Road To Nowhere

Look how peaceful it is.

Amazing, isn't it.

Just lovely.

If you look out towards the point there's an oak tree. There are some flat rocks here and that's where we lay in the sun, in the afternoon.

Went snorkeling.

Trod water and nattered.

Watched the nature-boy twins run about, shouting for their mama.

Smiled as the Italian men sang to themselves in the sunshine while their wives, children and aunts all enjoyed each other's company.

Lay daydreaming till the evening began to close in... beautiful.

Blayka's lovely, generous husband bought us a case of wine to drink in Croatia.

It was yum. Uber yum, in fact.

It is also responsible for me agreeing with Blayka that swimming about naked was the perfect way to mark our MA joy.

And do you know, if we hadn't laughed so hard we might have got away with it with some discretion.

Alas, I am much prone to the giggles.

'Can you hear that?'

'What is it?'

'I'm scared.'

Chomp, chomp, chomp comes the sound effects from behind the olive tree.

Three women squint from the terrace into the darkness.

'Have you got a torch?'

Armed with a torch now projecting a beam strong enough to guide in fishermen they scanned the garden.

Chomp, chomp, chomp contines the noise.

Suddenly there he is running into the light, a pale and rather long looking hedgehog.

Croatian headgehogs are hellishly noisy eaters. He scarppered soonish and we went back to chatting while he countinued to scoff the garden.

Next day phone reports back to Blayka's son brought excitement and questions about where the hedgehog lived.

We did consider donning combat fatigues, war paint and tracking him round the garden to pinpoint his lair... but then we sobered up.

Pictured: hedgehog's view of the terrace (if he were about two foot tall and it were daylight - oh you get the picture!)

Mew, mew, mew. I want to go back.

This is where our adventures in Croatia began. This is where we tracked hedgehogs, set off at a caribbean saunter pace to the beach, plotted our futures, gutted fish, laughed till I thought I'd do myself a mischief, went all squeaky when our MA results piled in through the ether from Leicester.

And we're all off to graduate next Wednesday so stand by for more pix of us running about in academic gowns trying not to grin like idiots.

Because I am a thoughtful woman of generous nature I thought I should do some research in Croatia.

And by research I mean beer tasting.

I trawled the supermarket aisles looking for bottles I could sample and report back on and came up with three. I know; not the most successful mission but I was throwing anything low alcohol. (Don't worry, i was doubling up in the interests of English drinking style - we have a reputation to maintain after all).

So, in reverse order we have Deana24's guide to beer from Croatian holiday 2008.

At No 3: Karlovacko. Made in Croatia. Oddly non-fizzy, light beer with a pleasant malt-sweet after taste.

At No2: Laska. Made in Slovenia. Similar to No3 but with more taste. Nice.

At No1: Laska Club. Also made in Slovenia. Yum-meee. Nice viscosity. Malty, full flavoured and lovely after dinner with a sack full of crisps (ahem!).

No1 is pronounced Lash-ka if you are ever in the vicinity of Slovenia/Croatia and fancy a livener. It's got one of those little flattened u-things on top of the s. (But I can't find on my keyboard).

Pah, I want to go back!

Me and Kirst are trolleying through Stanstead security bit on our way to see blayka, that bit with the x-ray machines and that thing you walk through which goes off sometimes but not others, even though you can be wearing the same stuff.

Anyway, some bloke's waving my handbag in the air.

'Could I look in your bag, madam?' says some bloke. As he clearly works there I say 'certainly' and watch with mild bemusement as he gets everything out.

'Let's see what they've spotted,' he says before tracking down the offending tube of handcream which was bagged in a mini freezer bag before being returned to me. (I know, I know, it makes no sense. He mentioned something about liquids but is a cream a liquid? Why is it safer in a freezer bag?) Anyway, I digress...

'I must apologise for the loose tampons,' I say. I do usually keep them corraled in my make-up bag but there had been some kind of break out. You know how dark it is in the bottom of a handbag, the meaning of life could be in there for all I know.

