Rhythm and relocation.

I’ve struggled to write for the blog recently.
Partly I suspect because a part of me still finds it a little strange, the whole concept of writing about oneself and publishing it on the net. I have mixed feelings about it – on
the one hand I think it’s maybe a touch narcissistic, but then on the other I
do find it therapeutic to empty my head onto a Word document every once in a
while. And anyway, here I am writing again… So bugger the reason or rhyme, I shall
continue on at least for now.

I mentioned in my last blog that I was looking into setting up a band. Well in a shocking twist – I actually did something about that! After a couple of false-starts, I managed to hook-up with a talented musician/producer whom I met via the interweb. We get on really well, have had several practices already, and as you can imagine – it’s all VERY rock and roll. I usually arrive a bit late…stinking of booze, off my t*ts on Meow-Meow and yet somehow manage to slur my way through a session. (Clearly this is a lie – generally I am punctual, arriving on time, quite sober and in all likelihood, smelling vaguely of dog.)

It’s a really fun process though – creating a ‘sound’ and developing songs and
stuff is all super exciting and I’m definitely glad I took the plunge with the
band thing.

In other news, Veanna and I might be moving home in the not too distant future.
I decided that for the sake of the music – y’know, to give the band any real chance, I had to be nearer the city… So we’re moving five minutes further down Harrogate Road, which is just round the corner really, but a bit nearer town. The truth of the matter is we absolutely need the extra space – especially with Guido. It’s going to be so good to live in a house again, a proper one with a garden and everything. Indeed I think there is a genuine possibility I might shed a tear as I light my first barbecue in my own garden. It will be a milestone event for sure.

Speaking of milestone events, I turned thirty since my last blog. But it’s okay
– if nothing else it’s one less thing to obsess about. Shortly after my own birthday, my mum had her 60^th. So weird to think that I am now the same age she was when I was born. I see now clearer than ever, that we share a lot of traits me and my mum. Most notably, the same sense of humour – and the innate ability to reduce the other to that
silent kind of laughter that comes shortly before near-asphyxia. Oh how we laugh
at each other’s quite hysterical jokes.

Well more of an update this time than anything particularly topical. I will hopefully
break with tradition and get around to blogging again before 2012. In the meantime, I’m feeling the urge to pick up the guitar again, so thanks for reading.

I’m off to make some noise…

Lucy
x

January: The b*tch of all months…

I don’t mean this month specifically. I mean all of them. Each is more bitter, gloomy and depressing than the last one if you ask me.

Not only do we have to endure endless hours of darkness, freezing northerly winds ice-blasting our faces, and mushy patches of fermenting leaves soiling our footpaths and driveways… but the chances are, we have to endure it whilst being slightly more ‘skinto’ than we’re likely to be for the rest of the coming year.
Nope, there’s not much to love about January if you ask me. Those who do like it – probably have their Birthday in the first month of the year.
 That said it’s not all doom and gloom I suppose. If nothing else, January at least gives us an opportunity to reset, restart, or resolve to do something different and positive with our peculiar little lives.
Although I don’t quite understand this really, because we could easily go about changing things at any other time of year – but then I guess it wouldn’t be in keeping with the time-held New Year traditions of us orderly humans.  Just like diets are always started on a Monday (more or less a legal requirement), and Sunday is for cleaning (although one hopes that people find themselves able to deviate from that particular routine – as opposed to living in fetid squalor for much of the week).

On the subject of ambitions and new projects; some of you know that I play guitar – well I also write songs and sing, and have done since I was a teenager. I’ve often toyed with the idea of taking it a bit more seriously, or at least devoting more time to it as a hobby. But it has always been on the (gargantuan) list of things I plan to do – but ultimately never get around to finishing. However I’ve been playing a lot this last year and seem to be on a bit of a creative streak, so not long before Christmas I decided to take the plunge and made the decision to set up a band, which is all very exciting for me.  I placed an ad on a popular musician’s website, and have already been in touch with a few potential bandmates. So watch this space (and Facebook / twitter) for more news on that adventure as it develops.

It’s been an eventful few months for me really. In addition to the bustle of Christmas and the above escapades, I’ve also purchased a domain name, and am in the process of designing my own website (which will become a more permanent home for my blog, perhaps my music – and no doubt a few other items of randomness). It’s proving to be a pretty steep learning curve, all this web-design malarkey. But at the same time I’m having fun with it,  and learning new stuff is always a good thing. 
Another objective from the ‘to-do’ list which has been getting my attention –  is getting fit. I want to be in great shape for my thirtieth Birthday in May. In fact I think I need to be in great shape – in order to prevent me from obsessing about my age (although I suspect it’s probably a bit late for that).  Anyway this has been ongoing for the last year really, on and off. Now it’s very much on. I figure if I’m going to be gigging in the not too distant future – I should really get on it now, so at least if my music is shit, the peoplefolk will have something good to look at! ;o)
So I’ve been to the gym three times in the last week, and even had a game of Squash on this fine grey Sunday morning (when – in accordance with tradition – I really ought to have been cleaning, washing clothes, or having a day of rest…)

Thanks for reading these words I typed. I will endeavour to bring you more in the coming weeks.   

Lucy.
x

Thirty Schmirty…

I really don’t feel good about the hitting ‘30’ thing.

