Not All Doors Have Chocolate Behind Them.

Happy New Year old chaps!

After the deliciously perfect excuse of ‘It’s Christmas’ is now out of the way, one can no longer utter the immortal phrase ‘i’ll start after Christmas’ until the next November comes trundling round.

All the plans made after Christmas are invariably a bitter-sweet attempt to correct the simply huge amount of over-indulgence that seems to be classic of the festive period.

One of the main reasons for me embarking on the dreaded D-word activity for the 2457th time in my life, is perhaps because of a certain incident that happened to me on New Year’s Day…..

Having imbibed my not-inconsiderable weight’s worth of cocktails the night before, I was tiredly stumbling my way through the cold and empty local petrol station’s foodage area.  Now I am marvellously lucky and grotesquely cursed in equal measures that my local petrol station has not just a food shop attached to it, but a scrummy-I-would-eat-all-the-packets-too-if-you’d-let-me food shop.  If you don’t know which one I am on about, then here’s another clue:  It rhymes with ‘Ben and Cress’.  And has a very sexily-voiced tv advert in the form of Matthew Macfayden muttering things like ‘its not just cake, it’s cake dipped in chocolate and balanced on my chest cake’ (mmmm cake)

And

‘It’s not just stuffing and gravy, it’s a full beef roast fed to you on a fork by me, wearing nothing but a tablecloth’!!

So anyway, I’m walking round Matthew’s Shop of Dreams in a kidney hurting, head throbbing type-daze, wondering just when it was that I got old enough to regard the party to only just be worth the hangover… (we’re talking miniscule amounts of ‘only just’ here…!)…and I spot someone I used to go to school with.

Now, I made the supremely silly mistake of leaving school (hurrrumphlygh) years ago and then proceeding to work very hard to be less of a Fatty Blob Head.  I succeeded rather superbly to the extent of shedding 7.5 stone. Hurrah!

I made a point of forgoing the chocolate in favour of running around like a hyperactive sloth on red bull on the badminton court and generally did slimmer-people activities like sashaying when I walked!   ‘Twas a halcyon era, let me tell you!

One of my favourite activities whilst I had de-FBHed, was popping into the local wine bars when all the university people were on their ludicrously long summer holidays, and waltzing up to chat to people I has gone to school with to see if they recognised me.

(Bear in mind that since school, I had lost the weight equivalent of an average 10-year-old girl, learnt how to apply make-up, dyed my mousey brown hair to blonde and discovered my sociable side!)

I used to love freaking them out, and lots of times they couldn’t place me!

It is therefore officially A Bit Of A Shame that I put it all back on and more for good measure!

So, back story completed, let us now return to Ben and Cress.  I smile at the man I used to attend physics lessons with on a tri-weekly basis.  He does that funny little tentative smile that screams: ‘Crap, she’s just smiled at me in recognition, and I haven’t got the foggiest!’  And proceeds to scuttle round the corner into the scotch egg aisle.

So now it’s totally the opposite, and I am still not recognised by people who I have no trouble remembering….perhaps it’s because I kept the blonde hair and makeup, who knows!

Ah well, I think as I continue my slow amble round the shop and stand in the interminably long queue for what seems like far too much of my life. I am British, therefore genetically programmed to endure queues with aplomb of the highest standard, but even this queue gets me down, so much so that I do a little skip when I manage to make it to the front, pay for my goods and navigate my way out.

As I make for freedom, fresh air and the promise of an afternoon on the sofa watching repeats of the Vicar of Dibley scoffing too many sprouts, I near the exit.

Physics man is 20 seconds in front of me, which is apparently enough time for the automatic doors to open and shut for him, and to begin opening for me afterwards. I walk towards them, thinking about vicars jumping in ludicrously giant puddles, with a big grin on my face, which soon turns to alarm, then abject shame and humiliation….

The doors had chosen that particular moment to refuse to open fully, but by the time my brain had worked out this rather pertinent piece of information, my body had still valiantly tried to stuff itself through the foot-wide gap. All that had made it out happened to be my head, my boobs and one leg dangling uselessly in mid-air!

I was stuck blocking the entrance for what seemed like ages, but probably was only (a still uncomfortable) 15 seconds, all the while uttering startled phrases such as ‘ooof!’ and ‘man alive!’

