Diary of a wimpy kid.

My name is Kim and I'm a wet blanket. A wuss. A scaredy cat.

I don't know why. Or when it started. But somewhere along the line, I've become a big girl's blouse.

Let's say that you've just asked me if I want to do a bungee jump. Cue mild sweats, fast thinking ways to avoid the situation, and notes to self never to answer the phone to you again.

Or maybe you've got a really good idea for my hen do - we're going swimming with sharks. (Note to hens - we better not be.) My throat would tighten, a sound night's sleep would be out the window, as would our friendship.

My fear of adrenalin was highlighted this weekend, with a visit to see a girlfriend who is in the RAF and flies fighter jets every day.

This friend, she gets up in the morning, puts on her boiler suit, probably a pair of Aviators, and heads down to the RAF airfield where she pops herself into the cockpit of a killing machine and takes to the skies. One day, she'll go to war.

Now, you might have already painted a picture in your mind of what this friend of mine might be like. Doing one handed press-ups in her own time, eating steak for breakfast. Doing arm wrestles with her co-pilot. Allow me to quash any stereotypes. She has soft, floaty blonde hair. She loves a good pedicure, she wears dresses and drinks white wine. She's planning a wedding, a big white wedding, she has a diamond ring on her finger.

Not exactly Iceman. (Top Gun reference there for the lads.) Yet, Iceman is exactly what she is. A fearless Maverick. While I'm more wouldn't say boo to a Goose. (Top Gun analogy losing its way there lads.) 

'What scares you?' I asked her, wondering if spiders and bungee jumps and roller coasters and caves and heights and sharks give her the willies, as they do me.

'I nearly crashed mid air the other day,' she said, off hand. 'That was a bit scary.'
 
Tough as old boots, this one. And just two generations ago, my own flesh and blood was just as hardcore. Grandma Willis, she flew Spitfires in the war. She was one of the first women to get her RAF wings and paved the way for my friend's career. Meanwhile, her actual descendant, at best, edges towards spiders with a pint glass and a piece of card before running off in the other direction squealing: 'Nevermind, he can move in, we'll move out!'

I never have and never will jump out of a plane. I know people who have. 'I was terrified,' they say. No, you weren't, you can't have been. Not properly terrified, like me, because if you really were terrified, you would have locked yourselves in the loo and refused to come out, (Actually, I'm also afraid of locking myself in the loo. Usually I just prop the door shut with my foot and wee while sort of straddling the space between the door and loo. It makes for a sorry mess but better than running out of oxygen and drinking loo water while awaiting rescue, which is what I presume will happen if I lock the door.)

At best, get me drunk and I'll suddenly turn into Jack Bauer, doing roly polys into hedges and waking up with scratches on my arms. Pretty brave, Jack Bauer. As am I, when I risk life and limb impersonating him. But I'm also drunk. And drunk's no good when you need to fly a plane, or swim with a shark, or get on a roller coaster. Definitely not the last one, you'd sick all over yourself.

When the world ends, people like my RAF friend will be alright. Me? As soon as I run out of contact lenses, I'll be done for. No one is going to care that I can put together a few words in a fancy sentence when they're battling invading alien hoardes and whatnot.

No, it really is time to strap on a pair.

And so, I've taken step one towards ditching the poltroon behaviour. I have just been reconditioned to believe I am not afraid of the ocean. A hippy told me that it was just a childhood fear of a swimming pool cleaning machine (it looked like a shark) and I needed to let go.

Good news - it worked. Just call me Billy Ocean. I have booked in a windsurfing lesson on my upcoming honeymoon, in a bay that used to be called Shark Bay, until they decided it was putting off the tourists and renamed it Kite Bay. And who would be afraid of getting eaten by sharks in Kite Bay? Not I.

(I found a picture of a shark kite. How fitting. I'm even a little bit afraid of it.)

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Cruise Control

Katie Holmes and I have a lot in common. We've both got brown hair, we're both taller than our men in heels. (That's us in heels, not our men in heels.) Both been touched by Scientology.

I was wandering up Oxford Street a few years back. Minding my own business, probably laden down with ill advised purchases that I wore once then gave to charity. I do like to do my bit for charity. Not so good at doing my bit for fashion.

