She Sells Sea Shells

A few months ago, when I first started seeing my girlfriend (who will be referred to from this point onwards as Sloth, for reasons that I will probably go into at some critical point for maximum embarrassment) I had stayed over at her flat for the first time. I had been slightly intoxicated the previous night. I believe we had taken a taxi there; add to this my general inability to process geographical locations even in Edinburgh (a city I've lived in for over a decade) which culminated in a slight confusion and hangover as I stood at the bus stop the next morning and unwisely decided to ring my parents for a quick catch up.

Mum: (far too brightly for that time of day) Good morning!

Me: (trying not to make noises like a bison being sick) Good morning.

Mum: Oh.

Me: What?

Mum: Where are you?

Me: I don't know.

Mum: What?!

Now, I realise that I should have taken a moment to think about this, because no parent ever wants to hear that answer from their child, but the previously mentioned slight geographical confusion and hangover had cruelly robbed me of my fragile mental filter and common sense.

Me: (flustered) I mean... I know where I am! But not exactly! I mean!

There was a brief and awkward pause.

Me: (muttering) Goddammit.

Mum: I just wondered. Because the traffic sounds different. That's how I knew you weren't near your flat.

Far from this being a horrendous and inexplicable statement unto itself, I would also like to query that surely given the nature of the beast, traffic always sounds different. No? Fine. Let's move on. Last weekend I visited my parents, and the topic of new Sloth girlfriend came up again.

Mum: And where does she live?

Me: At the shore.

Mum: (uncomprehendingly) The...?

Me: The shore.

Mum: (continuing blank face)

Me: The shore. The shore. Where the sea lives. Um. I can't really make that much clearer. The sea? You know what the sea is, right?

Mum: (hesitantly) I've heard of Ocean Terminal?

For those of you who don't know, Ocean Terminal is a shopping complex in Edinburgh, situated... you guessed it. Near the sea. JESUS CHRIST THEY DIDN'T BUILD IT ON A MOUNTAIN AND THEN CALL IT OCEAN TERMINAL.

Me: (gaping and speechless) Uhhh?

Mum: Is that in the sea?

Me: IN the sea? No. No, it isn't IN the sea. How... I can't...

Mum: Well, I don't know. (giggling) I know there's sea there, I just didn't know where.

Me: I give up. You know we live on an island, right?

Mum: What?

Me: (pinching nose) Nothing. Forget it. I'll put the kettle on. Tea?

Mum: Sea?

Me: NO.

Turn The Otter Cheek

My mother called me earlier this evening to inform me that she'd seen War Horse at the cinema with her friend on Monday.

Mum: And it was great - I mean, you wouldn't think a horse could act but this one did!

Me: Um...

Mum: No, really! It looked sad when it was supposed to, and then when it was running through the fields and stuff it looked really happy.

Me: It's amazing what cinematic technology can do.

Mum: And then there was this part, right, when I turned to my friend and I said "that horse fancies that other horse", and she said "how do you know?" and I said "because it looked at it funny".

Me: (pinching my nose) Your grasp of animal courting expressions is quite astounding.

In addition to this, today my friends and I had an email conversation about - what else - Harry Potter. Wetsoks and I have been writing a fanfiction (I won't even tell you what it is about, suffice to say that the word 'Whorecrux' features in it quite heavily) and she announced to the groups how awesome our stats were. In fact, discouragingly, the Harry Potter story is now outgrossing this blog in terms of visitors. The world is a dark and otterless place sometimes. Still, we soldier on. 

Wetsoks: We've had almost 4000 hits now!

Tanyakit: (email contains party graphics and many implied Huzzahs)

Me: Your Clemence Poesy obsession is dwindling, we see. I actually opened this email expecting to see only the words "needs more Fleur".

Tanyakit: That should be implied in all my emails. This stomach ache is absolutely killing me...I feel like a zombie. I now have sympathy for their rampages.

Me: Zombies don’t feel feelings or pain, dude. That’s why nothing affects them except decapitation and the like.

Tanyakit: Well they might have feelings but just feel no physical pain?

Me: You cannot bribe a zombie to do something because of innate or leftover emotions. They are walking corpses with no mental activity and certainly no heart. Or say, we could test this theory when the apocalypse happens. You first. No, I insist.

Tanyakit: ANYWAY. I was rather enjoying a very liberal Hogwarts fic last night where Fleur as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had to share quarters with Hermione as Head Girl. Oh, and a bed. As you do. It made me wonder whether a)     This was the impact of a recession, and b)    Why I wasn’t lucky enough to share a bed with a Fleur look-a-like when I was in school – I think it would have helped me come out much much earlier. 

Me: Ah yes, the recession hit the magical community the hardest. I think Professor McGonagall has suggested upping the quantities of root vegetables in the students’ diets (Tanyakit, if you’d read the amazing story called Matching Muff Matrimony - during which a drunken Ginny Weasley hits and kills Voldemort while driving the Ford, and accidentally becomes the Saviouress of the Wizarding World - you’d understand this joke) to cut down on the house elves’ food budget. 

Tanyakit: She should be upping root vegetable quantity regardless — am surprised they aren’t all 20 stone what with the diet of sugar and cholesterol which Dumbledore constantly feeds them.

Me: I actually laughed out loud at the root vegetable thing – you do have a point. And pumpkin juice for every meal? What if you don’t like it? And why pumpkins – because they are so magical? What a horrible choice of drink. I'm surprised the students aren’t all keeling over from dehydration as well.

