Hello,
Looking at the small pile of presents I had accumulated over the last few weeks, I didn't think it was enough. After all it was Mr. Warehouse's birthday and whilst he hadn't asked for much or hinted at many items on his wish list, I still struggled with the little amount I did get him. In the knowledge that I wanted him to be surprised on the morning of his Birthday, I quickly hopped on Amazon and ordered a rather expensive last-minute, next-day-delivery gift. Fully able to flip in all 4 directions it is well fitted for outdoors flying. Having a flight time of about 7 minutes it has a built in camera and comes with built in guards to protect them from damage. Not something on Mr. Warehouse's wish list but something I know he would enjoy. It arrived Wednesday Morning as planned and I looked forward to the little face that would be opening it the following morning. Quickly I wrapped it up as soon as I got home and prepared for the following mornings unveiling.
Opening his presents the following morning, Mr. Warehouse was delighted with his gifts - A plastic Spiderman bowl (because he broke the ceramic one that he won in Newquay's Seaside Arcades), a leather wallet, phone case, and a 3D-VR Virtual Reality Headset, as well as the drone of course. I also had booked a table for dinner and both of us looked forward to something a bit different: A nine-course Argentinian Steak BBQ Meal. Mmm ...
And following a long and drawn out day at work I was glad to be not cooking for once. I would say that the meal itself was lovely, juice lamb racks, succulent steaks and tender chicken graced our plates along with lashings of salad, olives and halloumi, all washed down with a nice glass of wine. I was surprised at the end of the meal when the women whom has been serving us brought out a plate of towering chocolate covered profitoroles and proceeded to sing "Happy Birthday" to us in the broken English she had. As sweet as it was, for me it is not the first place that I want to go for dinner, especially in Bedford, nevertheless, Mr. Warehouse seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself and the meal which ended a wonderful birthay for him and I to share together.
As Friday approached I began to look forward to the weekend and after last week trying to meet up with my Dad to talk things over after our argument a few months ago, we finally made a date and met for breakfast on Saturday morning at a nice hotel by the river in Bedford. I think that we covered alot of ground that needed covering and in all fairness whilst we agreed on many points there were also times where I felt he was out of order. Overall though I am really glad we have had it out and whilst we didn't cover everything in depth, we both know now what we expect and want from each other and our relationship as Father and Daughter. I am now looking forward to seeing real change that we will all be happy with.
After Breakfast was done we left and Dad was kind enough to collect the Doggy and Mr. Warehouse (he had been working an overtime shift just to earn some extra money for my birthday gifts - Sweet isn't he!) and dropped us all into Marston Mortaine for another weekend with Momma Warehouse, the new boyfriend and the White-Chocolate-Eating Toy Poodle. After popping to the local shops for some provisions, Mr. Warehouse and I made our way round to his Brother's house to share in some drinks and a takeaway to celebrate him turning Twenty-Four! Enjoying the company we soon returned back to his family home where we were in bed and asleep by ten!
Sunday was a busy day though so with little or no capability for a lay-in Mr. Warehouse and I were up and ready to get the bus back home where I would have just enough time to change my top before heading back out for a driving lesson. Getting better on each two-hour-sesh I still am ropey when it comes to junctions and controls, but I am really anxious to take my test, although I am anticipating that I will not pass first time. Finishing my lesson however I made my way back to my Hometown of Houghton Regis as I was invited to celebrate Miss Tweedle-Dumb's parents Twenty-Fifth wedding anniversary. Although when I walked in at five-to-six both Miss Tweedle-Dumb and Miss Tweedle-Dee appear shocked that I had arrived not just on time but also very slightly early, and in comparison to some guests who hadn't even turned up for the surprise celebrations. Saying nothing we enjoyed each others company and I admired how a couple who had been through some up's and down's over the last quarter-century still came out strongly untied in holy matrimony. Enjoying the evening I was frustrated that I couldn't drive yet as usual it took me well over an hour to get back home, by the time of which Mr. Warehouse was already in bed.
And so comes to an end another weekend. Upcoming is the August Bank Holiday in the UK so hopefully will be making the most of it and maybe even viewing some cars!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Showing posts with label Celebrations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Celebrations. Show all posts
Monday, 22 August 2016
Monday, 25 July 2016
Ugly, Disgusting and Foul Smelling!
Hiya, How Do?
I like the Northern approach to life, it so friendly and non-threatening. I think sometimes I would pass right good for a Northernern. Ooooh, Whippets and Pies!