'Oh don't apologise, madam,' he says, scanning my camera with what looked like a big pair of tweezers with a bit of cloth at the end. 'I see all sorts. One man had accidentally left a week old sandwich in his bag the other day. And a banana. I had to get them out. That was disgusting.

'And then there was the bloke with the gimp suit in his hand luggage. "Why did you have to put this in your hand luggage?" I asked him.'

Why indeed. Nearly a week later I still can't work it out.

Bloody hell it's bobbins being back.

It's cold, it's raining-ish, the house is dark, the washing machine is now droning away in the background... pah! I hate holiday come-down.

But that's because I had THE BEST holiday with blayka and it was wonderful and I want to go back!

Blayka's house is in a village in the north. Right on the coast. It's 30 degrees there just now - at 7pm. Imagine having your last swim of the day at 7pm!!

It's a really pretty house with a terrace where we sat every morning for breakfast and in the evenings drank wine and watched the shadows move through the olive tree.

The sea is crystal clear and with a snorkel mask you can watch fish, little ones swimming in shoals and bigger ones palling around in couples, crabs and on one occasion the bottoms of three women who all passed their MAs and thought skinny-dipping a fitting rite of passage for the event. (Oh, you had to be there... although I'm very glad you weren't).

The food was incredible and with blayka's cooking techniques me and Kirsty became the chefettes and chopped all manner of things to help create a fabulous fish dinner one night. And we ate in lovely restaurants beside the sea and strolled about enjoying ice creams.

We laughed constantly - what we all needed - and no one needs to rewrite their dissertation so hoo-bloody-rah! And what Blayka has been too modest to mention is she got a distinction for her dissertation so everyone who helped her, thank you. I've never seen her so happy.

I'll blog adventures in mini episodes - that way you won't have to wade through mountains... oh did I mention the mountains?

Deana24, MA

...would never smell as sweet as these, snapped in the back garden yesterday.

I've no idea what they're called but the scent is divine.

The garden's looking lovely just now.

Ok, so it's weeds a-go-go, but the flowers are happy.

The foxgloves seem to be particularly popular with the bees.

I've been awake since 3.30am.

My subconscience thought it would go through a walk through my memory drawers and haul out some of the stuff I'd rather it didn't.

This nasty little dream featured one particularly unpleasant ex who specialised in emotional terrorism and sleep deprivation which, when you're trying to hold down a job, can seriously mess you up. His physical violence wasn't calculated, it was explosive, childish and I do believe he didn't mean to cause the damage he did, it was more about punctuating a point in his tantrum. But hurting anyone is never acceptable.

I spent two months trying to work out why, two months in shock and the next six trying to get away. I logged every late-night door smashing episode with the police in case I needed a withstraining order. I ended up moving to a flat where he couldn't bang on the windows at 4.30am. Eventually finding my voicemail full of furious, drunken phone calls became a less frequent occurrance. He met someone else. Slowly it ground to a halt. I moved to another part of the city - just to make sure.

Three years later I ran into him in the street and he talked to me like I was an old friend - about ouse prices mostly. I played along and made my excuses and walked very quickly in the other direction.

It must have been six years ago now and yet his memory is so sharp and vivid and the dream so typical of him (apart from the crucifying my cat on my front door - that really wasn't his style) that I am completely freaked out.

But it is just a dream. He is gone and it has stopped.

I thought about not writing about this. I thought about keeping this 'friend's only' but I don't need someone to tell me everything's going to be all right. I know it is. It is already.

This particular little nightmare has been over for me for a long time. But domestic violence is a living nightmare for hundreds of thousands of women, children and men and I really don't think it does us any good not talking about it publically.

I grew up being told washing your dirty linen in public is shameful. But if my dirty linen makes anyone think twice about why they are living with someone who makes their life a misery then that has to be a good thing.

Spent most of yesterday evening packing bags for my hols, decanting cleansers and moisturisers into little travel bottles, ironing, removing mystery bits of food from clothes... I like to travel light, and relatively clean.

All the time I'm listening to Bill Hicks.

