Phew, what happened to September? That's the trouble with my line of work, once the new term starts there's too much to do and not enough time to do it! Still, hopefully it will start to settle down now and I can have a bit of my life back.
Although it's been a bit quiet on the fifty firsts front, there are a few that I haven't blogged about yet and I've been planning some more things, so it's not all bad. Back in August I ventured into the bookies for the first time. Well technically I ventured in for the first and second time, because the first time there were no odds available for the match I wanted to place a bet on.
Visit number 1
Bookmakers are decidedly male domains, mainly populated by hardcore horse racing gamblers from what I could see as I went in the door. Not really sure what to do, I approached the solitary man behind the counter to explain my plight. He looked up and I spluttered out a few words about wanting to place a bet on the outcome of the Community Shield. When's that take place he asks. Next Sunday I think, a week tomorrow I reply, suddenly doubting my facts because I think it's safe to assume that his knowledge of sporting events is greater than mine, given that that's how he makes a living. Anyway, he looks it up on his computer and confirms that it is indeed the following weekend, but alas he has no odds available as yet and suggests I come back around the middle of the following week. I leave with mixed thoughts - wow, I just went into a bookies and survived; bugger I didn't get to place a bet and I've got to go back in there again. Now a lot of people might think I'm making a fuss about nothing and to be fair, it was the middle of the morning, so the place was hardly heaving, but I was the only one present with higher levels of oestrogen and progesterone than testosterone.
Visit number 2
One week on I retrace my steps, having had no time for a midweek trip. I have to say going in the second time was much easier. For starters I had the benefit of the previous week's reconnaissance trip, so the lay of the land was familiar and I made my way to the counter with ease. Once again it was not too busy, with just a few diehard punters. Once at the counter I explain that I wish to place a bet on Wigan to win the Community Shield but that I've never done this before so I have no idea what to do. There's no sign of recognition or remembrance of my previous visit, so I guess he gets a lot of women coming in to place bets on the outcome of said football match. Anyway, back to the action, if you can call it that! He passes me a betting slip and tells me to write on it what I've just told him, which I duly do, scrawling it across the middle of the page, adding the date of the match, how much I want to bet and the odds that he gives me: 7/2. As I hand it back I realise the page has a separate section for the odds and my stake at the bottom, but too late, it's changed hands. I hand over my £5 stake and get a copy of my betting slip in return. That's it, job done, I have just placed a bet! Ok, so £5 wasn't exactly going to make me a mint, but let's be honest the chances of Wigan beating Man United were slim to say the least, in fact I think the odds should have been way higher. United could probably beat Wigan from the dressing room to be fair! As I'm leaving he wishes me good luck with my bet and says the hatred of Man United has started earlier this year - is that why the odds are so short, has there been a rush of bets since the previous weekend? I reply that I have always hated Man United but that I fully expect them to win and I'm only betting against them on principle. He looks confused - well, I can see his point, most people don't go in for betting against the team, dog, horse, person they think will win, do they? I mean what kind of sense would that make!
Friday, 4 October 2013
Sunday, 25 August 2013
The Painted Lady
I've always hated tattoos. I've never really understood why people would want one, particularly women. I mean a dragon across your shoulders might be appealing to a rebellious, anti-establishment twenty year old trying to fit in with the rest of the uni crowd, but what about when you're in your thirties or forties, maybe with a partner who attends a lot of executive black tie events; surely your wardrobe will be limited on those occasions? I'm sure there are lots of people out there, who would be outraged if they were reading this and absolutely adamant that tattoos are just another way of expressing your personality and shouldn't stop you wearing whatever you want to, so sorry if I've annoyed you, it was just never for me. Hence why getting a tattoo had to go on the list!
At the beginning of August then I stepped into a tattoo parlour and took the plunge. Well, that wasn't quite all there was to it, I mean I'd done my research first. Thanks to the wonders of the internet I'd discovered that the nearest establishment to where I live had received mixed reviews, with some people saying they were very happy with the service and others saying their tattoos had faded almost immediately. I then looked slightly further afield and checked out two tattoo parlours in the town centre. One was near to where I work and I regularly pass it. The window is not particularly inviting to a middle aged woman, being full of pictures of tattoos with snakes and skulls. Their website didn't increase their appeal as far as I was concerned; I'm sure the tattoo artists were lovely people, but they were all men and all painted from head to toe with similar images to those in the window. The other option was a smaller shop in the oldest part of the town, but checking their Facebook page revealed that the ex-boyfriend of one of my daughters was one of the tattooists. Now don't get me wrong, he was a lovely chap, but I didn't really fancy sharing the site of my proposed tattoo with him or his colleagues. I then looked at other towns in the area and settled on a place in Canterbury. It had good reviews, looked clean and hygienic from the pictures on the website and had a female tattooist.
So back to the start of the month. I nearly chickened out, but I plucked up the courage and entered the premises. The tattooist worked within a beauty salon, where there were various treatments on offer. It was clean and in an upmarket area of the city. The receptionist was very friendly and introduced the tattooist, who was also polite and friendly and immediately put me at my ease. This was where it got interesting, as I explained what I wanted - a two digit number tattooed on my ass, and we're not talking donkey here! She looked a bit unsure at first as she asked what two digit number I wanted. Actually it's just occurred to me what number she might have thought I meant, which would account for the look on her face! Anyway I said it was either 15 or 16, but I wasn't sure. The poor girl's confusion multiplied so I decided to explain about the whole fifty firsts idea and that getting the tattoo was either the fifteenth or sixteenth thing I'd done. Relief flooded over her as she realised it wasn't quite as weird a request as she had obviously initially thought. My youngest daughter, who was with me, and I did a quick count up and decided it would be the fifteenth thing on the list and so the number was chosen. We had a quick discussion about the size and position of the tattoo and the type of font required and then I filled in the consent forms while she got ready for me, because as luck would have it she had an appointment available there and then.
Just before going through to get my tattoo done, the tattooist asked me if I'd like a screen round me. At this point my naivety sprang to the fore - she did her tattooing in a separate room off the reception area, so what would I need a screen for? No, don't worry I say, I've had three children - you lose all your dignity when you're giving birth, so this'll be fine. When I got into the actual room where the tattooing takes place, she introduced me to her partner in crime, a young guy in his early twenties. Aah, now I know why she asked about the screen! Still it was too late for that, so I hitched up my dress, revealed my right buttock and pointed to roughly where I wanted the tattoo, just below the top of my knicker line. She put a sort of transfer onto my skin and then invited me to check the position in front of the mirror. We negotiated moving it down slightly and then it was time to sit on her couch with my ass exposed ready for tattooing. Oh you're thinking, it wasn't so bad then. Well I should point out that throughout this the young guy is talking to me about my tattoo and why I'm having it done. The whole tattoo process was surreal from start to finish: there I am sitting with my buttocks on show whilst someone puts a needle into my skin and then inks over the raw flesh (or something like that - you'll appreciate I couldn't actually see what was happening) whilst the three of us have a perfectly normal conversation about my fifty firsts and my daughter photographs the whole thing to put on Facebook and Twitter. The tattooist explained to her partner why I was having a tattoo and then they wanted to know what I'd done and what I was planning to do. Neither of them fancied skydiving and the young guy suggested stealing a Starbucks mug ought to go on my list; I'll have to think about that. I got the distinct impression that they would spend the rest of the day, if not the week telling their clients about this woman who had 15 tattooed on her bum because it was the fifteenth out of fifty things she was planning to do for the first time to mark her fiftieth birthday.
Anyway, back to the actual tattoo. It took about ten minutes to do and wasn't particularly painful. When it was done it was covered with a piece of clingfilm taped to my skin, which I had to leave on for about 5 hours. I got given after care instructions, which basically involved washing the tattoo fairly vigorously for two minutes three times a day and then applying a particular brand of nappy rash cream. I had to follow this until the skin either scabbed over or peeled like sunburn, which got me a bit worried, as I didn't have any scabbing and it took five days for the skin to peel. I have had no after effects to report. It has healed beautifully and quite quickly and there is no sign of any fading or patchiness of the colour, which was just black, for the record.
I just look like a cow that has been branded! But still, it makes for an interesting story ... now tell me, why do you have the number 15 tattooed on your ass?
At the beginning of August then I stepped into a tattoo parlour and took the plunge. Well, that wasn't quite all there was to it, I mean I'd done my research first. Thanks to the wonders of the internet I'd discovered that the nearest establishment to where I live had received mixed reviews, with some people saying they were very happy with the service and others saying their tattoos had faded almost immediately. I then looked slightly further afield and checked out two tattoo parlours in the town centre. One was near to where I work and I regularly pass it. The window is not particularly inviting to a middle aged woman, being full of pictures of tattoos with snakes and skulls. Their website didn't increase their appeal as far as I was concerned; I'm sure the tattoo artists were lovely people, but they were all men and all painted from head to toe with similar images to those in the window. The other option was a smaller shop in the oldest part of the town, but checking their Facebook page revealed that the ex-boyfriend of one of my daughters was one of the tattooists. Now don't get me wrong, he was a lovely chap, but I didn't really fancy sharing the site of my proposed tattoo with him or his colleagues. I then looked at other towns in the area and settled on a place in Canterbury. It had good reviews, looked clean and hygienic from the pictures on the website and had a female tattooist.
So back to the start of the month. I nearly chickened out, but I plucked up the courage and entered the premises. The tattooist worked within a beauty salon, where there were various treatments on offer. It was clean and in an upmarket area of the city. The receptionist was very friendly and introduced the tattooist, who was also polite and friendly and immediately put me at my ease. This was where it got interesting, as I explained what I wanted - a two digit number tattooed on my ass, and we're not talking donkey here! She looked a bit unsure at first as she asked what two digit number I wanted. Actually it's just occurred to me what number she might have thought I meant, which would account for the look on her face! Anyway I said it was either 15 or 16, but I wasn't sure. The poor girl's confusion multiplied so I decided to explain about the whole fifty firsts idea and that getting the tattoo was either the fifteenth or sixteenth thing I'd done. Relief flooded over her as she realised it wasn't quite as weird a request as she had obviously initially thought. My youngest daughter, who was with me, and I did a quick count up and decided it would be the fifteenth thing on the list and so the number was chosen. We had a quick discussion about the size and position of the tattoo and the type of font required and then I filled in the consent forms while she got ready for me, because as luck would have it she had an appointment available there and then.
Just before going through to get my tattoo done, the tattooist asked me if I'd like a screen round me. At this point my naivety sprang to the fore - she did her tattooing in a separate room off the reception area, so what would I need a screen for? No, don't worry I say, I've had three children - you lose all your dignity when you're giving birth, so this'll be fine. When I got into the actual room where the tattooing takes place, she introduced me to her partner in crime, a young guy in his early twenties. Aah, now I know why she asked about the screen! Still it was too late for that, so I hitched up my dress, revealed my right buttock and pointed to roughly where I wanted the tattoo, just below the top of my knicker line. She put a sort of transfer onto my skin and then invited me to check the position in front of the mirror. We negotiated moving it down slightly and then it was time to sit on her couch with my ass exposed ready for tattooing. Oh you're thinking, it wasn't so bad then. Well I should point out that throughout this the young guy is talking to me about my tattoo and why I'm having it done. The whole tattoo process was surreal from start to finish: there I am sitting with my buttocks on show whilst someone puts a needle into my skin and then inks over the raw flesh (or something like that - you'll appreciate I couldn't actually see what was happening) whilst the three of us have a perfectly normal conversation about my fifty firsts and my daughter photographs the whole thing to put on Facebook and Twitter. The tattooist explained to her partner why I was having a tattoo and then they wanted to know what I'd done and what I was planning to do. Neither of them fancied skydiving and the young guy suggested stealing a Starbucks mug ought to go on my list; I'll have to think about that. I got the distinct impression that they would spend the rest of the day, if not the week telling their clients about this woman who had 15 tattooed on her bum because it was the fifteenth out of fifty things she was planning to do for the first time to mark her fiftieth birthday.
Anyway, back to the actual tattoo. It took about ten minutes to do and wasn't particularly painful. When it was done it was covered with a piece of clingfilm taped to my skin, which I had to leave on for about 5 hours. I got given after care instructions, which basically involved washing the tattoo fairly vigorously for two minutes three times a day and then applying a particular brand of nappy rash cream. I had to follow this until the skin either scabbed over or peeled like sunburn, which got me a bit worried, as I didn't have any scabbing and it took five days for the skin to peel. I have had no after effects to report. It has healed beautifully and quite quickly and there is no sign of any fading or patchiness of the colour, which was just black, for the record.
I just look like a cow that has been branded! But still, it makes for an interesting story ... now tell me, why do you have the number 15 tattooed on your ass?
Wednesday, 14 August 2013
Fancy a date?
You may remember that a couple of weeks ago I said I had another fifty first to update you on. On the other hand if this is the first of my blogs that you've read, you won't remember that at all, so if that's you, then just go with the flow and you could always try reading this post again in a couple of days or weeks time, when hopefully you will remember. Of course that all depends on how long ago you read this for the first time and how good, or bad, your memory is. Anyway, to get back to the point, about a month ago I signed up to an internet dating site, well two actually, but I'm jumping the gun, we'll get to that.
