frowny baby

When it comes to exercise, I think I’ll always be a slightly reluctant participant.  Even after being so pleased with myself for running the 10k (okay, I walked a little bit of it), I have been finding it really hard to make myself put my trainers on again since I did it.

It’s still partly because I feel like a fraud.  Like this isn’t really me, and that people are wondering who the hell I’m trying to kid when I stagger past them.  And, I have to say, when you feel that way (and many people who are a bit on the chubby side probably do), it really doesn’t help to go into the kinds of shops that sell sports gear.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine was incensed after a lunch-time outing to JJB.  One biblical rant later, she revealed that she had asked an assistant to point her in the direction of the yoga pants, only to be told, “sorry, we don’t stock plus sizes.”  She’s a size 14.

I knew how she felt after braving the aisles of a certain Stockport sports store on Sunday afternoon to buy winter running clothes.  Except this size 14 was more inclined to cry than rant when faced with a sign that informed me that I could either buy a size LARGE (12-14), or a size EXTRA LARGE (14-16).   They might as well just label anything over a size 12 ENORMOUS.

I should stick two fingers up at the figure fascists, buy the size that fits regardless of how they want to label me, and continue what I started when I signed up for the 10k.  I should.  But my ENORMOUS trousers and my ENORMOUS top are still sitting where I left them on Sunday - folded neatly on the kitchen table - because whenever I think about putting them on I know that I’m going to have to force my massive self out of the front door in full view of the mocking general public.

The ridiculous thing is that I actually want to run, even with the cold and the dark nights.  Running was starting to make me feel better, and the mental hurdles were being jumped.  So I’m summoning the strength in my arm and preparing to raise it and form my fingers into a V.  And I’m doing it this week.  Because I should.

Something else on that 25 Things list was this:

Sometimes when I hear a new song that makes me giddy, I have to phone someone immediately and tell them to listen to it too. Most recently, this has happened with John Smith’s ‘Winter’.

Well that’s certainly true, and since I wrote that I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Mr Smith play said song on two separate occasions.  First in a packed Club tent at Cambridge, and then last month when Damon and I used his gig as an excuse to spend a cracking couple of days in Liverpool.   It’s a great place Liverpool.  You might not hear many Mancunians (well, ‘Greater’ Mancunians in my case) say that, but we had a fabulous weekend at the other end of the Mersey, thanks to some excellent museums and galleries, a splendid chippy tea, some English style youth hostelling, and a perfect pub recommendation.  And John Smith was well worth the trip too (even after braving the terrifying sights of Matthew Street on a Saturday night).   I’ve been listening to his new album a lot, and I heartily recommend that you do too.  There’s something enormously appealing about him, and watching him live, it’s absolutely apparent that he bloody loves what he’s doing.  And what luck.  He’s supporting the wonderful and lovely Lou Rhodes at Band on the Wall at the end of next month, so I’ll be lucky enough to see him again.

And speaking of enormously appealing, we went to the brilliant Evening with The Travelling Band at the Green Room last month too (bit behind with this blogging lark!).  We’ve seen this lot before - in fact they’ve made an appearance on this blog before when we saw them at the Summer in the City event in Manchester last year - and after braving the rain at Solfest and loving them this summer, we thought we’d drag a couple of willing volunteers along with us this time.  I don’t think they regretted coming.  From the barking mad acoustic first half, complete with tea, toast, sofas, and a backstage tent, through to the storming encore, the whole thing was absolutely fucking joyous.  I’m not kidding, it was the best thing I’ve seen all year.  If they’re playing anywhere near you, go. Who am I talking to?  The only people who read this are the two willing volunteers!

Over lunch recently, a friend mentioned that most of his conversations with his peers these days revolve around which varieties of tomatoes he’s growing rather than which new bars are opening in Manchester.  And that’s okay.  When, he wondered, did this happen and does this mean he’s now a grown up?

I must admit that I’m finding myself in the same boat, or certainly a very similar one.  At the moment, I’m pondering how we might improve the size of our courgette haul next year, and I’m looking at books called “Vegetable Growing Month-by-month” on Amazon.

There’s just something lovely about growing things that you can eat. I do love seeing the little courgettes starting to grow, and I was genuinely excited when we got our first red tomato. And it isn’t just me.  D came home from seeing a band the other night and, at midnight, led me by the hand across the lawn and shone a torch into the greenhouse.  There, hiding behind the jungle of leaves was a small but perfectly formed aubergine.  Our first.  It was a moment of delight.