I’m still six months or so away, but can already feel a sense of trepidation about suddenly finding myself in my thirties. Because then, I will have to accept that I’ve ceased to be a ‘young woman’ and will instead have become merely ‘a woman’. Not a mademoiselle, a madame. Not a Fräulein, but a frau. Not a joven, a mujer. Not a 年轻女子 a 女子 (You get the picture)…

Anyway I don’t think I’m being optimistic when I say I don’t look particularly old for my age. Then again I don’t look particularly young either. In fact it’s fair to say I probably look my actual age… and I can live with that.

Mentally however, it feels to an extent as though the first thirty years of my life have been spent struggling to get to grips with myself. To understand, accept and appreciate not only myself, but the culture within which I live and the society into which I have to integrate.

When I was a teenager, I couldn’t imagine living beyond thirty. To be perfectly honest I always had a weird feeling that I wouldn’t reach thirty. Not trying to be overly weird or morbid, but I do have a vivid imagination and so it’s peculiar that whilst I have always been able to daydream about the most elaborately detailed fantasies; I have never been able to visualize myself in my thirties… Anyway before I freak myself out thinking about that too much (I DON’T WANNA DIIIIEEEEEE!) here’s hoping that it was nothing more than a silly teenage eccentricity.

There are positives, of course, to be taken from reaching this milestone. It seems to me that as you get older you care less about how others perceive you, and more about extracting what you want out of life. After all life isn’t a popularity contest. It’s unimportant whether you’re deemed ‘hot’ or ’not’, whether your trainers are quite as cool as they could be, if you venture out to the local shops without make-up on at the risk of being seen by someone you know, and don’t particularly like.

All that stuff… the trivial, petty things people worry themselves over are so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, that they don’t deserve a second of our time fretting about. This is something I’ve come to realise as I’ve grown up. It might seem like common sense to some, but as someone who spent a large part of their young adult life caged, almost restricted, by their own insecurities and social awkwardness. I find it overwhelmingly liberating to have learned the fact, that life’s more fun when you don’t give a fuck.
Perhaps it takes accumulating the life experience (and some of the knocks, losses and low periods we will all encounter) en route to reaching this age. Maybe without the benefit of hindsight it’s not so easy to put things into this simpler perspective. It makes sense. I suppose if I’m honest, it’s not so much the fact that I’m getting older that I resent, but more that I’ve wasted so much of my life in doing so. But as I keep telling myself… thirty really isn’t that old.

So there you go. If I’ve taught you nothing else from this shamefully irregular blog, my beautiful/handsome loyal reader, it’s that you should stop worrying about whether or not you have soiled toilet-paper stuck to your heel, if you’re going bald at the sides, or if you ‘measure up’ as it were. No no no; Nuclear Armageddon! Aeroplanes nose-diving! Asteroids decimating Mother-Earth… THAT’S what you should be concerned about.

Lucy.

Dream Baby

 

My dreams have been bizarre lately. I mean beyond the usual expected degree of weirdness. This is a good thing as far as I’m concerned, because they’re as vivid as they are memorable. At times it’s almost like being in a very random movie, and of course I get to experience things I would probably never get to experience in my waking life.

As a rule, I go through phases of dreaming about slightly different versions of the same thing over a period of weeks. This first manifested itself in nightly dreams of my teeth falling out. These dreams would invariably begin with me doing something mundane and far from extraordinary, like going to work or cleaning the house etc, and for some reason – end up with me stood at a sink. I lightly flick my tongue against a single tooth in my mouth, only for it to roll painlessly and without resistance in my gums before I spit it out into the sink, along with a stream of blood-tinged saliva. The same thing happens to the next tooth my tongue brushes against; it rolls out of it’s gum and lands with a clink, in the sink  – at which point I naturally start to panic. Over the following minutes I find myself repeating this process, until I am completely toothless and staring at a sink full of bloody molars, incisors and canines. This is the point at which I usually wake up and my tongue  races frantically around my mouth taking an inventory to ensure all teeth are present and correct. Needless to say the relief when I realise it was ‘just a dream’ gives me a renewed appreciation of my teeth – and I thank each one mentally, before systematically destroying them throughout the course of the days that follow by drinking obscene amounts of Coca-Cola. 

Another recurring theme involves the sea.
Sometimes I’ll be at a beach I know and have visited in real life. Other times it will be a fictional coastal town, (or an amalgamation of the two more often than not). Each dream begins with me playing in the sea, with the weather sunny and calm. Then comes the realisation that the sun has disappeared and the sky has darkened. I watch anxiously as the weather deteriorates further, and in turn the waves which surround me grow gradually heavier and higher, until each wave is unimaginably tall, towering angrily above me. These monstrous waves seem to hang, fully formed right above my head for an eternity, before eventually crashing thunderously down onto me.
As scary as that particular type of dream can be, I actually enjoy them. I’ve always being fascinated by the sea, drawn to it even. I think maybe that stems from having lots of family holidays in Scarborough as a child. The sea can be so powerful and intimidating, yet so calm, hypnotic and enchanting. When I’m struggling to get to sleep sometimes, I’ll close my eyes and imagine that I’m floating on a lilo in the middle of the sea at night-time. Looking up at the imaginary stars, and enjoying the rhythmic sway of the imaginary ocean around me is usually enough to send me off into a nice deep sleep.