Tanyakit: Conspiracy theorists would ask who really started the war, and brought it all the Hogwarts—Voldermort? Or was it just a cunning plan by Dumbledore to have half of Hogwarts killed off before they died of premature heart attacks which would have undoubtedly prompted an inquest into how these children were being taken care of...

Me: Not to mention the daily verbal and physical abuse of some pupils by certain teachers, which I’m sure is not to the standards of education/human rights that the Scottish Qualifications Authority, or indeed the parents, would like.  Severus Snape in particular should have been suspended on more than one occasion for wielding his authority in a harmful and mentally torturous way particularly over children whose parents were either killed by or maimed beyond belief by his previous employer, which is frankly rubbing salt in the wound a bit more than is necessary.

Tanyakit: I think the entire plot of the Goblet of Fire would have fallen foul of the SQA. “What do you mean people die in this tournament?! I am pulling Jimmy this instant.”  “Yes, sorry it’s a binding contract..."   “My son is underage...shouldn’t I have signed a permission slip or something?!”   "Please see my previous response.”

Me: “But you require parents to sign permission slips to allow children to go to the local village at the weekend! Why not for this pointless Tournament Of Death?”          “…Have a biscuit, sir.”

That's The Power Of Scarves

Today has been an awesome day in many respects. I went shopping with my parents and my cousin, which led to many amusing conversations. It turns out my mother has discovered a new hobby - making scarfs. She's using special wool, which means that they are not really knitted, but more like parted gently into a sea of strings. They do look very pretty, I admit.

Mum: (proudly showing me a green scarf) So, what do you think?

Me: (squinting) It... kind of looks like seaweed.

Mum: (indignantly) Oh, thanks!

Me: In a good way.

Mum: I made a red one too. Your dad got a bit too enthusiastic about the colour.

Dad: (enthusiastically) It was just so warm! I told her it would go incredibly well with a smart black blazer.

Me: That's very metrosexual of you. Well done.

Mum: Yes, and then he came downstairs later that evening with not a stitch on apart from the scarf and a black blazer.

Dad: And didn't it look fabulous?

Mum: Well... yes, I suppose it did.

Me: Ha!

Cousin: I don't know why you ever moved out. This is hilarious.

Me: Exactly this reason.

When I got home, the Fleetch was in her usual place on the couch, surrounded by cats, but before long she came bounding into my room.

Fleetch: Dude. I saw the best video ever on YouTube today.

Me: Oh really?

Fleetch: It's about scarves.

Me: You have my attention.

We watched this video through once without stopping, and spent the entire time squeeing in rapturous delight.

Me: Oh my god. This is the best video ever.

Fleetch: Isn't it? ISN'T IT?

Me: I can't believe I was limiting myself to so few ways to wear my scarf. The European Loop and the Modern One Loop were my staple scarf-moves.

Fleetch: I know, fleetch. I know.

Me: I was so blind and now I can see.

Fleetch: Let's watch again and do them all.

Me: Best. Idea. Ever.

And so we did. We mastered the Double Infinity, the Magic Trick and many more. Even the Mens Tie, which has given me problems in the past (due to my complete inability to follow instructions - see previous mentions of being unable to successfully put together Lego), was my bitch. Afterwards, we performed a small impromptu hugging joyful dance in celebration of the fact that we now have the ability to wear our accessories in different ways (in my case, my collection of 18 scarves, which I firmly believe is a reasonable number) which was possibly the gayest thing to happen in our flat for some time. We scarfed so good, otterminions. We scarfed all over the place. Now go forth and scarf others. I believe in you. And the power of scarves.

Are You Sitting Comfortably? Then I'll Begin.

Did you ever read a story as a child (or perhaps you had it read to you by an adult who wasn't thinking about the subject matter much and was probably more concerned with forcing you into Dreamland as soon as possible so they could go and relax) that didn't sit quite right? I remember several of these at different points in my childhood, and upon reading them again as an adult I found myself appalled at the tales that had entranced me as a kid,. Take Brer Rabbit for example. Brer Rabbit lived in a small village seemingly populated by only one of every species (even at age 5 I was aware that this didnt match up at all with the things I knew about nature) who were all, rather puzzlingly, named Brer (originally it was "Bre'er" - pronounced "bruh" - which meant "brother"). There was Brer Bear, Brer Fox, and Brer Something Stoaty that I can't find any reference to on the internet but am positive I haven't made up. I swear it's not a misguided attempt to force an otter character into this, despite how much better otters make everything.
 
The stories inevitably began, ended or somehow managed to weave in one or more animals trying to molest and/or kill and/or eat Brer Rabbit, not necessarily in that order. It seems odd that no one ever seemed to wonder why these animals were confined to this one place, or why none of them had mates or children, or why - even though they could all communicate to each other like humans, and hell, even dressed in human-ish clothes - morals went completely out of the window when the question of dinner was at stake. 
 
I'd given this a lot of thought recently, and came to the conclusion that the Brer animals were trapped in a kind of hideous, mutated universe. Unable to get out, unable to find comfort in others of their own species, they descended into an immoral, cannibalistic, crazed hierarchy where the only goal was to feast on Brer Rabbit, who was the obvious choice of prey, being weaker and not as predatory in nature as the others.
 
