Reader, anyone who knows me knows that I constantly refer back to my past selves as if they were old friends or family members who would have a fully formed opinion on how I live my life. I get the mick taken quite a bit for starting sentences with 'god, 12 year old me would love this' or '15 year old me would be looking at me in horror right now'. And last night I got talking with my housemate about how different I was as a teenager. Which made me wonder-what would my 17 year old self think of mid twenties me? Only one way to find out....THE POWER OF TIME TRAVEL (shut up and suspend your disbelief)
Oh...hi. Where am I?
Hi there 17 year old me! You're in 2013, with mid twenties you!
Oh.
Surprise!
Hang on....are we in LONDON?
Yeah...?
What happened to New York? We were supposed to be getting married to a rock star in a beautiful yet edgy ceremony about now!
Well, New York is still somewhere we want to live, but we ended up making lots of contacts in London and staying put for the time being. Also, your family has grown and you have a godson now and some really cute little cousins you want to see grow up. You did go on a couple of dates with a rock star if that helps?
Someone makes me a godmother? Wow. That's pretty shibby! Who was it, Clefairy? Ooohh I date a rockstar? That must have been awesome!
Ok, first off, don't use the word shibby. No matter how hard you try, it never quite catches on
But..
NO BUTS. It's awful. You do not sound kitch and cute, you sound ridiculous. And no, Clefairy doesn't have a baby yet (was it the many many nephews and nieces that made you think she'd have a family so young? Well she has even more now-no need to add more kids into the equation just yet!), your youngest uncle and aunt had the most gorgeous, funny little boy and you're his Godmother-you make him awful craft gifts and give him lots of cuddles. And dating a rock star was fun for about one date, then it turned out rockstars can be quite shy and his best friend scared you off (we think she fancied him too). You also never quite shake the suspicion that they thought you were a groupie.
Was it someone from Panic! At the disco?
No. Far less famous. No one knows who the band is really, even back then.
Oh. Bum. Hey, where's all my hair? WHERE IS ALL MY HAIR?
Oh yes, about that. The thing is, having hair down to your bum is lovely when you're 17 but when we get a bit older (and years of dyeing has made it slightly less luxurant and bouncy) we decide to keep it just below boob level. Don't worry, we're never going back to the Harry Potter haircut.
The whole reason I was single age 13-15.
Erm...Yeah, you stay single for quite a while actually, so I don't think we can put it all down to the bad hair
WHAT? I don't end up meeting a gorgeous guy on my first day at uni?
Oh, well, you do, but actually you wind up just seeing him as a friend after cleaning up his sick and stuff. Living with boys who are mates sort of makes you not fancy them. Also, after years in an all girl's school, you sort of have magical boy-repelling powers. You keep getting seen as 'the little sister' of the group and to be honest, you don't pick up on any of the hints boys give you anyway. You meet someone in your last year though and end up going out with them for 4 and a half years!
Oh phew. So I'm in a relationship and on my way to marriage and kids then?
Er, not exactly. In fact, we're sort of single again.
I'M SINGLE IN MY MID TWENTIES?! OH MY GOD I'M BRIDGET JONES
Please shut up.
I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE! THIS IS SO FAR FROM SHIBBY! I SHOULD HAVE MARRIED MY ONE BOY MATE!
Oh yeah, about that, he turns out to be gay
What?! But we kissed!
He wore women's jeans!
But he had a huge crush on me!
Later in life we now think he just admired your skinny androgyny and lack of boobs. It's not even the only time it happens to you. You have a bit of a penchant for picking vaguely feminine boys out and for a while, a lot of them end up coming out of the closet.
Oh for god's sake. Am I at least performing at The Old Vic? Or The National?
Not exactly. You've done some tv and film work though! And played Estella in Great Expectations in lots of fabulous theatres! You're actually vaguely successful at the acting lark at the moment (although far from famous or rich, more that you have pretty regular work albeit low paid) And you have boobs now!
I HAVE BOOBS?!?
I know! They finally come in during your first year of uni! No more chicken fillets and rolled up socks in the bra for you young lady! But also no more running without a bra. Because that gets old fast. Along with getting boobs you get asked to model for a group called Suicide Girls but you turn it down because you're worried how it may affect your career as an actor.