All this is standard for me, dear readers, I know.  Except for one change in the by-now familiar script.  Normally, my humiliation is compounded by the supporting actors getting front row seats to watch the fun, yet maybe it was my day off for entertaining the masses…Physics man walked off entirely oblivious to the enfolding door-squishing drama behind him!  Thank heaven for small (well, not so small really) mercies!

And the moral of this particular story?  Apparently, there are doors out there that can crush people to almost-death, even if said person doesn’t have a clue of the physics of it!

Well that, and:

Never listen to Athos from The Three Musketeers tell you to buy the profiteroles. It always ends deliciously badly!

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

How To Cook Your Washing Up.

Ever hidden last night’s washing up in the oven?

No?  Well done.  This means you are a sensible, well-rounded individual who clearly has a sane grip on time-keeping and general life skills.

I, on the other hand, have at least one of the above qualities…Yet being referred to as ‘well rounded’ is not necessarily a good thing in my book!

So as usual, I can almost hear you shouting ‘Why on earth did you put your washing up in the oven, you crazy fool?’  Well it makes perfect sense to me, and I now shall proceed to explain myself in what is most probably a misguided effort to claw back some semblance of regard from you all!

I have only put my washing up in the oven twice.  The first one was months ago, and I pulled off the manoeuver without a hitch.  The second time was at 8.57am yesterday morning, and let’s just say I wasn’t quite so lucky!

Being self-employed and working from home has its pros and cons:

Pros-working from home.

• Having a full day at the office working in fluffy pink slippers and a dressing gown.
• Taking your lunch break when ever you like.
• Getting too hot and stripping off to a grotty vest top I wouldn’t be seen dead in outside.
• Sneaking the tv on in the background to watch Team GB do wonderful things at the Olympics!

However, one of the cons most definitely has to be clients popping round to choose and commission jewellery.  Now don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely having visitors, and it’s easily the best way as the jewellery needs to be handled, tried on and generally flapped about a bit to get a good impression of just how gorgeous it is! (All modesty flies out the window when I’m in business mode!)

This is where yesterday morning comes in to the situation.  I woke up and checked my emails.  I had one from a client who wanted to pop over to commission a full set to go with a particular top.  Hurrrah!  This is exactly how I like my day to start…..But not when I find out that she wanted to come at 9am, and suddenly I’m sorely regretting my rash decision to leave the night before’s culinary efforts lying around the kitchen waiting to be washed up!

There’s also a fair amount of dusting and hoooooovering to be done, all in the very small window of half an hour….Arrgh!  Of course being me, I am hopelessly useless at staying on top of the housework.  Couple that with the fact that I hosted a fairly messy 30th birthday party at the weekend ( I know.  I’m 30.  It’s still shocking me!) and I’m still finding sticky patches of unidentifiable alcohol and birthday cake (mmmmm, cake!) artfully strewn in the most random of places….

So there I am: Running about my kitchen and lounge in a bit of a flap, wearing the aforementioned grotty vest top and a very past it pair of pj bottoms.

Task one: Fling open curtains to let in some light!  Task two: Hastily close said curtains in an effort to relieve both the poor woman innocently walking her dog-type-creature and myself from any further crushing embarrassment.  No one should ever be subjected to an outfit that can only be good for the incinerator….(Let’s just say the vest openly showcases some ghastly wings as if every highly annoying bingo advert on tv got together and had little bingo babies who then proceeded to populate bingo world and they all lived happily ever after, just south of my shoulders!)

Task three: Jump in the bath.  Unfortunately the boiler had chosen this very morning to have a strop for the first time since we moved in over three years ago.  It’s always provided us with beautifully hot water every time we asked for it, so I have no idea why this morning should have been any different! (Ask The Brother: he washed his (currently massive) mop-head of hair in freezing cold water and has proceeded to be slightly disgruntled all day as a direct result!)

So I abandoned the bath idea for 15 minutes whilst the water heated up. Cue lots of frantic slapdash tidying: Flinging random items everywhere….Such as a pile of birthday presents into the drinks cabinet and an orange squash bottle into my handbag! (I’m vaguely ashamed that my handbag is big enough to comfortably fit a squash bottle in it, but let’s gloss over that reasonably quickly….)

Back to the bath: The next bath I draw is far, far too bubbly…In my haste I’ve added enough bubbles for five baths and now the bath and its bubbles seem to be taking over.  I dunk myself in and out whilst trying to keep my head above water in a bubble free zone, only to clamber out looking like a soggy disgruntled version of the Michelin man….Have you ever tried to get a ridiculously large number of bubbles off you in a hurry?  Thank god no-one was witnessing this particular one-woman foam party!