 There are other recurring themes in my dreams, including post-apocalyptic wars, nuclear bombs, celebrity deaths, and lottery wins. Of course it would take too long to write about them all in detail, but I will share the short tale of my latest memorable dream, which was the inspiration for this blog.

 I was at a lake in the countryside somewhere. It was dusky and humid and I was with a group of journalists and a news crew. I think they were filming an item about a new radical type of sport. A man had invented boots which looked similar to ice skates, but were fitted with some sort of buoyancy device which allowed the wearer to skate fluently along the surface of water. Not frozen water, but wet bodies of water. We were there to trial them and the media were going to report on the story. 
I was one of the first to have a go, and it was great fun; skating around this lake effortlessly without the noise of a motor etc, feeling the water beneath you but knowing you weren’t going to fall in thanks to these innovative boots.  

 Some time after I’d finish my skating session, it was the turn of the news presenter. As far as I know she was a fictional character, I certainly didn’t recognize her from Look North or the BBC news team (but she looked a bit like Neneh Cherry). Anyway, she nervously took to the water, and began to skate around, microphone in hand. By this time it was dark, and the inventor had activated a light function on the boots, which made them glow in various shades of luminous yellow/green or bright neon pink – depending on the model. As people whizzed around the surface of the lake, their boot-lights reflected on the water beneath, creating an impressive visual display, which was observed by myself and the other onlookers as we chattered excitedly amongst ourselves on the banks of the lake.

Amidst all this excitement and for some unknown reason, the news reporter ‘crashed’. I didn’t see it happen, but I made my way over to the edge of the bank where she was groaning in pain and her injuries were being assessed. She seemed ok, except for one leg which appeared to have split completely open at the knee, exposing the white bone of her kneecap. At this point, she looked up at me – and explained matter of factly that she had to go back to the studio, and that I would have to go to the hospital for her. (Of course this doesn’t make any sense whatsoever in the real world, but this is dream-land remember – anything can happen). So I thought about it for a minute, and said ‘Ok’. I then looked down to find that MY kneecap was now hanging out, furthermore, the news reporter’s injury had vanished completely and I watched as she walked nonchalantly off with the rest of her crew towards the news van, without so much as a limp.

I remember thinking it strange. I also thought it was odd that I wasn’t in a great deal of pain with my hideously wounded knee, just a dull ache really. But obviously I couldn’t put any weight on the leg, so this meant I was required to hop to my destination. So off I hopped, heading to the nearest hospital.

For some reason it was mid-afternoon and daylight when I reached Leeds city centre, and I soon found myself having to navigate down some stone steps. I asked a nearby tradesman if he would mind helping me down them, pointing to my leg by way of explanation. He refused to assist me, so feeling a little defeated but more angered by the rudeness of the man, I somehow managed to hop down the steps, through the main entrance to the train station, past McDonalds, and the swarms of people around the ticket booths, out the back entrance, and all the way to a hospital – unaided.
I was still muttering under my breath, incensed by the fact that not one person had offered to assist me, when I arrived on an upper ward of a fictional hospital. Only to be met with an angry and impatient male doctor, who told me I was on the wrong ward, furthermore I wouldn’t be treated here, and I would have to hop back down several floors and to a different wing of the hospital in order to get my knee looked at. By this point I was really pissed off.
Then I woke up.

Weird huh.

Holy Cow!

 

NEVER visit the Scientology website.

 I did twenty minutes ago, purely out of curiosity and found myself watching various short promotional videos offering insight into the basic principles of Scientology, a profile of it’s founder and a look inside some of its ‘churches’. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I got bored, and clicked off the site, only to suddenly realise I have a throbbing pressure in my head. So given my currently unsound state of mind, I’m now paranoid that they use some sort of subliminal messaging or hypnosis techniques on their website to lure unsuspecting vulnerable viewers in. Furthermore I feel strangely compelled to go watch Mission Impossible.

While I’m not about to put myself forward for scientological auditing and enlist on one of their ‘social betterment’ programs, I can’t deny that the idea of belonging to some sort of community does hold a certain appeal for me.

I’ve never been religious. Yet I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of religion and faith. At my (Christian) primary school we sang hymns, said the Lords prayer and every Christmas would see the nativity play take the stage. I remember listening intently during assemblies to paraphrased stories taken from the bible. Even back then as a seven or eight year old, I found it weird that I was gently being urged to like and even love the characters from these stories, namely God and Jesus. In retrospect I expect the fact that I was simultaneously having it drilled into me ‘not to talk to strangers’ can only have added to my confusion. Because clearly I didn’t know these ‘people’ (God and Jesus) on a personal level, I’d never met them. The only ‘Father’ I was interested in (aside from my biological one) was Father Christmas. No, I never met him either, but at least as far as I was concerned he gave me something tangible. Cool stuff like a bmx, an ‘A la carte kitchen’, various musical instruments and one year a ‘speak n’ spell’.     

Now as an adult, I still find it strange that so many people believe wholeheartedly in a God. In fact according to estimates in 2005 (latest data I was able to find) around 88% of the world’s population are religious. That’s just over five billion people. The webpage below breaks these numbers down by religion and it makes for quite an interesting read.

http://www.adherents.com/Religions_By_Adherents.html

I don’t want to go overly theological on you, because I fear for too many of you this could already be my most unexciting post to date. I will also resist the urge to harp on about conflict/wars, inter-religious bloodshed and such like. But I would like to pose a fairly straightforward question;

 How can those five billion or so believers of the various different religions all be right?