Now I know internet dating has been around for a while and loads of people do it, but in all honesty, I wasn't that keen. I'd thought about it for quite a few years, but never wanted to give it a go and actually, if I'm honest, a big part of me still doesn't. There's just something a bit weird about it, you know getting to know someone via messages. Anyone could say anything at all and it's hard enough to spot the genuine ones when you're conversing face to face. Then there's the photos, how do you know it wasn't taken ten years ago, or that it's actually them in the first place? Now you're probably thinking I'm way too cynical for my own good and you'd be right, but I still think I've got a point! But quite a few of my fifty firsts have involved stepping outside my comfort zone, so that seemed as good a reason as any to give it a go. Plus, you never know, maybe the cynicism will abate due to meeting the love of my life and in any case I've got to have done fifty things for the first time by April 6th 2014, so I can't afford to miss any opportunities.
First of all I tried Match.com, as a friend recommended it and yes, as their advertising says it was free and easy to set up my profile. A lot of it just involved choosing from the options available, you know for describing my personality traits and what I was looking for in a man. All well and good, but I only completed 40% of the profile, intending to go back and complete the headline, description and the rest of it the following day, having given a bit of thought as to what I wanted to say. I also didn't get round to uploading a photo, but had ticked the box to say I was only interested in hearing from men who had a photo on their account - talk about double standards, but I did intend to go back and do my photo the next day, honest! So the following evening I logged on and checked my emails before getting on to anything else and was somewhat stunned to discover that I had been checked out by several men and my profile was proving so popular that Match.com had decided not send any more individual emails telling me that a man aged whatever had viewed my profile. But here was where it got even more interesting. Now you can call me naive, and I'm happy to admit that I can be at times, but I was quite taken aback to discover that this free service required me to pay a monthly subscription for the privilege of seeing who had looked at my unfinished profile. This was where the cynic in me rose to the surface, because I began getting messages to say that someone had added me to their favourites - this has happened eight times in the last month! Really? Without a photo to look at, eight men have decided I'm their favourite? I'm not that naive! Next I got an email to say that someone had winked at me, but again I had to sign up for a monthly subscription to be able to find out who it was. And they winked at me without seeing a photograph? Blind or desperate springs to mind!! Or it's all a con to get money out of people and yes, I did watch the edition of Panorama on this subject. Suffice it to say I have not and will not sign up - if I had the disposable income I'd rather spend the £29 per month subscription propping up a bar somewhere in the hopes of meeting someone I could talk to face to face. The daily emails have continued to arrive; today for the first time there were slightly fewer men checking out my profile, but I wonder how long the 'interest' will last if there is no sign of my debit card appearing. As a short aside, whilst writing this blog I checked my account at Match.com to check the stats were correct and in that twenty minutes or so two people have viwed my profile and aother person has winked at me without seeing what I look like.
Undeterred I enlisted the help of Mr Google in finding a site that was both free and could be accessed via the community wifi I use. Interestingly, the Daily Telegraph's online dating service is blacklisted due to being porn. I wonder if they know and how they feel about that? I came up with Completely Free Dating, which is as it says, completely free. There are of course downsides. The website covers its costs and presumably makes a profit through the use of advertising, so there are adverts for other dating sites, hotels, etc all over the place, which is a little off putting, but bearable. The other main problem is that there seems to be an infinitesimal amount of men (and quite probably women, but I haven't looked in that direction) who are obviously only there for cheap thrills. Some are quite blatant about looking for no strings attached sex and I suppose, in a way, all credit to them for being open and honest about what they're after - at least they're not going to be leading someone on. Since July 14th I have had 17 messages, with 5 men sending me more than one message. Some have had no picture - that discounts them. Some have written in text speak - that discounts them, as it's something I find particularly irritating. There have been a couple of genuine ones, but their profiles and photos didn't make me want reply in any way other than thanks but no thanks. There have been several from much younger men clearly after the older woman fantasy; not even thanks, just no thanks, particularly when they refer to cougars; I've nothing against being involved with a younger man, but I can't be the only mature woman who finds that terminology insulting, can I? I suppose it could be construed as flattering in a way (the concept, not the terminology), but I'm a real person and not just here to be a tick on someone else's list. And yes, I know that's a bit cheap considering that internet dating was a tick on my list in the first place, but that doesn't mean I'd chat to anyone or everyone whether I was interested or not. The last thing I'd want to do is lead anyone on or use them to my gain and I'd be mortified if I thought anyone would think that of me. There have been a couple that I've replied to, one particularly seemed quite promising - a very comprehensive profile, written in full English sentences with accurate spelling and grammar, a wide range of interests, many of which are similar to mine, lives locally and he seemed genuinely interested in my profile. I suppose I ought to confirm at this point that it is a complete profile, with a headline and description, that I have tweaked a few times until I was happy with it. I also uploaded not just one but two photos - one from my eldest daughter's hen night, complete with devil horns and drinking through a willy straw and one from her wedding, where I look much more refined.
Well, he was keen for us to chat and hoped to hear from me, so I replied last night, virtually straight away, but have had no further response from him, although he has viewed my profile again today. Perhaps he's just a bit busy or maybe it was something I said ... I'll just have to wait and see I guess. So, final thoughts on internet dating? Someone else has just winked at me according to Match.con!
Now I know internet dating has been around for a while and loads of people do it, but in all honesty, I wasn't that keen. I'd thought about it for quite a few years, but never wanted to give it a go and actually, if I'm honest, a big part of me still doesn't. There's just something a bit weird about it, you know getting to know someone via messages. Anyone could say anything at all and it's hard enough to spot the genuine ones when you're conversing face to face. Then there's the photos, how do you know it wasn't taken ten years ago, or that it's actually them in the first place? Now you're probably thinking I'm way too cynical for my own good and you'd be right, but I still think I've got a point! But quite a few of my fifty firsts have involved stepping outside my comfort zone, so that seemed as good a reason as any to give it a go. Plus, you never know, maybe the cynicism will abate due to meeting the love of my life and in any case I've got to have done fifty things for the first time by April 6th 2014, so I can't afford to miss any opportunities.
First of all I tried Match.com, as a friend recommended it and yes, as their advertising says it was free and easy to set up my profile. A lot of it just involved choosing from the options available, you know for describing my personality traits and what I was looking for in a man. All well and good, but I only completed 40% of the profile, intending to go back and complete the headline, description and the rest of it the following day, having given a bit of thought as to what I wanted to say. I also didn't get round to uploading a photo, but had ticked the box to say I was only interested in hearing from men who had a photo on their account - talk about double standards, but I did intend to go back and do my photo the next day, honest! So the following evening I logged on and checked my emails before getting on to anything else and was somewhat stunned to discover that I had been checked out by several men and my profile was proving so popular that Match.com had decided not send any more individual emails telling me that a man aged whatever had viewed my profile. But here was where it got even more interesting. Now you can call me naive, and I'm happy to admit that I can be at times, but I was quite taken aback to discover that this free service required me to pay a monthly subscription for the privilege of seeing who had looked at my unfinished profile. This was where the cynic in me rose to the surface, because I began getting messages to say that someone had added me to their favourites - this has happened eight times in the last month! Really? Without a photo to look at, eight men have decided I'm their favourite? I'm not that naive! Next I got an email to say that someone had winked at me, but again I had to sign up for a monthly subscription to be able to find out who it was. And they winked at me without seeing a photograph? Blind or desperate springs to mind!! Or it's all a con to get money out of people and yes, I did watch the edition of Panorama on this subject. Suffice it to say I have not and will not sign up - if I had the disposable income I'd rather spend the £29 per month subscription propping up a bar somewhere in the hopes of meeting someone I could talk to face to face. The daily emails have continued to arrive; today for the first time there were slightly fewer men checking out my profile, but I wonder how long the 'interest' will last if there is no sign of my debit card appearing. As a short aside, whilst writing this blog I checked my account at Match.com to check the stats were correct and in that twenty minutes or so two people have viwed my profile and aother person has winked at me without seeing what I look like.
Undeterred I enlisted the help of Mr Google in finding a site that was both free and could be accessed via the community wifi I use. Interestingly, the Daily Telegraph's online dating service is blacklisted due to being porn. I wonder if they know and how they feel about that? I came up with Completely Free Dating, which is as it says, completely free. There are of course downsides. The website covers its costs and presumably makes a profit through the use of advertising, so there are adverts for other dating sites, hotels, etc all over the place, which is a little off putting, but bearable. The other main problem is that there seems to be an infinitesimal amount of men (and quite probably women, but I haven't looked in that direction) who are obviously only there for cheap thrills. Some are quite blatant about looking for no strings attached sex and I suppose, in a way, all credit to them for being open and honest about what they're after - at least they're not going to be leading someone on. Since July 14th I have had 17 messages, with 5 men sending me more than one message. Some have had no picture - that discounts them. Some have written in text speak - that discounts them, as it's something I find particularly irritating. There have been a couple of genuine ones, but their profiles and photos didn't make me want reply in any way other than thanks but no thanks. There have been several from much younger men clearly after the older woman fantasy; not even thanks, just no thanks, particularly when they refer to cougars; I've nothing against being involved with a younger man, but I can't be the only mature woman who finds that terminology insulting, can I? I suppose it could be construed as flattering in a way (the concept, not the terminology), but I'm a real person and not just here to be a tick on someone else's list. And yes, I know that's a bit cheap considering that internet dating was a tick on my list in the first place, but that doesn't mean I'd chat to anyone or everyone whether I was interested or not. The last thing I'd want to do is lead anyone on or use them to my gain and I'd be mortified if I thought anyone would think that of me. There have been a couple that I've replied to, one particularly seemed quite promising - a very comprehensive profile, written in full English sentences with accurate spelling and grammar, a wide range of interests, many of which are similar to mine, lives locally and he seemed genuinely interested in my profile. I suppose I ought to confirm at this point that it is a complete profile, with a headline and description, that I have tweaked a few times until I was happy with it. I also uploaded not just one but two photos - one from my eldest daughter's hen night, complete with devil horns and drinking through a willy straw and one from her wedding, where I look much more refined.
Well, he was keen for us to chat and hoped to hear from me, so I replied last night, virtually straight away, but have had no further response from him, although he has viewed my profile again today. Perhaps he's just a bit busy or maybe it was something I said ... I'll just have to wait and see I guess. So, final thoughts on internet dating? Someone else has just winked at me according to Match.con!
Thursday, 8 August 2013
You Tarzan, me Alison
Having coped with skydiving at 12,000 feet, last weekend I ventured off the ground again to have a go at Go Ape. For the uninitiated amongst you, this involves being up to 12 metres off the ground and completing what can only be described as an aerial assault course. Bizarrely, despite not being anywhere near the heights involved in jumping out of an aeroplane, this was way more scary. There were seven of us in our group in total and the first task was to read the instructions/disclaimer reminding us that we were about to take part in a high risk activity, which could result in serious injury or death if we didn't follow the safety advice we were given. A small part of the course was visible through the trees and we watched other groups being put through their paces whilst we waited.
Once our appointed time slot arrived we went into section 1 - the training zone, where we were kitted up with harnesses and talked through the safety rules. Having been told and shown how to attach ourselves to various tree trunks and cables we then got to practice. Initially this was at ground level and then a few feet off the ground, clipping first the blue D ring onto the cable, then the red D ring and walking around the tree. Then it was hook the pulley over the cable, unhook the blue D ring and put it through the bottom of the pulley and then unhook the red D ring and hook that on to the cable behind the pulley before setting off to move across to the next tree, where the process of unhooking and hooking up again began once more. We also practised attaching ourselves to ropes alongside either wooden or rope ladders, using the same system as before and also by attaching a clip to a green D ring on the belt of the safety harness. Finally we practised on a short zip wire, using the pulley system, which barely gave us time to get down before we hit the ground. Training complete, we were issued with a code to get into each section of the course, five of them in total, and set free to complete the course on our own.
Each section ended with a zip wire. They were awesome! I'd like to say that I finished each one on my feet, but I can't. The truth is you swing around so much that it's difficult to control which way you're facing and I completed all of them on my back on the ground in the bark covered landing zone. Inevitably I ended up a little dirtier than when I started and with some extra cargo in my jeans, with pockets full of bark, which also somehow managed to get into other more intimate places than my pockets! So the zip wires were the best bits, it was just the obstacles that came before them that I found more daunting. Each section started out with a rope ladder climb - that too was fine, however once up off the ground, getting to the coming down part was incredibly challenging and all the way round I kept saying to myself 'I don't think I can do this!' - luckily I was wrong.
There were a couple of Tarzan swings into cargo nets, which were definitely the worst thing to do. I did the first one, but the second one, on the last section of the course, was much higher off the ground and included a much bigger net. The cargo nets were probably the worst part, so I'm afraid I opted out of the second one, as there was an alternative route to take for a slightly easier option. There were also several variations of logs and planks to walk across, some attached together and some swinging freely above the forest floor. Most of these weren't too bad, although it has to be said that for someone of petite stature, it was sometimes difficult to manage the distance between either wood to stand on or ropes to hang on to. I'm proud to say however, that despite being terrified for most of the time, I did not do a Helen Flannagan - there were no tears whatsoever. Obviously there were some slight differences in the proceedings - I had chosen to do this, I knew when it was going to happen and I wasn't so high off the ground. What I did have, however, were some lovely bruises on my upper arms, where I had been using them to 'grip' the plastic covered steel cables that were available to hold on to for some of the challenges.
At the end, there were certificates all round and I could quite cheerfully have gone back and done it all again! I daresay I would have been equally terrified a second time, but I'd have known I could do it. I definitely felt a sense of achievement, but I'll have to wait and see if I've managed to cure my irrational fear of heights. Apparently you can climb over the top of the O2 in London, so I'm hoping to get that done later in the year and then we'll see whether I'm still just as scared!