Of course he's been dead almost 15 years now (died of pancreatic cancer at 34) but as a commentator on Iraq, George Bush and Britain's involvement the irony is, of course, it's all just as relevant. Except of course instead of Major replace with Blair/Brown. But really, when all is said and done, could can we tell the difference anymore? Really?

Still very, very funny. Check him out of youtube. But really, sometimes be prepared for the irony. It's a little bitter at times.

I've been at the hairdresser's this morning. Enjoying hand massages, shearing, chit-chat...

Blimey, the chit-chat. Enlightening, not the word.

On making brews and hand massaging duty today was... well, let's call her Lolita, who was the chattiest little girl I've met in ages.

She told me all about her prom dress (they do this now in secondary schools. I know. As if the Americanisation of Britain could get worse) which is pink and had to be flown here from the US *figures* and looks just like Beauty's dress in Beauty and the Beast. And it cost £350 *what?* but she's going to sell in on e-bay after, once it's been drycleaned and boxed so she gets at least half the money back for it *err.. ok?*

And then we have a chatter about her ambitions to own her own hairdressing business, her family, her sisters.

Then we get down to football and she tells me she supports City *poor choice but she is only 16* and that she went to Liverpool once and saw Stevie Gerrard in a bar.

'Ooooooh, he's gorgeous,' she coos behind me as she washes dye out my hair. 'No one was bothering him but I went running up and said "Ooooh, you're Stevie Gerrard aren't you" and he said "Err.. hello" and I got me photo taken with him and I managed to touch him bum.' *Yes, you heard right.*

'You touched up Stevie Gerrard?'

'Well, I couldn't miss the opportunity could I? My mum says if she were with Bon Jovi she'd do the same. Who would you pick?'

'You mean who would I touch up on the sly if I met them?'

'Oh yes'

I can't believe I'm having this conversation with anyone, never mind a 16 year old I met half an hour ago. Let me think, who is so famous I would deliberately sexually assault? Hmmmm...

Because I'm still listening to 17-minute live versions of My Generation five times a day I say 'Roger Daltry'. I'm visualising the Woodstock years, when I would have been four, so that would have made me promisculous but - god, this is so wrong on so many levels. *Don't worry Roger, I might politely shake your hand were we to meet, but I'm not about to ram it down the back of your jeans.*

Is it right, groping people because they're famous? Do famous people realise they are being touched up or do they just think the public is terribly tactile these days? Was I that brazen at 16? Am I just being prim?

I can't get my head round wanting to dress up like a princess at secondary school but also be out there copping a feel of a footballer. And telling a complete stranger about it.

Good thing? Bad thing? Bloody odd thing, I know that!

I am still at work. Meh!

But is ok. Is so I can have uber holiday. Yay!

... about hairdressers and chocolate.

I'm thrilled to discover I'm as superficial unconscious as I am awake.

What did we dream about last night?

It could only happen to a greedy madam like me!

There I am enjoying a pleasant lunch with a journo contact at Heathcote's Olive Press in Bolton.

They do a very nice starter platter to share: pesto, black olive thing, olives etc with breadsticks to dip.

Plunging about in the pesto is something quite chunky which I assume is a monster bit of parmesan, dip in my paws and pop in my mouth.

Turns out to be a marble!!

Fortunately I don't crack a tooth or swallow it but drag over the waiter who comes back full of apologies - apparently it had fallen out of somewhere.

There is probably a lesson in here for me.

... play on.

Enjoy.

CLICK ME HERE!

My utterly gorgeous friend, Jane, got Amazon people to send my Live at Leeds, which arrived in post and was waiting for me when I got home from guinnessfest in Pevril on the Peak Tuesday night (and a top night that was too, cheers Row).

After I staggered in from work last night I put it on the ipod and headed for bed.

I am now slightly deaf from listening to a 17-minute My Generation full pelt, three times on way to work... indescribably brilliant. And apologies for the poor sods sitting anywhere near me.

But I just ran into Norma from the postroom. I'll actually take my ipod off to talk to her.

'Ooh I'm listening to the Who, live at Leeds,' I said.