Now, I can kind of understand WHY they wanted to kill Brer Rabbit. He did kind of seem like an insufferable little dick, always outwitting the others and stealing their vegetables (even if he happened to be stealing back vegetables the other animals had stolen in the first place, in a pointless cycle of theft,). He always seemed to rain vengeance down upon them in some way, using his brains to outwit their brawn, and took great delight in yapping about his triumph. But whereas in other books, I have found characters that I love to hate, and characters that I hate to love (Umbridge from the Harry Potter books springs to mind), I never really empathised with any of the characters in Brer Rabbit. It wasn't the animal factor, I've read plenty of great books with animal protagonists that I encourage everyone to read - the Chronicles of Narnia, for example, or David Clement-Davies' Fire Bringer, and let's not forget my ultimate trashy thrill in the Warrior Cats series - but I always felt that Brer Rabbit just never quite made the cut.

Back To The Future (Of Technology)

As many of you now know, my family are an endless source of entertainment for me. They always have been and I hope that tradition will last forever. I actually aspire to the dizzying heights of insanity that they manage to achieve, seemingly effortlessly, on a pretty much daily basis. One of the great things I love about my parents is how far behind on technology they tend to be. They got broadband only last year, for example, and when I tried to show them how to do a few basic web things, they ended up mostly bewildered and lost. I have to actually be there in person now because on the few times they have tried calling me to enquire about a solution for a computer-related problem, I have realised that they do not follow instructions well at all. I have inherited this trait unfortunately, but not, it would seem, to such a crippling degree.

This conversation was held over loudspeaker so my dad could hear me as well. He is a little more computer-savvy than my mother and so I could occasionally hear him giggling in the background at her helpless attempts to connect with the modern day world.

Mum: So, how would I look for that?

Me: Well, you'd just use Google.

Mum: (doubtfully) Goo..gle?

Me: (aware that this conversation will frustrate me to tears and it has barely begun) Yes. Google. You know?

Mum: Um, I've heard people talking about it?

Me: Right. Well, it's a search engin-...it's a way to look for things. You use computers at work, don't you?

Mum: Yes but I don't use The Internet.

She pronounces it as if it is a strange and mystical being which could be angered by some small misstep.

Me: Okay. Well, Google is just a page on the internet. What you need to do is double click on the little internet picture...

I wait for her to double click. I hear two clicks in slow, laborious succession.

Mum: It's not working.

Me: You need to double click. Not click twice, but double click.

Mum: (heaving a massive sigh) Okay.

I wait again. After a moment I hear her still clicking like she's starting and stopping a 100-metre race, but at least it works.

Mum: Okay, now what?

Me: Okay, now type the word "google" into the address bar.

Mum: The what?

Me: The address bar. The bit on your screen at the top where the name of the webpage is?

There is a hesitant, desperate silence.

Me: Why don't I just come and visit you at the weekend?

Mum: Would you?

Me: (pinching my nose) Yep. Fine. It's not like I had plans.

Mum; Thank you, dear.

Me: Oh and remember, never type 'Google' into Google.

Mum: Why?

Me: The internet will stop working.

Dad: (teasing) What was that? TYPE 'Google' into Google? I'll do that for you!

Mum: DON'T! YOU'LL BREAK EVERYTHING!

This whole conversation just reminded me of the time I told my mum that the word "gullible" wans't in the dictionary. Her response was a perplexed "oh. Really? Well. Why doesn't someone do something about that?"

Now, I understand this issue with new technology and my parents, to an extent. I imagine that the fear and confusion they experience whilst trying to navigate towards YouTube is about the same as I would experience after being told to lift a yacht with one hand or die. I understand that people of my parents generation find it a little harder to get to grips with the internet and all the wonders it can open up. But I still find it hilarious to recall stories about their ignorance - the time my mum asked me whether it cost anything to send an email (and when I explained that it was free, she asked me where you put the stamps) or the time my aunt told us that my cousin wouldn't add her as a friend on Facebook.

Me: He's fifteen. Of course he doesn't want to add you as a friend.

Mum: You'd add me as a friend on Facebook right? If I had one?

Me: Um...

The thought of my mother being able to access my life and all the hideously drunken photos I've ever been tagged in, is a horrifying, soul-rending thought. The thought of her having the power to, say, follow me on Twitter and see all my tweets about the #penistortoise and other such masterpieces of photography, is just terrifying.

Me: Probably not, if I'm honest. It's for the best.

In case your curiosity was piqued by last last line, here's a treat. Ladies and gentleman, the Penis Tortoise.

The Winning Team

It was my birthday yesterday. I just want to say a huge, heartfelt thanks to all my friends and family for making it the Best Birthday Ever. If I learned anything from yesterday, it's that the awesome people in my life are approximately 64% more awesome than I initially realised. I also learned that odd things happen when I drink Goldschlager, but I fear that's a lesson I'll need to relearn over a period of years (and if anyone can explain to me why I woke up with my keys, wallet, phone and some plastic bullets in my bag then please venture suggestions). I don't think I embarrassed myself too much last night - I only made the You-Make-Kitty-Scared face once as far as I can remember and the interpretive dancing to certain songs was kept to minimal otter robot. I'm sure this will turn out not to be the case, but for now I am languishing in happy ignorance.

Oh and for those of you who read the previous post about the buckets - yes. Yes, I did.

I went to see my parents yesterday afternoon. Halfway through lunch, my dad started telling me about the round of golf he'd played earlier that day (three birdies) with some excitement. Mum, as usual, was rolling her eyes. Despite the fact that my dad has played golf for about 20 years, she's never bothered to learn the terms, and usually starts to glaze over pretty quickly. I admit my own knowledge of golf is limited to childhood caddying for my dad, and a few of the Tiger Woods PS3 games, but even I know what my dad means when he says he 'sliced' a shot. My dad began telling me about a conversation a couple of weeks previously between my parents, which went a little something like this:

Dad: (bursting through the front door with trophy held aloft) Champion! Champion!