Once our appointed time slot arrived we went into section 1 - the training zone, where we were kitted up with harnesses and talked through the safety rules. Having been told and shown how to attach ourselves to various tree trunks and cables we then got to practice. Initially this was at ground level and then a few feet off the ground, clipping first the blue D ring onto the cable, then the red D ring and walking around the tree. Then it was hook the pulley over the cable, unhook the blue D ring and put it through the bottom of the pulley and then unhook the red D ring and hook that on to the cable behind the pulley before setting off to move across to the next tree, where the process of unhooking and hooking up again began once more. We also practised attaching ourselves to ropes alongside either wooden or rope ladders, using the same system as before and also by attaching a clip to a green D ring on the belt of the safety harness. Finally we practised on a short zip wire, using the pulley system, which barely gave us time to get down before we hit the ground. Training complete, we were issued with a code to get into each section of the course, five of them in total, and set free to complete the course on our own.
Each section ended with a zip wire. They were awesome! I'd like to say that I finished each one on my feet, but I can't. The truth is you swing around so much that it's difficult to control which way you're facing and I completed all of them on my back on the ground in the bark covered landing zone. Inevitably I ended up a little dirtier than when I started and with some extra cargo in my jeans, with pockets full of bark, which also somehow managed to get into other more intimate places than my pockets! So the zip wires were the best bits, it was just the obstacles that came before them that I found more daunting. Each section started out with a rope ladder climb - that too was fine, however once up off the ground, getting to the coming down part was incredibly challenging and all the way round I kept saying to myself 'I don't think I can do this!' - luckily I was wrong.
There were a couple of Tarzan swings into cargo nets, which were definitely the worst thing to do. I did the first one, but the second one, on the last section of the course, was much higher off the ground and included a much bigger net. The cargo nets were probably the worst part, so I'm afraid I opted out of the second one, as there was an alternative route to take for a slightly easier option. There were also several variations of logs and planks to walk across, some attached together and some swinging freely above the forest floor. Most of these weren't too bad, although it has to be said that for someone of petite stature, it was sometimes difficult to manage the distance between either wood to stand on or ropes to hang on to. I'm proud to say however, that despite being terrified for most of the time, I did not do a Helen Flannagan - there were no tears whatsoever. Obviously there were some slight differences in the proceedings - I had chosen to do this, I knew when it was going to happen and I wasn't so high off the ground. What I did have, however, were some lovely bruises on my upper arms, where I had been using them to 'grip' the plastic covered steel cables that were available to hold on to for some of the challenges.
At the end, there were certificates all round and I could quite cheerfully have gone back and done it all again! I daresay I would have been equally terrified a second time, but I'd have known I could do it. I definitely felt a sense of achievement, but I'll have to wait and see if I've managed to cure my irrational fear of heights. Apparently you can climb over the top of the O2 in London, so I'm hoping to get that done later in the year and then we'll see whether I'm still just as scared!
Friday, 2 August 2013
Indiana Forsyth and the Ditch of Lyminge
This week I joined the Lyminge Archaeological Project (@lymingedig) for a spot of archaeological digging in Lyminge, Kent. On Wednesday morning I spent two hours having an induction and finding out why there was a dig in Lyminge, where the dig was, what they hoped to find and how to get involved. There was a site tour, which basically involved looking at different coloured patches of mud, which signified post holes, pits, ditches, walls or sunken feature buildings, depending on their size, shape, position or colour. The project is investigating an Anglo-Saxon settlement in the village in the sixth to seventh centuries (approximately). Hope I've remembered the date correctly!
On Thursday morning, which was a lovely, hot, sunny morning, I donned my shorts, T-shirt and walking boots, packed my lunch and set off for the dig site with my youngest daughter, who has been volunteering there for the last two weeks, as part of her degree studies. The project is run by the University of Reading's archaeology department, which is where my daughter is studying, in conjunction with local organisations here in Kent. Initially we listened to a finds talk and had a look at some of the small finds that had been unearthed so far, including a copper pin and some small fragments of glass. My daughter had been excavating a small pit, so she carried on with that, whilst I got to dig out a section of ditch with another volunteer for company. It wasn't nearly so glamourous as the movies would have you believe, but an incredibly enjoyable experience. I borrowed my daughter's trowel, as she had progressed onto drawing a sketch of her pit, photographing it and completing various records of finds and the context - all very complicated! Along with the trowel I had a bucket, a shovel and a piece of foam to kneel on. Sun cream applied profusely and water bottle at the ready I spent several glorious hours sitting or kneeling next to a hole that got progressively deeper, perfecting my tan and making a small contribution towards uncovering history.
Of course the fairy tale would have me discovering something rare and truly amazing buried in the ground, but that particular version hadn't been written. However, that's not to say I didn't find anything, just nothing particularly special. I dug up quite a lot of shells, some were fragments and some whole, some were tiny, whilst others much larger and clearly snail shells. Not modern day snail shells, these were about a foot down from the surface, so clearly the remains of someone's past repast. Alongside the shells, was plenty of flint, which wasn't so interesting to the team. All of our 'finds' went in a finds tray, which had a context number that matched the context label for our section of ditch. Some of the pieces of flint looked as though they had been cut, so they went in the finds tray with the shells. I also found some bones; the first one was like a miniature humerus, about 3 cm long and very thin, a bit like a tiny version of your average stereotypical bone from a cartoon, but definitely mammalian. After that I found a few fragments of bone and then a larger piece, which could have been part of a pelvis or vertebra, and once again mammalian. I found a couple of pieces of what could have been pottery, although I wasn't too sure, and there was lots of slag - the solid, black stone like residue left over from working with molten iron, which is a clear indication of the existence of metal working within the settlement. Some of the other finds on site yesterday included the skeletons of two cows in another section of the same ditch that I was excavating, which created quite a buzz amongst students, volunteers and archaeologists alike.
There were regular breaks to sit in the sun or rest in the somewhat limited shade available - tea breaks in the morning and afternoon and a lunch break too, all of which were timed so that you never worked for more than 2 hours without resting and stocking up on food and water. I learned loads - how to carefully scrape away the soil without damaging the finds, the importance of keeping a neat edge to whatever you were digging, how to record the dig in terms of context, soil type, finds, etc and how to photograph a particular excavation correctly. I also learned that it's monotonous, back-breaking work at times, which doesn't detract from the enjoyment at all, but to say I was shattered by the end of the day would be an understatement!
I can't begin to explain how thrilled I am to have taken part in this project, albeit only a small part. It really was something completely different for me to do and gave a real insight into the amount of hard work that goes into a dig of this nature, and Lyminge is a relatively small one. In the evening I did my usual Facebook and Twitter posts to update my Fifty Firsts progress and I took the opportunity to thank the team via their Facebook page and Twitter account for the opportunity to complete another first. I got a huge lift today to discover they had both retweeted me and sent a reply, which gave me another first: my first retweet and my first reply on Twitter.
All in all an excellent day in Lyminge - enjoying the sun, plenty of time to let your mind wander and forget the stresses of everyday life, burning some calories when digging, learning new skills and new knowledge and meeting new people. If you ever got the chance to do something similar, I would heartily recommend it.
On Thursday morning, which was a lovely, hot, sunny morning, I donned my shorts, T-shirt and walking boots, packed my lunch and set off for the dig site with my youngest daughter, who has been volunteering there for the last two weeks, as part of her degree studies. The project is run by the University of Reading's archaeology department, which is where my daughter is studying, in conjunction with local organisations here in Kent. Initially we listened to a finds talk and had a look at some of the small finds that had been unearthed so far, including a copper pin and some small fragments of glass. My daughter had been excavating a small pit, so she carried on with that, whilst I got to dig out a section of ditch with another volunteer for company. It wasn't nearly so glamourous as the movies would have you believe, but an incredibly enjoyable experience. I borrowed my daughter's trowel, as she had progressed onto drawing a sketch of her pit, photographing it and completing various records of finds and the context - all very complicated! Along with the trowel I had a bucket, a shovel and a piece of foam to kneel on. Sun cream applied profusely and water bottle at the ready I spent several glorious hours sitting or kneeling next to a hole that got progressively deeper, perfecting my tan and making a small contribution towards uncovering history.
Of course the fairy tale would have me discovering something rare and truly amazing buried in the ground, but that particular version hadn't been written. However, that's not to say I didn't find anything, just nothing particularly special. I dug up quite a lot of shells, some were fragments and some whole, some were tiny, whilst others much larger and clearly snail shells. Not modern day snail shells, these were about a foot down from the surface, so clearly the remains of someone's past repast. Alongside the shells, was plenty of flint, which wasn't so interesting to the team. All of our 'finds' went in a finds tray, which had a context number that matched the context label for our section of ditch. Some of the pieces of flint looked as though they had been cut, so they went in the finds tray with the shells. I also found some bones; the first one was like a miniature humerus, about 3 cm long and very thin, a bit like a tiny version of your average stereotypical bone from a cartoon, but definitely mammalian. After that I found a few fragments of bone and then a larger piece, which could have been part of a pelvis or vertebra, and once again mammalian. I found a couple of pieces of what could have been pottery, although I wasn't too sure, and there was lots of slag - the solid, black stone like residue left over from working with molten iron, which is a clear indication of the existence of metal working within the settlement. Some of the other finds on site yesterday included the skeletons of two cows in another section of the same ditch that I was excavating, which created quite a buzz amongst students, volunteers and archaeologists alike.
There were regular breaks to sit in the sun or rest in the somewhat limited shade available - tea breaks in the morning and afternoon and a lunch break too, all of which were timed so that you never worked for more than 2 hours without resting and stocking up on food and water. I learned loads - how to carefully scrape away the soil without damaging the finds, the importance of keeping a neat edge to whatever you were digging, how to record the dig in terms of context, soil type, finds, etc and how to photograph a particular excavation correctly. I also learned that it's monotonous, back-breaking work at times, which doesn't detract from the enjoyment at all, but to say I was shattered by the end of the day would be an understatement!
I can't begin to explain how thrilled I am to have taken part in this project, albeit only a small part. It really was something completely different for me to do and gave a real insight into the amount of hard work that goes into a dig of this nature, and Lyminge is a relatively small one. In the evening I did my usual Facebook and Twitter posts to update my Fifty Firsts progress and I took the opportunity to thank the team via their Facebook page and Twitter account for the opportunity to complete another first. I got a huge lift today to discover they had both retweeted me and sent a reply, which gave me another first: my first retweet and my first reply on Twitter.
All in all an excellent day in Lyminge - enjoying the sun, plenty of time to let your mind wander and forget the stresses of everyday life, burning some calories when digging, learning new skills and new knowledge and meeting new people. If you ever got the chance to do something similar, I would heartily recommend it.
Saturday, 27 July 2013
Mission Accomplished!
Wednesday 24th July dawned bright and sunny again here in Folkestone, but more importantly it wasn't windy. Since my non-skydive the previous Friday, July 19th, I'd had mixed feelings about the re-run to be honest. There was no way I was going to back out, there was far too much money riding on it for one thing, but more importantly, if I say I'm going to do something, I do it. However, that didn't stop me having occasional thoughts of 'What the f**k am I doing?' and being completely freaked out at the thought of being 12,000 feet up in the air and attached only to a guy with a backpack on, which hopefully contained a working parachute. For someone who can't bear walking out on a pier and seeing the sea through the planks of wood, or standing at the window of a building above three floors to admire the view, this was a majorly big deal. But in amongst the doubts and fears, there were also times when I was really looking forward to doing it. Everyone I'd spoken to who had been skydiving themselves told me I'd love it, that it was amazing and surely they couldn't all be wrong or lying, could they?
