I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I do

I've talked before of the wedding circus mafia and the arseholery that goes on, but there is also a very bright side to the nonsense. Being a guest. Sadly the wedding 'party' themselves often get too wrapped up in the photocalls, speech nerves and potential family feuds to actually remember to enjoy the day, but as a guest; no public speaking, no months (or years) of organising, no weeping wallet, just the bubbles and the dancing.

There is a little preparation involved, granted, but it never fails to amuse me how quickly the wedding visage crumbles. The hours, and sometimes days, we spend making sure we look as good as we possibly can (for some that's just about presentable, but all I can do is work with the ginger raw materials I was given) only for it all to be destroyed in a matter of hours.

We find ourselves on the dance floor in our bare feet, the shoes so carefully matched to the dress abandoned under a table, with a tie around our head and our dignity whimpering beneath an avalanche of Michael Jackson/Mick Jagger/Pigeon inspired dance 'moves'. Oh yes - we've got the moves like Jagger. The makeup, hair dos and manicures are long forgotten as we swing our sweaty mane in time with the 80s power ballads.

In addition to revisiting my rock star (*ahem*) youth, I tend to unearth a worrying passion for interpretive dance after a few dry sherries. My Kate Bush impressions are 'inspiring', so I've been told (look out for me on got to dance next year; I'll be the one who inspires the phrase 'would her family not tell her...?')

There is a delightfully unhinged quality that is unique to a wedding dance floor. Maybe it’s because it’s such a happy occasion, or that some of the guests don’t get out much, or perhaps it’s the unique mix of ‘performers’; where else do you get to share the floor with an 80 and an eight year old?

On a more serious note, I must issue a word of warning to wedding bands/DJs. If you will play Tiffany and Footloose back-to-back, be prepared with a crash cart/ambulance on standby. Some of us are not as young as we used to be, but we can’t seem to stop ourselves.

From this...

..to this...

...to Kiss.

My mate carbohydrate

My not insubstantial girth will attest to the fact that I am rather a fan of the carbohydrate. The vast majority of my meals contain carbs, some are entirely based around the potato/pasta/bread/rice element and I feel rather short-changed if there are no carbs involved …either that or I begin polishing my halo, believing I will instantly shed pounds right and left, and join the healthy, healthy, healthy brigade who can tell you difference between simple and complex carbohydrates and exactly how much of each element is contained in any food presented to them.

Such health kicks only tend to last about 10 minutes with me though – they’re rather dull and require far too much concentration. Not to mention the fact that they frown upon the potato, and I don’t take kindly to people dissing my friends. Yes – I just called potatoes friends. And I care not a jot that I am perpetuating a paddy stereotype because I LOVE potatoes, in all forms, and I don’t care who knows it. I have been known to order a dish in a restaurant based on the kind of potatoes it comes with. Yes, I might really fancy the lamb with rosemary and redcurrant jus (jus: fancy-pants for sauce), but with couscous? I think not.

Quite aside from my love of potato (in all forms; mashed, baked, roast, chipped – I love them all! *ahem*, and calm…) people who don’t eat carbs seem to be quite pissed off a lot of the time. You know the types – the ones with mouths like cat’s arses, miserable eyes and a general air of tension about them. I always think they could do with a nice thick sandwich, a buttery baked potato or a plate of saucy pasta to pick the mood and energy levels up a little. They’re definitely lacking something in their lives – and I reckon it’s either carbs they need or, as my friend Al would say; ‘a good hard sh@g!’

Desperately seeking inspiration

I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with inspiration, my fair-weather friend, for a couple of days now. I can’t find the little bugger anywhere.
I’m working on an assignment that demands ideas on ‘widely different subjects’. I’ve already covered my mainstay, travel, and I’m guessing booze and food, my other major ‘areas of focus’ are not going to cut it in the differentiation stakes.

My new muse?

Perhaps I need to get myself a muse? M-cat is currently in repose beside me, legs akimbo, and I think she may be auditioning for the part – she’s giving me a very sultry upside-down look. Hmmm… upside-down… maybe a different perspective…

Nope. Looking at the world upside down has done nothing but give me a slight headache (and increased my risk of throwing a hip). And no – the headache is nothing to do with my booze-based buddies thank you. My body is a temple and no drink has been taken for three whole days(!) Although maybe that’s the problem, maybe the creative and grape juices need to mingle. They do play very nicely together - and have spawned manys the (a)musing…

Positively glowing with inspiration...

Alas I can’t pop my cork just yet. Aside from the fact that drinking alone on a Thursday afternoon for the purposes of creativity may have those unidentified imbibers knocking at my door, I have to go for a run later. In the rain. Deep joy. My dedication knows no bounds and my body is indeed a temple …of doom.


Apparently Jack London said;
'You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.'
And so I shall. I think running with a club in hand might raise a few too many suspicious glances, so hopefully tracking down my stimuli and force-feeding them endorphins will do the trick. Right you slippery little suckers – I coming to get you!

Fitness – my fickle friend

She’s one demanding diva that fitness – as I have learnt the hard way. I’ve didn’t pay too much attention to her last year and she does not like to be ignored. As soon as you take your eyes off her she flounces out of the room and leaves the door open for those naughty pixies, flab and cellulite. And once she’s been and gone, fitness can only be tempted back by bigger and better offerings.

No matter how much you give she wants ‘MORE!’ (yes she shouts – and fixes you with a crazy stare at the same time). Past offerings are quickly forgotten. My 10k, for instance, is now covered in dust – shoved on a shelf somewhere in her evil lair next to its sad little 5k mates. I can almost see them huddling together for warmth.

I thought I’d change tactics this year and offer her a bit of yoga. Her look of derision could have cut me with a knife. A bit of lying about and stretching is nowhere near enough for her. Sadly it’s right up my street - you even get to have a little nap at the end. Lovely.

I know what needs to be done and I bring her spin on a silver platter. Her eyes light up. ‘Much better’ she chuckles (I imagine her stroking a white cat at this point, Bond-villain style). The more I sweat, the better she likes it. She particularly enjoys a bright pink face (goes beautifully with the ginger) and the odd bout of nausea. Once I’ve pedalled my little legs into oblivion she rewards me with a little sprinkling of endorphins.

But I can’t afford to rest on my laurels with one meagre offering. She wants to see me run, so run I shall – starting right back at the beginning, since the benefit of all my previous efforts elapsed a long time ago. ‘AGAIN!’ she demands, ‘again, again, again!’, like a deranged two-year-old.

So I’ll dig out my trainers and give in to her demands before she leaves me again. I think I’ll have a little stretch and a nap first though – while she’s looking the other way.

Sadly fitness has no respect for a lovely stretch.