 I mean, from what little I do know about the more popular religions for instance; Christianity, Islam and Hinduism, it’s clear there are huge fundamental differences between them. The respective beliefs associated with each faith often contradict each other. So while I can’t exactly (nor do I want to) prove that they are all wrong, it seems quite obvious to me that they can’t all be right.

It’s possible of course that I’m missing the point completely. Maybe it doesn’t matter to its followers whether any given religion is based in truth or if it’s largely inaccurate or indeed wholly fictitious. Instead maybe it is simply about people just needing to have ‘something to believe in’. Faith perhaps gives meaning to and helps justify the bad things that happen to them in life, something without which they‘d otherwise struggle to cope. And in turn this same faith and their adherence to its guiding principles is something to which they can credit their good fortune. In a world ruled by money and overrun with selfish dickheads quite frankly, it makes sense that a lot of people find religion provides a sense of stability, togetherness and a form of escapism which (aside from Scientology) comes at no extra charge.

 I’m not sure whether I’d consider myself to be an atheist or agnostic. There are elements of some religions that do appeal to me and which aspects of my own lifestyle and morals probably reflect already. Buddhism for example; with all actions having consequences/karma, respect for living things etc. But then I also like to eat living things, so that isn’t going to work out for me long-term.
And regarding Christianity; as much as I would genuinely love to think a heaven existed, I can’t say I like the idea of the hotter place. Furthermore I don’t think I can get my head around the recurring concept that God forgives us all if we believe in him and confess our sins, but if we don’t there’s a good chance that on judgement day we will be given a ticket for the hell-bus. On that basis a god-loving murderer, rapist or paedophile would take preference over me. It doesn’t seem fair somehow.
I made a similar point (albeit more subtly) to my R.E Teacher at high school once, but if I’m not mistaken her response was as useful as it was memorable… and I don’t remember it.

So you see I personally would end up wanting to cherry-pick the ‘best bits’ from all the available religions, and for that reason it would feel too contrived, too convenient and would require too much suspension of disbelief and hypocrisy for me to fully subscribe to any of them.

I should make it clear that I don’t have anything against people who are religious, and I hope I haven’t offended any readers. I’ve just used this post to share my own thoughts on a subject which often evokes considerable debate. Feel free to comment if you’d like to share any of your views, it would be interesting to read them regardless of whether they are conflicting or consistent with my own.

Hopefully this hasn’t been too dreary a read. My next post will be lighter.

Amen to that.

Designer-Vagina…

Well it’s been a while since my last post…

In my defence; I’ve had a frenetic schedule of late, barely finding the time (it seems) to pause for breath between activities, outings, social gatherings and such like. ‘Social gatherings’? Who am I trying to kid? My hermetic lifestyle and unsociable nature prevents me from partaking in such things. No, I guess I’ve just been a little more lethargic (lazy) than usual in recent weeks.
Whatever the reason, I’m writing now… So please do cease your whining, and please, please, PLEASE stop inundating me with requests to blog again/speak at your functions/ sign your underwear/pose for papier-mâché moulds etc, etc…

Moving on, I had a few days leave from work recently. It was a much needed break after recent workplace dramas, and nice to spend time with Veanna, our three kids (cats) and the baby (puppy).  It was during this relaxing, peaceful time, that I made the utterly stupid, critical error… of… weighing myself.
What possessed me to do that, I’ll never know. Regardless; it was a big mistake…HUGE.

I’ve gained a lot of weight. In fact when I stood on those scales, it hit home that I wasn’t only ‘curvier’ than usual, I was actually bigger than I’ve ever been. So, given that I’ll turn twenty-nine (in years, not stones) within a month, I’ve realised that if I’m to achieve my goal of having the ‘ideal’ body by the time I’m thirty, I’m going to have to start working at it… and pretty fast. I don’t have an unrealistic target weight, nor do I aspire to be a skeletal stick-woman, (that would never happen anyway given my natural body shape). Indeed to paraphrase the great Eric Cartman himself; I’m not (just) fat… I’m big-boned.

So two weeks into a new healthy eating regime, I’m over the Coca-Cola withdrawals and have already lost half a stone. An achievement matched by Veanna, my feeder partner.

Eighteen months ago, I had a body to be proud of, although of course I didn’t appreciate it at the time. No, no… I was far too hung up on the minor imperfections (that we all have), to notice that I was ‘relatively slim’ by anyone’s standards, and positively ‘matchstick-woman-like’ by my own. But like many people in the initial stages of a new love affair, I was keen to appear as flawless as possible… and if that meant spending the first three months of the relationship walking seductively and gracefully out of rooms backwards, then so be it! 
While there has always been aspects of my body I’m rather proud of; overall my body image was clearly distorted back then. Even now as I type these words, with a low rumbling sound emanating from within my disapproving stomach; I don’t expect I’ll ever be totally satisfied with what I achieve in terms of weight loss and dare I say it, improved muscle tone. Nonetheless I will keep at it, and hope to at least get a little closer to achieving the entirely realistic, ‘athletic’ physique I desire… (Think ‘Jet’ from Gladiators).