Well, in the grand scheme of things I didn't have long to find out. I deposited daughter number three at an archaeological dig and collected daughter number one and set off to Headcorn, where we met up with my parents, enjoying another day out! There was the inevitable waiting around, but this time only because there were other jumpers ahead of me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, just before 15:00 (3:00 pm to those of you who, like me, prefer the British version of telling the time) I got the call to get kitted up and met my tandem partner, Clem, for the first time. He cracked a lot of jokes, starting by saying he was nervous. Not the best thing to say to someone who actually is nervous! Imagine if my command of the English language and understanding of humour had been less than good, I might have changed my mind about the whole thing. So I got a lovely purple jumpsuit and hat, complete with goggles, to put on and then get strapped into the harness, which was surprisingly heavy. Clem showed me how to tighten the harness and put the hat and goggles on and then he tightened the harness properly - cue camel toe! I'd booked a video and photos, so Holly, my camera woman, did a brief pre-jump interview with both me and Clem, who announced that the reason he was there was to do Hobnobs. Nervous laughter all round - I wasn't sure how else to respond to that! We set off to the plane, well a light aircraft really (another first -I'd never been in one of those before either) and had a photo outside, before climbing inside. We were the first inside, so that meant we'd be the last out. One by one all the other instructors and tandem skydivers like me filed in. Clem and I were sat on a bench, some of the others were on the floor and it was a pretty fit. From the bench I could see out of the window of the Cessna, which was good and bad - it would take us 15-20 minutes to get to 12,000 feet, so it was good to be able to look out at something, but there was also my fear of heights to contend with. Now whilst I'm not a regular flyer, I'm not scared of flying, but then remember I'd never been in a plane like this before. Clem was brilliant and talked me through everything I could expect, so I was prepared for a little turbulence, but the plane didn't feel particularly solid or safe at times and when we banked to circle the airfield it was a little scarey. But the rest of the time the view was phenomenal - I could see Ashford, Canterbury, Folkestone, Maidstone, Bewl Water, Beachy Head and miles of trees, fields, roads and railway lines. Clem kept me posted on our altitude by showing me his altitude meter every 1000 feet. I would have preferred to just take his word for it rather than have to see it on the dial, particularly when we got to 12,000 feet and had to circle the airfield again whilst waiting for clearance from Air Traffic Control both in Headcorn and in London. It wasn't long before the door cover was slid back - time to put hats and goggles on and final adjustments and checks on the harnesses were made. I should point out that by this time we were hooked together and from 10,000 feet I'd been sitting on Clem's lap, which made a change from being between his legs! Two experienced single skydivers went first, then the other two tandem pairs, both of whom were also being filmed. Finally it was our turn and we edged towards the open door. Holly went out first and clung on to the outside of the plane, the camera on her helmet filming us. Clem sat on the edge of the plane, with me dangling outside, a quick smile as I folded my arms across my body, gripping my sleeves for dear life and tipping my head back and then we were out. I'd been worrying about swearing, but I kept it to a short scream, which is apparently good - you're exhaling, so then you'll naturally start to inhale. The first few seconds were awful as we somersaulted over, with a twist thrown in for good measure, in Tom Daley-esque fashion, but once we'd levelled out and adopted freefall position it was absolutely amazing. Totally awesome, incredible, something I can't really put into words. The view was out of this world and it was a somewhat bizarre feeling. Holly was in front of me filming away and Clem above me pretending to swim amongst other things, but the strange thing was there was absolutely no concept of falling or moving at all. It was as though we were still, the air below us appearing to hold us up and counteracting the gravity pulling us downwards - I wish I'd paid more attention in physics lessons! It didn't seem possible that we were travelling at around 120 mph. There was also no concept of time - I couldn't tell you how long we were in freefall for; it felt neither a long time, nor a short time, just timeless. Clem pulled our ripcord before Holly, so that she could capture the moment our canopy opened as she continued to fall below us. She then opened her parachute and reached the ground before us, so that she could film our descent. Once the canopy was open it was relatively easy to get my bearings and sight the airfield still some way below us. I had a go at steering the parachute, including doing some sharp spiral turns - the other part of the proceedings I wasn't keen on. Then before long we were approaching the ground, so it was into landing position, which basically meant holding your legs up out of the way until touching down on terra firma. Once down, more filming and photos and then we were rounded up by the minibus and driven back to base to get out of the harness, hat, goggles and suit. My certificate was waiting for me and I then had a short wait, with a cup of tea, for my video and photos.
It was such a fantastic experience and I still can't quite believe that I actually did it and am now a provisional member of the British Parachute Association. Initially I wasn't sure if I would do it again if the chance arose, but as time's gone on I can definitely say that I would. It was out of this world and a real privilege to be able to do something a little out of the ordinary.
I don't normally include photos of my Fifty Firsts - you can always find them on Facebook or Twitter, but I think this calls for an exception to be made.
Well, in the grand scheme of things I didn't have long to find out. I deposited daughter number three at an archaeological dig and collected daughter number one and set off to Headcorn, where we met up with my parents, enjoying another day out! There was the inevitable waiting around, but this time only because there were other jumpers ahead of me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, just before 15:00 (3:00 pm to those of you who, like me, prefer the British version of telling the time) I got the call to get kitted up and met my tandem partner, Clem, for the first time. He cracked a lot of jokes, starting by saying he was nervous. Not the best thing to say to someone who actually is nervous! Imagine if my command of the English language and understanding of humour had been less than good, I might have changed my mind about the whole thing. So I got a lovely purple jumpsuit and hat, complete with goggles, to put on and then get strapped into the harness, which was surprisingly heavy. Clem showed me how to tighten the harness and put the hat and goggles on and then he tightened the harness properly - cue camel toe! I'd booked a video and photos, so Holly, my camera woman, did a brief pre-jump interview with both me and Clem, who announced that the reason he was there was to do Hobnobs. Nervous laughter all round - I wasn't sure how else to respond to that! We set off to the plane, well a light aircraft really (another first -I'd never been in one of those before either) and had a photo outside, before climbing inside. We were the first inside, so that meant we'd be the last out. One by one all the other instructors and tandem skydivers like me filed in. Clem and I were sat on a bench, some of the others were on the floor and it was a pretty fit. From the bench I could see out of the window of the Cessna, which was good and bad - it would take us 15-20 minutes to get to 12,000 feet, so it was good to be able to look out at something, but there was also my fear of heights to contend with. Now whilst I'm not a regular flyer, I'm not scared of flying, but then remember I'd never been in a plane like this before. Clem was brilliant and talked me through everything I could expect, so I was prepared for a little turbulence, but the plane didn't feel particularly solid or safe at times and when we banked to circle the airfield it was a little scarey. But the rest of the time the view was phenomenal - I could see Ashford, Canterbury, Folkestone, Maidstone, Bewl Water, Beachy Head and miles of trees, fields, roads and railway lines. Clem kept me posted on our altitude by showing me his altitude meter every 1000 feet. I would have preferred to just take his word for it rather than have to see it on the dial, particularly when we got to 12,000 feet and had to circle the airfield again whilst waiting for clearance from Air Traffic Control both in Headcorn and in London. It wasn't long before the door cover was slid back - time to put hats and goggles on and final adjustments and checks on the harnesses were made. I should point out that by this time we were hooked together and from 10,000 feet I'd been sitting on Clem's lap, which made a change from being between his legs! Two experienced single skydivers went first, then the other two tandem pairs, both of whom were also being filmed. Finally it was our turn and we edged towards the open door. Holly went out first and clung on to the outside of the plane, the camera on her helmet filming us. Clem sat on the edge of the plane, with me dangling outside, a quick smile as I folded my arms across my body, gripping my sleeves for dear life and tipping my head back and then we were out. I'd been worrying about swearing, but I kept it to a short scream, which is apparently good - you're exhaling, so then you'll naturally start to inhale. The first few seconds were awful as we somersaulted over, with a twist thrown in for good measure, in Tom Daley-esque fashion, but once we'd levelled out and adopted freefall position it was absolutely amazing. Totally awesome, incredible, something I can't really put into words. The view was out of this world and it was a somewhat bizarre feeling. Holly was in front of me filming away and Clem above me pretending to swim amongst other things, but the strange thing was there was absolutely no concept of falling or moving at all. It was as though we were still, the air below us appearing to hold us up and counteracting the gravity pulling us downwards - I wish I'd paid more attention in physics lessons! It didn't seem possible that we were travelling at around 120 mph. There was also no concept of time - I couldn't tell you how long we were in freefall for; it felt neither a long time, nor a short time, just timeless. Clem pulled our ripcord before Holly, so that she could capture the moment our canopy opened as she continued to fall below us. She then opened her parachute and reached the ground before us, so that she could film our descent. Once the canopy was open it was relatively easy to get my bearings and sight the airfield still some way below us. I had a go at steering the parachute, including doing some sharp spiral turns - the other part of the proceedings I wasn't keen on. Then before long we were approaching the ground, so it was into landing position, which basically meant holding your legs up out of the way until touching down on terra firma. Once down, more filming and photos and then we were rounded up by the minibus and driven back to base to get out of the harness, hat, goggles and suit. My certificate was waiting for me and I then had a short wait, with a cup of tea, for my video and photos.
It was such a fantastic experience and I still can't quite believe that I actually did it and am now a provisional member of the British Parachute Association. Initially I wasn't sure if I would do it again if the chance arose, but as time's gone on I can definitely say that I would. It was out of this world and a real privilege to be able to do something a little out of the ordinary.
I don't normally include photos of my Fifty Firsts - you can always find them on Facebook or Twitter, but I think this calls for an exception to be made.
Sunday, 21 July 2013
D Day - July 19th
The day dawned with blue skies and a gentle breeze, making it slightly cooler than it had been earlier in the week, but still hot. I got up, dressed in leggings and a long sleeved T shirt in preparation for the big event - existing members of the skydiving fraternity told me the suits you get to wear are not the most comfortable - and ate breakfast. After that it was feed the rabbits, put them out in the run, wash the dishes and put some make-up on before heading off to Headcorn Airfield, where the jump was due to take place, with my youngest daughter on board in the capacity of official photographer.
We arrived bang on half past nine as required, parked and made our way to the Tandem Skydiving Portacabin, sorry, Meeting Point, where I signed in and got the hard sell on hiring a camera person to film the entire escapade. I then made my way over to the offices to pay the remainder of the fee and then back to the tandem portacabin to sign up for the camera man - 50 still photos and a DVD for £140. I wasn't going to bother, but they pointed out that the drop zone was a quarter of a mile away from the spectator area, so the prospects of my daughter getting any shots were slim to say the least and when you're trying to raise money for charity, you need some kind evidence to prove you've done what you said you were going to do.
After that it was hang around until the briefing at 10:00 am (gosh, this is beginning to sound like an army mission with every passing sentence!). Speaking of the army, the Army Parachute Display Team, the Tigers, were also there with some competition winners who were going to do tandem jumps with them. I don't know whether their tandem jumps also involved the aerial equivalent of synchronised swimming or not. There wasn't much to do - there was a small café and some picnic tables, no shade and then a variety of light aircraft parked, if that's the right word, alongside the runway. Sometime after 10 am my parents turned up to watch and then shortly after that, probably getting on for 10:30 am, the jumpers were called in to the portacabin for the briefing. We were talked through what was going to happen and how terrified we would be; the harness and how each of us would be attached to the instructor was explained in great detail. We got to look at the protective clothing and found out what the protocol was in the event of suffering from motion sickness. For the record, the instructors carry sick bags in their pockets as they're not too keen on finding out you're feeling unwell via any other method than verbally. I guess nobody likes a face full of vomit! We also had to balance precariously on the edge of our chairs and kneel on the floor to practice various positions - how to hang precariously from the edge of the plane prior to launching into the unknown, free fall position and also a timed trial of holding your legs straight out for six seconds to simulate the landing position. Last of all we got to watch a video of a woman experiencing the whole thing, with the instructor pointing out how petrified she looked before jumping (like we hadn't noticed that!) and how happy she was once back on terra firma. I'm not sure whether that was due to the euphoria of completing her jump or the relief at being on solid ground.
Training completed it was back outside to await my turn. The first four hopefuls went off pretty soon after the briefing session and we watched as they came down, getting a nice surprise when their parachutes opened up; although they didn't seem to be that high up at this point, it was virtually impossible to see the before deploying their parachutes. After the first group were safely back nothing much else happened. I was on tenterhooks, definitely feeling apprehensive if not downright scared, and I just wanted to get it over and done with. Unfortunately it wasn't to be. The wind picked up a bit, which proved to be difficult. Tandem skydiving can't take place with winds above 20 knots, or at least not at Headcorn it can't and for the rest of the day there were gusts of 22 or 24 knots. Eventually, my parents having left at 2:00 pm, I decided to call it a day and rebook. This was at about 5:00 pm. I had very little cash left, the only food available was crisps and chocolate and we were both starving! I'd learnt earlier that skydiving on an empty stomach is more likely to make a person feel sick, so you needed to eat and drink regularly. Also, whilst the wind had dropped slightly at around 3:00 pm, it had then got back up again, so it wasn't looking like there'd be any jumping any time soon. The final nail in the coffin that led me to rebook was that the Tigers were still there, but had to leave by 6;00 PM, as they had a long drive to Glasgow for two sows they were doing there over the weekend, so I was a little concerned that the competition winners might be fast-tracked ahead of some of the other jumpers.
So to cut a long story short, I spent all day at Headcorn and didn't get to do my skydive. On the plus side, I've rebooked it for next Wednesday - July 24th and I get priority, so providing the weather is okay, I can virtually guarantee I'll be in the first group to go up. On the down side, I've had all weekend and a couple more days still to come to think about all the parts of this endeavour that are really freaking me out, making it doubly hard to go back and do what I originally planned to do - throw myself out of an aeroplane from a great height and hurtle towards the earth! My instructor had better be attractive, that's all I can say!
We arrived bang on half past nine as required, parked and made our way to the Tandem Skydiving Portacabin, sorry, Meeting Point, where I signed in and got the hard sell on hiring a camera person to film the entire escapade. I then made my way over to the offices to pay the remainder of the fee and then back to the tandem portacabin to sign up for the camera man - 50 still photos and a DVD for £140. I wasn't going to bother, but they pointed out that the drop zone was a quarter of a mile away from the spectator area, so the prospects of my daughter getting any shots were slim to say the least and when you're trying to raise money for charity, you need some kind evidence to prove you've done what you said you were going to do.
After that it was hang around until the briefing at 10:00 am (gosh, this is beginning to sound like an army mission with every passing sentence!). Speaking of the army, the Army Parachute Display Team, the Tigers, were also there with some competition winners who were going to do tandem jumps with them. I don't know whether their tandem jumps also involved the aerial equivalent of synchronised swimming or not. There wasn't much to do - there was a small café and some picnic tables, no shade and then a variety of light aircraft parked, if that's the right word, alongside the runway. Sometime after 10 am my parents turned up to watch and then shortly after that, probably getting on for 10:30 am, the jumpers were called in to the portacabin for the briefing. We were talked through what was going to happen and how terrified we would be; the harness and how each of us would be attached to the instructor was explained in great detail. We got to look at the protective clothing and found out what the protocol was in the event of suffering from motion sickness. For the record, the instructors carry sick bags in their pockets as they're not too keen on finding out you're feeling unwell via any other method than verbally. I guess nobody likes a face full of vomit! We also had to balance precariously on the edge of our chairs and kneel on the floor to practice various positions - how to hang precariously from the edge of the plane prior to launching into the unknown, free fall position and also a timed trial of holding your legs straight out for six seconds to simulate the landing position. Last of all we got to watch a video of a woman experiencing the whole thing, with the instructor pointing out how petrified she looked before jumping (like we hadn't noticed that!) and how happy she was once back on terra firma. I'm not sure whether that was due to the euphoria of completing her jump or the relief at being on solid ground.