Mum: Oh for god's sake. Another trophy?

Dad: (momentarily confused) I won it.

Mum: There's nowhere to put it.

Dad: What about over-

Mum: No, that'll ruin the look of the fireplace. You can put it in the spare bedroom.

Dad: (giving up) Fine, whatever. I WON! I am the greatest! How does it feel to be married to a winner?

Mum: Well, YOU'LL never know.

Dad: .......You're right.

I seriously love that I was spawned by these people. Bless their hearts.

In Hindsight, The Hippo Molar Was A Mistake

I was an intelligent child. I know you might find that hard to believe now, but bear with me. I'm actually pretty smart (something I will prove once I stop crashing into things, topping up my wine with Ribena and dancing around the kitchen holding Roland in a waltz position and informing him through spoken word rap that he fills up my senses like a night in the forest. I just wish he'd let me lead for once) and that became obvious fairly early on.

My parents therefore treated me, on the whole, as a very short adult most of the time, but it meant that occasionally they would forget that I was actually a child. One particular memory stands out from this as what I like to think of as The End Of Innocence. We all have this - some instant from childhood where you suddenly realise that the world is actually not the glorious, happy place you thought it was. For most kids, this involves Santa, and I was no different. At the tender age of 7, I came home from school one day to find my parents standing about in our living room looking rather worried.

Me: Hi. Has someone died?

Mum: What? No! Just... sit down, will you?

I sat obediently.

Mum: Er... (looking with desperation at my dad, who was eyeballing the ceiling) Listen. You might have heard your friends talking about something in the playground, and we just wanted to talk to you about it.

Me: Like what? Like sex? People talk about that.

Mum: (horrified) No! Not that!

Me: Oh. What then?

Mum: Like...Santa.

She winced, as if waiting for an explosion. I stared at her in growing confusion.

Me: What about him?

Mum: Well. He's...um...he's....some of your friends might have said that, um...

Me: (gently) Mum. I know Santa isn't real.

Mum: (with immense relief) Oh thank god!

Me: Of course he isn't real! No one could deliver presents to everyone all over the world in one night. That doesn't make sense. It's ridiculous.

Mum: Right. Right. I'm so glad, we were worried you'd be upset.

Me: No. I've known for ages that you were lying to me.

Mum: (uncomfortably) Well see, the thing is, it's not a lie, exactly. It's something parents tell their children to make the world a better, more fun place. All these things, like Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy-

Me: Wait, what?

My dad, sensing impending doom with the trained instincts of a man born to survive, began to edge towards the door.

Mum: What?

Me: (lip beginning to tremble) Did you say the Tooth Fairy isn't real?

Mum: (wild-eyed in fear) Um...

Me: How can the Tooth Fairy not be real? She brings me money! You can't just...I don't believe this!

Mum: We thought you knew! (looking at my dad, who by now has managed to edge almost completely out of the room) You come back here!

Me: (wailing) How can she not be real? Where do the teeth go?!

Mum: I kept them.

Me: (horrified) You KEPT my TEETH? That's sick!

Mum: Okay, this is not going how I thought it would.

Dad: I told you we should have got someone else to do it.

Star Gazing

I'm not too fussed about celebrities in general. Of course I have my small Dern-obsession, but apart from that I don't really follow the lives and loves of the elite famous. I didn't even recognise, at first, the curly-haired guy stood next to me in a bar in London (Simon Amstell of 'Never Mind The Buzzcocks') or the tall, indie teenager wandering past me at the train station (Sam Pepper from 'Big Brother 11').
There was the day Jane Espenson (amazing writer for 'Buffy' and 'Battlestar Galactica' amongst much else) talked to me on Twitter (still one of my favourite moments of my entire life thus far) and I started calling all my friends to tell them, even if they didn't know who she was. JUST SHARE IN MY JOY, BITCHES.

Anyway, it's not exactly Hollywood but it can be kind of cool sometimes. Really, this is all just a lead in to one of my favourite family stories relating to a celebrity, because I'm smooth like that. When my uncle remarried a few years ago, my two cousins were still quite young. The youngest was really into Amy Winehouse at the time, and he rushed up to me on one of my visits back to my hometown.

Cousin: Otternator, I was in London!

Me: Were you? Was it fun?

Cousin: Yeah, for my dad's wedding. You'll never guess who was there!

Me: I have no idea.

Cousin: Amy Winehouse!

Me: Wow, that's awesome! Did you get her autograph?

Cousin: I got her autograph AND a photo of me with her!

He showed me the photo. He looked delirious with happiness.

Cousin: I wanted to invite her into the wedding but Dad said I shouldn't.

Me: Why not?

Cousin: He said there was something called a...free..bar?

Me: (nodding sagely) Ah. Wise.

Innocent Until Proven Otterwise

I was a very honest child, although I was not always believed, which is why the following memory sticks out in my mind. One day my mum called me into the kitchen.

Mum: Otternator, do you have anything to tell me?

Me: (staring blankly) Like what?

Mum: Anything? Maybe something to do with something being broken?

Me: (still staring blankly) No.

Mum: Are you sure?

Me: (starting to doubt my own innocence) Yes?

Mum produced a swan ornament with a now broken wing. It was a spectacularly ugly Ladro (which she collected obsessively for decades) and the overall look of our living room would have been massively improved had we piled them all in a cupboard and locked the door forever. However, regardless of how much I was against the aesthetic appeal, I definitely wasn't responsible for the broken wing.

Mum: Did you do this?

Me: No!

