Whilst trying to sleep with the worst ear ache I think I’ve ever had early Thursday morning I began thinking. Thinking about my Grandad. We are creeping up to 4 months since he sadly passed away. And it’s still raw. Raw to my mind like I’ve lost all my limbs. Like I can not ever get over this… Do we ever stop grieving?
So apparently, we do. Although I’m not quite sure when the ‘letting go’ stage kicks in. That sounds like a horrible-I-don’t-give-a-shit stage. Do we ever really want to let go? Even though it means we can continue with our lives. Get back to ‘normal’ like everyone likes to point out. How can it be ‘normal’?
His smell. TCP. Their washing detergent smell. The smell I embrace when I smother my face with his few belongings I have; those scarves and that jumper. That scratchy jumper. I’m sure I never really liked it scratching my skin. But now I love it. I love how it feels on my skin. Scratchy scratch. It’s my Grandad’s you see. His soft, warm, hands that would grip mine tightly, from a small girl crossing the road to his last few days he was with us. Big, big hands. Big, big knuckles. I see replica hands on my Dad. But they aren’t my Grandad’s hands. So it’s irrelevant. Because he isn’t here anymore. And I want him here. And my Grandma is thinking the same. I see it in her light blue, sea coloured eyes. She longs for her husband. Yearns for him. Her husband of 70 years, known for nearly 90.
I don’t think we ever stop grieving in some form. I think we become accustomed to that loved one not being there anymore and we learn to accept our loss. But that deep rooted pang of need, the desire to just see them once more. The need to smell their smell, touch their warm familiar skin and to listen to their voice. I don’t think that will ever go, it just gets easier to deal with as time sadly continues to creep on by.
So I was chilling in the bath after a day of housey type organising and shopping, browsing instagram, scanning with my beady eyes over all the beautiful wedding gowns. 10 minutes pasted, 20 and 30 and then it dawned on me, my latest obsession.
Now this is more than the spice girls ever were or my Addidas poppers back in the day or perfectly separating all my lashes when I started wearing (pasting) make up on my face as a young teenager. My latest obsession I’m sorry to say is not the latest Loubs. My latest obsession is not some buff new testosterone boosting male in the latest film. Nor is my latest obsession a horrific trash-filled TOWIE- esque shit reality show on my screen. No. My latest obsession is LOVE. Deep, cherishing, no words can describe, utter love. That type of love where you constantly search for another word because ‘love’ doesn’t seem strong enough. That type of love that keeps you awake at night day dreaming and tears at your gut wrenched soul when it momentarily lapses. The love that once that spark is ignited it burns forever and ever. The love that never, ever fades, it couldn’t if it tried. This kind of love is too strong. This kind of love is so powerful; it lasts a life time. Longer than the latest Mulberry bag, z list celebrity hair extensions or new shaped skirt lasts on fashionista’s lips. That love that I whole heartedly adore. That love that never, ever fades.
My latest obsession, love.
Moving on from my disastrous, it’s-not-my-fault-it-was-his-fault type of date situation I began talking to a rather preppy guy in his late twenties. He seemed like a bit of a sweetheart, which progressed to him liking Sex and The City and admitting he likes an ‘early morning snuggle’. There was even a sticky out tonguey smiley, not even a graphical emoji (which I accept), which is ever so slightly sickening for me. As is the snuggley chat. Yes I’m a stone cold, heartless, witchy dragon. Well it get’s better (or worse depending on your view of this nice boy stuff).
Remember when the Russian wrote Carrie a song in season 5 I think it was? And all the girls laughed hysterically? Yes, that is correct, this Chris Martin/Ed Sheeran clone has, after talking to me for 3 days- 3 DAYS, has begun writing me a song. A SONG. Is this romantic or stomach churning, vomit worthingly insensitive of a snuggley man to oppose such action on an emotionless, soon to be cat lady? Does he know what he is doing? Does he know who he is dealing with? I’m close to getting my wedged sneakers on and running for the hills.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m trying. I am forgiving his insensitive actions, and foresee I will go on a date with this man, just to see what these ‘nice romantic types’ have to offer. Obviously I’ll be taking some sickness tablets prior to the met.
The time has come to broach this subject. The subject I feel I must write about as I lie here hugging my brother’s dog like he is an actual human. Which he actually is before you jest. Holding his hand and snuggling his face like he’s the love of my life. He may as well be. Here’s for why u little, lovely readers. I am a 26 year old pissy cat lady. Yep that’s it. I am 26 years old. Living at home. No boyfriend. No children. Not even a fucking rabbit anymore. But I have a car..any good? Yay L Sense my sarcasm pleease.