'Oh - I saw them in Bolton in the Sixties - they were really good,' she says, smiling.

'Really?'

'Oh yes, I got Keith Moon's drum stick. I had loads, I used to collect them.'

'Really?' I say again, eyes widening with a heady mix of excitement and envy. 'Have you still got them?'

'Oh no, I threw them all out over the years.'

'What a shame... it would be worth a fortune today as well.'

Norma is probably now beating herself with her stamping machine as I type.

(Love this one too!)

Here we go - one decent picture, at least (well, for a complete beginner anyway).

This is Jane giving Teal - known as 'little pig' - a big cuddle on Saturday night on my Ashwellfest weekender.

Lovely food has been scoffed. Lovely champagne has been quaffed. Lovely beers have been necked (mostly by me). lovely red wine has been supped (totally by Jane, you can't have me on that one, guv).

I think we've had Live at Leeds by The Who on twice by this point. We're just gearing up for My Generation. Cheers, Jane!

Sorry Bob, I've been away... catchin' up.

The Rules:
Each player answers the questions about themselves. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

1. What I was doing 10 years ago:
a) Working in a PR consultancy, (b) just out of first long-term relationship, (c) going to kickboxing three nights a week (yes b and c are linked!)

2. What 5 things are on on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):
Go for guinness with RowtheBoat tonight
Talk to a student about a charity project he's organised for Malawi
Send out a press release
Not shout at the next person to walk into this office and ask me where the person who isn't in here is as if I am somehow suddenly telepathically connected to her just because someone has moved my desk in here while my office is refurbed
Go to pilates

3. Snacks I enjoy:
Chocolate, tea, crisps, cake, bikkies, twiglets, oatcakes and cheese...

4. Things I would do if I was a billionaire:
Move to Spain.
Support an orphanage in Cuzco, Peru
Pay my best friends' mortgages off.

5. Places I have lived:
Banbury, Sheffield, Hyde, Ashton-u-Lyne, Chester, Manchester, Edinburgh, Leith, Heredia, back to Manchester

... till my first wee holiday.

Yippeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!

Is it me or is Blogland moving very slowly this week?

I can't get on me comments.

I can't get on other people's comments.

Is frustrating for a girl on her third coffee. Faster!!!!!!!

Jane and Malcolm say they counted 30 copies of David Beckham's autobiography at the last car boot sale they went to.

I wonder what that says...?

I've done it!!

I am slightly ashamed, it still makes me blush and I'm unsure whether my principles have been forever compromised, but on Sunday evening I gave into temptation.

I upgraded to first-class on the train home from London to Manchester.

Look; I was quite squiffy, thanks to London Chum who knows way too many good pubs between Kings Cross and Euston.

So, by the time I'd polished off my, umm... fifth pint (I know, shame on me for that alone) and agreed I probably did need to go home at some point, I was in no mood for screaming kids etc.

It does cost £15 to upgrade on Sundays but you get soft drinks and a packet of crisps for some reason and air con and a lavvie that doesn't smell of sewage and had considerably less wee on the floor and, if you are lucky old me, four seats to yourself.

And very naughtily I took off my birkenstocks and buried my toes into the plush seat in front and snoozed to my ipod in comfort for two and a half hours.

I can tell I've fallen by the wayside. I've a feeling this is the first of many first class adventures. Oh, dearie me!

Had a wonderful weekend.

My course turned out to be really interesting, I had a great curry in Ealing and rather too many drinks before being poured onto a train to Ashwell, ready for an utterly fab time with my friend, Jane.

Pictures to follow tomorrow, but there is a great snap of her jack russell, Teal, known as 'Little Pig'. Little Pig is all rickerty now and totters about the kitchen, picking at her tea and tossing out onto the floor any morsel she decides she doesn't fancy. There is also Robert, young tyke and Murphy, old hand. more beers, much chat and then bed by midnight (it's the country air, you know!)

Saturday morning I was woken at 3.50am by the dawn chorus. How beautiful! Like an orchestra of little birds, with owls twit-twooing for good measure. You hear nothing like it in the town and as the sun rises the volume drops and you drift off back to sleep to gentle, soothing twittering.