'Would you like to do a personality test?' someone asked me.

'I love personality tests!' I exclaimed, as I was led into a little room and sat down. I was already late for meeting my friend Laurence, but a few minutes wouldn't hurt and I do take every opportunity going to fill out questionnaires about my personality so I can see who I am. I like it when it turns out I'm great.

I no sooner had the pen in hand when Laurence called to see where I was.

'I'm doing a personality test!' I exclaimed.

Quick as a flash, Laurence saved me from a cult.

'You're on Oxford Street aren't you?' he asked. 'It's not a personality test. It's a Scientology test, you dick. Get up and walk away now.'

'But I want to find out who I am,' I stuttered.

'I'll tell you who you are when you meet me in the pub. Do not stay there.'

So I made my excuses and left. Dodged a bullet there, didn't I, Katie Holmes?

Katie wasn't so lucky. She went a bit further down the path. Rumour had it she had a silent birth, as is the expectation on mothers in the Church of Scientology.

I'm not a fan of religions. In my opinion, religions appear to be rather flawed. Scientology in particular takes the biscuit. Any religion that expects mothers to squeeze something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon in silence is spouting pseudo-science and needs to be questioned.

L. Ron Hubbard. We all know who he is don't we? The science fiction writer who claimed: 'If you want to get rich, start a religion.' (Nice one, Jesus.) L Ron's dead now, which Scientologists believe means he has been reincarnated into one of the other forms he'll take on in his billion year life cycle. I believe that it means he is dead now. 

It's easy to see why Tom Cruise is such a fan of Scientology. He's been given the number two rank at Scientology HQ. The religion adores him, makes him feel like the most important immortal alien trapped in a man's body since time immemorial. I heard that when Scientology has it's annual banquets, the more you pay for your ticket, the closer you get to sit to TOM CRUISE.

Well I fancy. What a privilege. You mean the short guy with the crooked teeth?

I can't afford that. How much do I have to pay to sit near the Saturday Night Fever guy with the penchant for sex with massage therapists?

Crikey I can't afford that either. Ok, let's see. Can I afford a seat near Jason Lee, from My Name Is Earl? Juliette Lewis, the awesome actress cum rock star with a potty mouth? I want to sit near her, she's cool! No Kim, you can't afford that. And what are you doing here anyway? You didn't even complete the first personality test. You went to the pub instead.

I did, it's true. Religion is not for me. Gin is the only spirit I believe in. It's not holy, but it gets the job done.*



*Disclaimer. Will change mind and religion if Ryan Gosling, Channing Tatum or Jessie from Breaking Bad request it. Or all three. Will definitely ditch all rhyme and reason for the trio. Mmm, what a scrumptious Scientology sandwich that would be.

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50 shades

50 shades of this, 50 shades of that… No, I haven't read it. No, I'm not going to. In my blissful state of ignorance, I'm going to write about it instead. Without having any idea what I'm talking about. I jump on enough band wagons as it is (skinny jeans. Ballet pumps. Crush on Channing Tatum. Chai tea. Actually I like to think I started the last one) but this wagon has way too many band members as it is.

I was given Lady Chatterley's Lover for my birthday. It was written in 1928. I'll get around to reading that soon. Then maybe in 84 years I'll see what all the fuss is about with this Grey character.

It's not that I'm averse to c-literature. (Although I am averse to that amalgamation of words. Yuk.) I love porn. I love whatever I can get my grubby mitts on. And I like, separately, reading. I'm reading two books at the moment. Bad Science. (Excellent. Now there's a band wagon I wish everyone would jump on) and the Psychopath Test, which I read aloud to my boyfriend every night, like some kind of warped bedtime story. Sometimes we have the window open and I do wonder if our neighbours can hear my dulcet tones as I soothe my boyfriend into the land of dreams by talking about murderers and sociopathic behaviour.

And I even once read one of these erotic novels that are now topic de jour. Yeah, that's right, I read an erotic novel long before any of you knew your Grey from your riding crop. I had joined a book club and one of the girls suggested we all read The Piano Teacher. Dutifully, I went hunting for this book I had never heard of.