As I was at beauty college, I began dating a, well let’s say a ‘loveable rogue’. To everyone else who ‘didn’t want to hurt me’; a raving slag. Yes, a man whore. And yes you’re thinking it..no he didn’t change. 3 years I shut out those thoughts. And my friends. Because I had him. Just unfortunate he had many. Not reformed. I wouldn’t have listened anyway I was told. And hell no I wouldn’t. I was 18 years old and madly in love with this fool. This fool that actually made me change, believe it or not, for the better. Adios.
These led to 2 years of growing up/getting drunk. Not lying the first year consisted of going out, getting so drunk I’d end up crying on a victim’s shoulder about how I still loved him. Oddly enough they didn’t run a mile. Drunk, sad girl? Drunker than drunk drunk? Easy target, huh. Yes I had fun. Went to Ibiza with the girls. Oh I had fun. Winky smiley babes. Then fun was getting boring. And so was having to give a big fuck about whether someone has pink or baby pink on their toes or how bushy their toe hair was. So off I went to university… Gulp. And I’d find myself a good man there…eeeee!! Oh but no…
4 months before I was due to go to university I set eyes on exactly what I liked. A reformed looking bad boy. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Big white teeth (don’t ask). Then came the exchanging numbers, the quick falling in love and the unthinkable when I was left at university. Fast forward 3 years and we were still together. Back from university and I was B.O.R.E.D. First job and back at home. It was O.V.E.R. Although I was more ready in my head then he was unfortunately. First came the anger. Then came the sadness. Then wanting talks. Then came the ‘let’s be friends’..now we’re left with awkwardness. Now I’m left with a dog.
Now I’m 26 years of age and looking for that reformed bad boy. Great. But the only thing is with the hoes of today these bad boys don’t need to be reformed. They can continue with their playing days and these retarded idiots accept it. Excuse me but I come from a better background then to accept this. Oops slight bullshit I have accepted it and been a victim of wanting one of these to settle with me but noooooow…me…nope not settling for this BS. Apparently.
So I’m 26 years of age. And I’m alright you know. I don’t have sprouting toe hair. It gets looked after. I wax my bikini line and my nails may not always be painted but they are filed pleasantly. I don’t go out with my minge hanging out and my fringe is always fucking perfect. So forgive me if I thought I should be able to get a decent fella, with a decent job, decent attitude, morals, principles and decent looking. C’mon girls yes we want personality and decent guy before looks but we gotta have something that catches our eye. And don’t try and say you don’t. YOU DO.
So I’m out in my heels, my dress on with my booty a little pert. Classy lips and hair minimal. Supping my vodka mix or French martini with a bezzie appreciating some smooth tunes. Why am I attracting these idiots I previously spoke of? Why am I attracting fools with ice on their wrist and strips shaved in their hair? Who even are these ‘men’? It would appear all guys think girls are an easy ride these days.
Before you think otherwise I actually do regularly speak to guys. Most nights out I come home with a number. Like WOW. Go me. Like that means anything these days. So sometimes that texting conversation leads to a date as lng as dey tlk btr dan dis bby gurl. And then I’m let down. No morals. No principles. No aspirations. No, I will not perform any sexual acts in Tesco’s car park bbz. So I’m on to the next Saturday, is this how it is to be?
So here’s my plan. Stop going to the places where these so called men go. Although I LOVE the music. Although this plan hasn’t worked. Like EVER. Like ever ever ever..repeat to fade. So instead I am here. With a dog. But like 2 dogs. Treating them like actual human half man/baby, half dog. Who appreciate being hugged and spoken to like small children. Because I won’t have any. Unfortunately for my dad I will probably be here until I’m 57 with 27 cats, 2 dogs and 4 guinea pigs. And still going to the same haunts, expecting different. Here’s my conundrum; change or forever be the pissy cat/dog lady. Excuse me while I walk my children/adopted dogs..
So I was going on my first date in ages. With a funky dancing, tall dark, handsome being and I was nervous. Okay that’s an understatement. I was shitting my inappropriately cream coloured, high waisted, straight legged American Apparel trousers. I was quaking in my platform shoes. However, bonus here, my tall, dark date was 6 foot 3 heavenly inches so at least I could wear the bloody things. But not walk. Completely, utterly, stark ravingly irrelevant.