Mum: (sighing) Otternator. Just tell me the truth. Were you, I don't know, roughhousing with one of your friends or something?

We looked at each other. I was about 8 and a gentle breeze could have carried me away like Mary Poppins. I've never been built to roughhouse with anyone. Maybe a spaniel, if it was quite a small spaniel. It would still probably win.

Me: (firmly) No.

Mum: Okay, well. You're grounded.

Me: What?! But I just told you I didn't break it!

Mum: You obviously did, and now you're lying about it, which is worse. Go to your room.

Me: Your evidence is circumstantial at best.

Mum: GO!

I went to my room, closed the door quietly (I wasn't much of a slammer, feeling even at such a young age that slamming was rather undignified) and picked up a book. My dad came home about an hour later and found my mum in the kitchen trying to glue the wing back onto the swan.

Dad: Hi honey.

Mum: Your daughter broke my swan!

Dad: How come she's mine when she does something that you don't like?

Mum glared.

Dad: ...Okay. I meant to tell you sooner. I broke the swan.

Mum: You?! ...Oh. Oh, damn. How?

Dad: (embarrassed) I...I was...practising with my 9 iron in the living room...

Mum: Oh for god's sake. I've just grounded Otternator. 

Dad: Oh. Right. Er... sorry about that.

They both  apologised profusely, which did little to appease my sense of tragic injustice. It also made me wonder what normal person tries out a new golf club in a room full of expensive figurines that his wife dearly loves. Then I realised that my parents are horrifically, beautifully, perfect for each other. They are both crazy.

Should I Bring My Duelling Pistols Or My Sword?

I called my mum last night. I hadn't heard from her since last week, when we'd had this conversation:

Mum: Hi!

Me: How's it going?

Mum: Listen, I wanted to tell you now before you heard this from anyone else-

Me: Oh god, what now?

Mum: I was in a car accident.

Me: Bloody hell, Mum! Are you okay? Is everything okay?

Mum: No, I'm fine, I just thought that your cousin might have twitfaced about it, and I didn't want you to hear about it like that.

Me: You were in a car accident and you're worried that my feelings are hurt because I might have seen it on ...what did you call it?

Mum: Twitface. Is that not right? Twitbook? Booktits?

Me: That's... close enough.

She wasn't hurt at all - surprisingly, because she's a very small lady and she got thrown around a fair bit inside the car. To cheer her up, I told her, for the first time, about this blog. I had wondered how she might take the news that her embarrassing stories are posted on the internet for anyone to see. Luckily, she was delighted.

Mum: So, people can read it? All over the world?

Me: Yep. I have readers from Japan, and Ireland, and Denmark and all kinds of places.

Mum: (digesting this) Oh. How wonderful! Do you need me to tell you more stories?

Me: That would be excellent.

She launched into some of my favourite Dad stories of all time. My dad, as I have mentioned previously, is an awesome guy. He puts up with my mum's ludicrous ability to get herself into scrapes because he finds it hugely entertaining, but sometimes, when he's on the receiving end of such a scenario, he doesn't find it quite so amusing. My mum has done several notable things to him over the 30-odd years they've been together - there was a time a couple of years ago, for example, when they went on holiday to the Caribbean and Mum had bought expensive moisturising sunblock for herself and some cheap sunblock for my dad, who made the mistake of letting her choose their products. Mum had not really been paying attention when she purchased them, and on the first morning when he lathered it on, it had looked like perfectly ordinary suncream. It was in fact designed for teenage girls. Forty minutes later, he was doing an Edward Cullen impression as he sat, mortified, on his beach towel, looking with desperate incredulity at his now glittery skin. My mum was doubled up laughing. He tried to scrub it off, but he stayed sparkly for four long days. I don't think he's quite forgiven her for that one.

Another time, while on holiday in Portugal, my dad accidentally fell asleep on a sun lounger. While the rest of his body stayed comfortably under the shade of the nearby trees, his feet had stuck out into the sun. When he woke, it was to excruciating pain as each foot had grown a massive sun-ripened bulging blister on top. It was too painful to wears socks or shoes, or even flip flops. The slightest pressure was agony. My mum, who has a background in medicine, decided to burst them carefully with a sterilised needle. As my dad lay on the hotel bed, hands over his eyes, my mum knelt down and delicately bled the pus out of each blister. You know it's true love when it involves pus. My dad was incredibly relieved. He felt like he might even be able to walk again. He thanked my mum, and she got up to walk away. As her foot hit the floor for her second step, she felt something wet on it. She looked down and noticed she'd stepped in something. My dad let out a strangled yelp of pain. My mum had inadvertently pulled one of his massive blisters clean off as she'd walked by. My dad asked her, rather politely considering the circumstances, to immediately leave the room. As she did so, his screams followed her down the corridor.

These are fairly painful, horrendous stories. But I don't think they quite compare to the following, which happened years before I was born. My parents had only been engaged for a few months, and had recently moved into a small bungalow. They were getting ready to go out to a party. My dad was just back from the barber because my mum had decided it was time somebody sheared him. The barber had missed a small piece of hair curling over the top of my dad's ear. My mum fetched the scissors and advanced on my dad.

Dad: (trying to fend her off) It's fine, leave it!

Mum: You can't go out like that. Just let me snip it.

Dad: Well...be careful.

Mum: (indignant) Of course I'll be careful!

However something shiny on TV distracted her for a split second and she looked away. As the scissors closed, they did not close on hair. They closed on flesh. Specifically, the top half centimetre of my dad's ear, which she had cut clean off. My dad, again, quite understandably, yelled in fright and pain and began to bleed profusely all over the carpet.