Wow. I must be really skinny!
Well. You were then. Not so much now. Now we grudgingly accept that curvy is good and the fat on our tummy is to keep our baby making bits safe.
Eurgh.
Well we can't afford to live off M&S sushi forever!
Do I at least live in a really cool part of London? In my own apartment? With a pet parakeet?
Well, you live in Southgate with one of your best friends from Uni who is now a director. No parakeets. We have a no 'Ash being Dr. Doolittle' rule. It's pretty awesome!
Southgate's gross!
Actually it's quite trendy now. Lots of funky little coffee shops and charity shops.
Fair enough. And I suppose we can go swimming every day.
Not really, we can't afford swimming every day.
We can't afford £2.50 every day?!
Oh, yeah, there's been a recession. Swimming is £7.50 now.
£7.50?!!! That's the same price as an entire outfit from Punky Fish!
Oh dear sweet fool. That's nothing, busses are now £2.10 for a single if you don't have an oyster
What do shellfish have to do with public transport?
Never mind...
How are mum and dad? And the little bro?
All good! Dad now part owns the company and Mum runs her own business! When you're not acting you work for her on the side. They still both look impossibly young and go off on holidays to exotic places. Little bro is now taller than us by a foot and goes to uni in Wales.
Wait...mum and dad go on holiday? WITHOUT US? Isn't that child abuse?!
No, given that NEITHER YOU OR LITTLE BRO ARE CHILDREN ANYMORE. (We are sad about it though and keep hoping they'll win the lottery and whisk us off to Disney again)
Weird to think of him being at uni. He's only 12! And really weedy.
Enjoy it while you can, he gets really strong and can pick you up now. And does if he's losing an argument. You get put outside the front door like the sabre tooth from the flintstones.
Does he ever admit to stealing my Tigger diary?
No! But we still suspect him. You actually get on way better now. He's calmed down a LOT and is very funny. It helps that you don't live with each other. You even miss him when he's away!
Ok, well I suppose that's ok. Right, I feel the tug of college and a night out at The Roxy. Do we still go clubbing every week?
God no! We're out so often networking, we far prefer a quiet bar or even better, our own sofa!
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo......(disappears into a vortex of time travel to leap into mini kilt and dance to Peaches and The Arctic Monkeys)
Hm. Not sure how delighted she was, but she's IMPOSSIBLE to please. Before I go Reader, a few friends of mine are trying to raise money for various projects, so please see below the blog and donate and share!
Tarrah!
Ash
x
A very talented theatre practitioner and actor friend of mine, Liz Williams is in the middle of a course to help bring theatre to the young. It's an amazing opportunity and Liz is extremely wonderful at everything she does, hardworking and fierce. If anyone deserves a helping hand, it's her! Donate or share her page here: http://www.gofundme.com/passionvspaycheck
The lovely James Card of Thorny Devil Productions is asking for contributions for their next short 'For My Next Trick'. Have worked with Thorny Devil in the past and they're a great team, who do fabulous work! They're also jolly nice people, so please give what you can, or just share if (like me) you're very very poor!
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1791500593/for-my-next-trick
By Aislinn De'Ath
Click on my face to link to my vlog!
Showing posts with label teenagers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teenagers. Show all posts
Monday, 4 November 2013
Friday, 20 May 2011
Old old old I'm so very very old
Reader, BLB (Bratty Little Brother for those new to the blog) is today 18 years of age. He has been wandering round the house in a state of what can only be described as shock. But I don't think he can be any more shocked than the rest of us!
You see folks, BLB has turned out rather well. He's about to sit his final exams at college (and great things have been predicted for his results), he's got offers from all of the uni's he applied to, he's got a girlfriend who is also in education and he's very polite to old people. He even washes occasionally. This is amazing. Why? Well, this was not a future we envisioned for 4 year old BLB.
