easier, for everyone? Because grieving for someone who is still very much alive is so difficult. And I don’t know how my Dad even gets out of bed in the morning, living with the knowledge of what’s going on. Living with dying.

In the UK tests for prostate cancer aren’t currently done on a routine basis, they have to be requested from the GP. As far as I can tell, they’re only available to men over 50, unless there is a significant indication that there may be a problem. If you know someone over 50, maybe mention this to them and suggest they think about a test.

Thanks, as always, for reading. x

Five things I love about “actual” spring

I started to write this post last week when the sun was shining, and it felt really mild, verging on warm. Then, as if I tempted fate, it rained so much I thought I might need an ark to get home from work, and on Saturday we had a bit of snow. British weather, eh?

Today the sunshine and milder temps are back, and I’m starting to believe I can actually pack away my winter jumpers. This makes me happy.

Spring

In my head I start calling spring as soon as the sun shines in February, mainly because I cannot wait for winter to be over, but in truth it’s not until April that it feels like the season has begun and I can acknowledge that I don’t live in an eternal tundra.

Here are 5 things I love about about spring.

Not wearing a jacket
I love jackets and how they can really add to an outfit, but there’s something liberating about knowing you don’t need one after a winter of being wrapped up from the elements.

Driving with the windows open
Even just a tiny crack to let in that fresh spring air makes you feel all vibrant and refreshed.

Sitting on my balcony when I get home
Admittedly at the moment it’s only for a brief 15 minutes, but it feels good to relax al fresco after a day cooped up in the office.

Blossom trees
Pretty. Pink. Look like confetti. Nuff said.

Open toed shoes
Again it’s a liberation thing, shedding those socks and boots, painting those toenails, and exposing those tootsies to the world.

What do you love about spring?

Thanks, as always, for reading! x

A post about mental health, for World Health Day

Well, lookie here, no fancy pants title or trying to be funny.

Then again, mental illness isn’t funny.

It’s also nothing to be ashamed of.

I’ve been on anti-depressants for many years. That isn’t supposed to sound as flippantly blasé as I know it does, but it’s a fact. And facts are important.

Ironically, the “face” of depression – the weeping, wailing, staying in bed all day – is about as far away from my symptoms as can be. I did go through a period like that, after I’d been diagnosed but before I started taking medication. I had 3 weeks off work, slept all day and lived on cereal. I also used to laugh with my friends on the phone and go out clubbing. There was a real dichotomy to my diagnosis.

But, for me, mostly, depression is about anger, irritation and the inability to deal with normal situations in a rational way. An overwhelming overwhelmedness.

I had started to be this irrational, short tempered, irritable person who snapped at nothing and everything. I couldn’t see it myself. I was living with my Mom at the time, after she and my Dad had separated, and inevitably most mornings would wind up with her in tears and me thinking it was all her fault. During a brief moment of clarity when I realised perhaps I was partly to blame, I booked an appointment with my doctor. Where I spilled everything and had a good cry to boot.

Being diagnosed with depression when you’re not that weeping wailing ball of sadness that you associate with the illness is a weird one. I had no intention of taking the anti-depressants prescribed by the doctor, because it was obviously just a phase and it would pass. Besides, people on anti-depressants were generally nutters, right? It wasn’t a category I wanted to associate myself with. But the situation worsened over the course of a week and came to something of a crescendo when I threatened to take a packet of Nurofen if my Mom didn’t back off. She carted me off to the pharmacy, with the much hated prescription in hand, and made me take my first tablet there and then.

It would be overly dramatic to say she saved my life, because I wouldn’t really have taken the Nurofen (I think there was only a few in the packet anyway), although there were times during the weeks that followed that I’d have been happy for it all to end. Not suicidal as in I wanted to deal the final blow, but if I could have stayed in bed and everyone came to say goodbye and then I just went to sleep, that would have been groovy. Of course that didn’t happen, and I’m rather glad. She certainly saved our relationship at that point in time, because there was no way we could have continued living together had things progressed any further.

Initially I went through the stigma of not wanting anyone to know and keeping it a secret. I shared it with a few people and then had it thrown back at me, by someone who should have known better, telling me that I had nothing to be depressed about and didn’t know what a hard life was all about.