Mum; Oh god! I'm so sorry! Wait, I'll get some bandages or something.

They didn't have bandages. She returned seconds later, holding a cup of cold water.

Mum: Just lie down and put your ear in the cup. It'll stop bleeding eventually.

Dad: Are you sure about that?

Mum: Just do it!

My dad lay on the floor mournfully, with his ear in what was now a cup of blood, presumably debating whether or not he should marry this lunatic. He was not in the party spirit. Yet he mustered the courage, after the ear had seemed to finally crust over, to have a quick shower and change into a clean white shirt. He was not best pleased with my mum at this point, mostly because she'd just maimed him quite badly and partly because they were already late. Eventually, after they got to the party and had been there a couple of hours, he began to feel better. The couple of drinks he'd had dulled the throbbing in his ear, and his mood began to lighten. At this point my mum, who had been keeping a relatively safe distance since they arrived by dancing with some of her friends, wobbled over drunkenly and looked up at my dad.

Mum: I'm...I'm scho...schorry..... Ahaha... your ear.

Dad: I suppose it was kind of funny.

Mum: Ahaha. I love you.

She reached up to put her arm around him, but unfortunately as she did so, her engagement ring caught on the newly formed scabby ear and sliced it open again. The blood poured down my dad's face for the second time that evening. Man and shirt vyed to become the same colour. He looked like he'd been in a duel. Needless to say, they had to go home so he could lie down, and presumably plot ways to destroy my mother once he'd stopped fainting and falling around the place. He has forgiven her for this one - I'm not sure I would, frankly - but his ear has never looked the same with the tip missing. It does make him easy to find in a crowd though.

Daddy or Chips

As you might have guessed by my previous posts, my mother has a knack for getting herself into unusual and amusing situations. I'm about to delve into one of my all time favourites now. Let me preface this by saying that a lot of the following, if not all of it, could have been prevented if my mum didn't live by one simple rule - ask someone for advice, consider it, then completely disregard it.

I lived with my parents in a small bungalow until the age of 5, when we moved to a different part of town that was conveniently nearer to the primary and secondary schools. I had no brothers or sisters, so I relished the opportunity to make new friends and often spent summer evenings cycling around the streets with the neighbourhood kids. As such, I really only caught the aftermath of this story but I've heard it so many times I feel like I was there. It was a balmy summer evening in late July. I was out as usual with the neighbour kids. My dad was mowing one of our lawns (we had three - I know this makes us sound privileged but let me assure you, it was a council house and therefore about as unprivileged as you can get) and my mum was reluctantly doing some gardening. My dad had coerced her into it through means unknown, and she was sulkily pulling weeds out by the tips and throwing them into our bin. My mum enjoys looking nice and being tidy and having nice nails. She despises outdoor work of any kind.

Mum decided that she'd had enough. She sat back on her heels for a moment and thought about how she could get out of this manual labour. Suddenly a thought struck her. Weedkiller! This would negate the need for actual touching - she could simply spray the weeds and wait for them to die! Delighted with this plan, she stands up, brushing the dirt off her knees and heads towards the house.

Dad: Where are you going?

Mum: I'm going to get the weedkiller. Wouldn't that be quicker? Do you know where it is?

Dad: It's in the shed.

Mum: No, it's not! It's in the kitchen under the sink!

Dad: (pinching nose and sighing) Firstly, if you thought you knew where it was, I don't know why you asked me. Secondly, it IS in the shed.

Mum: It's under the sink.

Dad. It's in the damn shed. Otternator is still small and I wouldn't risk her getting near any kind of chemical. God only knows what she would do with it. Don't you remember the teabag debacle of '87?

Mum: Fine, fine, it's in the shed.

My mum waits until my dad has turned his back and has gone back to mowing. She enters the house, goes into the kitchen and sure enough, there is a white unmarked packet under the sink.

Mum: In the shed, indeed. I knew where it was all along.

She exits the house and heads towards the shed to get the watering can. My dad shouts around the corner.

Dad: Did you find the weedkiller?

Mum: Yes, it was in the shed, dear. You're so clever. I never should have doubted you.

My dad should have really been suspicious at this point, but he was understandably distracted by mowing with a crazy lawnmower which had dodgy shopping-trolley-esque wheels. My mum proceeds to empty the entire contents of the white packet into the watering can. She adds water from the tap and stirs it gently with a spoon. The mixture appears cloudy and smells rather familiar, but she's not thinking of that right now, being much too pleased with herself for fooling my dad and much too keen to get the gardening over and done with. She heads back out, brandishing the watering can proudly at my dad, who just rolls his eyes and keeps mowing. My mum begins to spray the weeds. She sprays the flowers. She sprays the grass for good measure. She is extremely pleased with herself.

After a couple of minutes, the mixture in the watering can began to, for lack of a better word, congeal. My mum was puzzled. Was this how all weedkillers worked? Eventually, after the mixture began dripping out in gloops and a small crowd of curious neighbours had begun to congregate on the other side of the street, whispering and pointing, she gave in and called my dad over.

Mum: Um..honey... is this weedkiller supposed to... solidify?

Dad: (very slowly and very quietly) Where did you get this?

Mum: In... in the shed?

Dad: (through gritted teeth) Where. Did. You. Get. This?

Mum: Under the sink! I'm sorry, I should have listened to you!

Dad: Do you realise what you've done?

My mum gazed out at the lawn and flowerbeds. Every flower, every weed, every stem of grass she had sprayed so happily only minutes before, was stiff and covered in a thick white coating.