Nevertheless I am here to talk of my week in a less than warm Blighty. I mean whilst I did not appreciate all of the heat and humidity of last weekend I certainly did not ask for overcast skies and rainclouds for the rest of Summer 2016! Please change soon, I want to get my hopefully not so peely legs out. I suppose I experienced some of the heat this weekend since I spent most of late last week in the kitchen attempting to bake a beautiful Pool and Darts cake for an upcoming event.
Three years ago now, Mr. Warehouse and his family suffered a huge loss to their family - The Matriarch was gone. Mr. Warehouse's Grandfather AKA Momma Warehouse's Dad had passed away and had left the family in a grief I still see in my boyfriends eyes when he talks of his memories with his grandpops. Nevertheless so as to keep the tradition going and in order to help preserve his memory for generations to come, every year in the village he resided in, Marston Mortaine, They hold a special Pool and Darts afternoon followed by drinks at one of Mr. Warehouse's Uncles house across the road from the venue. I had attended last year but not brought anything but myself and after being introduced to everyone it was a bit overwhelming anyway. With a wedding only passing the weekend before we had plenty of cake to go around and as such I thought it would be a wonderful idea to make a cake myself to present to the table of honouring what would have been an amazing man to meet.
Sitting here last week I added myself to a group discussion about the memorial afternoon.evening and asked if anyone was bringing cakes or sweet treats. When no-one replied I thought I had been ignored but the following morning I had a few supporters and even more requests for different flavours. So I set to work, pottering about ideas and spending my morning commutes looking up videos and tutorials to make sure my cake blew the family away. Unfortunately I did leave it slightly late and after researching for more time than I should have been baking I set to work on Thursday night to bake the cakes needed for Saturday to come. Three batter mixes, twenty-four cupcakes cooling and three loaf tins baking I thought I had it all under control. That was until Mr. Warehouse came into the kitchen.
"Eww, whats that smell?!" he said sniffing the air surrounding the hard-at-work cooker. Joining in with the Smell-a-thon I exclaimed that my boyfriends comments were rude and unappreciated. My baking goods smelt fine and would be ready to come out of the oven soon. However some time later, the other half arrived back in the kitchen and proceeds to tel me that my baked, marble cake-loaves looked ugly and disgusting, going on to say that he, neither the seventy-odd guests would be eating 'that'. Absolutely broken I burst into tears. It was one step too far and the criticism from myself was bad enough without Mr. Warehouse jabbing the knife in and twisting it once more. Crying as I fell asleep that night my dearest Beau had eventually realised what he had said was cruel and unkind, apologising and making it up by saying that we both would have another go tomorrow. But it didn't make me feel any better about myself and with another day lost for preparation I was worried what I wanted would not be what I got.
The following morning I got up bright and early along with Mr. Warehouse and the dog, opting for making coloured icing as opposed to having a lay-in. Heading out to work I took with me the rejects of the cake party yesterday in the hope that my hungry work colleagues would go to town on them before 11am and everything would be forgotten. When asked why I had brought in such a copious amount of cake I explained to everyone that their ex-colleague and my boyfriends comments the previous evening were a result of them getting the outcasts telling them in detail about how he had called my cakes ugly, disgusting and foul smelling. Fits of laughter erupted as I was told that they smelled fine and tasted even better with one colleague even stating that maybe Mr. Warehouse was upset as it was him that was ugly, disgusting and foul smelling. This cheered me up but I did worry about the non-existent cake I was due to present the following afternoon. I had a list as long as my arm to try and get done as well as pick up a few bits before heading back to our home for the weekend at Momma Warehouse's, also in Marston Mortaine. After some much needed after works drinks and a few cigarettes over some gossip with Mr. Warehouse's Mother I set to work with Mr. Warehouse barely sticking to his promise and instead shouting a mixture of heavy criticism and basic instructions from the living room. I did not take kindly and after four hours it was finally over. I was done and the cake was finished. Not to my liking though. The details were missing such as the change slots on the side, ball viewer not to mention the cue and triangle thingymibob. I felt like a complete failure yet when Momma Warehouse saw it she welled up with tears and told me how wonderful it looked. I didn't want to upset her so became quiet with self-doubt and loathing the fact that I had only done what I had thought was a mediocre job.
Still as encouraging as ever, I woke on the morning of the memorial and hoped my driving lesson would go well enough I could come back and start on some of the features. I was lucky enough to have a fairly good lesson but with weeks to go before my Driving Exam in September I am more than bricking it, especially when I take more than a few times trying to Bay park before my driving instructor gives up and asks me to drive off somewhere else. Beating myself up about not only my inability to Bay park but also to bake and decorate a cake that doesn't look like Prince George had an input, I was certainly feeling far from great. Battling through though I dressed up and we all headed down to the venue. Presenting the Three-storey Pool Table cake and Cupcakes with mini dart boards adoring them I was pleased it was all over and as I watched people flock around it I knew I must have done something right. Noticing as the afternoon progressed that in fact they had obviously gone down a right treat, cupcakes all gone and so was the cake. Much a success. Although Mary Berry I am not.