It’s not something I was expecting. A few months ago, I wrote one of those 25 Things notes that were floating around Facebook, and my number 8 read thus:

As far as plants are concerned, I am clothed in black and am the carrier of a scythe. My favourite Christmas present this year was a resurrection fern because, apparently, I can’t kill it! Bet I can.

It was true. Until recently, any plant species that came within 10 yards of me found itself turning brown and crinkly within days. And when we were offered the tomato plants earlier this year, D and I were less than enthusiastic. “Oh I don’t know,” D said with a furrowed brow, “It’s a big responsibility.” However, we took the big step and ‘the children’ moved into the greenhouse - all ready to be nurtured by their new parents. I can’t say we’ve been the best parents. The children were often left without food and water for days on end, and we let them run a big wild in their new home (they grow up fast) so they turned all gangly and teenage on us after a few weeks. These days they’re looking a bit like arthritic pensioners - all bent over and unable to support their own weight. But, even though they’ve been left to fend for themselves, we’ve had some success and, armed with Amazon purchases and our new-found experience, I reckon we’ll do better next year. Now, what to plant…..

D reckons my CD collection is full of what he refers to as ‘frootloop girls’. Of course, I refute this accusation, but sometimes I must concede that he might have a point. I heard this track on Radcliffe and Maconie this week and absolutely loved it. After I’d looked up the video, I had to admit that I could see what he was talking about. I still love it though.

Remember when you were at school, and there was that kid.  The one who was a bit wheezy and a bit fat.  The one who never did cross country and couldn’t hit a rounders ball even if you threw it from two feet away?

Allow me to introduce myself.

So it came as a bit of a shock to find myself crossing the finish line of my first 10k run this weekend.  A lot of a shock actually.

About three months ago, the owner of the Reservoir Mogs told me that she’d signed up for a 10k run to raise money for Cancer Research.  We were sat in Sand Bar having a few drinks, and I was still trying to make sense of Richmal’s death.  “Why don’t you join me?” she asked, and I laughed because everyone knew that I wasn’t capable of running to the end of the road, never mind completing a 10k run.  Turns out that everyone didn’t know that….including me as it happens because I signed up two days later.

I signed up because I needed to do something positive for Rich.  I needed to do something to celebrate her life, and remember the fabulous person that she was.  I also couldn’t shake the thought that I was alive and I should start to push myself out of my comfort zone a bit.  Rich always used to say that you should never let your life stand still, and you should do something different every couple of years at least.  I thought I’d let this be my something different.

I have to admit that when I first put the trainers on and started plodding up and down the streets of my town, I had absolutely no faith that I would be able to run any of it.  Ever since my wheezy childhood, my subconscious had told me that any attempt at exercise would end in failure and humiliation.  Frankly, when I was a kid it always had done.  I was excused from taking part in everyone’s favourite PE lesson because of asthma and I’ve always believed that running is just  something I can’t physically do.  Who would have believed that I would want to carry on running now that race day is over?

It was an emotional day.  The minutes silence at the beginning was a reminder of the real reason I was dressed in the turquoise t-shirt, but the messages on the backs of those t-shirts was also a reminder that everyone was there because they loved someone enough to try and make a difference….and that was a really positive thing to remember.  I might not have been the fastest, but crossing that finish line at all was a massive achievement, and a mental hurdle well and truly jumped.  It was also my small tribute to Richmal - someone who never let the small stuff get her down.

Richmal, I couldn’t have done it without you lovely girl.  This one’s for you. xx

Do you have things in your life that you never want to change because they’re comfortable and lovely?  I do.  It isn’t a long list - beers at the Knott, popping to the Eighth Day for lunch….and Solfest is most definitely on that list too.

Solfest is a treat, it really is.  Things change a little every year, but I love the fact that I can look forward to the best chai in festival land at Weidigans, doing the Timewarp at the madness of the Weirdstring celidh, magic garlic chick-pea curry and chips, and mentally clapping my hands at the bizarre imaginations on display at the fancy dress night (I think the carton of milk was my favourite this year). It was our 4th Solfest, and it was a delight as always.