4 year old BLT was a demonic hell child, made all the worse by the fact that he had the face of an angel, with his big blue eyes, white hair and rosy cheeks (complete with dimples Reader, DIMPLES!). You'd look at him and think 'Aww, what a sweet child!' He'd smile sweetly at you and you'd get tricked into approaching. Five minutes later, you'd be nursing a bleeding bitten hand, he'd have smashed some prized ornaments and be screeching on the floor, wiping his snotty nose on the carpet, his face roughly the colour of a slightly over-ripe tomato. And it probably all stemmed from you mentioning Marks and Spencers or Tesco. BLB was not a fan of large shops. Or indeed, any shops, apart from toy shops or the local newsagent where we used to spend our 50p a week pocket money on pick n mix. BLB did not like the world. He was quite convinced that the world, in fact, was out to get him, and it was as if he decided to get the world first. Nothing could please him *and oh god did we try*. We gave him a Nintendo. He got angry when he didn't understand the games at once and hurled the controller across the floor in a fit of fury. We took him to Disneyworld (every child's dream!) and he got an unexpected bout of homesickness and shouted every day 'I wanna go back to the house with the chimney!' He also hated every ride with the exception of the Star Wars one (no child was as obsessed with Star Wars than BLB and he made us go on it 3 times). He got frightened by Pluto and screamed at the poor man in the suit as if he was a demon sent from hell to reclaim him. He got given the lead role in his christmas nursery play but when it came time for him to go on stage screamed 'NOOOOOOO' and sulked behind the curtains.We got him a really cool space style bunk bed. He hated it and slept on the floor. BLB was, to put it mildly, a difficult child.
Saying that, it has made for some seriously hilarious memories, which tonight, when we go out for his birthday meal, I am in no doubt we will tell to one another and fall about in hysterics, as we always do on evenings out. And thank God, we can now, because he has gone from being the demon child from hell to a very fun to be around teenager, who's great at taking the piss out of himself and others, is very witty and political, polite to old people and charming to strangers and who lets his family tell all those awfully embarrassing stories without getting too huffy. Plus, he was actually quite cute as a kid, like the time in Disneyworld he got star struck by Mickey mouse and hugged his leg and wouldn't let go. And when he'd fall asleep with his plastic builder's belt on. Or maybe that's just the rose tinted spectacles of hindsight!
So on that note, I wish my BLB a happy 18th and say goodbye dear Reader
Till next time!
Ash
x
You see folks, BLB has turned out rather well. He's about to sit his final exams at college (and great things have been predicted for his results), he's got offers from all of the uni's he applied to, he's got a girlfriend who is also in education and he's very polite to old people. He even washes occasionally. This is amazing. Why? Well, this was not a future we envisioned for 4 year old BLB.
4 year old BLT was a demonic hell child, made all the worse by the fact that he had the face of an angel, with his big blue eyes, white hair and rosy cheeks (complete with dimples Reader, DIMPLES!). You'd look at him and think 'Aww, what a sweet child!' He'd smile sweetly at you and you'd get tricked into approaching. Five minutes later, you'd be nursing a bleeding bitten hand, he'd have smashed some prized ornaments and be screeching on the floor, wiping his snotty nose on the carpet, his face roughly the colour of a slightly over-ripe tomato. And it probably all stemmed from you mentioning Marks and Spencers or Tesco. BLB was not a fan of large shops. Or indeed, any shops, apart from toy shops or the local newsagent where we used to spend our 50p a week pocket money on pick n mix. BLB did not like the world. He was quite convinced that the world, in fact, was out to get him, and it was as if he decided to get the world first. Nothing could please him *and oh god did we try*. We gave him a Nintendo. He got angry when he didn't understand the games at once and hurled the controller across the floor in a fit of fury. We took him to Disneyworld (every child's dream!) and he got an unexpected bout of homesickness and shouted every day 'I wanna go back to the house with the chimney!' He also hated every ride with the exception of the Star Wars one (no child was as obsessed with Star Wars than BLB and he made us go on it 3 times). He got frightened by Pluto and screamed at the poor man in the suit as if he was a demon sent from hell to reclaim him. He got given the lead role in his christmas nursery play but when it came time for him to go on stage screamed 'NOOOOOOO' and sulked behind the curtains.We got him a really cool space style bunk bed. He hated it and slept on the floor. BLB was, to put it mildly, a difficult child.