Alls well that ends well, eh?! And I can tell you what else is worth while cracking out some cake for - Mr. Warehouse only went and bagged himself a full time permanent job earning just as much as me! Working where he is now at the Pharmaceutical Distribution place on the outskirts of town I think he is the happiest career wise he has ever been in the time I have known him. I am so pleased. Finally this means that Chrismas wont be as much of a stretch as last year and that we could finally head off to a cosy Christmas Market somewhere in Europe.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
I like the Northern approach to life, it so friendly and non-threatening. I think sometimes I would pass right good for a Northernern. Ooooh, Whippets and Pies!
Nevertheless I am here to talk of my week in a less than warm Blighty. I mean whilst I did not appreciate all of the heat and humidity of last weekend I certainly did not ask for overcast skies and rainclouds for the rest of Summer 2016! Please change soon, I want to get my hopefully not so peely legs out. I suppose I experienced some of the heat this weekend since I spent most of late last week in the kitchen attempting to bake a beautiful Pool and Darts cake for an upcoming event.
Three years ago now, Mr. Warehouse and his family suffered a huge loss to their family - The Matriarch was gone. Mr. Warehouse's Grandfather AKA Momma Warehouse's Dad had passed away and had left the family in a grief I still see in my boyfriends eyes when he talks of his memories with his grandpops. Nevertheless so as to keep the tradition going and in order to help preserve his memory for generations to come, every year in the village he resided in, Marston Mortaine, They hold a special Pool and Darts afternoon followed by drinks at one of Mr. Warehouse's Uncles house across the road from the venue. I had attended last year but not brought anything but myself and after being introduced to everyone it was a bit overwhelming anyway. With a wedding only passing the weekend before we had plenty of cake to go around and as such I thought it would be a wonderful idea to make a cake myself to present to the table of honouring what would have been an amazing man to meet.
Sitting here last week I added myself to a group discussion about the memorial afternoon.evening and asked if anyone was bringing cakes or sweet treats. When no-one replied I thought I had been ignored but the following morning I had a few supporters and even more requests for different flavours. So I set to work, pottering about ideas and spending my morning commutes looking up videos and tutorials to make sure my cake blew the family away. Unfortunately I did leave it slightly late and after researching for more time than I should have been baking I set to work on Thursday night to bake the cakes needed for Saturday to come. Three batter mixes, twenty-four cupcakes cooling and three loaf tins baking I thought I had it all under control. That was until Mr. Warehouse came into the kitchen.
"Eww, whats that smell?!" he said sniffing the air surrounding the hard-at-work cooker. Joining in with the Smell-a-thon I exclaimed that my boyfriends comments were rude and unappreciated. My baking goods smelt fine and would be ready to come out of the oven soon. However some time later, the other half arrived back in the kitchen and proceeds to tel me that my baked, marble cake-loaves looked ugly and disgusting, going on to say that he, neither the seventy-odd guests would be eating 'that'. Absolutely broken I burst into tears. It was one step too far and the criticism from myself was bad enough without Mr. Warehouse jabbing the knife in and twisting it once more. Crying as I fell asleep that night my dearest Beau had eventually realised what he had said was cruel and unkind, apologising and making it up by saying that we both would have another go tomorrow. But it didn't make me feel any better about myself and with another day lost for preparation I was worried what I wanted would not be what I got.
The following morning I got up bright and early along with Mr. Warehouse and the dog, opting for making coloured icing as opposed to having a lay-in. Heading out to work I took with me the rejects of the cake party yesterday in the hope that my hungry work colleagues would go to town on them before 11am and everything would be forgotten. When asked why I had brought in such a copious amount of cake I explained to everyone that their ex-colleague and my boyfriends comments the previous evening were a result of them getting the outcasts telling them in detail about how he had called my cakes ugly, disgusting and foul smelling. Fits of laughter erupted as I was told that they smelled fine and tasted even better with one colleague even stating that maybe Mr. Warehouse was upset as it was him that was ugly, disgusting and foul smelling. This cheered me up but I did worry about the non-existent cake I was due to present the following afternoon. I had a list as long as my arm to try and get done as well as pick up a few bits before heading back to our home for the weekend at Momma Warehouse's, also in Marston Mortaine. After some much needed after works drinks and a few cigarettes over some gossip with Mr. Warehouse's Mother I set to work with Mr. Warehouse barely sticking to his promise and instead shouting a mixture of heavy criticism and basic instructions from the living room. I did not take kindly and after four hours it was finally over. I was done and the cake was finished. Not to my liking though. The details were missing such as the change slots on the side, ball viewer not to mention the cue and triangle thingymibob. I felt like a complete failure yet when Momma Warehouse saw it she welled up with tears and told me how wonderful it looked. I didn't want to upset her so became quiet with self-doubt and loathing the fact that I had only done what I had thought was a mediocre job.