Next came what was supposed to be a cursory nod to a bit of make up.  What it actually ended up being, was far far, far too much concealer; leading to me looking like the half-crazed yet supremely un-scary Ghost of Makeup Past!  Add hairspray liberally applied to both armpits instead of deodorant ( I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried), and I was ‘ready’ to tackle the kitchen!

Time is a cruel, cruel mistress and waits for no man….  (Or makeup ghost!).  With roughly 2.7 minutes to spare, I still had an unsightly mound of washing up leering at me from the kitchen sink.  There was nothing for it than to go with my previously successful plan of action: Bundle it all into the oven and cover up the glass front with an artfully placed tea-towel!  Hurrah!  As plans go, it was fairly brainy, and I distinctly remember feeling rather smug as I relaxed and helped my client choose the best necklace, bracelet and earrings for her style!

Alas, ‘smug’ was the last emotion I was feeling that evening as I came to put the tea in the oven.  The preheated oven.  With a lot of washing up stuffed in it.  With the plastic sieve which had unhelpfully melted itself to my favourite saucepan whilst the spoons and forks looked on in glee….

The moral of the story?  It probably should be: Keep a whole cupboard free and empty ready for washing up hiding emergencies (preferably one that doesn’t heat up and melt poor unsuspecting kitchen items to each other)

Yet I rather think The Parent would say something along the lines of  ‘Wouldn’t it just be easier to do the washing up as you went along?’

Yes.  I rather think it would.  That, or get that butler I’ve been promising myself…..

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

Family Olympics Slightly Less Glam Than London 2012

What ho Chums,

Hope everyone’s having a spiffing August? Those of you who are lucky enough to still be young and learning…Hope you’re enjoying your summer holidays? And those of you who are nowhere near young enough to be at school except in the teaching capacity….How is your time off going?  I have many teacher friends who (bless them) get very excited as the summer holibob looms, then as soon as they’re in it start grumbling about how fast it’s going!

Then there’s the rest of us who only just remember what six weeks of freedom feels like!  Gone are the long, gorgeous days where we used to spend all day outside making up games in our street: I remember one lovely summer, one of The Friends and I used to create a whole ‘house’ from the one solitary street sign! Yep, a thin piece of metal hammered into the ground was the focus of our attention for at least three afternoons…Ah, the imagination of children!

Of course, playing with a street sign might make me sound as if I didn’t have one toy or real game to my name.  I did, I had many lovely toys (very 1980′s themed such as sylvanian families, trolls with massive pink Jedward-stylee hair and a pair of in-line roller blades that hardly got used as I was totally pants at skating in them and feared for the life of both my ankles!) Yet even with all these cracking toys, sometimes the most simple things are the best: For example, give a child a big cardboard box and they’ll be happy for days, creating many different worlds with just their imagination!

Now I am a grown up (sort of, I think I will always be 22 in my head!) August means very different things to me….As the 24th looms with alarming and relentless inevitability, I find myself thinking back over the last 30 years…..

…….Which is a bit of a nutty thing to say really, because I can only really remember stuff starting from age 5, but no-one ever says that do they?

One thing that stands out from all in my memories is the continual and (usually) healthy family rivalry that has always existed, and will always I should think!  Obviously, The Brother and I have always made everything we possibly could into a competition:

One of our favourite games (which I am ashamed to say we’ve really only just grown out of!) was strangely named ‘You are the Liebfraumilch!’ I have no idea why we called it this, as it involved trying to push, overbalance or pull the other onto the sofa before you yourself hit the cushions!  Now obviously, being a bit of a Fatty Blob Head from quite an early age, lets just say I had the weight advantage in this game!  I used to hold my own quite successfully, until about the age of 14.  It was about this time that The Brother got really quite ridiculously strong, and he’s never looked back since! I very rarely get to crow ‘You are the Liebfraumilch’ these days…..The only time I manage it is if he’s not expecting it, in fact not even realising we’re playing the game (Cue evil laugh: Mwahahahahaaaaaaaa!)