Me in 6 months...

Sticking to the theme of physical appearance; I’ve stumbled across the Channel 4 programme ‘Embarrassing Bodies’ several times in recent weeks. I have to say I find it interesting yet completely baffling, how some people despite being plagued (in some cases for years) by ‘socially debilitating’ ails, infections and cosmetic abnormalities, are still perfectly willing to display their most intimate body parts in all their infected glory, to millions of strangers watching from the discomfort of their sofas.
It begs the question; How embarrassing can a medical issue be, if you’re willing to expose it to any family member, friend or colleague that happens to be tuned in at home? Call me a prude, but if I’m ever unfortunate enough to develop a grotesque abnormality of the sphincter tissue… there’s no way on this planet you, or any other member of the public are going to get a high-definition close-up of it, framed by your 52-inch widescreen plasma televisions.
How could I possibly go in to work the day after it aired!!??  Knowing that my friends and enemies alike had stared open-mouthed at revealing footage of Dr Pixie McKenna smiling sympathetically whilst prodding my hugely disproportionate breasts… or Dr Jessen (the undeniably strange-faced Adonis himself) staring mesmerized by my third, fourth and fifth nipples… or Dr Harper arching her eyebrows in typical fashion; whilst frowning at the elongated labia which (I tell her between sobs) I can’t help but trip over when forced to walk at pace…
No, you’re quite safe… only my poor, traumatized GP (and long-suffering girlfriend) will ever be subjected to those horrors.

Of course, unlike some of those poor souls; I’m not really afflicted with any of these conditions. I know this to be true, because immediately after each episode, I find myself compelled to ‘disappear’ into another room, mirror in hand, on a mission to scrutinize the dimensions of my various body parts in their entirety.
Suffice to say, whilst I may be carrying a few extra pounds (okay… STONES) at the moment, I am on the whole, free from embarrassing bodily mutations and seepages.

To seek out new worlds and civilisations....

If you, or someone close to you is affected by any of the conditions mentioned in this post, I urge you to seek medical attention not from the telly doctors, but from your own Doctor. 
Perhaps you can take some additional comfort from those familiar words; ‘it’s whats on the inside that counts’.

If that is the case,  God help me….

Lucy.
x 

 

An evening of Poker and public exposure…

A word of warning; if you have no interest in poker, you may want to skip this post. Although I go off tangent numerous times, it is essentially an account of a recent Texas Hold Em’ tournament I entered at a casino in Leeds.  

So having sat down to play the No Limit Freeze Out at Gala earlier this evening, my first priority was to ensure that my G-string or indeed the upper half of my buttocks were not visible to anyone unfortunate enough to glance over from behind me. This task in itself was more challenging than you might imagine, given the fact that my choice of attire for the evening included a pair of jeans which incidentally used to be rather comfortable, ‘loose-fitting’ even, but which in more recent weeks have a tendency to restrict the blood-flow to and around the lower regions of my body.

Anyway, bum and underwear successfully concealed by a well-placed leather jacket (my own I should clarify); I was able to concentrate on the poker. 
I didn’t play many of the first few hands, opting instead to fold my cards and take the opportunity to pick up some info on my opponents. Several hands in, I’m in the small blind and looking down at 7-4 suited (the type of hand I like to play whenever I can). When the action comes around to me there’s been just the one caller, and I too limp in to see my first flop of the evening; which comes 4-K-7 giving me a tasty two pair. The other caller raises it up to 300, which I call after a slightly dramatic hesitation. At this point I don’t put him on a King, even though I’d love him to have it, I actually suspect he has Ace-rag.  The big blind folds and we see the turn card, which is a 2. With no flush draw on the board I’m confident I’m well ahead by now as the guy raises into me again, this time making it 1200 to call. It’s worth mentioning that in the preceding few hands this player had been getting involved in several pots and calling substantial raises down to the river, therefore when I reraise to 2400 I’m fully expecting his call. Sure enough it comes, and so does my dream river; a 4, giving me a nicely disguised Full House. Once again, he bets out first for 2500, and after a quick glance at his stack I can see that he’s both pot-committed and highly likely to call my impending ‘all-in’ if I make it seem ‘desperate’ enough. So I let out a defeated sigh, and ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’ for a good 30 seconds before announcing that I’m ‘all-in’ and pushing what’s left of my stack across the line. He calls relatively quickly and someone at the table notes how “there’s a possible full house on that board”, prompting my opponent to gingerly enquire “you haven’t got a full house have you?” I smile apologetically (albeit insincerely) and confirm that I have indeed, as I flip my pocket cards over to a chorus of ‘Ooohhs’ from the other players, some of whom commend my play. I smile graciously at the welcome compliments, but inwardly I’m well aware of the fact that it’s easy to play ‘well’ when you’re holding a monster hand. 
The beaten man (who was holding K-8 by the way) gathers his coat and exits the area, whilst I begin to obsessively arrange my chips into nicely even stacks.

The next hour passes uneventfully, for me at least. I don’t get involved much as I’m getting neither the cards nor the opportunities to do so. Eventually a couple more people at my table are knocked out, leaving the remaining players (including me) to be split up and directed to join other tables. I don’t like this particularly, as I’d picked up some good reads on the people I’d been playing with up to press, nonetheless I skilfully manage to gather my chips, bag and jacket without once exposing myself to any of my fellow competitors.