Saying that, it has made for some seriously hilarious memories, which tonight, when we go out for his birthday meal, I am in no doubt we will tell to one another and fall about in hysterics, as we always do on evenings out. And thank God, we can now, because he has gone from being the demon child from hell to a very fun to be around teenager, who's great at taking the piss out of himself and others, is very witty and political, polite to old people and charming to strangers and who lets his family tell all those awfully embarrassing stories without getting too huffy. Plus, he was actually quite cute as a kid, like the time in Disneyworld he got star struck by Mickey mouse and hugged his leg and wouldn't let go. And when he'd fall asleep with his plastic builder's belt on. Or maybe that's just the rose tinted spectacles of hindsight!
So on that note, I wish my BLB a happy 18th and say goodbye dear Reader
Till next time!
Ash
x
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Fuckles for my feet
Reader, I have no fuckles.
No, I didn't know what they were either. Right, take your sock off, curl your toes. Now look beneath them, sort of just below where the toe meets the foot on the topside of the foot (not actually underneath your feet). Do you have a sort of knuckle? Well goody for you. That is a fuckle. A foot-knuckle.
Until I realised I don't have them, I didn't know everyone else did. I was made aware by The Lad who was talking about how beautiful his own feet are (they're not that amazing, he's just got a case of foot vanity) and comparing them to mine. He's quite proud of his feet and got a bit annoyed when I couldn't see what was so jaw-droppingly gorgeous about them, so pointed out that I have strange, vaguely webbed feet lacking in (you guessed it Reader) fuckles. Now, most of this is just plain cruelty and I imagine, a touch of hurt foot pride, on the Lad's front. But I am sorry to say that actually he is quite right. You see Reader, my feet are really very odd. I'm a bit of a flower child, and so walk around barefoot as much as I possibly can, therefore the soles of my feet aren't all lovely and soft and feminine like most girls (and The Lad's incidentally) but rather hard like good quality leather, and usually slightly green from grass stains. They're ridiculously smooth and flat (possibly one of the reasons why I got kicked out of ballet at the tender age of 5) and my index and middle toes on both feet are slightly (just a teeny weeny bit) webbed together, which I always thought was a bit sweet and mermaidy, but is apparently more monkey-alien. My index toes are also longer than my big toes and my toenails are inevitably coated in chipped mad nail polish colours.
Poor feet. Oh well, I like them! They're good feet. They may be clumsy and look like some kind of monkey/frog hybrid's feet, but they're mine and they work pretty well!
In other news reader, I am considering taking up Vlogging. Which for you non cool kids, means video blogging. It looks like fun, I am mainly considering it because I have seen some very amusing vlogs recently. However, the thought of myself on camera just being myself and not a character does not really appeal. And I can't edit for poop. Which is a shame really. Maybe I should get The Lad to train in the ways of filming and editing and he can be my one man slave-crew. I could pay him in pokemon cards!
What else has been going on? Hum....? Well I have a job interview tomorrow, so keep your fingers crossed for me! I may even tidy my room in the morning, just to make myself feel businessy and organised. Oooh, and my little brother turning 18 on friday! I can't believe it, he's so much younger than I was at that age. I used to go clubbing up London every week when I was 17, we used to photocopy our passports and then photoshop the bit with our dates of birth on. I'm not convinced he's ever actually been to a proper club...But then boys do mature 3 years later than girls. Plus, he's just got a proper girlfriend. Which, let's face it, I didn't achieve till quite a bit later. I would love to say that I was casting my wild oats, but I was busy making them into cookies and being scared of most boys till I went off to uni (and even then I was no great shakes at the dating game, for a very long time I persistently ignored the very nice single boys that got crushes on me, and instead followed with puppy like devotion the difficult, taken boys who'd pat me on the head like you would with a devoted toddler. Eventually I got a bit bored of being the only one not getting to have kisses in the student union and spending my evenings pining and jumped The Lad. Quite literally.)
Actually, I was awful at the brother's age with my love life. Mainly because back then I didn't know any boys. And when I went to uni, I did really cringe things like get drunk and be sick on their shoes if I liked them (as happened at one notorious house party. Then I sat in the mud and demanded that one of my friends sing to me. I am a fun drunk.). I was however, quite good at flirting. In fact, I had a bit of a reputation for it. Now I only get to use my skills if I'm trying to get a free drink from the bar staff on a night out or get into a pub in Camden on a friday night with no id (I look like a 17 year old). The Lad finds it quite amusing when I try to flirt with him, and he ends up winding me up. I usually end up sulking in these instances, and have to be coaxed into a better mood with small bits of chocolate and compliments.