So all this family competitiveness was bound to get rather more serious and official as we grew up….(Not that we’re Olympic standard or anything!) The Parent spotted a chart in a shop last year, and presented us with the perfect item to keep us amused for a whole year:

This simple piece of printed cardboard has kept us busy all year.  We’ve got til new year’s eve to complete as many of the 72 different tasks as possible! Hurrah for the Family Olympics!

Now, some of the tasks have been simply made for me:

• Stay in your pjs all day.  Easy Peasy! Next!
• Laugh til you cry.  Done. One of The Friends sent me a big long list of iBone autocorrects that had me rolling about in a very unladylike manner, with tears streaming down my very red face.  Unfortunately I was sat in a cafe at the time, and was making a bit of a tit of myself….I felt the need to read one out to the bloke sat next to me as he was looking to see why I was almost wetting my bridgets….I think he enjoyed it but the same can’t be said for the little old lady who was on my other side…She looked at me as though she wanted to call the men in white jackets!
• Build a snowman.
• Build a sandcastle. Behold both below!

The Brother’s was just too cool!

Now obviously I wish there was a lovely, rose-tinted story to go with the above sandcastle…A halcyon day full of fabulously remembered childhood times that included eating sand-filled sandwiches whilst sat on the fabulously hot sand watching the world go by…..Unfortunately (just for a change) this was not to be……

Picture the scene: Me fully clothed with just the bottom 5 inches of my jeans rolled up to keep the sea and sand off them, brandishing a hastily purchased spade and ‘bucket’ for the occasion.  Now as I’ve grown up, I’ve got a bit funny about sand…You’d never catch me rolling about in it these days, as I just don’t like it when it creeps everywhere and you’re still finding it days later!

So there I am, having a sandcastle competition with The Parents, and I’m trying to do it all from a standing position with a tiny spade that can only have been made for borrowers to dig their vegetable patches with!  I was so busy trying to avoid the demon sand (silly really, as I was attempting to create a pinnacle of building excellence with the stuff!) that I got one foot stuck in a particularly squelchy bit, tried to step back, failed miserably and landed on my (admittedly comfortably padded) bottom with a squeak followed by an ‘oompfh!’

Add The Parents crying with helpless laughter (well done them, they got a sticker for that!) and not helping me in the slightest, things could only have got more horrifyingly embarrassing if there had been any other witnesses to this shameful display of clumsy athletics…….Oh good, yes…That family over there will do….With the hot dad….Brilliant!

My shame was compounded further by the cutiepie four-year old poppet who asked said hot dad: ‘What is that lady doing lying in the sand?’ in a loud voice only a four-year old can achieve!

To top all that off, The Parent won the sandcastle competition (Though I’m wondering if he didn’t bribe the judges with wine…) and I went away from the whole sorry experience with a pulled leg muscle!

So there’s just a few of the stickers I’ve already got…..I’m going to find some of the others slightly more tricky: No tv for a week? Humnnn…..Turn your mobile phone off for 48 hours? Arrgh! I’d rather chew my own arm off!

Guess which one was my very first achieved sticker?  Yep, that’s right….Bake a cake! (Mmmmmmmmmm Cake!)

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

 

Leave Headbanging To The Professionals….

Right.  Ok.

Now I know there’s entirely no excuse for my absolute tardiness and inability to write a post since January.  It’s disgraceful and I am filled with horrendous amounts of scalding shame……

So what has affected my ability to put pen to paper these past months? (Not that it’s actually pen to paper any more, but finger to key just doesn’t have the same romantic-type writer-ish ring to it, now does it?)

I’d like to say that it was because I was kidnapped by an insanely scary yet pure-at- heart band of ruffians who put me to work in a sock factory making well, er, socks. (obviously).  They’ve only just let me out for good behaviour and because I reached my own personal goal of twenty finished socks!  Woo hoo!

Twenty finished socks? I hear you say…that is an absolutely pathetic number of socks, seeing as you’ve been AWOL for 5 months!  Ah, but you don’t know what the socks were made from do you?  They were created with the silk from a very rare and scary spider.  As I have no doubt mentioned before, spiders are not my most favourite thing on earth, so milking them for their silk, (or ‘Silky Milking’ as we in the trade call it) was a harsh and acutely terrifying experience for me!

But that of course, isn’t what happened…  You, dear reader, are slightly silly for even believing that story even a little bit…I know I paint such a rich and interesting picture that you’re saying to yourself…’This must indeed, be true!’ but come on; milking silk for socks?  He he! I bet you feel just a tad bit foolish for being so gullible!