But I’m not ashamed. I don’t declare it from the rooftops, but I’m open with friends if it comes up in conversation. My husband and I affectionately refer to my Prozac as my “loopy tablets” and they’re a source of relationship glue for both of us. I say that following an episode 2 years ago where I decided to come off them without telling anyone, because I was feeling strong, and unknowingly put our marriage under a lot of strain. Same situation – me being intolerable and nasty and short tempered but thinking he was to blame. Of course that’s not all that keeps our marriage together! But it certainly contributes to the stability of our marriage. Because, let’s face it, who wants to be legally stuck with someone who’s aggressive, accusatory and irrational?

I know you’re not supposed to be on anti-depressants for a prolonged period of time. But I’m also a great believer in knowing your own mind. I’ve been through times where I’ve taken a tablet every couple of days and felt fine. There are days when I take them religiously each day. There have been times when I’ve upped my dosage for a while (although always with a doctor’s consent). The key to me is doing what’s right for me, and what makes me feel ok. And, in the experience I’ve had with not taking them, I can honestly say I need them. Not an addiction, or falling apart at the seams if I miss one. But that little bit of connection between the wires of my brain that don’t quite match up makes me the “real me” and not the “angry me”. And why would I give that up just to not be a statistic?

I love this cartoon, which I’ve seen a number of times and totally sums it up, for me.

Depression cartoon

If I had diabetes, I wouldn’t not inject myself because of the stigma.

If I had a heart condition I wouldn’t refuse beta blockers because I didn’t want to be on them.

So if at some point in this journey of life my mind stopped working to it’s best ability, then I’m damn well going to give it everything it needs to bridge that gap – for my marriage, for my family, for my employers but, most importantly, for me.

Thanks, as always, for reading! x

My first…part two

Last month I started a new series of “my firsts”, which will feature on the 1st of the month.

This month’s is my first car.

My younger sister had her first driving lesson this week. I couldn’t wait to learn to drive. It was top of my list when I hit 17. My birthday was just before Christmas, and I passed in mid May.

For the first year I shared my Mom’s car. I loved being able to drive to 6th form for classes. Looking back I guess my Mom must have missed out a little, as I was zooming here there and everywhere while she was at home, car-less! I suppose, as a parent, you’re happy to make sacrifices for your kids.

When I started work at 18, I wanted my own car. I was earning decent money and had very few outgoings, so my own wheels became a priority to me. I remember my Dad telling me to buy the newest I could afford, so I wouldn’t end up with repair bills and being stranded places.

My first car

At the time there was an advert on TV for a Fiat Punto, in metallic electric blue, that was driving around Italy. It was my dream car! So I saved really hard for a few months, and my Dad boosted my coffers by giving me £500 towards a deposit, and then I took out a loan and bought one. It was only 12 months old and had electric windows. Not your typical first car. I loved it so much. That car took me on a lot of adventures! I first started clubbing during the time I owned it, and drove all over the country to different clubs, events and festivals.

My funniest memory is going to Leeds Love Parade with a group of friends. There were 3 cars on the way there, but one broke down. Instead of getting towed home, the 4 lads decided to carry on up to the festival and deal with it later. That meant there were 13 of us in Leeds and only 2 cars to get us home.

I left Leeds in the boot of my own car, with another girl squished alongside me, and 5 people inside the car which was now being driven by one of my friends. It was so random! I’ll never forget stopping off at the services on the way home and getting out to stretch our legs – the look on the faces of people in the car park as two girls climbed out of the boot of a Punto!

This series is only two months old and already bringing back so many memories. Things I’d forgotten about, or not recalled for a long time. It feels nice.

Thanks, as always, for reading! x

Is this the final nail in the coffin for Donald Trump’s presidency bid?

Like so many people across the world, I’m apoplectic with rage at Donald Trump’s latest misguided, idiotic, foolhardy and downright stupid comments in his bid to become a presidential candidate.

For anyone that might have missed it, Donald Trump believes that abortion should be made illegal, and any women having an abortion should be punished.

2016-03-31-12-26-47--1575949556

I feel very strongly about the right to abortion.

If you choose to read on, then please respect that these are my thoughts, my opinions, and this is my blog. I will respect your right to share your own thoughts, but will not tolerate rudeness or personal attack.

I’m very vocal about my beliefs and quite often end up in “discussion” with people on Facebook threads.