Now, when I am nervous I ramble. At 1034 miles per hour. Or laugh rather hysterically or very often both, hence why dates don’t come around all that often. By the by, I was ready to ride this traumatising experience. Tall, dark date was particularly attentive asking questions relating back to previous phone calls. Point. He complimented the restaurant choice of mine. Check. Drinks post meal, check. Everything was going swimmingly. Probably too well. We were chatting about our further education. To cut a rather embarrassing story short I said he was not “creative enough” for doing a self reported boring job that is not in any way related to his degree in the slightest. His face kind of ever so slightly dropped to his flies and speech stopped for what seemed like 23 hours. I actually heard tumble weed I kid you not. I rambled, he rambled. AWKWARD. I blame it on being far too relaxed. So basically it was his fault.
I had forgotten about it until the conversation post disastrous date did not flow quite so beautifully. Date lost, lesson learnt. I didn’t fancy his face anyway.
Just a standard weekend coming home from University. Well not a completely standard healthy weekend. Travelling on the train with a raging water infection was a bitch. Another water infection. Studying is hard, man. But worse was to come. My dad had cancer. That’s right. That dirty C word. That thing that doesn’t get it’s nasty grip on your little bubble of a life until it strikes and tries to take a loved one. Not any loved one. YOUR loved one. How fucking dare it.
I was mardy. Another water infection presumably from a stressy few weeks at Uni, man I couldn’t wait to finish. I remember it like it was yesterday, struggling to get comfortable on that fateful Friday, late afternoon train journey. My dad came to collect me and naturally he was late. Or parked up round the back so he didn’t have to pay the car park charges, naturally. Either or really. Normal loading of the car. Normal weekend your-back-from-uni chat. My dad took me straight to the walk in at our local hospital where we sat for a few hours, waiting to be seen and clawing to get my needy hands on some drugs to make my urethra happy again. A little chat about waiting times of the NHS. My dad seemed interested in that. I was soon to discover why.
It was possibly the next day. Just popping out to see the boyfriend to take my mind of my inability to pee an ocean. My dad in the kitchen doing the pots. Naturally. With his marigolds on. Naturally. I tell him I’m going out. He says he has something to tell me. My daddy casually tells me he has cancer. There isn’t an easy way to say that, you know. I often think it’s worse for the person to continue to have to pass on this information than to be told themselves. Almost like it was being ever so carefully bashed further and further with a sledge hammer into his scared soul. Tap. Tap. Tap. Kinda like, yep I have cancer and I now have to deal with you being sad for me. How messed up is that? My dad is standing in the kitchen with his marigolds on, tea towel in hand, telling me he has cancer and my response? “You are joking?”. Since when has that ever been a reasonable response to the fact my dad may die? His response? He wished he was joking. Then followed an awkward few minutes of plans, appointments and dates, I swooped out, shocked to my core.
My. Dad. Has. Cancer. So he’s dying basically. My thought process for a short time. Until I felt the need to man up to be there for him when my mum was sickened to her stomach that her first and only love, the father of her children, may be leaving us soon. Then I became strong. Cancer was not going to beat us. We were going to beat it.
Appointments and scans came and went as expected, as did my dad getting thinner and his hair regularly appearing around the bath tub. Sensation to his fingers and toes reduced and fatigue set in, but he worked. My dad continued to work, being out of the house for 11 hours a day in a stressful post. The operation successfully came and went and we were happy. Relieved. Ecstatic. My dad didn’t die after all. Our relationship blossomed and I suddenly felt this connection with my dad that I had never felt before. Every cloud clearly has a silver lining.
Until the cancer came back. Welcoming itself to my dad’s liver this time. I’m angry. I’m fucking angry at this cancer. Why MY dad again? Why can’t it be someone else’s dad? Does it have to be at my family again? My mum is not strong enough for this never mind my dad. I cry. We all cry. But I hide and cry. It’s too awkward to cry together. How can I cry in front of my dad? It feels so disrespectful; hi dad I’m crying because I think your going to die. Nah. Not for me. Can’t do that.
So it starts again. Only further afield. Appointments, scans, reviews, medication, treatment and another operation. 65% removed from his liver. I can never look at the Christmas turkey giblets again. And he recovers well and to this day my dad does not have cancer. Will it return? We don’t know. Is it worth thinking about it every day? No.