I am now the proud owner of a business!  Yeah baby!  As before (when I was writing blogs willy nilly) my laptop has been permanently attached to my knee, but I have had to employ the willpower of a god (someone really strong like Thor or Odin rather than one of the less impressive ones obviously) to keep my recalcitrant fingers from wandering on to wordpress…I have my very own website and everything! Feel free to pop along and have a gander..I’d love to know what you think:

I had some stunningly-marvellous-websitey-genius-people helping me obviously, but I am rather chuffed at what I have managed to cobble together!  It was all done with a generous helping of very little sleep, lots of cake (mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, cake!), some healthy yet probably slightly childish tantrums at The Brother when I couldn’t possibly understand why I needed to acquaint myself with SEO keywords and Cookies (I assure you-not the chocolate chip filled, interesting kind!)

So that’s my excuse (the real, non spider story one too) and I’m sticking to it!  After a ridiculously long bout of hard work and inforced reclusiveness, I am back in the world, and don’t feel such debilitating guilt for taking an hour off on a sunday to catch you all up on FBH news….

Of course, the random occurences and embarrassing happenings haven’t just stopped because I haven’t been writing about them, oh no!  They continue their at inevitable and alarming pace….And so to the title of this particular blog:

As I may have mentioned in the past, I am a person who is 5ft 9in.  Now, this in itself is not a bad thing.  I am able to reach up high in supermarket shelves to help little old ladies to the high up cake (who have been known to bark at me rather than just ask, how rude!), I can also see above most crowds, and make a rather impressive lamp-post with my arm in the air brandishing my illuminated phone for The Titchy Friends along dark alleyways when we’ve had one or two glasses of pink fizz!

So all in all, I have grown used to how tall I am, and the relative pit falls that are associated with what feels like giving the Empire State building a run for its money!  One of these afore-mentioned pit falls happens to be how often I unsuspectingly bang my head (Ah ha!  Now the title becomes clear, heh?) and a few recent instances come to mind:

Instance 1 (Also known as Handbag Head Horreurs!)

A new handbag always has me clutching it protectively to my side, so imagine me in the cinema loo:  No hook.  There’s no way on this great earth of ours that I am putting it down on any manky surface.  Ever.  What to do?  It will fall off and become a nuisance if I leave it on my shoulder…..Hang it around my neck: Huzzah!  A nifty and rather clever solution, if I don’t say so myself!  Everything is going swimmingly until it comes to pulling up my jeans (yes I know this might be ‘too much of the informations’ for all of you sensitive creatures out there, but bear with!)

I lean forward, and in that small pocket of time, stupidly forget about the sheer volume and weight of said handbag (I am one of those people who will be able to produce whatever you need: paracetamol, nail file, plasters, cake, safety pins, lip balm, mints, chocolate, washing line, kitchen sink…)  As you can probably guess, I lose the battle with my now evil and cackling handbag, and crash my poor head into the stall door in front of me.

Now this is a popular cinema, with anything up to 30-ish female patrons making use of the facilities at any one time:  Once they’ve got over the fact that there seems to be some sort of crazed monster trying unsuccessfully to escape the stall, there ensues a deathly silence only punctuated by a nervous giggle from one small girl.  The next painful dilemma for me then is: Do I stay in there and quietly die of shame and embarrassment, or do I walk out of there, head held high as though nothing strange whatsoever has occurred?  Much as I’d have liked to do the former, the latter won-just! (I think Ryan Reynolds was in the film I was about to watch, and the prospect of watching him gorgeously smoulder on the big screen for two hours would probably have got me out of that loo even if I’d managed to lose all my clothes and grow a tail!)

And now we come to yesterday’s delightful occurence, and the reason that prompted me to pull FBH out of semi-retirement:

Instance 2 (Also known as The Cake Made Me Do It)

Cake. (mmmm, cake)  Yes It would be about cake wouldn’t it?!