On Saturday we had monster brekkie, lashings of tea and then set off to Harrow in the land rover to be gardeners. This was after we'd bobbed in to see Dick who has the most gorgeous garden in the world. Jane buys his gin and fags and helps keep his garden going. He has asparagus and artichokes and an amazing variety of flowers and a stream and, oh everything you could ever want in a garden. Absolutely beautiful. Jane is, in effect running a support service that allows Dick to stay in his own home without too many worries. And she does this for several other folk she quietly looks after while apparently being the gardener.

Harrow-boy, however, is not a pensioner, but a 40-something theatreland accountant who can't tell the difference between a geranium and a weed. Jane's made his garden look amazing, with some smart urban design touches, sweeping purples flowing across some nifty paving and a rather fetching gin deck.

We rattled back down the A1 just after 6pm, bobbed into tesco for gin, beers and scoff and spent the evening listening to The Who, cuddling Little Pig(Jane)and eating ice cream (me) and extolling the virtues of Live at Leeds very loudly for a very long time.

Husband, Malcolm, very very lovely. Tiger the cat in fine fettle. All gorgeous in effect.

Oh, and have caught the sun so when I wended my way back to town, hair uncombed for three days, birkenstocks and jeans muddy and a bit dog/cat haired I looked like the country girl scruff I am at heart. Marvellous!

Right - see you all after the weekend.

I'm off to London later today. Got a course tomorrow and then the weekend of fun in Hertfordshire countryside.

Enjoy the weather - which seems glorious today, from what I can see out of the office window.

Oh and Uskie, I reckon Something for the Weekend is an acorn kernel balanced on the rose of a red squirrel somewhere in deepest Wales.

My mate went to the Ricky Hatton fight in Bolton.

She did say it was a dear do.

But she was sat right near the front. Behind Mike Tyson. Ooh and Guy Richie was there *but not Madonna, I asked*.

Guess how dear a do...?

Well she was entertained from 5pm till almost midnight she said. And it was dead exciting.

But go on, guess how much?

Five hundred notes! Yup. Five hundred squids.

I tell you, I thought having a fiver riding on a Lucky 15 was naughty spending.

I live and learn... I live and learn.

...best eaten with lots of ice cream.

Ok, not exactly right but - yummy!

Our work's photographer has a withering sense of humour. You know the type - it's funny but it stomps along a line that borders downright cruel and crosses it frequently. Yesterday he quips about a fellow member of staff's relationship and how her boyfriend had left her. Now I've got broad shoulders, a quick mind and a sharp tongue. I don't mind a bit of banter. I'm prefectly capable of giving as good as I get.

But she was completely tongue-tied and I could tell she was smiling through gritted teeth. And we've all been done-over in relationships, it's not a fair-game subject is it. 'Don't worry,' I said as she looked at me with a smiling face that masked a well-wounded bunny. 'I'll get him for you.'

So I mither him into giving me a lift to the station.

The weather's perked up, it's acutally quite sunny, but i't been a 10-hour day and I'm feeling lazy.

He dumps me in the second lane of a dual carriageway while the lights are on red. Not exactly dangerous, but still annoying when he could have pulled into a parking area if he wanted to. I weave through the traffic to walk up to the traffic lights.

'Are you not going to leap the barrier?' he shouts at me through his open window as I walk along the central reservation, carring two bags and a huge camera case.

So I turn round and I yell at the top of my voice: 'You filthy pervert. I told you I don't want any sweeties and I don't want to see any puppies, now leave me alone.'

As I turned to flounce off as best I could, given weight of baggage, I caught sight of at least half a dozen heads turning to stare at him.

Ha, ha!

Adventures for me this weekend.

I'm off to London for a training course this Friday but I'm staying with my friend Jane this weekend.

It's all rural and lovely at Jane's - she lives in Ashwell - which is below Cambridge and above Stevenage.

Jane's a gardener. She's got the wonderful Tiger the cat, Teal the drama-queen jack russell and Murphy, the dog I've never met. And a husband I haven't met either.