I take my designated seat at the nearby table (relieved to find it’s in a corner position) and look around at the 9 new faces before me. My initial displeasure at the move quickly passes, when I realise how tight the play is at this new table. My first couple of pre-flop raises are enough to scare everyone off and win me the blinds. I’m quite pleased by this apparent respect when raising with A-J off-suit, not so much when I’m dealt Q-Q, but still ‘a win is a win’ I tell myself.
I get into a couple of tussles with subsequent hands which prove fruitless for me, and go into the first break with just under the average in chips (around 14k).

I swiftly head outside for a long-awaited cigarette and to call Veanna my girlfriend, who is babysitting ‘Guido’, our new(ish) puppy.  I enquire after said puppy, and am reassured that he has so far this evening managed to avoid being further mutilated by ‘Darly’, the ‘feistier’ of our 3 cats; whom we have good reason to suspect is plotting canine-murder. Naturally, I’m pleased to hear that all our pets’ vital signs are good, and Veanna is in turn pleased to learn that I am still in the tournament (possibly also surprised).

The 20 minute break passes and players are called back to the card room for play to resume. As I sit myself back down I listen to two other ladies at my table complaining about the food they ordered during the break. Apparently one lady’s Jacket Potato is ‘rock hard’ and the other lady didn’t receive the two slices of bread and butter she’d paid for to accompany her portion of chips. Chips which I notice she is stuffing into her abyss-like mouth at an alarming rate, not stopping even as she complains to the waitress. I’d already decided I didn’t particularly like this lady all that much, when earlier on in the tournament she incessantly ridiculed a man for his ‘poor’ quality of play. He did play rather poorly, at least in the two hands I saw, but I felt her distasteful mockery of him went a touch too far and lasted a bit too long; unlike her bowl of chips, which had been furiously consumed within 2 and a half minutes of being served to her.

Back to the poker. My stack soon starts depleting after I call a couple of pre-flop raises in late position, only to hit hands which were good enough to justify getting involved in the pots, but ultimately not good enough to win them. There is further movement at the table as the aforementioned ‘poor player’ is knocked out and a new face replaces him. This young newcomer has an above average stack, and soon starts throwing it about and playing generally loose. I see him make several pre-flop raises only to fold to subsequent reraises, and eventually when I am dealt A-9 suited (in position); I get to raise his big-blind pre-flop. He’s the only caller and I hit my ace on the flop, unfortunately so does he, along with his 4 kicker on the river giving him two pairs to my one. I probably should have stopped betting at that pot before we got to the river card, but I still feel his call to my substantial pre-flop raise was questionable (you may think otherwise, but this is my blog and therefore in instances such as this I will always be right). 
 A few hands later I manage to double up, via ‘Chip-loving Lady’, whom despite flat-calling my big pre-flop raise, pushes all-in after a raggedy flop. I ponder for a moment and actually consider laying down my pockets Queens as I’ve somehow convinced myself that she’s holding K-K or A-A. Well, I’m not a good enough player to listen to the cautious voice of reason inside my head, so I go against my first instinct and call her anyway. To my surprise she turns over 6-6 and I breathe a sigh of sweet relief when my queens hold, giving me a sizeable pot and a few more chips, which I begin to arrange in an orderly fashion on the felt in front of me.
That would turn out to be the last good thing that happened in my tournament.  I lost a third of my stack in a few of the hands that followed, but still had an above-average stack when I got moved, again. It’s part and parcel of playing poker tournaments, so I can’t really whinge about it (but I will anyway), still it peeved me slightly that my momentum was being interrupted once more.
I sit down at the new table, and to my left I have a young man with an odour problem, possibly urinary in nature. To my right I have another young lad whose aroma can only be described as plain ‘foisty’, he also had a lot more chips than me; which I thought was quite rude of him.
Momentarily I am reminded of one of my first jobs as a teenager, working as an assistant in a Comic/Cult Sci-Fi merchandise shop. I remember how many of the more hardcore sci-fi enthusiast customers often had offensive aromas. In fact it got to the point where I was able to identify with some accuracy, which particular programme some of the customers were fans of, simply by analysing their respective odours. The die-hard ‘Star Trek’ fans for instance, had a tendency to smell slightly damp or foisty. The ‘Buffy’ fans occasionally smelled of incense sticks and sickly sweet body sprays. As for the Dr Who fans, well these are an entirely different species. In some cases the odour which lingered around them when they ventured in on a mission to buy the latest version of a Dr Who book, or Dalek figure; could most accurately be described as one of putrid decay, specifically rotten flesh breaking down in the putrefaction phase of decomposition.
Obviously not all the shops customers stank the place out. Some were odourless, indeed some smelled positively lovely! But I’ve always had a strong aversion to being in the presence of smelly people, there’s just no excuse for it in my opinion, unless you’re either very old or very young or have a health condition (allergy to soap/water?). Anyway, being sat between those two card players whom I suspected spent too much time sat playing poker on the internet, and not enough time in the shower; I suddenly felt nauseas, in the same way I used to back then.