Picture the scene:  In a coffee shop with The Parents, The Brother and New And Lovely Sweetie Of The Brother (Catchy title, I know!) and New And Lovely Sweetie Of The Brother asks me if I’m having cake. (She’s new, she’ll learn that is a most redundant question!)  So anyway, I look towards the cake.  I can’t see what the inside of the toffee cake looks like, so I lean in to get a closer look.  What my cake-distracted brain hasn’t quite managed to compute in enough time, is this:

As with any sensible coffee/cake establishment, there is a highly polished (almost invisible – honest) pane of glass in between me and the cake.  Sensible, otherwise they’d be forever having to quell cake-induced riots I’m sure…

A most almighty crash occurs, with my head being the main protagonist in a very excruciating and mortifying scene where, thankfully the glass remains whole, and where New And Lovely Sweetie Of The Brother and I are able to laugh our way up the queue, and hopefully dispel anyone else’s view of me being mentally unhinged by our ability to see the funny side!

I also crashed my head in exactly the same place on The Parent’s car boot later on, but as this was simply painful and not funny, we shall gloss over my obvious misfortune and go straight on to the fact that:

I managed to achieve a personal best by mentioning the word ‘cake’ 16 times in one blog post.  Hurrah!

I hope this finds you all well, and in less pain than me, as no doubt you are all sensible people and manage not to be taken in by cake (woo, 17 times!) on such a regular basis!

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

Press Pause On Your Remote….Ta!

My lovely beings,

Sorry, there’s going to be a blog shaped hole in today because I’m feeling very floopy (As one of The Friends puts it!)  Think my brain might be having an off day so I’m going to give it a fighting chance of surviving through the night intact by sending it off to bed; a sort of ‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’ type scenario!

I hope you have all had snazzbuckets days with plenty of Cake (mmm, cake!), a few thoughts about candidates for Licky Necks, and even perhaps a sighting of a Future Husband or two!  (Or wife!)

I will bid thee adieu for the day, and hope tomorrow brings fresh zeal and a less muddy brain area!

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

Happy Birtday, Stephen Fry

Right then, a little experiment if you will….

If you could navigate away from this page for three seconds, pop yourself onto the google webpage and see what today’s picture is……..

 

 

Did you do it?  Is is glamorous?  Are there multitudes of sparkly, gorgeous pictures of FBH in various famous locations, as if I were gracing the cover of OK magazine or some such other publication to show I’ve made it?

 

What do you mean, no?  But I thought that’s what happened when it’s your birthday?  Google go all out and tell people how old you are with a snazzy picture that still says ‘google’ but also cleverly illustrates the best bits of your life!  On mine it should have had a big cake, (mmmmm, cake!) a picture of me marrying Colin Licky-Neck Firth, and a tapestry-type image depicting the final downfall of Shirley the alcohol snake!

So all that wasn’t on google, across the whole voluminous worldly world-wide spiderweb?

Well, I am disappointed.  I was under the impression that google did that on your birthday, but it seems I am sadly mistaken. I won’t dwell too much on the fact that I’ve been looking forward to that moment for months, and even had an ‘I’m on google!’ party planned for later on this evening……Never mind, I suppose I must learn to be content with my lowly status for another year….

But as far as birthdays go, I have high hopes for this one!  The Parent has promised to pay special attention when icing my cake, (mmm, cake!) as in past years she has managed to miss out a rather important letter ‘H’….She obviously went down the ‘well only special people get it spelt that way…think yourself lucky!’ route; but at the end of the day it still read ‘HAPPY BIRTDAY’.  Of course since then it’s become tradition, and even extended to one of The Friend’s rather important 30th Birtday cake!  (The Parent claimed this one was on purpose too, he he!)

So I have a lovely, long day off and I plan to do all the traditional family activities we save up and only do on a Birtday…

We started with Birtday in the bed; the only slightly terrible thing about this part of my day was the hour in which the ceremony was conducted.  Some lovely member of The Family dragged me from my cosy bed at 6am to get into the guest bed for champagne and presents.  Why 6am, I hear you gasp?  So the unlucky non-Birtday people can still go to work on time, the poor mugs!

Yet the ungodly hour was to be endured, especially as the ingestion of a glass of Champers so early in the morning served to put all qualms about being up at rude-o-clock on one’s own creation anniversary firmly to bed!

What didn’t happen this year though (somewhat disappointingly) was the strange yet pleasing phenomenon of a Double Whammy Birtday.  This is so named because of the year we were all camping in the middle of nowhere with The Gang. (the oldest group of The Friends:  All of The Parents are great friends too!)  Anyway, The Gang Parents slipped up slightly by celebrating my Birtday a day early….