Still as encouraging as ever, I woke on the morning of the memorial and hoped my driving lesson would go well enough I could come back and start on some of the features. I was lucky enough to have a fairly good lesson but with weeks to go before my Driving Exam in September I am more than bricking it, especially when I take more than a few times trying to Bay park before my driving instructor gives up and asks me to drive off somewhere else. Beating myself up about not only my inability to Bay park but also to bake and decorate a cake that doesn't look like Prince George had an input, I was certainly feeling far from great. Battling through though I dressed up and we all headed down to the venue. Presenting the Three-storey Pool Table cake and Cupcakes with mini dart boards adoring them I was pleased it was all over and as I watched people flock around it I knew I must have done something right. Noticing as the afternoon progressed that in fact they had obviously gone down a right treat, cupcakes all gone and so was the cake. Much a success. Although Mary Berry I am not.
Alls well that ends well, eh?! And I can tell you what else is worth while cracking out some cake for - Mr. Warehouse only went and bagged himself a full time permanent job earning just as much as me! Working where he is now at the Pharmaceutical Distribution place on the outskirts of town I think he is the happiest career wise he has ever been in the time I have known him. I am so pleased. Finally this means that Chrismas wont be as much of a stretch as last year and that we could finally head off to a cosy Christmas Market somewhere in Europe.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 9 November 2015
Celebrating Terrorists And The People Who Die to Protect Us From Them
Hello and Good Morrow,
Once I was finished playing dress up and wearing scary make-up in last weeks Post I decided that a little less was definitely more - Except when it comes to my social life. And after hanging up the Little Red Riding Hood, I started to make plans for the rest of the year.
Now in England, as well as the other United Kingdom occupants we here celebrate the night of Guy Fawkes on (Remember, Remember) the fifth of November, every year. Guy Fawkes, to give you a bit of background was some bloke who in 1605 (After the Battle of Hastings where some dude called Harold II lost an eye, and before Jack The Ripper - that other dude that liked to cut women) tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, London. All because of some beef that he had with the current King of England, James I.
Turns out that the disagreement leading to the hopeful demise of King James I and all his kings men on November the 5th 1605 was actually we can all relate to in modern day society. So - Bringing it back down to street level - The thirty-five year old Fawkesy (Not an actual name, I just made that shit up for the LOLs) had decided that after growing up in a government whereby Queen Elizabeth I was going around making all these laws about being a Catholic and all Guy had enough. But luck would have it though as James I comes into power and everything would change for the better. But this was not the case and the laws that were introduced by Q.Lizzie No. 1 were now being held up and even added too by that Jammy James the first.
In a way probably very similar to that of the 2010 manifesto that was drawn up by Mr. Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats Party stating that he would make it his duty as part of a coalition government with David Cameron (Current PM) of the Conservative Party that Student Tuition fees would not increase. But oh, what was that, not even twelve-months later our little Cleggy broke that promise after being bum-raped by Cameron into raising them to over £9,000.00 a year in some cases much, much more, sending students across the country into meltdown after not only increasing fees, but pricing those on the brink of being able to afford going to Uni right out of the market. I was one of the last years that could have gone to University, but instead of putting in the hard work needed at college I opted into creating a life with my future husband-to-be, Mr. Workaholic. That ended but the anger towards the Lib Dems has not and still ensues to this day, reminding me of the one of the biggest regrets in my life.
Anyhoo, Back to the Story. What did the little Guy do (see what I did there)? Did he write a strongly worded letter? Did he protest with flaming bags of shite? No. Well Sort of. Except the shit was actually thirty-six barrels full to the brim with Gun Powder, Something Mr. Fawkes had learned how to handle well and became somewhat of a connoisseur throughout Europe. And so with only hours to spare, England's most Infamous (and probably the first) Terrorist was caught in the act. I would like to think that Guy was just down the local having a couple of bevvies with his posse waiting for things to start 'Poppin' outside when the Feds came to arrest him.