Training completed it was back outside to await my turn. The first four hopefuls went off pretty soon after the briefing session and we watched as they came down, getting a nice surprise when their parachutes opened up; although they didn't seem to be that high up at this point, it was virtually impossible to see the before deploying their parachutes. After the first group were safely back nothing much else happened. I was on tenterhooks, definitely feeling apprehensive if not downright scared, and I just wanted to get it over and done with. Unfortunately it wasn't to be. The wind picked up a bit, which proved to be difficult. Tandem skydiving can't take place with winds above 20 knots, or at least not at Headcorn it can't and for the rest of the day there were gusts of 22 or 24 knots. Eventually, my parents having left at 2:00 pm, I decided to call it a day and rebook. This was at about 5:00 pm. I had very little cash left, the only food available was crisps and chocolate and we were both starving! I'd learnt earlier that skydiving on an empty stomach is more likely to make a person feel sick, so you needed to eat and drink regularly. Also, whilst the wind had dropped slightly at around 3:00 pm, it had then got back up again, so it wasn't looking like there'd be any jumping any time soon. The final nail in the coffin that led me to rebook was that the Tigers were still there, but had to leave by 6;00 PM, as they had a long drive to Glasgow for two sows they were doing there over the weekend, so I was a little concerned that the competition winners might be fast-tracked ahead of some of the other jumpers.
So to cut a long story short, I spent all day at Headcorn and didn't get to do my skydive. On the plus side, I've rebooked it for next Wednesday - July 24th and I get priority, so providing the weather is okay, I can virtually guarantee I'll be in the first group to go up. On the down side, I've had all weekend and a couple more days still to come to think about all the parts of this endeavour that are really freaking me out, making it doubly hard to go back and do what I originally planned to do - throw myself out of an aeroplane from a great height and hurtle towards the earth! My instructor had better be attractive, that's all I can say!
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Doubles, trebles and chains
Only a couple of days to go now till my first big event of the 'fifty firsts'. The weather's looking good - warm, sunny, clear visibility and no more than a slight breeze at most. My skydive is virtually guaranteed to go ahead then, and the money is still coming in: £449.25 without gift aid, but if there's anyone out there who also wants to contribute ...
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/AlisonForsyth1
I'm actually really looking forward to it. I mean I guess I'll be a bit nervous or scared on the day, but I'm sure I'll be like a toddler when I get back down to earth - 'Again! Again!'
This week I have added a couple more firsts. To begin with I've learnt to crochet. So what, you might be thinking and you're probably right, because to be honest, what I've actually achieved is mainly making a chain and creating a few slip stitches, which are essentially a chain. Not quite so impressive now, is it? Well, I'm selling myself a little short really, because I have progressed on to about four rows of double crochet and two rows of treble crochet, although I haven't actually crocheted anything specific, just some 'practice'. I bet there's people out there who, if they read this, would be thinking 'Oh please! Really? You call that mastering crochet? My cat could do better and make a cradle whilst snoozing in the sun under the hedge and keeping half an eye on the birds in next door's garden!' And they'd probably be right. But to me it's a big deal - I've tried to learn before but never got further than the chain part of the proceedings, which has been quite hard to deal with, as I'm a proficient knitter, sewer, embroiderer, cross stitch maker and tapestrist (is that even a word?) so have always had high expectations that crochet would be quite easy to pick up. Well, the part where I got hold of the wool with one hand and the crochet hook with the other was fine, it was doing something with them, other than putting them down, that was the tricky bit. Of course in my defence, I should point out that the last time I actually tried to crochet was when I was about ten, so perhaps my failure was more to do with fine motor skills and cognitive functioning not being fully developed. The question now is whether or not I actually have to make a specific something, you know like a tea cosy or pot cover, to claim to have mastered crocheting? I've tried canvassing opinion locally and that seems to indicate that I should produce some kind of finished article, so it seems I'll have to persevere a while longer before claiming this as a first.
As for my other first, I think I'll save that for another day. I need to psych myself up for admitting to this one! Now that's got you wondering ;)
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/AlisonForsyth1
I'm actually really looking forward to it. I mean I guess I'll be a bit nervous or scared on the day, but I'm sure I'll be like a toddler when I get back down to earth - 'Again! Again!'
This week I have added a couple more firsts. To begin with I've learnt to crochet. So what, you might be thinking and you're probably right, because to be honest, what I've actually achieved is mainly making a chain and creating a few slip stitches, which are essentially a chain. Not quite so impressive now, is it? Well, I'm selling myself a little short really, because I have progressed on to about four rows of double crochet and two rows of treble crochet, although I haven't actually crocheted anything specific, just some 'practice'. I bet there's people out there who, if they read this, would be thinking 'Oh please! Really? You call that mastering crochet? My cat could do better and make a cradle whilst snoozing in the sun under the hedge and keeping half an eye on the birds in next door's garden!' And they'd probably be right. But to me it's a big deal - I've tried to learn before but never got further than the chain part of the proceedings, which has been quite hard to deal with, as I'm a proficient knitter, sewer, embroiderer, cross stitch maker and tapestrist (is that even a word?) so have always had high expectations that crochet would be quite easy to pick up. Well, the part where I got hold of the wool with one hand and the crochet hook with the other was fine, it was doing something with them, other than putting them down, that was the tricky bit. Of course in my defence, I should point out that the last time I actually tried to crochet was when I was about ten, so perhaps my failure was more to do with fine motor skills and cognitive functioning not being fully developed. The question now is whether or not I actually have to make a specific something, you know like a tea cosy or pot cover, to claim to have mastered crocheting? I've tried canvassing opinion locally and that seems to indicate that I should produce some kind of finished article, so it seems I'll have to persevere a while longer before claiming this as a first.
As for my other first, I think I'll save that for another day. I need to psych myself up for admitting to this one! Now that's got you wondering ;)
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Who wants to be a millionaire?
So a couple of weeks ago I bought a ticket for the EuroMillions. Nothing unusual in that I suppose, except up until that point I'd been a EuroMillions virgin. I'd bought the odd National Lottery ticket now and again, but I've never been the sort of person who wins raffle prizes willy nilly, so in all honesty I'd always thought it a waste of time and money. But the EuroMillions, well it was a slightly different story. For starters, there's way more money at stake and in any case, it was another of the fifty things to tick off my list. So I waited till there was a sizeable amount up for grabs, not because I'm materialistic and greedy, but the more you win the more good you can do with it and still have some left over for a few treats. Top of the wish list would definitely be a season ticket at Anfield!
Anyway, back to the lottery ticket. How do people go about choosing their numbers? For some it's about meaningful dates, such as birthdays, whilst for others it's purely random, either chosen by them or a lucky dip by computer. Me? Well, on my rare forays into such territory, I like to 'feel' the numbers. I've always had an uncanny ability to predict the sex of an unborn child with 90% plus accuracy, but to be fair, it is a fifty-fifty choice and not as many random combinations! But a little help is always useful, so I consulted the world of astrology to shed some light on my lucky numbers. Now according to my book of Aries horoscope 2013, which is quite clearly, for any of you doubters out there, the oracle of truth, my ruling planet is the moon. Yes, I know, I've already run into some trouble here, because despite my scientific career amounting to no more than a C grade for O Level Physical science, even I know the moon isn't a planet, but let's just go with the flow, shall we? OK, so far so good, I have a ruling planet, which I should point out is only for this current year. You work out what it is by adding up the individual letter scores for your name, in a Scrabble style way but without the double or triple squares, and then adding the total to the digits of the year, before repeatedly adding the digits of the final total together until you get a single digit that represents your ruling planet. Did you follow that? For me this is 2, aka the moon - simple and completely scientific (the method, not me)! The next step is to read through a load of waffle about what the moon is going to do for you in 2013, before stumbling across your lucky numbers at the bottom of the page, in my case: 2, 11, 20, 29 and 38. Excellent, these numbers, which have the common factor of being either bigger or smaller than the next or previous number in the series by nine (is that significant?) then become my five numbers for the EuroMillions ticket, leaving me just the two lucky stars numbers to pick. At this point I resorted to the methods employed by other people and picked one significant date, my birthday, and one number at random, which happened to be eight.
I was quite excited by the prospect of my bank account swelling by several millions, after all, what could go wrong? There was a pattern to my main numbers and when I filled out the sheet with my choices before buying the ticket, they moved diagonally down the paper like a short flight of stairs; it must have been some kind of omen! I didn't want to tempt fate, so waited until late at night before checking the winning numbers. And this is where my plan began to fall apart, and I can only put it down to beginner's luck, because I didn't win. Nothing, not a single penny, I think one of my numbers came up, but that was it. So my first ever ticket for the EuroMillions draw was completely unsuccessful, which was a shame, because if I'd won I could have crossed two things off my list of fifty firsts - buying a ticket and becoming a millionaire!
So it was not to be, I'm afraid, but there is a post script to add to this story. I went back to the book of everything Aries, looking for answers and I think I've found them! When reading about how my ruling planet for 2013 is going to help me out, I neglected to take on board what it said about improving my luck. I know! How ridiculous is that? You'd have thought I'd have wanted to maximise my chances by doing it properly, wouldn't you! Anyway, I discovered that first of all July is going to fulfil some of my dreams - I bought the ticket in June, which was clearly my first mistake, and I'm glossing over the 'some' part of that sentence. Then my second mistake - Mondays are going to be luckiest for me: I bought my ticket on a Tuesday, typical, one day too late, but a month early! Thirdly, I'm going to be particularly fortunate between midnight and 1 am, 7 and 8 am, 2 and 3 pm and 9 and 10 pm. So wrong month, wrong day and wrong time, because I bought my ticket at about 6:30 pm, hence why I didn't win of course. But, it doesn't quite end there. As I said, winning would also be a first, so I figure that means I can try again and as luck would have it, when I checked those lucky numbers, 2, 11, 20, 29 and 38, the only one that fell on a Monday in July was 29. So on Monday 29th July 2013, most probably between 2 and 3 pm, I shall be buying a ticket for the EuroMillions and this time I'll make sure that one of my lucky star numbers is 9. Now surely that can't fail, can it?
Anyway, back to the lottery ticket. How do people go about choosing their numbers? For some it's about meaningful dates, such as birthdays, whilst for others it's purely random, either chosen by them or a lucky dip by computer. Me? Well, on my rare forays into such territory, I like to 'feel' the numbers. I've always had an uncanny ability to predict the sex of an unborn child with 90% plus accuracy, but to be fair, it is a fifty-fifty choice and not as many random combinations! But a little help is always useful, so I consulted the world of astrology to shed some light on my lucky numbers. Now according to my book of Aries horoscope 2013, which is quite clearly, for any of you doubters out there, the oracle of truth, my ruling planet is the moon. Yes, I know, I've already run into some trouble here, because despite my scientific career amounting to no more than a C grade for O Level Physical science, even I know the moon isn't a planet, but let's just go with the flow, shall we? OK, so far so good, I have a ruling planet, which I should point out is only for this current year. You work out what it is by adding up the individual letter scores for your name, in a Scrabble style way but without the double or triple squares, and then adding the total to the digits of the year, before repeatedly adding the digits of the final total together until you get a single digit that represents your ruling planet. Did you follow that? For me this is 2, aka the moon - simple and completely scientific (the method, not me)! The next step is to read through a load of waffle about what the moon is going to do for you in 2013, before stumbling across your lucky numbers at the bottom of the page, in my case: 2, 11, 20, 29 and 38. Excellent, these numbers, which have the common factor of being either bigger or smaller than the next or previous number in the series by nine (is that significant?) then become my five numbers for the EuroMillions ticket, leaving me just the two lucky stars numbers to pick. At this point I resorted to the methods employed by other people and picked one significant date, my birthday, and one number at random, which happened to be eight.
I was quite excited by the prospect of my bank account swelling by several millions, after all, what could go wrong? There was a pattern to my main numbers and when I filled out the sheet with my choices before buying the ticket, they moved diagonally down the paper like a short flight of stairs; it must have been some kind of omen! I didn't want to tempt fate, so waited until late at night before checking the winning numbers. And this is where my plan began to fall apart, and I can only put it down to beginner's luck, because I didn't win. Nothing, not a single penny, I think one of my numbers came up, but that was it. So my first ever ticket for the EuroMillions draw was completely unsuccessful, which was a shame, because if I'd won I could have crossed two things off my list of fifty firsts - buying a ticket and becoming a millionaire!