Did they lose track of the calendar? (Don’t forget this was way before mobile phones!)  Were they drunk? (Probably!)  Whatever the reason I was not complaining, for as soon as they realised their mistake they had to rush to the nearest supermarket to do it all again the next day!  Double Whammy Birtday Presents!

Then there was the year that I cursed Newton and his darned pesky gravity:  I now know how to accept a tall ice cream sundae glass on a saucer from a waitress….So graceful is the manoeuver that you would never have guessed I was once an awkward 12-year-old who’d just thrown a frozen pudding onto her lap!  I do remember being more annoyed that I had lost a yummy ice cream, rather than the mess I’d made of my new top.  Ah, how times have almost changed; Now I’d be annoyed about both the mess and the loss!

Anyway, there are many more stories I could tell you if I had more time, but there’s too much Birtday fun to be had today so I’m off!  Off to enjoy my whole day of being 28 and 365 days old!

Oh, and Happy Birtday Stephen Fry!  As always I am honoured to share my day with you, you utter leg end!

Love,

Fatty Blob Head

 

 

Hats All Folks!

I’m sure it happens in most places across the UK, so most of you will understand me when I tell you that this weekend was my town’s annual folk festival.
Forgive me if you already know of this delightful occasion, but for those who don’t, here’s what it is:

Among other activities too numerous and exciting to list here, there’s live music with some morris dancing, then a group called ‘Peatbog Faeries’ with some added ’Spooky Men’s Chorale’ and rounded off nicely with ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’.  Like my explanation?  Good wasn’t it?  Now you know exactly what it’s about!

Ha!

And the main culprits?
Definitely the Morris Dancers.

Freaky people dressed up in raggedy costumes with black makeup haphazardly applied to most of the face (sometimes missing out crucial patches by mistake…Beauts)

Now in my book, there’s shortish list of characters in life that scare the heeby-jeebies out of me, and morris dancers are firmly placed within this category!  Others include any type of clown, idiotic mimes and chav-men with a distinct and disgusting lack of a top of any kind whilst out in public! (I don’t care if it’s a lovely sunny day; there’s no excuse for such a display of scrawny/blotchy/hairy chestage!)

Anyway, back to the morris dancers….Every year my hometown is overrun with these beasties from another planet, and I have proudly perfected a very good impression of not being affected by them whilst I’m at work.

This is generally achievable as I’m inside and they are outside; a simple truce that has worked well for us all over the years.  My downfall this year however, was to have a mahoosive and uncontrollable urging for Battenberg cake (mmmmmmmmmmmmm, cake!)

Now you all by now might have realised what I’m like when it comes to cake….It has a control over me that is hard to find in any other aspect of human life:  maybe only matched by the urges The Beckhams have for naming their children with unfortunate and ridiculous names, or Lady Gaga’s passion for interesting meat-based clothing!

In my opinion, Battenberg is right up there with the cake greats, and once the thought takes hold in my brain nothing can dislodge it until I am in possession of the snazzy yellow and pink confection!  What is even more impressive is that The Minions aren’t all that bothered about it, meaning there is more for The Boss and I!  Whoop!

Off out I ventured into the Alien Land of The Morris, taking care not to engage any of said dancers in eye contact of any kind (I’ve heard it said this is how they catch you and suck out your soul.)  Unfortunately I was travelling the normally pleasant, uncluttered streets at a geriatric snail’s pace due to the sheer volume of visitors and massive meadow-filled hats that are all the rage in the ‘Mo-Dancing’ community… (Seriously, I doubt Holland had many tulips left)  These hats were everywhere, I wonder if they had to employ a couple of students simply to follow everyone round watering them all day?

Anyway, I came to a total street-sized blockage which turned out to be a dancing demonstration.  There was nothing for it but to sidle through right on the edge of the action:  I was a woman on a mission and nothing was going to keep me from my prize!

‘Almost Managing To Evade Humiliation’ ought to be my continual tag line!  Why?  Because I’d forgotten about the yelping.  The Mo-D’s love a good yelp mid dance!  There’s some sticky stick things which they brandish in a roguishly cheerful manner, whilst shaking their bell-clad clogs and yelping at the tops of their voices!  I had my back to one such monster just as he let out a shriek that could have felled a couple of shire horses and a whole troupe of badgers at once:

The lady next to me jumped and giggled.  Oh how I wish I’d had the composure to do the same!  Instead, I went down the slightly more mortifying route of matching him, shriek for shriek!  I leaped high in the air and landed far too close to a very ‘Licky Neck Daddy’, who whisked his small child away from my flight path quicker than you could say ‘Atrociously Feathered Hat’!