After the event was foiled, Guy Fawkes was tortured in good old fashioned style using The Rack as well as other instruments of immense pain and suffering. And 'eh, well done to the lad as he lasted two days on that thing before he uttered a word, something King James I was very impressed by. Eventually he 'fessed up and was sentenced to the highest punishment - To be hung, drawn and quartered! Unfortunately for the King and his Hitman, Guy was a little savvier than they were and as the noose was place around his neck, he jumped thus committing suicide instead and ending what would otherwise be a long and drawn out death.
And that is the story of Guy Fawkes, a terrorist in his own making. But as we left the fireworks and bonfires behind on Saturday, celebrating them with Mr. Warehouse, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb in Luton, I donned a bright red Poppy for a celebration of a different kind on Sunday, thinking of our fallen soldiers on Remembrance Day. Standing in the crowds, my Daddy behind me on his Motorbike, riding as part of the Royal British Legions Poppy Appeal I stood as proud then as I was in all the times I stood alone whilst he was either at war or with comrades delivering Poppy Wreaths to the cenotaph along Bedford's beautiful embankment.
I was reflective on how so many men, as well as women and children had died in the World Wars there had been, but moreso in the fact that since that moment we as a country had never really been out of war and at peace. Afghanistan, Bosnia, Northern Ireland, Falklands, Iraq and the Gulf. All wars that I, as a twenty-four-year-old second-generation military daughter had seen in my lifetime alone. Too much and yet for Politicians, still not enough?
I remember getting angry at the 2004 attempts at Christmas number one - A classic rendition of Bob Geldof and Midge Ure's Do they know its Christmas? One of the lines I remember vividly sang out "War is Over" and I remember thinking that "No, No its not. War is not over and I know this as fact as my father will not be spending Christmas with us that year" and as a small person it infuriated me the fact that some jumped up little hairy homeless-looking man and his Pop Princes and Princesses were trying to convey tat everything was OK and no-one was getting hurt when in reality many were dying every day.
But as I came back from the one minute silence, brought back into the room with the heart-wrenching Last Post, I caught myself pondering - When will it end? In truth, I don't think it will ever end. Politicians are too greedy now (although I doubt that even when Guy Fawkes was alive they were hardly humble-giver-backers). And then it suddenly dawned on me ... In the same weekend I had celebrated both Terrorism and Remembering those who died in conflict trying to stop it. Interesting concept I thought I would share with you all this week.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Once I was finished playing dress up and wearing scary make-up in last weeks Post I decided that a little less was definitely more - Except when it comes to my social life. And after hanging up the Little Red Riding Hood, I started to make plans for the rest of the year.
Now in England, as well as the other United Kingdom occupants we here celebrate the night of Guy Fawkes on (Remember, Remember) the fifth of November, every year. Guy Fawkes, to give you a bit of background was some bloke who in 1605 (After the Battle of Hastings where some dude called Harold II lost an eye, and before Jack The Ripper - that other dude that liked to cut women) tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, London. All because of some beef that he had with the current King of England, James I.
Turns out that the disagreement leading to the hopeful demise of King James I and all his kings men on November the 5th 1605 was actually we can all relate to in modern day society. So - Bringing it back down to street level - The thirty-five year old Fawkesy (Not an actual name, I just made that shit up for the LOLs) had decided that after growing up in a government whereby Queen Elizabeth I was going around making all these laws about being a Catholic and all Guy had enough. But luck would have it though as James I comes into power and everything would change for the better. But this was not the case and the laws that were introduced by Q.Lizzie No. 1 were now being held up and even added too by that Jammy James the first.
In a way probably very similar to that of the 2010 manifesto that was drawn up by Mr. Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats Party stating that he would make it his duty as part of a coalition government with David Cameron (Current PM) of the Conservative Party that Student Tuition fees would not increase. But oh, what was that, not even twelve-months later our little Cleggy broke that promise after being bum-raped by Cameron into raising them to over £9,000.00 a year in some cases much, much more, sending students across the country into meltdown after not only increasing fees, but pricing those on the brink of being able to afford going to Uni right out of the market. I was one of the last years that could have gone to University, but instead of putting in the hard work needed at college I opted into creating a life with my future husband-to-be, Mr. Workaholic. That ended but the anger towards the Lib Dems has not and still ensues to this day, reminding me of the one of the biggest regrets in my life.
Anyhoo, Back to the Story. What did the little Guy do (see what I did there)? Did he write a strongly worded letter? Did he protest with flaming bags of shite? No. Well Sort of. Except the shit was actually thirty-six barrels full to the brim with Gun Powder, Something Mr. Fawkes had learned how to handle well and became somewhat of a connoisseur throughout Europe. And so with only hours to spare, England's most Infamous (and probably the first) Terrorist was caught in the act. I would like to think that Guy was just down the local having a couple of bevvies with his posse waiting for things to start 'Poppin' outside when the Feds came to arrest him.