I believe that abortion is a woman’s right, for whatever reason she chooses.

I also believe that no man should have a say in that right. If you haven’t got the physical bits to carry a baby and give birth, then butt out.

You might conclude from this that I’ve had an abortion myself. I haven’t. But if I had, I wouldn’t be ashamed. And here’s why.

A woman’s body is not just a vessel for carrying babies. I’ve posted previously about how annoyed I get when people assume women will grow older and procreate. We’re about more than that. And that’s fine.

But, let’s face it, mistakes happen. Contraception doesn’t always work. People get caught up in the heat of the moment and make ill informed decisions. Accidental pregnancies are a real thing.

I believe that a woman has as much right to abort an accidental pregnancy as she does one that isn’t viable for health reasons, or as a result of rape. The reason for aborting the latter two types of pregnancy is completely obvious, and anyone who disagrees with that needs their head looking at. If you think it’s better to progress with a pregnancy created through violence, or one that will result in poor quality of life for the child, then you’re not pro-life. You’re a sadist. Even if your argument is that the birth mother could give the child up for adoption, you’re still not pro-life. Because living in a foster home waiting for new parents, for who knows how long, maybe forever, isn’t living. It’s existing. Being in a children’s home where bullying and abuse is often rife is robbing a child of any life. Putting a child through the pain and suffering of an incurable illness to sooth your own conscience is selfish. Better not to be born at all.

Back to accidental pregnancies though. If a woman falls pregnant unintentionally; through failed contraception, or a bad decision, or even being careless, why should she be consigned to a lifetime of unwanted parenthood? Why should one brief experience define her life forever more, if she doesn’t want it to? Why should she be forced to go through with having a child she may not want, a child she may not love, or may not care for, just because the law says so?

Here’s the crux. I’m probably a prime candidate for a child. I’m happily married, settled, own home, well paid. But I don’t want kids. And do you know what? If I fell pregnant now, accidentally, I would have an abortion. No doubt about it.

And do you know something else? I wouldn’t feel guilty about it. Because it would be the right decision for me, and the right decision for that collection of cells, because I know I couldn’t give a child the very best in life – purely because I don’t want to. I don’t think that’s selfish in the slightest. I think that’s realising that, despite all the great things about having kids, I don’t want the whole package.

I don’t buy the belief that all women feel guilty about terminating a pregnancy, and will think about it forever more. If a woman is making the right decision for herself, based on her own personal circumstances, then why would she feel guilt? Sure, at some point you might think “what if?” But that’s not to say it will be a whistful what if! Personally I would feel relief. Relief that I live in a progressive society where a woman has the right to choose and take control of her body.

Relief that I will not be punished for making a decision that, ultimately, affects me more than anyone.

So, Mr Trump, you have completely isolated all the women out there like me, who believe in “our body, our right” (as if we didn’t already hate your guts for your vile thoughts about Muslims and closing borders).

But that’s ok I guess. Because all the pro-lifers will be on your side and you’ll guarantee their share of the vote, right?

Wrong.

In a statement, Jeanne Mancini, president of the March for Life Education and Defense Fund, said Trump’s comments were “completely out of touch with the pro-life movement and even more with women who have chosen such a sad thing as abortion.”

“Being pro-life means wanting what is best for the mother and the baby,” Mancini said. “Women who choose abortion often do so in desperation and then deeply regret such a decision. No pro-lifer would ever want to punish a woman who has chosen abortion. This is against the very nature of what we are about.”

Ha, have that you orange bigot!

Worse still, upon sensing he’d dropped a massive clanger with his comments, Trump has back peddled and suggested he meant punishment for the doctors carrying out abortions.

Oh, so that’s ok then? No it’s not! A doctor, a medical professional, carrying out a legal operation that a woman has requested? Would you punish plastic surgeons who are going against the natural grain with breast enlargements and nose jobs? Because I don’t think that’s what God had in mind when he created Adam and Eve.

What next? Surely some homophobic slurs and a vow to reverse the decision to legalise gay marriage. Making it legal for police officers to shoot black people on sight. Hell, let’s even give the KKK some political power. Sounds far fetched?

Unfortunately, I think anything is possible with this vile excuse for a human being.

And you know what’s worse than him?

The misty eyed dim witted followers that agree with him.

Thanks, as always, for reading! x