Let’s just say I fled the scene as quickly as my legs could carry me, and went the long way back to work to avoid all further encounters with the Mo-Ds or the hot Dad!

Let it be known that I am not in any way being deliberately disparaging to the wonders that are the Mo-Ds and their assorted offspring, merely stating my opinion on all things Folk related!

I’m not sure what the point of the whole exercise was, other than to terrify sane  humans and most breeds of dog….After all, what is the use of dressing up in that slightly scruffy get-up?  Has anyone ever seen a Mo-D bank manager?  Or a policeman?  What about the other end of the jobs market?  How many successful Morris Dancing Cat Burglars do you think there are out there?  The bells on their shoes alone would render the raid useless, let alone the yelping!

I’m glad the festival is over yet again; to avoid further humiliations next year I may just invent a nasty 24hr tropical malady to keep me occupied….Rather that than more cloggy bell dancers!

I slept that night safe in the knowledge that only 27% of the festival revellers had witnessed my own unique take on the tradition of the Mo-Dance; for me, that’s way below the FBH average!

I never did get any Battenburg.  Drat.
Love,

Fatty Blob Head

The Cake and I

I’d like to say that Cake and I have a love-hate relationship.  This of course would be a giant lie, as Cake and I make a very fine team.

Cake once told me it’s purpose in life was to bring happiness to the lives of as many people as possible before the plate got empty.  Not willing to deny anything its dying wish, I feel the destiny of Cake is safe in my hands.

I recently acquired my first cake tin.  I’m almost 29.  I was surprised one day to wake up and almost the first thought in my head was ‘I don’t own a cake tin’.  Quite why this particular morning was the day my brain decided to furnish me with this information, I’m not sure!  I do lots of dreaming…no doubt I’d just had my favourite one which involves buckets of cake on conveyor belts set to the song ‘All You Need Is Love’ (Cake).

I bought a fab tin with stars all over it, and from that day to now, not one single Cake has ever seen the inside of that tin.  They never make it that far!!  Therein lies the answer why I have lasted the best part of three decades without one.  I of course, do not achieve this impressive feat on my own.  I have help in the form of many friends and relatives who pounce on any Cake present with as much gusto as I.  Cake brings people together.  I’m fairly certain that if prompted, Cake may even be able to achieve World Peace.  Don’t quote me on that one though, that’s off the record!

As the daughter of a professional Cake Creator, I have had an affinity from a very early age with nearly all types of cake.  Standing in between the mixer and the sink ready to catch the bowl before it hits the washing up water was my favourite thing to do.  Even now when I happen to visit at the right time of day, my parent tuts when she notices me moving into position!

Right now, my clever mum is rocking the cupcakes….Chocolate, lemon drizzle, sticky toffee and ginger nut to name but a few.  These exquisite little numbers are all ‘little buns of heaven’  as my Northern friend puts it.  Those Northerners, gotta love them, especially when they come out with funny words such as buns (cakes), pants (trousers…..I know, weird!) and lairy (look it up!).  But I digress…more on the Northerners another day!

She also does my favourite all time Cake Of Dreams.  A juicy, delicious apple cake with almonds on top.  I have tried to recreate this cake in my own kitchen, but it never turns out quite right.  It seems a big shame not to let any Cake reach its full potential, so I leave it to the professional…a system which works out well for everyone.

So do I have an unhealthy attachment to Cake?  Of course! (Have you read the above?)

Are there worse things in life?  Most definitely.

Love Actually could have been an entirely different movie if they had used my lyrics when that annoying Knightly woman was walking down the aisle…Imagine if they’d started throwing cakes into the air instead of playing trombones….or throwing cakes into the trombone?  Cake Actually.  Yep, I like it!  Why on earth Richard Curtis feels he can write these things better than me will always be a mystery….Four Weddings and a Cake Tin…….When Harry Met Simnel…….From Rhum Baba With Love….The Lord of the Doughnut Rings.  Clearly I have missed my calling!

I shall leave you with the lyrics from the song that pops into my head often:

All you need is Cake, Ba ba ba da da

All you need is Cake, Ba ba ba da da

All you need is Cake, Cake, Cake is all you need!

Love,

Fatty Blob Head