So it was not to be, I'm afraid, but there is a post script to add to this story. I went back to the book of everything Aries, looking for answers and I think I've found them! When reading about how my ruling planet for 2013 is going to help me out, I neglected to take on board what it said about improving my luck. I know! How ridiculous is that? You'd have thought I'd have wanted to maximise my chances by doing it properly, wouldn't you! Anyway, I discovered that first of all July is going to fulfil some of my dreams - I bought the ticket in June, which was clearly my first mistake, and I'm glossing over the 'some' part of that sentence. Then my second mistake - Mondays are going to be luckiest for me: I bought my ticket on a Tuesday, typical, one day too late, but a month early! Thirdly, I'm going to be particularly fortunate between midnight and 1 am, 7 and 8 am, 2 and 3 pm and 9 and 10 pm. So wrong month, wrong day and wrong time, because I bought my ticket at about 6:30 pm, hence why I didn't win of course. But, it doesn't quite end there. As I said, winning would also be a first, so I figure that means I can try again and as luck would have it, when I checked those lucky numbers, 2, 11, 20, 29 and 38, the only one that fell on a Monday in July was 29. So on Monday 29th July 2013, most probably between 2 and 3 pm, I shall be buying a ticket for the EuroMillions and this time I'll make sure that one of my lucky star numbers is 9. Now surely that can't fail, can it?
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Escargots!
That's snails to those of us who aren't French. On Sunday 2nd June I popped into a local restaurant at lunchtime, accompanied by my middle daughter. It was quite busy with people enjoying Sunday lunch, but we only waited a couple of minutes before the Head Waiter came and showed us to a table. It was a strange mixture of traditional Sunday roast to a largely elderly clientèle which was what we saw before us alongside promotions on the table advertising a four course Italian meal, which was in keeping with the restaurant's name. The décor was white and lilac, which didn't seem to go with the Italian part either. The tables were quite close together, with not much room for the carvery trolley to be wheeled up and down and I half expected Basil Fawlty to come leaping out from behind the bar at any moment to talk to the Major.
Anyway, we sat down and the waiter brought over two menus. Now I have to mention at this point that naturally I had done my research (good old Google!) and already knew that the restaurant in question was one of only two places in the town that served snails. We'd also checked on the menu in the window before going in, to make sure it hadn't changed. Whilst waiting to be seated we'd discussed what was about to transpire - being handed a menu when we already knew what we wanted. Should we take the menu and pretend to peruse it at our leisure and then opt for: 'Oh, I think I'll have the snails', 'me too'. Or should we just be up front and order snails without looking at the menu? And in that scenario, how much information should we give about why we wanted snails?
Well, I couldn't bear to lead the poor chap on, so as he proffered the menu, I explained I'd never eaten snails before and wanted to try them, so could we have two portions please. He did his best not to look fazed by this and calmly asked whether we wanted garlic butter or tomato sauce with our snails and would we like a main course afterwards, to which I replied, 'no, just the snails in garlic butter please'. There was the slight hint of a raised eyebrow before we were asked about drinks and then he retired to pass on our order and get the drinks. The table next to us was so close that I could easily have helped myself to the nearest lady's meal, so they must have overheard the conversation about our lack of main course. I was glad I didn't try to explain about the whole fifty things for the first time in my fifty first year, although it might have explained why we were only having a starter.
Whilst we were waiting for our snails to inch their way from the kitchen to the table, our neighbours were deep in conversation about Newbury in Berkshire, which is not far from Reading in case you weren't aware. Suddenly an elderly lady from the table behind us, whose husband had disappeared in his wheelchair with one of the waitresses just after we went in to the restaurant, got up and approached their table to join in the conversation. Well I say suddenly, but that makes it sound like she leapt to her feet and galloped to the other table, but it was more a lumbering sort of movement really, so actually not very sudden at all. Anyway she leaned across the other table, which was occupied by four women, and said, 'Did I hear you talking about Newbury, I come from Reading, which is not far from there.' [See I told you that, didn't I] and then proceeded to relate various tales of her youth in Reading and going to a dance in Newbury, We made a mental note not to mention anything about Reading out loud. After a few minutes she said she ought to go and check on her husband, who had not returned with the waitress, but then went and sat back down at their table and helped herself to the remaining vegetables.
My daughter decided to document the occasion, taking a picture of me awaiting my snails, which duly arrived. Cue next picture - the dish of snails. They came minus their shells, so no difficult instruments to cope with to de-shell them, just a knife and fork. They didn't really look like I thought they would, but then I didn't really have any idea what they would look like. They were very garlicky, scattered over a piece of garlic bread and with plenty of garlic butter. They were a very dark grey-brown in colour and almost reminded me of mushrooms to look at. I took the plunge and tried one. To be honest they tasted a bit like mushrooms as well, just chewier. They weren't bad, quite tasty in fact, but I'm not sure I'd go out of my way to have them again. Still I polished off the lot; there were probably about eight of them in the dish, I have to confess I didn't count them. A waitress came to collect our empty dishes and asked us if we'd like a main course. We opted for the bill, finished our drinks, paid and left. The other customers probably thought we were a bit odd, but what the heck, it was another fifty first accomplished.
Oh and in case you were concerned, the elderly man in the wheelchair was eventually returned to his table by the waitress, presumably from the toilet, by which time his wife had polished off everything that was left except for the items on his plate.
Anyway, we sat down and the waiter brought over two menus. Now I have to mention at this point that naturally I had done my research (good old Google!) and already knew that the restaurant in question was one of only two places in the town that served snails. We'd also checked on the menu in the window before going in, to make sure it hadn't changed. Whilst waiting to be seated we'd discussed what was about to transpire - being handed a menu when we already knew what we wanted. Should we take the menu and pretend to peruse it at our leisure and then opt for: 'Oh, I think I'll have the snails', 'me too'. Or should we just be up front and order snails without looking at the menu? And in that scenario, how much information should we give about why we wanted snails?
Well, I couldn't bear to lead the poor chap on, so as he proffered the menu, I explained I'd never eaten snails before and wanted to try them, so could we have two portions please. He did his best not to look fazed by this and calmly asked whether we wanted garlic butter or tomato sauce with our snails and would we like a main course afterwards, to which I replied, 'no, just the snails in garlic butter please'. There was the slight hint of a raised eyebrow before we were asked about drinks and then he retired to pass on our order and get the drinks. The table next to us was so close that I could easily have helped myself to the nearest lady's meal, so they must have overheard the conversation about our lack of main course. I was glad I didn't try to explain about the whole fifty things for the first time in my fifty first year, although it might have explained why we were only having a starter.
Whilst we were waiting for our snails to inch their way from the kitchen to the table, our neighbours were deep in conversation about Newbury in Berkshire, which is not far from Reading in case you weren't aware. Suddenly an elderly lady from the table behind us, whose husband had disappeared in his wheelchair with one of the waitresses just after we went in to the restaurant, got up and approached their table to join in the conversation. Well I say suddenly, but that makes it sound like she leapt to her feet and galloped to the other table, but it was more a lumbering sort of movement really, so actually not very sudden at all. Anyway she leaned across the other table, which was occupied by four women, and said, 'Did I hear you talking about Newbury, I come from Reading, which is not far from there.' [See I told you that, didn't I] and then proceeded to relate various tales of her youth in Reading and going to a dance in Newbury, We made a mental note not to mention anything about Reading out loud. After a few minutes she said she ought to go and check on her husband, who had not returned with the waitress, but then went and sat back down at their table and helped herself to the remaining vegetables.
My daughter decided to document the occasion, taking a picture of me awaiting my snails, which duly arrived. Cue next picture - the dish of snails. They came minus their shells, so no difficult instruments to cope with to de-shell them, just a knife and fork. They didn't really look like I thought they would, but then I didn't really have any idea what they would look like. They were very garlicky, scattered over a piece of garlic bread and with plenty of garlic butter. They were a very dark grey-brown in colour and almost reminded me of mushrooms to look at. I took the plunge and tried one. To be honest they tasted a bit like mushrooms as well, just chewier. They weren't bad, quite tasty in fact, but I'm not sure I'd go out of my way to have them again. Still I polished off the lot; there were probably about eight of them in the dish, I have to confess I didn't count them. A waitress came to collect our empty dishes and asked us if we'd like a main course. We opted for the bill, finished our drinks, paid and left. The other customers probably thought we were a bit odd, but what the heck, it was another fifty first accomplished.
Oh and in case you were concerned, the elderly man in the wheelchair was eventually returned to his table by the waitress, presumably from the toilet, by which time his wife had polished off everything that was left except for the items on his plate.
Monday, 3 June 2013
An unplanned first
Monday 27th May, Reading, UK. I'd gone to visit my youngest daughter who is at university there, taking my middle daughter with me. We'd had the usual kind of journey, playing our favourite game of queuing on the M25 for what seems like forever and for no apparent reason. On this particular occasion I think it was due to everyone having the same idea as us - stop for coffee at the Clackett Lane Costa to get away from the interminable roadworks for a short time - which resulted in lots of traffic trying to get back into the reduced speed, reduced lanes all at the same time. Anyway, we managed to make it to Reading around lunch time after a second traffic jam experience, this time on the M4. I empathised profusely as we eventually managed to speed past all those family saloons trying to leave the motorway at Windsor, presumably heading for Legoland, probably full of over excited children continuously asking if they were nearly there yet. But back to my story, so we picked up daughter number three and headed to town, negotiated the one way system and joined the queue for parking at the Oracle. We didn't have to wait too long before getting through the ticket barrier and setting off towards the higher floors - altitude practice for my forthcoming skydive! There were some empty spaces available on the fifth floor (I think, I have to admit I wasn't really counting), so we drove round that level to find one. The first empty space we came to was not far from the lifts, stairs and pay point so seemed ideal, the only problem being that the diver of the black car in the next door bay, had parked over the white line, in fact considerably over the white line. Granted there was a concrete wall on the other side of their bay, but the car was approximately two foot away from the wall, that's how far off centre the driver was when reversing into the bay. Still, not to worry I thought, as the driver of the car on the other side of the empty bay had also parked slightly off centre towards the left of his/her bay, but within the lines. Also, my Peugeot isn't very big, so I had a go and managed to fit nicely in the bay, within the demarcation lines and with enough room for us to be able to open the doors and get out. Okay, so my daughters both got out on the other side of the car, where there was slightly more room, but I got out the driver's door, which opened about 6 - 8 inches and luckily there's not much of me, so it was fine - my door made no contact with the other vehicle and I felt quite proud of myself. Job done!
We had a lovely lunch in the Slug and Lettuce and then headed back to the car to go to Silchester for a look around, as my youngest daughter is studying ancient history and archaeology and excavating the Roman town of Silchester is part of the course. The first thing we noticed on returning to the car was that the black car next door had gone and someone else was parked in that bay, this time well within the lines. As I opened the car door I noticed a piece of paper stuck under my windscreen wiper, which I retrieved as I got in. Shutting the door, I looked at the note, for indeed that's what it was, presumably left by the lovely driver of the car I'd originally parked next to. By way of a thank you to me for my skill and courteousness at parking within the white lines of the parking bay despite the difficulty caused to me by him or her not being quite so skilful at manoeuvring, the driver had written in large capital letters, one word - T**T. Obviously there weren't any asterisks, but I'm sure you can work out what the missing letters were. I was speechless. Absolutely speechless! Not to mention completely staggered that someone would do that when they were the one who had parked incorrectly, not me. So there you have it, my unplanned fifty first - I've never had a rude note left on my windscreen before. Technically I suppose I could count it as two fifty firsts, because I've also never had a rude note left on my windscreen for being the person who didn't make a driving/parking faux pas by the person who actually did make the driving/parking faux pas. But that's way too confusing, so I'll just happily accept it as one fifty first and in a strange way, I have to thank the inconsiderate T**T, to use their words not mine, for helping me one more step towards my goal!
If you want to see the photographic proof visit Alison's Fifty Firsts on either Facebook or Twitter.
We had a lovely lunch in the Slug and Lettuce and then headed back to the car to go to Silchester for a look around, as my youngest daughter is studying ancient history and archaeology and excavating the Roman town of Silchester is part of the course. The first thing we noticed on returning to the car was that the black car next door had gone and someone else was parked in that bay, this time well within the lines. As I opened the car door I noticed a piece of paper stuck under my windscreen wiper, which I retrieved as I got in. Shutting the door, I looked at the note, for indeed that's what it was, presumably left by the lovely driver of the car I'd originally parked next to. By way of a thank you to me for my skill and courteousness at parking within the white lines of the parking bay despite the difficulty caused to me by him or her not being quite so skilful at manoeuvring, the driver had written in large capital letters, one word - T**T. Obviously there weren't any asterisks, but I'm sure you can work out what the missing letters were. I was speechless. Absolutely speechless! Not to mention completely staggered that someone would do that when they were the one who had parked incorrectly, not me. So there you have it, my unplanned fifty first - I've never had a rude note left on my windscreen before. Technically I suppose I could count it as two fifty firsts, because I've also never had a rude note left on my windscreen for being the person who didn't make a driving/parking faux pas by the person who actually did make the driving/parking faux pas. But that's way too confusing, so I'll just happily accept it as one fifty first and in a strange way, I have to thank the inconsiderate T**T, to use their words not mine, for helping me one more step towards my goal!
If you want to see the photographic proof visit Alison's Fifty Firsts on either Facebook or Twitter.
Friday, 24 May 2013
Skydiving here I come!
No backing out now, I've paid my deposit of £100 and booked my skydiving adventure for Friday 19th July 2013 at Headcorn Aerodrome, here in Kent. I am so excited about it. I didn't really anticipate feeling like this. I thought it would be a case of 'OK, that's the skydiving sorted, what shall I do while I'm waiting for the date to come around?' but no, I feel like a child in the last few days before Christmas. No other word for it, just excited. I've also got my fundraising page set up, so please, if you're able to, give generously. I'm raising money for Great Ormond Street Hospital Children's Charity and I can't think of a worthier cause. Every penny I raise really will make a difference.