Dad: YOU HAVE SPRAYED TWENTY FUCKING LITRES OF FUCKING WALLPAPER PASTE ALL OVER OUR GARDEN! MY GOD, WOMAN! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Mum: Um...a lot?

At this point, six year old Otternator came cycling around the corner. I paused at the gate and leaned over the fence, squinting at the garden.

Me: Has it snowed? How long was I gone for?

Dad: No, your mother just decided our garden would look better with wallpaper paste on it.

Me: (shrugging) Okay. What's for dinner? I don't want chips. Don't give me chips.

Our garden looked like a festive postcard for days. Eventually the rain fell and washed the shame away, but to this day, the smell of gently baking wallpaper paste takes me back to that summer.

Bieberhair

I went to the hairdressers today. I hate doing this, so I always put it off as long as possible, opting for an extra short cut and then leaving it for several months until I resemble a shaggy sheep peering through a hedge. Eventually, Other Half will start making fun of me and I'll be forced to go to Supercuts. I don't like going to a real hairdressers, partly because I'm cheap and I didn't ask my hair to grow like Harry fucking Potter so I resent paying for it to be cut off in the first place, and secondly because you have to make an appointment and they get really sulky if you forget. With Supercuts you can just walk in off the street and wait in a queue of old ladies. I rather like old ladies. They remind me of my great grandmother, who was 93 in January and still has a tongue like a razor. She is my mum's grandmother, so she not only has authority of years, but also the authority of generations. This means she can get away with conversations like the following and no one can scold her.

Mum: Did you like your dinner, Gran?

Great-Gran: It was lovely, thank you. (stares at mum for a moment) Are you putting on weight?

Mum: (appalled and looking anxiously at her reflection in a spoon) No! At least, I don't think so.

Great-Gran: Hmm. It must just be what you're wearing. What's for dessert?

For this, and for so many other things, she is my hero. I can't wait til I'm old and grey and can be as rude as I want to be. I salute you, Great-Gran. One day I'll make you proud.

Anyway, back to the haircut. I hate being made to stare at my own reflection under harsh, uncomplimentary fluorescent lights. I hate looking at my own reflection in any case and usually avoid it whenever possible. I also don't like being forced to converse with a total stranger who is wielding scissors near my head. They always ask me if I have holidays booked (I don't) and if I have any plans for the weekend (I don't) and what I do for fun (hang about on twitter, take photos of my cats in gay poses, make fun of stuff on the internet, chase Other Half around the house doing spoken-word rap at her) and after that the conversation trails off.

Today, by some cruel twist of fate, they gave me a green 16 year old fresh out of hair school. She comes accessorised with a vacant expression and a selection of scissors that range from nursery school safety scissors - which only shred your hair into Split End City - or hedge shears, with which she will transform you into Lisa Stansfield circa Been Around The World. The latter happened to me a few years ago, and while I can laugh about it now, it took a long time to get over the horror of it. She may also come with some amusing phrases, such as "oh dear, I think I've cut more than you wanted" and may ask highly personal questions regarding the haircare products you use. Batteries and intelligence are sold separately.

I'm sure we've all experienced that sinking feeling as you watch large chunks of your hair fall to the ground and realise that when you said "just a little off the bottom please" or "an inch or so would do, thanks", what your hairdresser heard or chose to hear is something completely different. It takes a brave person to speak up and correct this. It's odd, because I imagine that if you ordered a meal in a restaurant and it arrived cold or otherwise unsatisfactory, few people would have trouble sending it back. Hair, however, is different. From the second they put that rubber mat around your shoulders, they have the power, and you know it. They are your HairMasters. They are your HairOverlords.They will do whatever they want with you and to hell with your feeble protests.

I scuttled out of Supercuts today, feeling my wallet only a little lighter, my hair a lot lighter, and overall managing to look even more Biebalicious than ever before.
Like baby. Baby. Baby. Oh, damn.

Parents, Parties and Predicaments

Since so many of you enjoyed the 'King Justice' part of yesterday's post, I thought I'd write a little something about my family. Trust me when I say I have a veritable comedy goldmine in the form of my mum, who really only needs to be awake to produce some truly hilarious sentences, although the chances are massively improved when she is sleepy or drunk. My dad says this is why he married her. If I showed you the wedding photos, however, you might wonder why she married him, because he had a ginger afro, a ginger moustache and looked like one of the 118 men. For those international readers who won't know what that refers to, look at this http://tiny.cc/l0sht  Yes. That's right. Sexy, isn't it? Still, it was the 80s. It was acceptable at the time.

My mum has very little mental filter. Anything she thinks in her head is invariably repeated, like an echo, out of her mouth. If you watch closely you can see her little brain cogs whirring and grinding together, and then you only have a matter of moments to interrupt the conversation or change the topic before she says something truly embarrassing. Whereas most people have boundaries to their conversations - or at least have an inner voice that tells them 'this is probably a good time to stop talking' - my mum does not possess such a thing. Over the years, her family and friends have learned that as a rule, it's much more interesting and amusing to allow her to do this rather than trying to interfere. I seem to have inherited this trait although it is not fully-fledged - it appears to get stronger with age. However I don't believe that, even if I live to be 100, I could ever surpass my mum as a magnet for these types of situations. If it had a name, she'd be the queen of it.

Let me illustrate with an example. My parents had decided to move house a few years back, into a small village only a mile or so away from the small town I grew up in. My mum, who is a very small, chatty, blonde hurricane, had spotted a neighbour lady hanging out her washing in the garden of the house opposite. She decided this would be a perfect opportunity to ingratiate herself with the locals and perhaps make a new friend. I want to confirm now that this story is completely true. I actually could not have made it up. It is not possible to pretend or fantasize this level of insanity and mortification.