Right, on that tangent, I'll be off to watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and eat toast in bed. Nom nom nom.
Night night Reader!
Ash
x
No, I didn't know what they were either. Right, take your sock off, curl your toes. Now look beneath them, sort of just below where the toe meets the foot on the topside of the foot (not actually underneath your feet). Do you have a sort of knuckle? Well goody for you. That is a fuckle. A foot-knuckle.
Until I realised I don't have them, I didn't know everyone else did. I was made aware by The Lad who was talking about how beautiful his own feet are (they're not that amazing, he's just got a case of foot vanity) and comparing them to mine. He's quite proud of his feet and got a bit annoyed when I couldn't see what was so jaw-droppingly gorgeous about them, so pointed out that I have strange, vaguely webbed feet lacking in (you guessed it Reader) fuckles. Now, most of this is just plain cruelty and I imagine, a touch of hurt foot pride, on the Lad's front. But I am sorry to say that actually he is quite right. You see Reader, my feet are really very odd. I'm a bit of a flower child, and so walk around barefoot as much as I possibly can, therefore the soles of my feet aren't all lovely and soft and feminine like most girls (and The Lad's incidentally) but rather hard like good quality leather, and usually slightly green from grass stains. They're ridiculously smooth and flat (possibly one of the reasons why I got kicked out of ballet at the tender age of 5) and my index and middle toes on both feet are slightly (just a teeny weeny bit) webbed together, which I always thought was a bit sweet and mermaidy, but is apparently more monkey-alien. My index toes are also longer than my big toes and my toenails are inevitably coated in chipped mad nail polish colours.
Poor feet. Oh well, I like them! They're good feet. They may be clumsy and look like some kind of monkey/frog hybrid's feet, but they're mine and they work pretty well!
In other news reader, I am considering taking up Vlogging. Which for you non cool kids, means video blogging. It looks like fun, I am mainly considering it because I have seen some very amusing vlogs recently. However, the thought of myself on camera just being myself and not a character does not really appeal. And I can't edit for poop. Which is a shame really. Maybe I should get The Lad to train in the ways of filming and editing and he can be my one man slave-crew. I could pay him in pokemon cards!
What else has been going on? Hum....? Well I have a job interview tomorrow, so keep your fingers crossed for me! I may even tidy my room in the morning, just to make myself feel businessy and organised. Oooh, and my little brother turning 18 on friday! I can't believe it, he's so much younger than I was at that age. I used to go clubbing up London every week when I was 17, we used to photocopy our passports and then photoshop the bit with our dates of birth on. I'm not convinced he's ever actually been to a proper club...But then boys do mature 3 years later than girls. Plus, he's just got a proper girlfriend. Which, let's face it, I didn't achieve till quite a bit later. I would love to say that I was casting my wild oats, but I was busy making them into cookies and being scared of most boys till I went off to uni (and even then I was no great shakes at the dating game, for a very long time I persistently ignored the very nice single boys that got crushes on me, and instead followed with puppy like devotion the difficult, taken boys who'd pat me on the head like you would with a devoted toddler. Eventually I got a bit bored of being the only one not getting to have kisses in the student union and spending my evenings pining and jumped The Lad. Quite literally.)
Actually, I was awful at the brother's age with my love life. Mainly because back then I didn't know any boys. And when I went to uni, I did really cringe things like get drunk and be sick on their shoes if I liked them (as happened at one notorious house party. Then I sat in the mud and demanded that one of my friends sing to me. I am a fun drunk.). I was however, quite good at flirting. In fact, I had a bit of a reputation for it. Now I only get to use my skills if I'm trying to get a free drink from the bar staff on a night out or get into a pub in Camden on a friday night with no id (I look like a 17 year old). The Lad finds it quite amusing when I try to flirt with him, and he ends up winding me up. I usually end up sulking in these instances, and have to be coaxed into a better mood with small bits of chocolate and compliments.
Right, on that tangent, I'll be off to watch an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and eat toast in bed. Nom nom nom.
Night night Reader!