After the event was foiled, Guy Fawkes was tortured in good old fashioned style using The Rack as well as other instruments of immense pain and suffering. And 'eh, well done to the lad as he lasted two days on that thing before he uttered a word, something King James I was very impressed by. Eventually he 'fessed up and was sentenced to the highest punishment - To be hung, drawn and quartered! Unfortunately for the King and his Hitman, Guy was a little savvier than they were and as the noose was place around his neck, he jumped thus committing suicide instead and ending what would otherwise be a long and drawn out death.
And that is the story of Guy Fawkes, a terrorist in his own making. But as we left the fireworks and bonfires behind on Saturday, celebrating them with Mr. Warehouse, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb in Luton, I donned a bright red Poppy for a celebration of a different kind on Sunday, thinking of our fallen soldiers on Remembrance Day. Standing in the crowds, my Daddy behind me on his Motorbike, riding as part of the Royal British Legions Poppy Appeal I stood as proud then as I was in all the times I stood alone whilst he was either at war or with comrades delivering Poppy Wreaths to the cenotaph along Bedford's beautiful embankment.
I was reflective on how so many men, as well as women and children had died in the World Wars there had been, but moreso in the fact that since that moment we as a country had never really been out of war and at peace. Afghanistan, Bosnia, Northern Ireland, Falklands, Iraq and the Gulf. All wars that I, as a twenty-four-year-old second-generation military daughter had seen in my lifetime alone. Too much and yet for Politicians, still not enough?
I remember getting angry at the 2004 attempts at Christmas number one - A classic rendition of Bob Geldof and Midge Ure's Do they know its Christmas? One of the lines I remember vividly sang out "War is Over" and I remember thinking that "No, No its not. War is not over and I know this as fact as my father will not be spending Christmas with us that year" and as a small person it infuriated me the fact that some jumped up little hairy homeless-looking man and his Pop Princes and Princesses were trying to convey tat everything was OK and no-one was getting hurt when in reality many were dying every day.
But as I came back from the one minute silence, brought back into the room with the heart-wrenching Last Post, I caught myself pondering - When will it end? In truth, I don't think it will ever end. Politicians are too greedy now (although I doubt that even when Guy Fawkes was alive they were hardly humble-giver-backers). And then it suddenly dawned on me ... In the same weekend I had celebrated both Terrorism and Remembering those who died in conflict trying to stop it. Interesting concept I thought I would share with you all this week.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 22 December 2014
Twas The Night Before Christmas ...
Hello and Good Evening One and All,
Bloggers Note: As a clear explanation to those of you reading from last week, I am fully appreciative of your comments and adore how you all keep in contact with me, however I can assure you that I am, and have been fully faithful to my boyfriend, Mr. Warehouse and as the before mentioned blog post states (The Argument that was not an Argument) I merely felt the gravitational pull. I did not, nor did I in any which way intend to act on such impulses without prior discussion with my Boyfriend. Mr. Warehouse is fully aware of what happened the moment I returned to him and then again the morning after, as well as also reading it once published, but many thanks for the concern :) - - - Love A.Lou xx
So after last weekend's debauchery I was in desperate need of taking things easy and having a bit of a relaxing weekend at home, leisurely getting ready for the Christmas/New Year take-over that is to ensue over the next few weeks. I am sure though that partying my way through Saturday evening and into the wee-small hours was not what I had in mind, especially not for the venue in mind.
After a busy day wrapping presents and journeying back and fourth between my flat and the house Mr. Warehouse shares with his mom and fluffy Labrador, I was ready for a well deserved drink - Or three. The local village pub was having a disco and with 'The X Factor' finally over for another year, myself and Mr. Warehouse succumbed to Mr. CWG's offer of a good time. Recalling the horror that was Halloween night and just how much of a flop that was my boyfriend and I were hardly expecting much more than a corny DJ belting out Michael Jackson hits and the dance-floor being emptier than a poor man's wallet. So with no other plans on the horizon I hoofed on my glad rags, assembled my eyelashes and perched myself in black heels. I was ready. Overdressed, yes. But ready all the same.
The cold December air hit us as Mr. Warehouse and I stepped out onto the pavement. The night was clear and whilst I had two pairs of tights on I could still feel the chill. Not letting on and braving it out we headed towards the warmth of the boozer, making small talk all the way. Standing outside together as I finished my cigarette we peered through the sash windows to discover the dance-floor was bustling and the bar was busy. 'Maybe tonight will be a good night?' I thought to myself. Taking one last drag and squishing out the butt with my heels I joined Mr. Warehouse and as he always did, allowed me to walk into the place first. Making somewhat of an impression (what with bare legs and a exceedingly tight, short tartan dress) I turned to attach myself to my partner in crime.