So I try settle in to the new table and it quickly becomes apparent that the standard of play here is much better. There are a few players with substantial stacks, and raises and ‘all-ins’ are coming left right and centre, not helped by the ever-increasing blinds which are starting to hurt those with a smaller stack in front of them.
I stayed disciplined, and tightened up my own game accordingly. This was helped by the fact that I was getting dealt mostly rubbish hole-cards, which were practically folding themselves. Regardless, I didn’t want to allow myself to get involved in any enticing pots with unsatisfactory cards in my hand, something I am often guilty of.
In the meantime, the foisty young guy to my right was accumulating even more chips, playing aggressively (which is essentially a good thing for a chip leader to do) though perhaps too loose in my opinion, but ultimately his aggression was paying off. Eventually, after he’d limped in to me from the small-blind, along with one other caller; I had a hand worth playing, A-10 suited.
I raised it up to around 3 times the big blind, the other caller folded, and the foisty guy to my right called, leaving only the two of us in the hand. I immediately do a happy dance in my head when the flop comes 5-A-8. He looks at my modest stack and quick fire bets the pot. I consider this an attempted steal, regardless I am certain at this point that he doesn’t have the ace, and that I’m ahead. After a quick sideways glance at his mountain of chips, I push all-in, and he instantly calls.
He turns over Q-5, he has bottom pair. Then it gets messy. After a rag turn, my initial glee is quelled when the river comes Q, giving ‘Foist-Boy 2010’ (I’m not bitter in the slightest) two pairs, and bringing my tournament to an abrupt and untimely end.

I’m not a sore loser as such, in the sense that I don’t sulk and get in an almighty strop every time I’m defeated at something. However having been brought up with five brothers; I am highly competitive and I do hate to lose. More than that, I hate giving opponents the satisfaction of seeing how disappointed I am when it happens.
 “Nice hand” I say through a wry smile, before standing up (no longer caring how much of my backside is visible), wishing the table good luck and calmly making my way outside;…… where I proceed to call the F** S**T every expletive name I could think of, and a few more which I make up.  

As bad beats go there have been much worse, and overall I have to say I was happy with my play and the action I saw. Still, ask anyone who plays the game often and they’ll agree; that although we enjoy it, its hard not to hate poker sometimes…

Thanks for reading,

Lucy

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Simon and Garth’s uncle…

Firstly I should point out that the title of this post bears no relation whatsoever to what I’m going to write about. It’s just an idea I had this afternoon for the name of a Simon and Garfunkel cover/tribute band…

Moving swiftly on; I recently read an article on a news website about an Aer Lingus flight travelling from Dublin to Paris, on which the cabin crew accidently played a recorded announcement (in French), warning passengers to prepare themselves for an imminent “emergency landing”. The plane was somewhere over the Irish Sea at the time and needless to say, it caused some concern amongst the 70 odd French people onboard.
That article got me to thinking (and not for the first time) about how I would’ve reacted in that particular situation. ‘Not well’, is the first answer which springs to mind, given that I have at best; an ‘irrational fear’ of flying, and at worst; an all out ‘cardiac arrest-inducing phobia’ of it.
It’s not that I’m afraid of the (near certain) death aspect of being involved in an aeroplane crash per se, although to be honest that prospect doesn’t exactly fill me with glee either. It’s more about the thought of being on a stricken plane which is plummeting rapidly towards the ground (or sea) and experiencing the sheer terror of knowing that no matter what I do, within a few seconds, that plane will meet the earth with a cataclysmic impact, and I absolutely cannot stop it.
Therefore essentially, I suppose the thing I’m most afraid of.. is ‘fear’ itself.

Bizarrely, before I became phobic about flying, I actually enjoyed the sensation of it. Not being afraid of heights; I used to love looking out of the window and remember being fascinated by the different perspective flying afforded. Specifically, how all fields looked like massive multi-coloured patchwork quilts from above. Yet now, (after spending the last 9 years self-fuelling my anxiety by scouring the internet for countless images of mangled burnt out plane wreckage, listening intently to numerous cockpit voice-recordings of various pilots’  last nonchalant conversations before their respective doomed aircraft fell out of the skies).. Now? Well now I don’t like the thought of flying so much.. Conversely, I’m utterly convinced that I’m destined to die in a horrific plane crash. And if that wasn’t specific enough, I’m also able to detail the cause of the crash (my crash). It won’t occur as a result of a terrorist hijacking, or an explosive device in someone’s size 9’s. Nope, I’m quite certain that my plane (were I ever to get on it) would suffer critical mechanical failure, shortly after take-off.
I dream about flying in aeroplanes a lot, nearly as often (or so it seems) as I see them in the sky. In these alarmingly vivid dreams (and yes I know we all have them but shush for now and read on), what starts out as a pleasant, perhaps even slightly dull journey, always goes horribly wrong..and it’s always in the precise manner I detailed above. 

“But how do you know it’ll actually happen Lucy!?” I hear you cry dramatically.