Ash
x
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Crème egg omelette
Here's the thing Reader; Even though I have been with the boyfriend for two delightful years now, he is still not allowed to come to certain family events. There is quite a good reason for this. It is because he would definitely go off me and be so horrified that he might put me on some kind of black list. And most likely, dump me (only it would be less dumping, more never returning my calls ever again in the fear that somehow my craziness would turn from the family tradition kind to the chopping up boyfriends kind). And it's not just that, I might feel like I had to somehow reign myself in, and that just wouldn't be fun at all! Then I might feel disgruntled, and I'm actually quite concerned that a me without mental family events would be like Gordon Brown (who in my mind has defo never done Easter egg hunts and the like, hence why he's always so sad, like a big saggy dog who didn't get any of the Sunday roast).
For your reading pleasure, here are the things he has yet to come to;
1) EASTER SUNDAY
This year, the Lad is coming to the afternoon part of this, where we shall be having a jolly civilised tea at the English Grandparents' house. I might have a sore tummy by that point but I will probably appear quite sane. There will be practically no sign of that morning's carnage. What happens on Eater Sunday mornings is this. Me and BTB (Brat Teenage Brother) grab whatever excuse for a pair of pjs we can, a pair of our dad's shoes each (for some reason he is the only person whose shoes are ever available) and shuffle out into the back room. We're not allowed to face the window, because then we'd inevitably spot some of the eggs and that would be cheating, although BTB always tries (sneaky git). Then Mum and Dad open the door and we shove each other out of the way and the hunt begins. Dad by this point will have hidden a variety of eggs all over the place, and every year he gets sneakier. One year, he tricked us by just putting all the eggs in a black binliner on the decking and we assumed it was just a bag of rubbish, so were looking for a good hour before we found the chocolatey goodness. It used to be that I would get most of the eggs, I am the older child after all and BTB used to be about half my size, so I could reach the high hiding places that he couldn't. Now unfortunately he hulks over me by a good foot and is ridiculously strong. He is not above picking me up and putting me outside a room if I annoy him (this has happened before) so now I have to be extra sneaky at the Easter egg hunt. When we've found them all, we divvy them up (there's always a fight over the caramel and crunchy ones and no one ever wants the kit kat and yorkie eggs) then BTB hides all his in the freezer (he likes his so hard you might break your teeth on them), and I go up to my room and create a sort of Easter egg shrine. Inevitably, chocolate is chosen over breakfast. The festivities sometimes continue with a string of sneaky thefts and retaliations (i.e. BTB becomes convinced that I have stolen one of his eggs from the freezer, so he sneaks in and takes off the top egg from my pyramid, I find out and go and take his last crème egg and eventually it decends into all out chocolate war. Meanwhile the parents sit in utter glee that their crime hasn't been discovered, eating the original egg with relish). And the house exists in a hum of sugar high all day.
2) CHRISTMAS EVE AND MORNING
Possibly my family at its most excessive. On Christmas Eve I spend hours cooking the veggie tarts for the next day and prepping the carrots etc in between watching It's a wonderful life which it invariably isn't by that point because I'll be in a foul mood because mum will have been interfering in my cooking technique, BTB will be sulking because he wants to be upstairs on his playstation, the cat will have shat on the carpet as a crimble treat and the parents will be seriously considering throwing our pressies into the bin (a common catchphrase in our house at the festive time of year is 'I can hear another pressie falling off Santa's sleigh!') But it's still a very nice atmosphere. Next, we get mildly pissed (the parents on white wine, BTB on cider and me on amaretto) and hang up the stockings, pop the mince pie on a plate and the sherry in a glass by the fire, put a carrot in the garden for the reindeer and if anyone so much as suggests santa isn't real, they get a pillow thrown at their head. Then we all go to bed at about 2am and me and the brother try to listen to see exactly how heavy dad's tread is when he goes downstairs, as if that would tell us how many gifts he's carrying. Eventually we force ourselves to try and get some sleep. Invariably, I wake up at 7am and have to be the one the attempt to rouse BTB (I say attempt because he sleeps like a large log) then we both go join the parents in their room. They've usually been up since 5 and are on their 3rd cup of tea so complain about how long us kids took. Dad says something about how he heard a bit of noise in the night and how he hopes those naughty reindeer haven't trashed the garden again like last year. BTB rolls his eyes while Mum and I giggle excitedly. We all go down stairs in our dressing gowns (me-mad red patterned terrytoweling monstrosity that I suspect makes me look like my gran's carpet on a bad day, Dad-a very soft black one that usually has a bit of breakfast on it, Mum-a very elegant puce satin thing, very Bette Davis in All about Eve, BTB-a ratty old bit of cloth with no tie, meaning he just sort of clutches it around him like a dirty old man). We open the door to the living room and BTB and I yell 'SANTA'S BEEN!' then go sit next to our pressies while Dad makes the next batch of tea. Niall opens one of his first (being the youngest) then me, then back to him etc. Once our gift lust is sated, the parents open their presents from us (badly wrapped but painstakingly chosen from the lists they gave us) and there's generally a slight edge of competition there about who bought the best ones. Then they open their gifts to each other; VERY expensive, usually brought at Selfridges, Mum cries because Dad's so thoughtful and gets her stuff like new wedding rings, Dad gets very excited over fishing/scuba diving gear that none of the rest of us understand. We grab binliners and shove all of the rubbish into them and then descend on the breakfast table like ravenous beasts, made delirious by all the generosity.