These things can consume your every thought and strangle you of your life forever. My dad has now retired and we, as a family, are so much stronger for the shit we went through. My dad is alive and I love him so much. x
Let me love You. Let me awake you with your favourite morning drink. Let me cook your favourite type of eggs. And fry your bread. Let me make your bed while you shower. Let me dry you. Let me hold you while the kettle boils on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Let me cook you a feast and bake you a muffin. Let me walk down the isle to you. Let me make a home for you. For us. Let me bore your child. Let me run our home. Let me be the lady of the house, the mother of your child. Your children. Let me love you for eternity. Let me love you.
Inspired by every Saturday night in a city near you.
Keep your heels high and your standards higher
Not quite sure who
Maybe some girls these days need to modify that quote to include their pants. Actually, they probably couldn’t add that as they’ve already subtracted that garment from their evening attire.
Ladies, if we can call ourselves that anymore, what has happened? Do we blame the ladies *ahem* hoes or do we blame the guys..? Here I want to explain my thoughts on this ‘mare of today’s twenty somethings, probably an exceedingly ridiculous topic to a whole bunch of happily coupled people with happiness and bunnies around them everywhere. VOMIT.
First of all let’s start with the guys. The guys that don’t want to put in the effort to wine and dine, holding open doors or pulling out the chairs for their beautiful dates to seat their perfectly dolled up hinnies upon. The guys that chase, show some attraction, get what they want and off they go. Often referred to as a “beat and delete”. The act quite literally as classy as the offenders, these ‘men’ who got their swag- which could lead to a whole new topic; What is swag? I believe it was made up by people who are at their table balling, popping champagne whilst the grand majority of them are on lemonade money, driving their little Almerias. Yep. Nice one. What a LAD you are now, your address being mummy’s house, right? I rest my case. So anyway back to it.
In this instance, however, I do not blame the male species. I know, I’m also shocked. In fact how can we blame them? Can we blame a dog for rather sneakily eating a bit of beef whilst the owner’s back is turned? Can we blame a child attacking the chocolate box when their Mother’s out of the room? Remember the male species do not use their brain as us females do (it’s science guys, don’t hate). No. We must blame the ‘ladies’ of today. The ladies that choose to paint on black eyes and attach several pairs of lashes. The ladies who stripe on their pink blush and enlarge their red glossy lips with fillers. The ladies that are mistaken to be David Dickenson’s daughters and wear the skimpiest outfits, leaving nothing to the mere imagination. So, if these ladies put it all out there, surely we can not blame the males for going for it, right? Right, especially when this new breed of ladies will happily give it.
It appears we are more a nation of Jordans than Marilyns these days; all tits, no class. It would seem these ladies, and I’m sure it is a minority (fingers crossed), have worked on the idea of independent women and turned it into Slags R Us, omitting the real essence of a 21st century, independent lady. Maybe these ladies need to go and check out Beyonce’s hits or better still go speak with their Grandparents, to discover the true meaning of an independent, yet CLASSY lady.
Inspired by a meet and greet with a friend, whilst dining out at a Japanese restaurant suitably fitted out with all things Japanese. Bar an over zealous whiter than white British waiter, who felt all too comfortable hanging around that 2 seconds too long around our large black marble table. Sssshooo now.
Why are we so happy to be unhappy?
My Friend, Japanese Restaurant
Maybe we are scared? I’ve decided maybe I can’t blame men for my mental state of mind. Maybe I need to look closer to home. The real culprit. Me.
We live in a generation of not being in love
Drake, Doing It Wrong
Maybe subconsciously I don’t want to be in love. Let me divulge.
Okay, so your first love. You are new to the love game. No broken heart before. Everything on the table. Nothing spared. All emotions are out, because this person will be there forever, right? No love pain before. No feeling of loving someone more than anything in the world, for them to be gone the next day. That feeling never returning. Ever. When that first love ends, isn’t it just the worst? Deep routed, heart wrenching, crying all hours pain. The pain that doesn’t allow you to sleep or concentrate. The pain that ensures of loving dreams of the missed one on repeat, night in, night out. That pain takes a long time to get over. Which leads to a whole new arena of do we ever get over our first love? But back to it..
Maybe we go for boys that the only way they can hurt us is materialistically or superficially. Oh you didn’t text me back. Boohoo..I’m sad. Probably won’t cry “babe”. I’m over you by 9pm next Saturday *flutters prosthetic lashes at boy No.27 *.