Getting the drinks in, Mr. CWG updated us all on a guy standing with one of his girl pals at the bar. He had arrived recently and been in the village about a fortnight (Yes it is that sort of village in which everyone knows everyone and everything). After failing to bed one of Mr. CWG's female friends, this mystery man had made his way onto a young lady I had met a few times when drinking with Mr. CWG and co. She was a local also and someone to be brutally honest with I did not warm to very much after our initial few encounters. But after hearing how scared she was and how this out-of-town douche-bag was acting towards her I thought that I would be the bigger person, putting aside my opinions and any animosity between us I made sure that I was near her and had my eye on him just in case he tried anything. Maybe tonight was the night to build bridges?!
Haha, isn't it funny how you form opinions of people when you first meet them and ninety-nine-percent of the time you are correct. You see, not even an hour after arriving and already there was drama unfolding. It was like being in an episode of Eastenders. As I went to the toilet I found a very scared, timid and worried little person. It was the girl from earlier. Apparently the mysterious thug had been eluding to her going home with him and saying to everyone that they were an item. Despite her previously trying to defend and almost befriend the pitiful man that everyone wanted out she seemed genuinely shaken. As she held out a quivering hand and warily asked through panicked tones if the prick had gone yet I decided to start afresh and took it, telling her that everything was going to be OK. Whilst I was certainly no regular, I knew that the small village pub contained enough locals to deal with this creep and make sure he never stepped foot in the establishment again. He had already nearly upset a regular at the bar when he tried to elbow him in the face. It was taken to another level though when Mr. Warehouse got involved. Standing at the bar waiting to be served, a click was heard. Turns out the Crim had taken a photo of the owner and for some odd reason of which I still don't know this seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back. As I held the petrified girls hand in the Loo's a brawl was unfolding outside.
Apparently my brave Mr. Warehouse asked the gentleman what he was doing taking a picture of the owner, and although this was the start of a fight, because this story is set in a small quintessential country pub I can imagine the opening lines being very British and well spoken. Without saying a word, the beastly convict stood back and squared up to my man. Even now as I retell the tale, I imagined them Peacocking before the first swipe is taken. But just as the first fist's flew, the drunkard was escorted out of the building and onto the cold concrete outside, never to be seen again. But this night was far from the end.
As the girl and I appeared from the ladies bathroom there was a buzz about the place. I returned to my boyfriend's side only to find him agitated and lightly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I placed a soft kiss upon his cheek and I could feel the film of sweat forming as a result of the anticipated dual. As I was told the story of what I had missed I watched as the actions were played out by hand, I saw from the corner of my eye though I was watching a much better performance. With only minutes passed since I found a cowering female in the bathroom, scared for what a random stranger would do, she was now downing drinks and dancing like nothing had happened at all. It was at this point I felt my opinions wane. It was later on that my overall sentiment towards Little Miss Oscar completely faded when she knowingly pocketed my lighter. BFF's I think not!
Continuing the night though, we were joined by another work colleague of Mr. Warehouse and Mr. CWG and his other half whom was absolutely lovely in comparison to the other ladies I had encountered that night, including a gargantuan lady who had tried several times to hit on Mr. Warehouse, both on Halloween and again at Saturday night's Disco. Not knowing anyone I took her under my wing and we became instant friends. I hope to see her again sometime as see seems really nice and someone I would love to get to know more. Dancing the night away we jived to the Macarena, The Cha Cha Slide and more Cheesey Classics reserved for Weddings and events such as this one. Drinking more and more and more, Mr. Warehouse and I noticed a certain Mr. CWG getting very, very wobbly, Watching Mr. CWG dance like a T-Rex with a shotgun wound and blowing kisses like a five-year-old was hilarious but we both knew that it would be our shoulders he was being carried home on later. And soon enough whilst having a heart to heart outside with a pub-goer, Mr. CWG stumbled through the doors and decided to prop himself up against the hard brick wall. Eventually he was slumped over it and seeing he was about to throw up I rushed to his aid, rubbing his back and making sure this time, my shoes and handbag were out the firing line.