3) FAMILY WEDDINGS
The Lad is actually coming to one of these next year (if my family hasn't scared him off by then). Here's the list of what he should expect, since it is the Irish side.
For your reading pleasure, here are the things he has yet to come to;
1) EASTER SUNDAY
This year, the Lad is coming to the afternoon part of this, where we shall be having a jolly civilised tea at the English Grandparents' house. I might have a sore tummy by that point but I will probably appear quite sane. There will be practically no sign of that morning's carnage. What happens on Eater Sunday mornings is this. Me and BTB (Brat Teenage Brother) grab whatever excuse for a pair of pjs we can, a pair of our dad's shoes each (for some reason he is the only person whose shoes are ever available) and shuffle out into the back room. We're not allowed to face the window, because then we'd inevitably spot some of the eggs and that would be cheating, although BTB always tries (sneaky git). Then Mum and Dad open the door and we shove each other out of the way and the hunt begins. Dad by this point will have hidden a variety of eggs all over the place, and every year he gets sneakier. One year, he tricked us by just putting all the eggs in a black binliner on the decking and we assumed it was just a bag of rubbish, so were looking for a good hour before we found the chocolatey goodness. It used to be that I would get most of the eggs, I am the older child after all and BTB used to be about half my size, so I could reach the high hiding places that he couldn't. Now unfortunately he hulks over me by a good foot and is ridiculously strong. He is not above picking me up and putting me outside a room if I annoy him (this has happened before) so now I have to be extra sneaky at the Easter egg hunt. When we've found them all, we divvy them up (there's always a fight over the caramel and crunchy ones and no one ever wants the kit kat and yorkie eggs) then BTB hides all his in the freezer (he likes his so hard you might break your teeth on them), and I go up to my room and create a sort of Easter egg shrine. Inevitably, chocolate is chosen over breakfast. The festivities sometimes continue with a string of sneaky thefts and retaliations (i.e. BTB becomes convinced that I have stolen one of his eggs from the freezer, so he sneaks in and takes off the top egg from my pyramid, I find out and go and take his last crème egg and eventually it decends into all out chocolate war. Meanwhile the parents sit in utter glee that their crime hasn't been discovered, eating the original egg with relish). And the house exists in a hum of sugar high all day.