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/AlisonForsyth1
I have 55 days to try and raise as much as possible and in the meantime I'll have plenty to keep me occupied. For starters I'll have to get in the skydiving zone by getting in some practice. This will involve lying face down, spread-eagled on the bed, adopting the free fall position for several minutes at a time, whilst wearing 'flying suit' pyjamas, swimming goggles and a small backpack. Then there will be numerous repetitions of jumping off a chair whilst adopting the 'holding on to the parachute' position simulated by holding the straps of the backpack I had donned earlier for the free-bed-fall. Once I can cope with the height of the dining chair I may progress to a step ladder, although I believe current UK health and safety legislation says I need a certificate to be able to use one of those and I'm not sure if my medical certificate for certified nutters who want to skydive counts.
Oh and I'll also have to keep watering those darned sunflowers!
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/AlisonForsyth1
I have 55 days to try and raise as much as possible and in the meantime I'll have plenty to keep me occupied. For starters I'll have to get in the skydiving zone by getting in some practice. This will involve lying face down, spread-eagled on the bed, adopting the free fall position for several minutes at a time, whilst wearing 'flying suit' pyjamas, swimming goggles and a small backpack. Then there will be numerous repetitions of jumping off a chair whilst adopting the 'holding on to the parachute' position simulated by holding the straps of the backpack I had donned earlier for the free-bed-fall. Once I can cope with the height of the dining chair I may progress to a step ladder, although I believe current UK health and safety legislation says I need a certificate to be able to use one of those and I'm not sure if my medical certificate for certified nutters who want to skydive counts.
Oh and I'll also have to keep watering those darned sunflowers!
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
Extra! Extra! Read all about it!
A brief update to lead up to something a bit more substantial at the weekend. I'm still trying to get a celebrity to reply to a tweet or at least retweet me, so far no luck. Fancy being let down by Zach Braff (my nearly birthday buddy!), Donald Faison and Johnny Depp (might try him again when it's his fiftieth next month and suggest he joins my bandwagon) - life just ain't fair! Tonight then it was the turn of Graham Norton, perhaps not quite as ambitious and therefore hopefully a more realistic chance - he seems to have retweeted other mere mortals and I'm not so different, so you never know.
I've also been tracking down places in the local area where I can eat snails and oysters, although not together, so look out for one of the two coming up shortly. Let's just hope that's not a literal event, I fully intend keeping them down, after all neither can be as bad as kangaroo testicles, crocodile penis or other such delicacies as offered by Ant and Dec! Hmm, now maybe I should try tweeting them?
Arrangements are also firming up for the skydiving event. I have a provisional date outlined, the basic web page for donations organised and now just need to pay my deposit and make the booking - roll on pay day and then watch this space for details.
Seven of the eight sunflower seeds I planted have germinated. Tiny though they still are, I hate them - sorry, but they're just not growing on me yet (totally intentional but poor pun!). Unfortunately I still have plenty of seeds left for a second batch ... and a third ... and a fourth. Just how many do I have to grow to full maturity in order to count this as a fifty first? Surely one's enough?
So hopefully this will keep you going until the weekend, when I can update you with some proper news. TTFN :)
I've also been tracking down places in the local area where I can eat snails and oysters, although not together, so look out for one of the two coming up shortly. Let's just hope that's not a literal event, I fully intend keeping them down, after all neither can be as bad as kangaroo testicles, crocodile penis or other such delicacies as offered by Ant and Dec! Hmm, now maybe I should try tweeting them?
Arrangements are also firming up for the skydiving event. I have a provisional date outlined, the basic web page for donations organised and now just need to pay my deposit and make the booking - roll on pay day and then watch this space for details.
Seven of the eight sunflower seeds I planted have germinated. Tiny though they still are, I hate them - sorry, but they're just not growing on me yet (totally intentional but poor pun!). Unfortunately I still have plenty of seeds left for a second batch ... and a third ... and a fourth. Just how many do I have to grow to full maturity in order to count this as a fifty first? Surely one's enough?
So hopefully this will keep you going until the weekend, when I can update you with some proper news. TTFN :)
Friday, 10 May 2013
Tweet tweet please retweet
A bit of a quiet week for the fifty firsts this week. It's been more about the planning of things to do than anything else.
So what have I been up to? Well, I've made sure my sunflowers got watered daily but there's no sign of life stirring in the soil as yet. Hopefully there'll be something to report next week and a chance to upload a photo of green shoots to Facebook and Twitter by next weekend.
I've also deposited my medical certificate for the skydiving with my GP and got a call back today to say it's ready for collection, so hopefully that means there is a signature attached and I can go ahead and book the event. There's only one minor contraindication in my medical history - several bouts of glue ear and grommets in my left ear over the last twelve years. Obviously the change in air pressure at altitude is likely to affect my ear, but as I'm currently waiting to go for my next biannual visit to the ENT surgeon, I can't see that it would make much difference - I'm already deaf right now and who knows, it might actually do me some good! Anyway, I pick the certificate up next week and then it's just a case of booking the date and raising some sponsorship.
I sent my first tweet to an actual person this week, so I suppose that counts as a fifty first. I singled out Zach Braff for the privilege, but the downside is that despite asking him for suggestions of things to do, I didn't get a reply or a retweet. I was hoping for one or the other in order to make it a good addition to the list. So do I count it anyway or do I persevere and only count it when someone of celebrity status replies or retweets? Perhaps I could make it into a bit of a contest and get a few A listers to go up against each other to be the first to tweet Alison's Fifty Firsts!
Sorry, just a short post this time. I'll have more to report next time, promise. Now about that celebrity tweeting, maybe @donald_faison would be worth a try, particularly if he can get one over on @zachbraff ... I'll keep you posted!
So what have I been up to? Well, I've made sure my sunflowers got watered daily but there's no sign of life stirring in the soil as yet. Hopefully there'll be something to report next week and a chance to upload a photo of green shoots to Facebook and Twitter by next weekend.
I've also deposited my medical certificate for the skydiving with my GP and got a call back today to say it's ready for collection, so hopefully that means there is a signature attached and I can go ahead and book the event. There's only one minor contraindication in my medical history - several bouts of glue ear and grommets in my left ear over the last twelve years. Obviously the change in air pressure at altitude is likely to affect my ear, but as I'm currently waiting to go for my next biannual visit to the ENT surgeon, I can't see that it would make much difference - I'm already deaf right now and who knows, it might actually do me some good! Anyway, I pick the certificate up next week and then it's just a case of booking the date and raising some sponsorship.
I sent my first tweet to an actual person this week, so I suppose that counts as a fifty first. I singled out Zach Braff for the privilege, but the downside is that despite asking him for suggestions of things to do, I didn't get a reply or a retweet. I was hoping for one or the other in order to make it a good addition to the list. So do I count it anyway or do I persevere and only count it when someone of celebrity status replies or retweets? Perhaps I could make it into a bit of a contest and get a few A listers to go up against each other to be the first to tweet Alison's Fifty Firsts!
Sorry, just a short post this time. I'll have more to report next time, promise. Now about that celebrity tweeting, maybe @donald_faison would be worth a try, particularly if he can get one over on @zachbraff ... I'll keep you posted!
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Eat your heart out Vincent van Gogh!
A bit of a quiet week this week. I have done something for the first time, but due to confidentiality issues I can't talk about it, which is a trifle frustrating!
Not to worry though, my lovely son-in-law came up with a new suggestion for me - planting, growing and nurturing some sunflowers. Now I know it doesn't sound like much, but trust me, this is quite a big deal. For as long as I can remember, right from early childhood, I have been frightened of sunflowers! Yes, I know it sounds silly and it's completely irrational, but there it is. To be fair, since my teenage years it's been more of a dislike than an actual fear, but we're not talking some sort of mild 'they're not my favourite type of flowers' kind of thing. Other people may enthuse about how the sunflower's golden tones emulate the sun, or how they provide food for birds and insects and encourage pollen distribution in the garden, but not me. As a child I remember having to pass some peering over the top of a high wall on my way to school, their giant faces leaning over to spy on me, enormous leaves moving in the breeze as if to reach down and grab me like some malevolent alien beanstalk more at home on Doctor Who and with no redeeming golden harp or bags of money at the top. I would cry at the thought of having to walk past them, pulling at my mum's hand and dragging my heels until she eventually gave up at my stubbornness and crossed to the other side of the road - only marginally better. Even worse than that, my best friend's dad insisted on growing them in his garden every year - a true test of our friendship that I still managed to go round to her house despite my anxiety. Other children might have had nightmares about monsters under the bed; for me it was giant sunflowers outside my window, tapping on the glass to try and get in.
Anyway, you'll be glad to know I've moved on from those days. I no longer cross the road to avoid sunflowers, I don't dream about them coming to get me and they haven't reduced me to tears for many years, but I still don't like them and I have never had any desire to want any in my garden. So you see how this is a bigger 'Fifty First' than it initially appeared?
Well, not one to resist a challenge, you'll be pleased to know that I've bought a packet of seeds, so that's the first step. At the weekend I'll plant some and then 'll check them every day and water them regularly. I'll even make sure that once they've germinated I keep them away from my rabbits until they're big enough to plant out in the garden. And I daresay that I can keep them past flowering to provide food for the birds in the autumn. The only problem is that when I bought the seeds in the supermarket whilst doing the weekly shop, only the dwarf variety that will grow to about a couple of feet instead of six or eight feet or more were available.
Do you think that counts?
Is it a cop out?
Do I really have to go and buy some proper giant sunflower seeds?
Not to worry though, my lovely son-in-law came up with a new suggestion for me - planting, growing and nurturing some sunflowers. Now I know it doesn't sound like much, but trust me, this is quite a big deal. For as long as I can remember, right from early childhood, I have been frightened of sunflowers! Yes, I know it sounds silly and it's completely irrational, but there it is. To be fair, since my teenage years it's been more of a dislike than an actual fear, but we're not talking some sort of mild 'they're not my favourite type of flowers' kind of thing. Other people may enthuse about how the sunflower's golden tones emulate the sun, or how they provide food for birds and insects and encourage pollen distribution in the garden, but not me. As a child I remember having to pass some peering over the top of a high wall on my way to school, their giant faces leaning over to spy on me, enormous leaves moving in the breeze as if to reach down and grab me like some malevolent alien beanstalk more at home on Doctor Who and with no redeeming golden harp or bags of money at the top. I would cry at the thought of having to walk past them, pulling at my mum's hand and dragging my heels until she eventually gave up at my stubbornness and crossed to the other side of the road - only marginally better. Even worse than that, my best friend's dad insisted on growing them in his garden every year - a true test of our friendship that I still managed to go round to her house despite my anxiety. Other children might have had nightmares about monsters under the bed; for me it was giant sunflowers outside my window, tapping on the glass to try and get in.
Anyway, you'll be glad to know I've moved on from those days. I no longer cross the road to avoid sunflowers, I don't dream about them coming to get me and they haven't reduced me to tears for many years, but I still don't like them and I have never had any desire to want any in my garden. So you see how this is a bigger 'Fifty First' than it initially appeared?
Well, not one to resist a challenge, you'll be pleased to know that I've bought a packet of seeds, so that's the first step. At the weekend I'll plant some and then 'll check them every day and water them regularly. I'll even make sure that once they've germinated I keep them away from my rabbits until they're big enough to plant out in the garden. And I daresay that I can keep them past flowering to provide food for the birds in the autumn. The only problem is that when I bought the seeds in the supermarket whilst doing the weekly shop, only the dwarf variety that will grow to about a couple of feet instead of six or eight feet or more were available.
Do you think that counts?
Is it a cop out?
Do I really have to go and buy some proper giant sunflower seeds
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
A couple more firsts
Following on from the success of my ice skating I decided to do two more sporty firsts. On Saturday 20th April, a few miles from home, my two youngest daughters and I spent a couple of hours honing our golfing skills, shooting a few arrows and generally having a good time.
I've never been a fan of golf and on the odd occasions I've tried it, have been fairly rubbish to say the least and to be honest, this was no exception. But hang on a minute I hear you say, aren't you supposed to be doing things for the first time, Alison? And here you are banging on about being rubbish at golf when you've done it before. Yes, you're absolutely right, but the deal was nine holes of pitch and putt or in my case swing, miss, swing, hit ground, search for divot to replace it, swing, miss, swing, hit ball a few feet into water, look for ball, get muddy, find ball, drop on course, swing, miss, swing ... you get the picture! This was the part I'd done before, although in my defence it was only once and many years ago, and clearly no one would have been able to tell I wasn't a novice.
So then we got to the 'fifty firsts' and after the nine holes, of which the highlight was winning 'Augusta' in four shots, we retired to the club house and stoked up on coffee before heading off to the driving range. Now I had never been to a driving range before and to be honest, despite the fact that the golf had been a whole lot more fun than I had remembered it would be, I still wasn't hugely enthusiastic. But actually it turned out to be quite a thrill - there weren't as many misses in between the swings and no divots anywhere in sight, which was a definite improvement and I managed to hit a few good shots, which actually travelled quite some distance. OK, so they weren't always in the direction I originally intended, but I didn't hit anyone and the club never left my hands. Oh, and it was so rewarding to imagine the balls were all those little niggles in life that get you down, you know, the people who have made your life unnecessarily difficult at work, the neighbours keeping you awake all night playing the same three songs over and over again at their impromptu party, which is still going strong at 5 am, those marvellous 'computer says no' moments that seem to occur right when you're in the middle of some important piece of work and you've forgotten to save - I could go on.