I went to a cute little church-run bookshop in a cute little church-run town with my soon to be mother in law. We were looking through the books when suddenly I stumbled upon the Piano Teacher. LOOK! I said to mother in law, shoving it in her face. IT'S MY READING MATERIAL! What are the chances?!

She sort of looked at me a bit funny and went about her day.

I bought it and took it home to read in time for my next book club meet-up.

From what I recall, The Piano Teacher is about a girl who starts having piano lessons in a sinister university where the teacher whips her (yes, all erotic novels love a good whipping, it seems) when she gets her C Major wrong. Bit of an odd book to suggest at a book club with people you hardly know, I thought. But I persevered. I quite enjoyed it. The girl ended up having to get her kit off to be spanked in front of an array of lecturers who were all there to watch her perform / get whipped. I think that was the plot, I'm a bit hazy now. All I remember was there was a lot of spanking.

It turns out there are two novels called The Piano Teacher. The rest of my book club read a book about 1950s Hong Kong under British rule.

Anyway, I think we all agreed I was the real winner, enjoyed as I had a bit of soft porn.

Christian Grey is described by all the media outlets that are shoving him in my face as a modern-art loving, helicopter flying, rich, powerful man who likes to bonk twice in a row. He sounds like a right knob. I've met men who like modern art. I've met men who own their own helicopters. They were rich, yes, powerful, yes. But also pot bellied, dull and sported receding hairlines. Not exactly the stuff of fantasies.

My fantasy man, who goes by the name of Channing Tatum, is my crush-of-the-month because he took loads of drugs in the excellent 21 Jump Street, then gate-crashed band practise and jumped through a giant symbol, shouting 'Fuck You Miles Davis!'


That's enough for me. Perhaps there is something wrong with my loins. I'm turned on by funny. It does help that Channing, or Channers, can I call him that? is built like a dream boat, of course, but that's what I want. A fit bloke crashing into a drum kit. You can keep your helicopter piloting, chocolate fudge caramel voiced sadist, thanks.

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Paper. Well and truly Chased.

Ever wondered how long it takes to walk around the flagship Paperchase store? It's three floors high, people. And when you are absorbing every nook and cranny, like some kind of slow-mo Supermarket Sweep, it takes two hours, twenty two minutes.

I'm a very good shopper. I've been shopping my whole life. Honed my craft, perfected my skills. I know how to navigate every aisle so as to avoid unfortunate doublings up or worse, missing a potential buy. I can even hold conversations while I shop - although my ears are listening to whoever is speaking at me, my eyes are elsewhere, darting left, darting right, never missing a trick.

Problem is, most shopping trips cost me money too, so I've also had to acquire the skill of restraint. I'm not particularly good at this, but it's got to be done when you're saving for a wedding, or just generally more steadfast things than H&M's latest garments. Like a house. Still, no point having a house if you don't have a pretty table runner for your kitchen table. I know how to make a house a home. I just don't own a house. But I own a lot of crap for the one I'll never be able to afford because I bought too much crap instead of saving for a deposit.

So usually I have to practise self restraint. But then along came Amy. Amy's birthday present to me was a voucher for Paperchase, our mutual spiritual home, filled to busting as it is with greeting cards, birthday cards, fancy pens and luxury notebooks. Amy and I share a love of stationery. Any excuse, we'll be using snail mail to communicate, just so we can send each other a little card with an owl on it. Nothing says 'I saw this and thought of you,' quite like seeing something and posting it to someone. Royal Mail got that slogan damn right.

The voucher present was mega, involve as it did not only Paperchase, my favourite shop, but shopping, my favourite past time. We thought it only right to take an actual day off in order to go to Paperchase, the mecca, the flagship, the church of Kim and Amy. And go voucher crazy.

I've never been to this Paperchase before, the best I've got is a pokey one-floor number in Bath. It was a mecca, housing everything you could ever want from your stationer. A heady concoction of wrapping paper, cards, pens, notebooks, albums, frames, umbrellas, and things you don't really need but really really want, like 76 different styles of card holder for your Oyster card, your passport, your credit cards, your business cards.

Amy and I arrived and quickly started taking things slowly. We were in no rush. We secured a basket each and started snaking our way around the ground floor - if conversation or excitement accidentally had us miss out a section, one eagle eyed swerve later and we were back, chucking things in our baskets like there was no recession. (Which there wouldn't be, if we all just carried on shopping, by the way. I do my bit.)