2) CHRISTMAS EVE AND MORNING
Possibly my family at its most excessive. On Christmas Eve I spend hours cooking the veggie tarts for the next day and prepping the carrots etc in between watching It's a wonderful life which it invariably isn't by that point because I'll be in a foul mood because mum will have been interfering in my cooking technique, BTB will be sulking because he wants to be upstairs on his playstation, the cat will have shat on the carpet as a crimble treat and the parents will be seriously considering throwing our pressies into the bin (a common catchphrase in our house at the festive time of year is 'I can hear another pressie falling off Santa's sleigh!') But it's still a very nice atmosphere. Next, we get mildly pissed (the parents on white wine, BTB on cider and me on amaretto) and hang up the stockings, pop the mince pie on a plate and the sherry in a glass by the fire, put a carrot in the garden for the reindeer and if anyone so much as suggests santa isn't real, they get a pillow thrown at their head. Then we all go to bed at about 2am and me and the brother try to listen to see exactly how heavy dad's tread is when he goes downstairs, as if that would tell us how many gifts he's carrying. Eventually we force ourselves to try and get some sleep. Invariably, I wake up at 7am and have to be the one the attempt to rouse BTB (I say attempt because he sleeps like a large log) then we both go join the parents in their room. They've usually been up since 5 and are on their 3rd cup of tea so complain about how long us kids took. Dad says something about how he heard a bit of noise in the night and how he hopes those naughty reindeer haven't trashed the garden again like last year. BTB rolls his eyes while Mum and I giggle excitedly. We all go down stairs in our dressing gowns (me-mad red patterned terrytoweling monstrosity that I suspect makes me look like my gran's carpet on a bad day, Dad-a very soft black one that usually has a bit of breakfast on it, Mum-a very elegant puce satin thing, very Bette Davis in All about Eve, BTB-a ratty old bit of cloth with no tie, meaning he just sort of clutches it around him like a dirty old man). We open the door to the living room and BTB and I yell 'SANTA'S BEEN!' then go sit next to our pressies while Dad makes the next batch of tea. Niall opens one of his first (being the youngest) then me, then back to him etc. Once our gift lust is sated, the parents open their presents from us (badly wrapped but painstakingly chosen from the lists they gave us) and there's generally a slight edge of competition there about who bought the best ones. Then they open their gifts to each other; VERY expensive, usually brought at Selfridges, Mum cries because Dad's so thoughtful and gets her stuff like new wedding rings, Dad gets very excited over fishing/scuba diving gear that none of the rest of us understand. We grab binliners and shove all of the rubbish into them and then descend on the breakfast table like ravenous beasts, made delirious by all the generosity.
3) FAMILY WEDDINGS
The Lad is actually coming to one of these next year (if my family hasn't scared him off by then). Here's the list of what he should expect, since it is the Irish side.
- Tears, and lots of them.
- People I don't know the names of telling me how much like my Dad I look
- More food than you could shake a stick at (normally mainly meat, but thank god the couple are veggies so there will be something I can eat!)
- Alcohol. So much alcohol.
- Irish dancing (Shoe the Donkey is a particular family fave) which will end with someone spraining their ankle but being slightly too pissed to realise till the next day. This will probably be me.
- More booze.
- My Uncle Mike doing something Hilarious. At one wedding there was a Mexican band, so he gave out sombreros and spicy Pringles. BTB still has his somewhere.
- My younger cousins wanting to dance with me a lot.
- Hiding from younger cousins at the bar behind a glass of spiked lucozade.
- People telling us it will be us next, us hiding at the bar behind two glasses of spiked lucozade.
- Mum and I dancing around our handbags.
- Dad and Mum having a teenage smooch on the dancefloor, me going 'Awwww', BTB making vomit noises.
- Filthy jokes.
- The older generations talking about who they know who have died recently.
- More Booze.
- A very big hangover the next day.
My other side of the family haven't had any weddings that recently, but it's normally my 2nd and 3rd cousins in Kent. If we go to one there, he should expect:
- Flowery dresses and burton suits.
- A strong theme of pastel colours
- Meat heavy 3 course meals, or a buffet of various quiches and chicken nuggets
- Agadoo and the Music Man played by a DJ in a Hawaiian shirt on repeat. At some point in the evening there will also be that delightful 90s hit Who Let The Dogs Out.
- Gin and Tonics.
- Staying at The Walpole Bay hotel (Pure awesome living museum hotel, very underpriced, Tracey Emin goes there a lot)
- My parents having a smoochy dance to a Dirty Dancing/Titanic song.
- Uncle Eddie getting his Kit off to 'You sexy thing'
- People I'm quite sure I've never met telling me how much I look like my Dad.
- Not knowing the bride and groom's names (I have SO many cousins and I'm outrageously bad at staying in touch, but they all seem to know mine!).
- A swollen belly from too many cheese sarnies the next day.
Reader, I would carry on, but I can't reveal all my family traditions, as then the boyfriend would defo run for the hills screaming.
So for now, tarrah!
Ash
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