Hurricane Bill made his presence very much felt over the weekend and gave us our third mudfest of the summer. “It never gets muddy at Solfest” we told a couple of newcomers this year. “No, it doesn’t matter how much it chucks it down, the soil is really sandy and the rain just drains away.” I was most definitely noshing on those words when my arse found itself hurtling towards a particularly muddy puddle on Sunday night as I was staggering and sliding over to see Miles Hunt and Erica Nockalls (who were bloody brilliant by the way). Having already taken a drunken slide in the brown stuff at Stainsby (after which a friend took one look at me and informed me that I’d just lost a bet I wasn’t aware of), I was none too impressed at finding myself smelling faintly of cow for a second time. But, it didn’t stop me jigging along to Edward II at Stainsby, and it didn’t stop me loving seeing Miles Hunt sing out Solfest.

Every year we wonder whether we should give it a miss next year, but we always leave wondering why the hell should we.  I bloody love it.

Richmal, you said that you wanted us to remember you as you were and not how you ended. Here’s what I remember.

I remember a wicked laugh, a mischievous smile, and masses of curly brown hair that made you look like a little girl.

I remember chatting for hours over copious amounts of beer, and the time that we forgot to eat and feasted on a dinner of 6 packets of cheese and onion crisps.

I remember that torturous conference dinner where you reappeared after nipping out for a fag saying, “I’ve met this fantastic woman outside - she’s just like Joanna Lumley and she wants to know if we want to go salsa dancing.” I wish that you could come to every conference dinner I have to go to.

I remember you running away from the horny Canada goose that had taken a fancy to you and held you hostage at work. See, even the goose knew you’d be nice to him.

I remember how funny you were and how much fun you were to be with. At your funeral, Andy said that you always knew when you’d been Richmaled and he was right.

I remember how kind you were to everyone, especially the people that everyone else thought was mad but you saw the best side of. Remember the woman we met in that Glasgow pub who had woken up after an accident with no memory of her life? You chatted to her as easily as you chatted to your mates. I loved the way you could do that, the way you made people feel welcome.

I remember how much you loved Andy, and Erin and Toby, even though you never thought that you were the marriage and kids type.

I remember how cool your outlook was and how you never let anything get you down. Whenever I start to get worked up about trivial things, I see your face and hear your voice saying, “it’s only money”, or “it’s just a job” and I know you’re right. You told me that the only important things are to be happy and for the people you love to be happy too. I think I’ll always hear your voice reminding me of that.

I remember how pleased I always was to hear from you, and I can’t believe that I never will again.

You were lovely, and you were too young. Ta ra Rich, we’ll miss you x

Okay, so I didn’t exactly manage to write something every day did I? Well there’s a reason for that - a scumbag spammer shaped reason. After discovering that the content of some of my posts was mysteriously disappearing, D checked the SQL database and discovered masses of spam. I was confused because I have Aksimet installed, and I’d cleared my spam recently. But no - the scumbag spammers had infiltrated the code and overridden my posts with hidden spam messages.

So, Wordpress duly updated and code spring cleaned, I am now waiting to make sure that the spammers do not return.

And then I shall resume my experiment.

Bastards.

Okay, so it might be a bit Radio 2 (and what’s wrong with that anyway?), but I’m really enjoying the new stuff from Lisa Hannigan.

And her album cover is distinctly knitty.  I’m sold.

I spent yesterday with Andy.  Andy is the only one of my friends that has stuck around since school and, sadly, one of the few close friends that still lives close by.

We chatted a lot about friendships yesterday.  It’s strange how you meet people and almost seem to know immediately that this person is going to be making you laugh and listening to your ramblings for many years to come.  I can remember meeting Andy very clearly - back in the days when I had a dubious 60s hippy wardrobe and he lived in shorts and trainers (even in January) - and we hit it off immediately despite the fat that we were (and still are) as different as chalk and cheese.  It never seems to happen anymore, that instant spark and immediate bond. Maybe it’s just something that happens when you’re in your overly emotional late teens and early 20s? But how on earth do you meet new people and find that spark when you’re 34?  Wish it was easier.

I’ve been missing Loo massively recently.  It makes me so sad that I can’t just pop over for a cup of tea and a chat anymore. She’s coming back over to Manchester next weekend and I can’t wait to see her I really can’t. I’m also hoping to see Emma on Tuesday on a working trip to London, so this week is shaping up nicely. If only they were closer.