By the time we got to the sale items at the back of the third floor, our baskets were weighing us down so we hid them under a table while we wandered off, fawning fancy wrapping paper and taking photos of each other holding up pictures of owls.

Busy enjoying ourselves, we didn't see the shop assistant come over and start tidying up after us. Amy, suddenly pulled from our flight of fancy and fearful that all our hard work on floors one and two was for nothing, shot him a look of despair. 'Have you put our baskets back?' she demanded, with what can only be described as a war cry, as if rallying me to rugby tackle him while she poked him in the face with a pink biro. He held his hands up to protest his innocence. 'What baskets?' he stammered, his voice trembling as he backed away, suddenly remembering he had a pressing engagement in the store room.

Well, we had spent over two hours chasing paper already, it would have been a calamity to have to start again. Although it was a calamity I'd have secretly enjoyed.

Till bound, Amy tells me that she's found out we're the only culture on this Earth who don't haggle the price down. So as they start bagging up our goods, Amy lays on the charm. She wants 10% off, for no other reason than the fact we were stood there, buying stuff.

She tried telling Steven, the cashier, that we were journalists. Nothing. She tried telling him he could have a free pen if he used his staff discount on our purchases. Nothing. Our culture isn't ready for this.

Or so I thought.

Next stop, Habitat, where I acquire the aforementioned table runner. For the table I don't own in the house I don't own.

Undeterred, Amy tries again. 'Can we get 10% off that?' she asks.

This time - boom! That's right, for no good reason at all, we got 10% off. No frayed edges, no stains, no rhyme, no reason. We just asked and we just got.

We took our massive savings of about £1.07 and exchanged it for an absinthe cocktail later in the evening. A story for another time, my friends, but suffice to say, my 'I'm not drinking again' mantra enforced after my birthday two weeks ago, rang out in my head over and over again as I threw up my absinthe cocktail in Amy's sink later that night. I almost wiped my sorry brow on my new table runner, but luckily for me, I passed out before I had the chance.

Bottoms up! Absinthe cocktail and a sambuca chaser.



  

 



Fear evident on my sorry little face.

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The league of extraordinary badminton players

Gaz and I have been developing a serious crush on badminton for a while now. To start with, he used to play with his friend Adam, because I thought it looked boring. Then I had a go. Hello, competitive sport! Should have known I was going to love it - not to mention be awesome at it.

So, Adam got ousted to make way for big brawny Kim, the most competitive girl on the pitch. Or field. Whatever it is, the place where I go to win. We had some early teething problems, based on Gareth doing some annoying 'messing around' and 'practising' on me while I was trying to focus on winning. But although we have very different styles, I've enjoyed playing with him. If anything, I admire the way he can mess about and doesn't mind losing a point if it means he can have a go at hitting the birdie from under his cocked leg in a comedy way. I taught myself to enjoy Gareth's non-competitive nature and we really started to have a spot of bi-weekly fun.

Then we started playing doubles with our friends Cordy and Tom. Now that's when the fun really started - doubles was so much more fun than singles. I teamed up with the competitive fella and gave Gareth to Cordy. Tom and I made an excellent team, quickly spotting the flaws in Gareth's backhand and Cordy's weak spot, adapting our own high five and seriously considering a team 'T'shirt. 

So much fun was had that when a poster went up at our local sports-centre for a new badminton league, Gareth and I excitedly signed up.

To me, it seemed like the next logical step. This was how you made friends with locals. I saw myself, a few months down the line, walking into the gym and saying: 'Hi John, hi Mary. Oo, look out for his killer serve, this one's an animal on the court,' and other game related banterings. 'Nice shuttlecock.' That kind of thing.

Gareth and I lined up a game with our first competitors, Tom and Colin. Until we met court-side, we had no idea of their prowess. They could be crap, they could be Olympic. We did not know what we'd let ourselves in for.

But first impressions count for everything and as Tom and Colin arrived, I stifled my joy. Two old fat blokes, one only about 4ft tall on tiptoes.

'Just get it over the little one's head,' I whispered to Gareth, by way of a team talk.