Grubbing about in the mud till Sunday - yay! *with beery in evenings, of course*

I'm taking a camera - so I'll be reporting back - with photies!

Remember 'name that kitty'?

Well, I thought you might like an update on the gorgeous Maisey (as she's now called).

She's been on her holidays to Cornwall and while she was there she discovered the thrills of playing in paper bags.

Altogether now...

On Sunday I wandered past the tele while The Politics Show was on.

There was a feature on Hillary Clinton and her seemingly never ending and frankly utterly baffling bid for the Whitehouse.

Simon Burns MP was on being interviewed about his support for Hillary and why Republicans weren't the automatic party of choice for a Tory these days. I was mildy curious. I sat down on the sofa to watch.

"But before we talk to Simon Burns let's look at the campaign," said the presenter, introducing some photo montage segment. lots of pictures of Hillary smiling, looking very blonde, very smiley.

The music they picked to play over it? Isn't She Lovely by Stevie Wonder.

Cut back to presenter, addressing Simon Burns MP: "So, do you think there is more misogyny than racism in America?"

Cut to me on sofa, addressing tele: "So, do we think women are ever going to be taken seriously in politics if we introduce them with such patronising nonsense?" I may have growled a bit at that point.

If Hillary has been using this as her campaign song: "What were you thinking?". If the BBC picked this to represent her: "What were you thinking?"

And this is why I don't watch much tele.

DON'T ever, ever, ever stick a cotton bud in your ear, no matter how much it itches.

DON'T eat your tea and then take painkillers - you'll be waiting all *oww!* bloody evening *oww!* for them to kick in *argh!*

Right - I'm off to lie in the bath and sulk while contemplating my own stupidity.

*oww!*

I cut my first roses of the year this evening.

I know, but it's a shady garden and I do live 'up North'.

The first ones, three ish-perfect pink roses, are on the dressing table next to my grampy's photograph.

In the photo it's Christmas and I must be nearly three, sitting on my dog on wheels and laughing. He's looking down at me, smiling, his huge hands around me.

I've inherited his huge hands. Thankfully they've come with his green fingers. He was a great gardener and he particularly loved his roses.

And now so do I. Looking after them brings me as close to him as I can be now and putting fresh flowers beside the photograph of us together is a weekly ritual.

But the first roses of the season are that bit more special.

While Blacksheep may imagine every day in Manchester is an episode of Shameless, our neighbour's paaaaaarrrrrrty was a very sedate affair. Not to the extent we had a slide show though.

And any chance of a scrap over the gates was scuppered due to the objecting party not coming. Which was a shame and I do hope it's not the plans that are preventing her socialising with us.

The neighbours congregated just outside the yard and we stood around till midnight telling tales, talking nonsense and drinking. Gary, at the end of the row, is the best storyteller of us all. I love listening to his stories from when he worked on the buses *yes, it used to be just like On the Buses* and, of course, the time he bought a goat.

He bought the goat on a whim at an auction - she was due for the abattoir. They called her Lucky. Well she started bellowing - as you would as a girl goat who needed milking, but he didn't know how to milk her. Turned out neither did the postman or the window cleaner or anyone else who came by that day so he went off to get lessons from a goat rescue centre in Warrington, found in the phonebook.

Then she started pining for company *goats get lonely apparently* so he bought her a friend - and a couple of ducks, for which he dug a pond. They used to follow his girls everywhere - until they flew off *you need to clip their wings he found out later*. Then Lucky ate some privet, got bloat and died.

Moral of this story: never call a pet Lucky. It's just asking for it.

But oh yes, it quite used to be the Good Life round our way. There's a field at the back with no access for house building, thank god. We had a semi-serious discussion about buying it between us and keeping some animals on it. Though we need to get the back road block-paved and gated first, we think. One thing at a time.

But I suggested we have a communal party later in the summer, maybe at bank holiday weekend. Get some barbecues going. Everyone seems to think this is no bad idea.

And if it rains, we'll be fine. Not surprisingly Gary's got a gazebo in his garage somewhere.