My mum headed across the road and introduced herself. Before long, she and the neighbour lady were chatting away when the conversation turned rather gossipy.

Lady: And that man, in the house on that side, he cheated on his wife!

Mum: Ooh!

Lady: (conspiratorially) And the man living next to you... well, he's very nice, but he's a homosexual and sometimes he has (and here she mouthed a word to my mum)

My mum was puzzled. She wondered why the lady was mouthing a word rather than saying it. She couldn't quite make it out, but thought that it had looked a bit like 'parties'. What was so wrong about parties, my mum  mused, that this lady would disapprove so much? Maybe she wasn't keen on noise or disturbance? My mum, instead of asking like a normal person for clarification, clung to her conclusion like a drowning man to a log.

Mum: (brightly) Well, I don't mind that. As long as he invites me in as well!

The woman's face changed, very slowly, from an expression of friendliness, to sheer confusion and more a little horror. My mum realised, with the sinking feeling she must be very used to by now, that the conclusion she'd arrived at must have been dead wrong. Not parties then. It dawned on my mum, with all the immediacy of a bullet to the head, that the word the lady had mouthed was in fact 'partner'.

Mum: Sorry, I...um... .

Lady: (backing away) Um, I'm quite busy, doing, something, so...see you around...

The lady fled, and rightly so, back to the safety of her house. My mum turned sadly and walked straight back into her new house. My dad was unpacking boxes in the living room, humming happily to himself.

Mum: We need to move again.

Dad: What? We just got here!

Mum: I know, but I sort of accidentally told that lady that I wanted to have a threesome with our gay neighbour and his boyfriend.

Dad: OH FOR FUCKS SAKE! THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS!

That's my family. And I'm a product of that environment, which is a fairly frightening thought. Maybe some day, one of my future-children will roll their eyes at something stupid I've done and blog about it. I can only dream.

They Shoot Lyrics, Don't They?

We got two sets of keys to our new house yesterday. When we arrived there, using Other Half's keys, it wasn't clean. The letting agency apologised, sent a cleaner around and a giftbasket. Other Half and I were reasonably appeased by this sacrificial offering, and decided not to Hulk out about it. Anyone can make a mistake. However, when the taxi dropped me off at the new flat this morning, alone, struggling with a massive rucksack that weighs about twice as much as I do, along with several heavy bags full of books and my guitar, I was understandably horrified to find that my new set of 'exterior door' keys did not work. I tried them a couple of times, but they wouldn't even fit in the locks. I stood there for a few minutes, bewildered and straining under the weight of my worldly belongings. I'd just used all my change to pay the taxi. I was running out of phone battery. I was over a mile away from our current house. My joints were already beginning to hurt. In the gentle mid-morning sun, on the steps, with the steady soothing hum of traffic passing by, I began, very quietly, to have a complete meltdown. Luckily, the lady who lives in the flat underneath was home and answered my desperate buzzer presses and was very kind about it. Turns out only my 'indoor door' keys work. Therefore, I only need to be able to break in to the stairwell and all systems are go. Perhaps it's some kind of test, to see if I was resourceful enough to be able to live there. If they were looking for a new Jack Bauer, I'm afraid I'm a disappointment. I can't even watch 24 because it makes me too nervous, never mind live it.

While unpacking, once I had eventually managed to get into the new flat, I spent some quality time dancing like a drunken badger attacking a hedge and singing tunelessly to my ipod playlist. The acoustics in the new flat are great. I tried a rousing rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, trying to emulate Janette FM and was pleasantly surprised. When Rihanna began playing, I was reminded of a time only a few weeks previously when I was listening to her song 'Only Girl In the World'.

Perhaps you've also experienced this feeling. A modern pop song on the radio blows you away with its catchy melody and foot-tapping rhythm. You find yourself singing along heartily only to realise half-way in that you are repeating ridiculous sentences. Case in point - the aforementioned 'Only Girl In The World' song begins with the lyrics "I want you to love me, like I'm a hot pie."  Really, Rihanna? Because the way I love a hot pie involves sharp cutlery, perhaps with an accompaniment of baked beans or mashed potatoes and I'm not sure that's really what you meant. Even worse, she doesn't even go on to specify the kind of hot pie. Is it apple? Mississippi mud? Steak and ale? Details and continuity are important, Rihanna. They make a good song great. You wouldn't catch Simon and Garfunkel making this kind of rookie mistake.

I told Other Half about this and she informed me, rolling her eyes as usual, that it's actually "hot ride", not "hot pie". This makes even less sense. Is Rihanna a rollercoaster? Does she want people to experience nauseous, andrenaline-fuelled terror while listening to her songs? Does she consider herself better than, say, Oblivion, or that Space Mountain one? These are questions that trouble my mind greatly. I think I preferred it when she was a pie.

My family often provide me with much misquoted lyrical entertainment during our weekly catch up phone calls. A man at my dad's workplace walked around singing "King Justice" for weeks until my dad finally took him aside and explained that MC Hammer was actually singing "Can't Touch This". I believe it was an uncomfortable moment for both. I personally would have tried to alleviate the awkwardness by Hammerdancing. I find this works as a momentary distraction from most social faux pas, such as cannibalism chats, embarrassing verbal mishaps and explaining in great detail to people you've just met that spiders are constantly trying to assassinate you.

In summary, always listen closely, check your keys carefully, and when in doubt, Hammerdance.