Well, ok I admit I don’t know for a fact. But lets just say I ‘feel very strongly’ that those dreams are a sign (why I can’t just dream about winning the lotto I have no fu*king idea!) and that this will indeed be the grim manner in which my death comes about. 
Beyond that it’s hard to explain why I believe that the horrible events in the dream I just described to you are destined to manifest into reality. I have a close friend who subscribes to the theory that just by obsessing about the possibility of any given situation or event arising; the likelihood of it happening increases. That we could effectively force it into existence (yes, he’s a weirdo too). Noel Edmonds suddenly springs to mind; he apparently used ‘Cosmic Ordering’ to resurrect his floundering career (google it). Anyway, if you ask me thats all just ‘wishful thinking’, (tsk tsk).

But if you’ve ever gone to Sainsbury’s and maybe whilst you were taking an inventory of the contents of your kitchen cupboards beforehand; you found your mind wandering off entirely of its own volition.. randomly, to an old friend, or a former colleague from years gone by.. someone you hadn’t seen for a considerable amount of time. Only to be completely taken aback when later that same day you bump into that person whilst meandering down the ‘Toilet Roll’ aisle… Well if you have experienced that or something similar, then you’ll know the angle I’m coming from. It feels strange doesn’t it? At the time, you feel a bit psychic; as though you’ve either accurately predicted the encounter beforehand, or you subconsciously willed it into existence by randomly conjuring up thoughts of that person. Either way, it’s as freaky as hell. Some will call it ‘coincidence’, but I’m afraid that theory doesn’t fly (sorry I couldn’t resist) with me.
It feels weird because it IS weird. Stuff like that isn’t normal. Fair enough if you’re sat watching TV, thinking about one of your close siblings, and they happen to ring you within the hour; that I concede is not beyond the realms of mere coincidence. But when it’s someone so disconnected from your life, something which the odds are stacked against, it surely can’t be dismissed so easily. Can it? Aren’t we just turning a blind eye to a whole other realm of possibilities or even capabilities by doing so? 

Anyway, as you can imagine..holidays abroad are a bit of an issue right now. I do however have a plan for if ever I do get persuaded into stepping onboard a plane to take the long, relaxing holiday I crave. Somewhere hot, with searing dry air, crystalline ocean and beaches free of unpleasant sanitary surprises.  If the oxygen mask does fall from above, and the plastic, over-smiley, overmade-up faces of the trolly-dollies do suddenly turn ashen with fear; whomever I’m travelling with will be under strict instructions to punch me repeatedly in the face until I’m fully unconscious.. That way I won’t have to endure those terrifying seconds of descent. Alternatively, if I’m travelling alone I’ll just smack my head into the seat in front until I achieve my ‘coma-goal’, and everything fades to black.
Knowing my luck, the plane would somehow miraculously survive the initial impact, and everyone on board would successfully dodge the flames to take an emergency-slide to safety. Everyone that is, except for the ‘fully unconscious’ me, who would be left for dead in her seat, with half a plastic food-tray embedded in her nose. 

I know. I have such happy, positive thoughts don’t I…

Lucy.
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Death by deliberation…

I’m not so good with choices. Not all choices I might add, mostly just the ones which are essentially trivial. Take this blog for instance; I’ve been thinking about starting a blog for quite a while now, yet the few times I’ve ventured onto various blog-hosting sites, I’ve found myself faced with a plethora of decisions. What will my blog be called? What exactly will I write about? What theme should I choose? What colours should I incorporate into the (as yet ‘unchosen’) theme? So you can see why I soon found my blog-writing plans grinding to an unsatisfying halt. In my defence; it has to be said that the combination of innate perfectionism (born of self-consciousness) and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder are nothing, if not a sure-fire recipe for a lifetime of over-deliberation. Therefore taking all of the above into consideration, it’s actually quite a remarkable thing that you are sat reading my first ever ‘blogged’ words.
Another ‘choice’ I’m currently contemplating, is whether or not to cut off my left ear, then use the sharpest knife I can find in the top kitchen drawer to dig out the inside parts, the ‘tubey’ bits which I would never otherwise get to see.. For those of you who do not know me well enough to know why I would be contemplating carrying out such a gruesome act; No, I’m not taking hallucinogenic drugs, nor am I trying to emulate Van Gough… I am however suffering from tinnitus, and rather badly this evening. Fortunately, it comes and goes. I’m not one of those poor souls (including William Shatner) who have to tolerate an incessant ringing in their ears 24 hours a day, 7 days a week… My condition is intermittent, and takes the form of a ‘whooshing’ pulse-like sound in my ear (usually the left). Nonetheless it pisses me off, enough to make me at least fantasize about cutting it out.. and evidently; enough to warrant a mention on the world-wide web.
This being my first blog, I feel I should reassure you at this point that I’m not going to spend too much time in future posts focussing on my ails, aches, pains and every minor viral infection… as enthralling as some of them may be, there is much other stuff to talk about. You can however expect lots of opinion-based posts, some of which may be controversial enough to make them at least vaguely interesting, others which will not. I expect I’ll take my writing inspiration from anything from current affairs, topics of personal/mass interest, family life, tabloid headlines, major personal events, more mundane personal occurrences, sports events, poker successes (or lack thereof), trashy showbiz gossip, and anything else that makes me want to write, pontificate and FORCE my opinions upon anyone who is interested (or lost) enough to end up reading them.
Well there we have it. I’ve finished my first post, and as if it were congratulating me on this momentous occasion; my ear has suddenly stopped ‘whooshing’ for the first time all night. (I suppose the knife can go back in its drawer now).

Thanks for reading…

Lucy.
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