We started knocking up and it was clear Tom and Colin were no match for Gareth and me. We were getting points when points don't count left right and centre.

Then we started the actual game. First to three wins.

Tom and Colin start actually playing properly now. Turns out there's no such thing as over the little one's head, because the pesky little Ronnie Corbett is fast and furious and just runs back and forth like a road runner. He lines them up for himself, he slam dunks, he smashes, he whips, he shoots, he scores. He hit me in the face about three times. He nailed the back hand, the forehand, the wrist flick, the back spin.

Naturally, I hated him. I hated him when they won the first game. And the second. And the third.

Gareth came off the court surmising what fun he'd had, how important it is to take part in these things. I think there's something wrong with my boyfriend. What was fun about that? It was awful. I was in a right grump. I will not be saying 'Oh hi Colin, look out for his backhand, he's an animal on the court,' in a jovial manner next time I see him. I'll be pretending I didn't see him because he's so short.

Bastard. Skillful sporty little bastard.

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Brillo.

I find if I’m trying really hard not to do something, I’m all the more likely to do it. It’s like my brain likes to toy with me. My thoughts are saying ‘Don’t say she looks like Dawn French, don’t say she looks like Dawn French,’ and then my mouth says: ‘You look just like Dawn French!’

Ah, damage done. Well done brain, one to you.

And so it was when Nicola, my partner in crime and business, started abbreviating words. I didn’t like it. I’m a big fan of the English language. Text talk drives me crazy. The youth of today, they are pissing all over our beautiful words with their luv and their lol. Nic started with the occasional ‘obvs’ where she meant obviously, obviously. ‘Don’t join in, Kim, don’t join in.’ I bit my lip. I remembered what peace there may be in silence. I made a point of saying all my words right to the last syllable.

Then Nic started saying other words in the same way.

Lunch time arrived. ‘I’m hung,’ she’d say.

Fed and satisfied, she’d declare, ‘That was amaze.’

And then, as if from nowhere, I was joining in. I couldn’t help it. She had infiltrated my mind and, seeing as she was the only person I saw all day every day (we are a powerhouse of two) it wasn’t hard for her to wear me down.

‘Cup of coff?’ I asked, boiling the ket.

Yes, I sort of did hate myself. But it was also a lot of fun. Nic and I developed our own language. We out did each other with shorter and shorter abbreviations. Of course, it was funny for us, but it wasn’t something I was able to switch off at night, or at weekends, when talking to other human beings. They’d look at me strangely as I started off by abbreviating in the style Nic and I had become accustomed to, then, after a short pause mid-word in which I realised not all the world finds it as funny as we do, I’d finish my word. As if I got mid-word amnesia.

‘Glass of wine, Kim?’ weekend friends would ask.

“Yes please. Have you got any Sauv….(embarrassing pause…) ignon blanc?’

Mega embarro.

But, I soon let go of my embarrassment. Shortening words was funny and I realised other people were doing it, not just me and Nic. In fact just yesterday, my friend Hannah emailed me thus:

‘’I'm wearing sequined shorts this weekend whatever the weather. Whatevs the weaths.’’

And she works in London, where all the cool kids hang out.

Redeemed, I started shortening words willy nilly – will nill, dare I say.

But then came a really embarro situ, which caused me to think maybe it was time to reign in the old ‘cool speak’ and start talking like a normal person again.

Gareth and I had gone camping in Wales with friends. Beach bound, we’d arrived at a little shop, at which we were hiring body-boards and wetsuits. So already we weren’t as cool as the surfers.

‘Do you sell suncream?’ I asked the shopkeeper, in my usual too loud, too shrill, too posh voice.

‘Yes.’ He said.

‘Brillo!’ I replied. I hadn’t realised how loudly I had said it until I realised an entire shop’s worth of cool surfer types were all staring at me, and Gareth was backing away with a mortified look on his face, wondering how he could get out of this situation and relationship in tact. My middle class accented word wafting through the silence, ringing in my ears as only an embarrassing final sentence can. (If you can call ‘Brillo’ a sentence. I call it a death sentence.)

The shop keeper looked at me. Hannah in London may be shortening her words, but I’m not sure the trend has reached Pembrokeshire.