These boys are so superficial they can’t truly cause that deep, deep hurt. And that’s what they are. Boys. Now then. Men. And men and love. That’s what hurts. Imagining being with somebody forever. Like forever ever. Building a love as strong as an industrial bridge. Never to be knocked down. Or so you thought. Stupid girl. Building a home together. A family together. Everything together. Then one day the bridge starts to shake. And it doesn’t stop shaking. And those shakes lead to cracks. Which lead to bigger cracks. And those cracks can’t be fixed. And we can’t get people to help fix those cracks. They’re too big, too deep and the continued love gets lost down the cracks into the big ocean beneath. To, inevitably, get washed away. Slowly. And rather painfully. Let’s be honest. That’s what hurts, in fact it stings like an absolute bitch. That’s what is really scary. Not the baller in the corner booth with a big watch and Nike blazers on. So I suppose what I’m saying is; I’m afraid to be in love. Like, what’s the point in building that bridge and it eventually crumbling away, even if you wanted it to connect 2 hearts together forever?
I can give you my heart just don’t smash the shit to pieces
Trey Songz, Fly Together
Love is beautiful and can tie two hearts together for a life time. My Grandparents were married for 70 years, try explaining that to your ballers. Love is about chances and risks. If we aren’t willing to risk the chance to love and to be loved it is never a possibility. And what is life without love? As long as we give our hearts to the wrong people it WILL, with out doubt, get smashed to pieces. I’ve learnt we can not, and should not, try to change people. As we grow and develop we alter our individual ways to achieve and receive what we feel is deserved. Or else we end up in the same situation, with the same hurt, with the same end results. Let us fight for individual change; to enable love and happiness to grow forever more.
What do you do when the person is gone. The person that was always there regardless; is now gone. The inspiration. The love. The warmth. GONE. Like it was never actually there. And people don’t care. They try. But they can’t care. Not like your Grandad can.
You see my Grandad passed away 3 months ago. It still chokes me like a snake choking it’s prey. Like the end of your first love. But a million times worse. A part of my childhood is gone. And it’s not coming back. How do you bounce back from that? Do you? Can you? Do I have to? If I do that surely means I’ve accepted it. And everything in my body does not want to accept he has gone.
The definition of a Grandad literally means your older dad. The father of your own father. The extra father. I have been lucky enough to have a Grandad that completely fulfilled this title.
My grandad, my hero
So proud. Proud of his RAF role and fighting for the country. Such an admirable man.
My grandad, my hero
The man who would spend hours showing the world war 2 memorabilia. And we all know how he enjoyed doing this! I however fueled this, wanting to spend time and time again listening to stories and looking at what he bought back for grandma.
My grandad, my hero
The man that allowed me to have dessert, when I hadn’t eaten my mains. The man who let me eat chocolate whenever I wanted it. The man who hid snickers in his pant draw. And broke the Cadburys into chunks and hid it in the little chocolate box in the front room.
My grandad, my hero
The man whose favourite phrase must have been “short a nowt we ant got”. The man who assisted in my playing days. Teachers- I had a blackboard. Shops- I had plastic money and the garage was opened up to sell screws. Dressing up- unlimited access to my grandma’s clothes and jewellery. Modelling- the garden path was mine!
My grandad, my hero
The chief carrot cutter upper. The mashing king. Because it is a man’s job. The outside toilet he used until in his 80s because he was the man of the house.
My grandad, my hero
The man who ensured I was always fed. Possibly the reason I love food now. The man who made sure I had my My Little Pony bowl. And my red cutlery set. The man who would let me have Lucky Charms or Coco Pops for breakfast.
My grandad, my hero
The man who developed his own little adaptions of words that put a smile on our faces at family gatherings. Broccoli, quiche and calvin cleans to name a few.
My grandad, my hero
The man who always had a few freshly ironed 20s in his top pocket. The man who would give money and small presents of food to not only myself but to my close friends. The man who polished old coins before getting them valued.
My grandad, my hero
Those old slippers with the shape of his toes embedded within them. Those colourfully darned socks.
My grandad, my hero
The man who is so admirable, inspirational and quite literally my most favourite person in the whole wide world. The man I will miss forever. The man who will now guide me.
My grandad, my hero.
You see what I’ve learnt is that you continue to move on slowly and use that inspiration, love and warmth to guide you. You see, just because they are not here, does not mean they are not there.
Good night, Grandad x