After the driving range it was the turn of archery. Now this was the one I had really been looking forward to. Yeah, good one - I could barely pull the arrow back, such are my weakling biceps ... and I go to the gym every week! Then I had problems actually keeping the arrow in the bow and I have to admit I was tempted to go back and ask for a child sized one. Finally I managed to shoot my first arrow, only for it to nose dive approximately 2 feet from where I was standing into the ground - I kid you not!! This was definitely NOT my forte! Anyway I persevered and I managed to hit the target twice, once in the white ring and once in the black ring - not worth counting the points though! I also mangaged to fire some longer shots with a bit more power, but struggled to combine distance and accuracy. We just won't mention the fact that the two small children, both under 5, were marginally better than me!
All in all though a very enjoyable couple of hours and two more off the list, now I've just got to work out what to do next!
I've never been a fan of golf and on the odd occasions I've tried it, have been fairly rubbish to say the least and to be honest, this was no exception. But hang on a minute I hear you say, aren't you supposed to be doing things for the first time, Alison? And here you are banging on about being rubbish at golf when you've done it before. Yes, you're absolutely right, but the deal was nine holes of pitch and putt or in my case swing, miss, swing, hit ground, search for divot to replace it, swing, miss, swing, hit ball a few feet into water, look for ball, get muddy, find ball, drop on course, swing, miss, swing ... you get the picture! This was the part I'd done before, although in my defence it was only once and many years ago, and clearly no one would have been able to tell I wasn't a novice.
So then we got to the 'fifty firsts' and after the nine holes, of which the highlight was winning 'Augusta' in four shots, we retired to the club house and stoked up on coffee before heading off to the driving range. Now I had never been to a driving range before and to be honest, despite the fact that the golf had been a whole lot more fun than I had remembered it would be, I still wasn't hugely enthusiastic. But actually it turned out to be quite a thrill - there weren't as many misses in between the swings and no divots anywhere in sight, which was a definite improvement and I managed to hit a few good shots, which actually travelled quite some distance. OK, so they weren't always in the direction I originally intended, but I didn't hit anyone and the club never left my hands. Oh, and it was so rewarding to imagine the balls were all those little niggles in life that get you down, you know, the people who have made your life unnecessarily difficult at work, the neighbours keeping you awake all night playing the same three songs over and over again at their impromptu party, which is still going strong at 5 am, those marvellous 'computer says no' moments that seem to occur right when you're in the middle of some important piece of work and you've forgotten to save - I could go on.
After the driving range it was the turn of archery. Now this was the one I had really been looking forward to. Yeah, good one - I could barely pull the arrow back, such are my weakling biceps ... and I go to the gym every week! Then I had problems actually keeping the arrow in the bow and I have to admit I was tempted to go back and ask for a child sized one. Finally I managed to shoot my first arrow, only for it to nose dive approximately 2 feet from where I was standing into the ground - I kid you not!! This was definitely NOT my forte! Anyway I persevered and I managed to hit the target twice, once in the white ring and once in the black ring - not worth counting the points though! I also mangaged to fire some longer shots with a bit more power, but struggled to combine distance and accuracy. We just won't mention the fact that the two small children, both under 5, were marginally better than me!
All in all though a very enjoyable couple of hours and two more off the list, now I've just got to work out what to do next!
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Day 1 - First of the fifty things: ice skating
So April 6th dawned and I was 50. What was worse was that I actually had to start doing all thes things I've set myself up for - somewhat daunting, particularly as the list is by no means complete!
Anyway, first on the list was ice skating and just after 7 pm we set off - me , my three daughters and my new son-in-law, fresh back from his honeymoon with his new wife, my eldest daughter. It was a fair few miles to our nearest ice rink, Gillingham Silver Blades, and on the journey I felt both apprehensive and excited - like child going on holiday for the first time. Of course my younger two daughters had enjoyed winding me up earlier in the day by telling me that when the skates are handed over you have to prove you won't be a complete liability on the ice by walking in a straight line on the carpet. I have to admit, that although it sounded like complete rubbish, a small part of me worried that it might be true and that I'd fail before even getting on the rink. I'd also worried about what to wear, how many pairs of socks I'd need to pad out the skates, whether I'd be following up the skating with a trip to the local A & E department, if I'd be the oldest person there and so on. Also, we'd planned to go to the Disco Skate - surely it was going to be hard enough to stay upright, I wasn't going to have to dance as well was I??
We arrived and parked, paid our dues and exchanged shoes for skates - no going back now. My eldest daughter confided that like me, she was also an ice skating virgin, so I felt a little reassured that I wouldn't be the only novice, but then she's got 25 years on me and you know what they say, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Happily, I'm pleased to report that this old dog did very well thank you! Oh my God, I loved it, every single second of it! I wobbled on to the ice and had a few tips from daughter number two ... lean forwards, keep your weight over the skates and for God's sake stay near the edge and avoid the small children! Luckily there weren't many small children to avoid, but they definitely had it easier with small child sized penguins to push round and hold on to. Taking one out and stealing their penguin was mighty tempting during the first few circuits! I was amazed by what good exercise and how strenuous skating is. When going round I didn't feel tired or like I was breathing any harder, but when I stopped to catch up with one of the family to compare notes on technique or lucky escapes, I was quite out of breath - and I pride myself on being reasonably fit!
By the end of the evening I was skating round quite happily like a professional novice, if not quite like a professional skater. I was able to manoeuvre round other skaters and get out of other people's way with a small amount of skill, if not style, and was overtaking in the same vein as on the motorway, although not at the same speed I hasten to add. I attempted going backwards, but that wasn't happening and I also attempted crossing one leg in front of the other. That didn't go so well either, the back leg being far too easy to get tangled with the front one, but amazingly I managed to stay upright the entire time! Well, that's not entirely true. Yes, I did actually end up on my arse on the ice, although in my defence, it was only once - right at the end of the evening, when i was standing still, about to get off the ice!! I'm not sure if that's a plus - that I didn't fall when physically skating or actually more embarrassing that I slipped when standing still ... your call!
But all in all, a resounding success. The next morning I wanted to go again, in fact I'd go every day if I could, yes, I loved it that much! So when I buy the winning Euromillions lottery ticket (and I'm saving that Fifty Firsts moment until there's a sizeable jackpot) I'll be using the money to build an ice rink here in Folkestone. Everyone should learn to skate, in fact maybe I could petition the Government to have it added to the PE curriculum ...
Anyway, first on the list was ice skating and just after 7 pm we set off - me , my three daughters and my new son-in-law, fresh back from his honeymoon with his new wife, my eldest daughter. It was a fair few miles to our nearest ice rink, Gillingham Silver Blades, and on the journey I felt both apprehensive and excited - like child going on holiday for the first time. Of course my younger two daughters had enjoyed winding me up earlier in the day by telling me that when the skates are handed over you have to prove you won't be a complete liability on the ice by walking in a straight line on the carpet. I have to admit, that although it sounded like complete rubbish, a small part of me worried that it might be true and that I'd fail before even getting on the rink. I'd also worried about what to wear, how many pairs of socks I'd need to pad out the skates, whether I'd be following up the skating with a trip to the local A & E department, if I'd be the oldest person there and so on. Also, we'd planned to go to the Disco Skate - surely it was going to be hard enough to stay upright, I wasn't going to have to dance as well was I??
We arrived and parked, paid our dues and exchanged shoes for skates - no going back now. My eldest daughter confided that like me, she was also an ice skating virgin, so I felt a little reassured that I wouldn't be the only novice, but then she's got 25 years on me and you know what they say, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Happily, I'm pleased to report that this old dog did very well thank you! Oh my God, I loved it, every single second of it! I wobbled on to the ice and had a few tips from daughter number two ... lean forwards, keep your weight over the skates and for God's sake stay near the edge and avoid the small children! Luckily there weren't many small children to avoid, but they definitely had it easier with small child sized penguins to push round and hold on to. Taking one out and stealing their penguin was mighty tempting during the first few circuits! I was amazed by what good exercise and how strenuous skating is. When going round I didn't feel tired or like I was breathing any harder, but when I stopped to catch up with one of the family to compare notes on technique or lucky escapes, I was quite out of breath - and I pride myself on being reasonably fit!
By the end of the evening I was skating round quite happily like a professional novice, if not quite like a professional skater. I was able to manoeuvre round other skaters and get out of other people's way with a small amount of skill, if not style, and was overtaking in the same vein as on the motorway, although not at the same speed I hasten to add. I attempted going backwards, but that wasn't happening and I also attempted crossing one leg in front of the other. That didn't go so well either, the back leg being far too easy to get tangled with the front one, but amazingly I managed to stay upright the entire time! Well, that's not entirely true. Yes, I did actually end up on my arse on the ice, although in my defence, it was only once - right at the end of the evening, when i was standing still, about to get off the ice!! I'm not sure if that's a plus - that I didn't fall when physically skating or actually more embarrassing that I slipped when standing still ... your call!
But all in all, a resounding success. The next morning I wanted to go again, in fact I'd go every day if I could, yes, I loved it that much! So when I buy the winning Euromillions lottery ticket (and I'm saving that Fifty Firsts moment until there's a sizeable jackpot) I'll be using the money to build an ice rink here in Folkestone. Everyone should learn to skate, in fact maybe I could petition the Government to have it added to the PE curriculum ...
Tuesday, 2 April 2013
The countdown begins!
Less than a week to go now, in fact only 3 more days! I’m planning to do more regular updates once
my year actually kicks off. I’ll be
writing about the events before and after they happen, sharing my thoughts and
feelings before I do some of the more challenging items on the list, letting
you know how they went and what actually happened and then how I’m feeling
afterwards as I cross things off the list.
I’m sure that there will be a lot of mixed pleasures along the way and
by this time next year I’ll be feeling quite emotional as I approach the end of
my list of fifty. I’m confident there
will be loads of memories to share and treasure, plenty to feel proud of and
probably also some that bring back feelings of panic!
This week I’ve made initial
enquiries about skydiving – when’s the best time, how far in advance I need to
book, what happens if the weather isn’t obliging and so on. I’m aiming for July or August for that one,
but first I have to pass the medical and get a ‘fit to fly’ certificate from my
GP. Hopefully I’ll pass and get the go
ahead.
Ten days ago my eldest daughter got
married and despite the weather it was a fabulous day. I was honoured to be the one who walked her
down the aisle to give her away and slightly nervous about doing the parent of
the bride speech, but everything went to plan.
I didn’t trip or swear as we made our way from the church doorway to the
altar and everyone laughed in all the right places during my speech. I just can’t help feeling it’s a tiny bit of
a shame that this momentous occasion didn’t take place after April 6th
though, because that could have been two things crossed off my list. Still I can’t hold it against my daughter and
her new husband – the date was chosen long before my enterprise had been
thought of.
I’m looking forward to sharing my
experiences with you and I promise not to miss out any embarrassing bits I’d
rather forget – you’ll get the whole deal, all the highs and lows of what will
hopefully be a memorable year for me!
Friday, 22 March 2013
Not long till it all kicks off!
Thanks for the suggestions from friends and family for
things to add to my fifty list – keep them coming; some interesting ones in
there – Irish dancing and writing fan fiction.
Not sure about the fan fiction, I
don’t watch a huge amount of TV to begin with, apart from Match of the Day and
I’m not sure anyone would want to read about a scenario involving Gary Lineker,
Alan Hansen and Mark Lawrenson! ER was
my biggest commitment, I don’t think I missed a single episode, but I never
quite got over the shock of discovering Ray had lost his legs! And I so didn’t want it to end – I remember
feeling quite put out when the camera panned away from everyone in the
ambulance bay, carrying on with their lives, from which I was now going to be
excluded, although I have to contend that it was probably the best and only way
for it to happen. It also means that fan
fiction could go in just about any direction.
Maybe Doug and Carol could discover that the kidney they managed to
persuade Susan Sarandon’s character to grant donation of ended up saving
Carter’s life?
Irish dancing is kind of a family
joke – well, the joke being that I like to pretend that I can do a spot of
‘Riverdancing’ in a Catherine Tate ‘Oh, I can do that!’ sort of way. Sad, I know, but I like to think it’s mildly
entertaining, or at least it might have been the first time! Maybe I ought to learn to do it properly then
– after all if Ant and Dec can do it, I’m sure I can.
Apart from that I’ve been starting
to loosely plan when I’m going to do some of the things on my list. So ice skating in early April, the Folkestone
Boxing day Dip will obviously be on Boxing Day, skydiving sometime in the
summer, having a tattoo will have to be timed for after a blood donating
session … maybe a visual calendar would be a good way to collate all the
suggestions and map them out over the year?
Of course, when I first started
thinking about doing fifty things for the first time, I thought it would be
relatively easy. For starters how hard
could it be to come up with fifty things I’d never done before? I was sure there were way more than
that. And also because it was about nine
months away at that time, it was definitely a case of there being loads of time
to plan it out and organise everything.
But time has a habit of slipping away, disappearing amongst all the
things you have to do every day, and then before you know it, you’re down to
the last few grains silently vacating the sand timer and all you can do is
watch them disappear at a seemingly ever-quickening pace, when what you really
should be doing is putting every effort into completing the task you had to
achieve before the time ran out. I turn
fifty in precisely two weeks, so in fifteen days time, my sand timer will be
turned over and those 365 days of sand grains will start to slowly allow
gravity to do its job. There will be no
turning back, no starting again, no changing my mind, only the option of
completing the fifty tasks I end up setting out for myself. No pressure then!
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