‘It’s, er, over there,’ he said, pointing at the suncream and hoping that I’d go back to Bristol and take my dismal excuse for conversation with me.

The girl in the queue behind me was the sort of person I’d like to punch in the face for being prettier, skinnier and now, better at English than me. She looked me up and down. I did not feel very brillo at all.

‘I’m really good at English!’ I wanted to shout. ‘I can spell definitely and necessary without spellchecker and I know the difference between their, they’re and there, god dammit.’ But of course, I just shuffled out of the shop with my tail between my legs instead.

‘You’re a dick,’ Gareth said as we walked to the beach.

I know, I know. You’d think I’d have learned a valuable lesson in letting other people do their funky thing with words while I stick to my resolute opinion that the English language is adequate, nay, beautiful, as it is and should not be tampered with.

Maybe skinny surf girl and stuffy shop keep man are the losers here. I should have turned the situation around on them.

‘Er, Wales, hello! I find it advantageous for sensible cerebrum space management to occasionally knock the last syllable of a word off, sometimes replacing it with an ‘O’, which you, surf girl, wannabe Auzzie, should appreciate, thus affording me commodious room in an otherwise overloaded brain, for thought and speculation about what’s really important in life – don’t for one minute presume that I did not get an A in English language, have not made a living out of words, or that I am of the generation scholars worry about for their inability to articulate their feelings or write proper sentences. Because I did, I do and I’m not.

Obvs.

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Ship Shape and Bristol Fashion

It was at the checkout in Sainsbury’s when I said to my mother in my loud voice: ‘Do you want me to get a mop so you can mop my floors?’ that I realised some people might not get my mother’s relationship with cleaning things. The checkout girl looked at me incredulously, to judge the spoiled little brat that I surely was. But the thing is, Mum happens to thoroughly enjoy cleaning. It’s a trait I wish I had inherited, but instead I’m lumbered with my dad’s cleanliness blindness and penchant for leaving more clothes on the floor than in the wardrobe.

When I was little Mum used to come to tuck me in and things would be spilling out of all my drawers. ‘Hurty,’ she’d say as she folded it all away and closed the drawers and doors, trying to instil in me the idea that clothes had feelings and didn’t want to spend the night clinging on to their shelf for dear life. Sweet, isn’t it.

And when I was little, Dad tidied his room once. I thought we’d moved house, I so didn’t recognise the room when I walked in.

My elder sister got Mum’s genes, I got Dad’s. Which is a shame, as it means I live in a constant state of bedlam, while Tammi’s flat is really rather lovely.

While it’s a pity for Gareth that he doesn’t get to live with someone who enjoys cleaning, the lucky charm is that I don’t get to live with someone who enjoys cleaning either, and so we live in a mess together, happily begging Mum to come and stay in the hopes she might pick up a J cloth. She doesn’t disappoint. She’d been here eight seconds this weekend when she started cleaning, and within an hour the bathroom looked so sparkly we could have been in a showroom, and the kitchen drawers were so tidy Gareth thought we’d been robbed.

I could be accused of taking advantage of Mum’s kind nature - you’d think she doesn’t actually want to come here and Mr Sheen my home. But I have it on good authority that she’s entirely in her element when cleaning, and who am I to deny her one of life’s little pleasures? To stop Mum cleaning would be akin to taking sweets from a child.  

We had a party on Saturday night to celebrate my birth, and usually when we have parties, I crawl out of bed the next day to witness the carnage of the night before. Dirty plates queuing up for the dishwasher, a sticky floor and a mountain of glass for the recycling.

On Sunday morning I got out of bed to see Mum had already tidied the entire party remnants away. She’d even laid out the bottles that needed recycling in height order. It was something of a miracle to see my house looking so good when it really ought to have been suffering from a hangover with me.

As usual, Mum has left the house in a better state than she found it. And as usual, Gareth and I have made each other promise we’ll keep it this way. And as usual, we’ll slowly slip back into the pigsty with which we are familiar. But about that time, Mum will be due another visit, and everything will shine again. I’m sorry to my future children that I won’t be able to give them a mother as tidy as my mother, but at least I can give them a grandmother as tidy as my mother. And maybe she’ll rub off on them better than she has on me.

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