And so the night was concluded with a long walk home, a drunken hooligan and the promises of a double-date on the cards for me and my new found friend and our other halves. Wandering back down the country roads, listening to the birds sing in the early hours of Sunday morning I realised just how much of a good night I had. It was simple but entertainingly eventful to say the least. So if Saturday night was anything to go by then roll on the party season and get into the spirit of things because in a matter of hours ... IT'S CHRISTMAAAS!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Bloggers Note: As a clear explanation to those of you reading from last week, I am fully appreciative of your comments and adore how you all keep in contact with me, however I can assure you that I am, and have been fully faithful to my boyfriend, Mr. Warehouse and as the before mentioned blog post states (The Argument that was not an Argument) I merely felt the gravitational pull. I did not, nor did I in any which way intend to act on such impulses without prior discussion with my Boyfriend. Mr. Warehouse is fully aware of what happened the moment I returned to him and then again the morning after, as well as also reading it once published, but many thanks for the concern :) - - - Love A.Lou xx
So after last weekend's debauchery I was in desperate need of taking things easy and having a bit of a relaxing weekend at home, leisurely getting ready for the Christmas/New Year take-over that is to ensue over the next few weeks. I am sure though that partying my way through Saturday evening and into the wee-small hours was not what I had in mind, especially not for the venue in mind.
After a busy day wrapping presents and journeying back and fourth between my flat and the house Mr. Warehouse shares with his mom and fluffy Labrador, I was ready for a well deserved drink - Or three. The local village pub was having a disco and with 'The X Factor' finally over for another year, myself and Mr. Warehouse succumbed to Mr. CWG's offer of a good time. Recalling the horror that was Halloween night and just how much of a flop that was my boyfriend and I were hardly expecting much more than a corny DJ belting out Michael Jackson hits and the dance-floor being emptier than a poor man's wallet. So with no other plans on the horizon I hoofed on my glad rags, assembled my eyelashes and perched myself in black heels. I was ready. Overdressed, yes. But ready all the same.
The cold December air hit us as Mr. Warehouse and I stepped out onto the pavement. The night was clear and whilst I had two pairs of tights on I could still feel the chill. Not letting on and braving it out we headed towards the warmth of the boozer, making small talk all the way. Standing outside together as I finished my cigarette we peered through the sash windows to discover the dance-floor was bustling and the bar was busy. 'Maybe tonight will be a good night?' I thought to myself. Taking one last drag and squishing out the butt with my heels I joined Mr. Warehouse and as he always did, allowed me to walk into the place first. Making somewhat of an impression (what with bare legs and a exceedingly tight, short tartan dress) I turned to attach myself to my partner in crime.
Getting the drinks in, Mr. CWG updated us all on a guy standing with one of his girl pals at the bar. He had arrived recently and been in the village about a fortnight (Yes it is that sort of village in which everyone knows everyone and everything). After failing to bed one of Mr. CWG's female friends, this mystery man had made his way onto a young lady I had met a few times when drinking with Mr. CWG and co. She was a local also and someone to be brutally honest with I did not warm to very much after our initial few encounters. But after hearing how scared she was and how this out-of-town douche-bag was acting towards her I thought that I would be the bigger person, putting aside my opinions and any animosity between us I made sure that I was near her and had my eye on him just in case he tried anything. Maybe tonight was the night to build bridges?!
Haha, isn't it funny how you form opinions of people when you first meet them and ninety-nine-percent of the time you are correct. You see, not even an hour after arriving and already there was drama unfolding. It was like being in an episode of Eastenders. As I went to the toilet I found a very scared, timid and worried little person. It was the girl from earlier. Apparently the mysterious thug had been eluding to her going home with him and saying to everyone that they were an item. Despite her previously trying to defend and almost befriend the pitiful man that everyone wanted out she seemed genuinely shaken. As she held out a quivering hand and warily asked through panicked tones if the prick had gone yet I decided to start afresh and took it, telling her that everything was going to be OK. Whilst I was certainly no regular, I knew that the small village pub contained enough locals to deal with this creep and make sure he never stepped foot in the establishment again. He had already nearly upset a regular at the bar when he tried to elbow him in the face. It was taken to another level though when Mr. Warehouse got involved. Standing at the bar waiting to be served, a click was heard. Turns out the Crim had taken a photo of the owner and for some odd reason of which I still don't know this seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back. As I held the petrified girls hand in the Loo's a brawl was unfolding outside.
Apparently my brave Mr. Warehouse asked the gentleman what he was doing taking a picture of the owner, and although this was the start of a fight, because this story is set in a small quintessential country pub I can imagine the opening lines being very British and well spoken. Without saying a word, the beastly convict stood back and squared up to my man. Even now as I retell the tale, I imagined them Peacocking before the first swipe is taken. But just as the first fist's flew, the drunkard was escorted out of the building and onto the cold concrete outside, never to be seen again. But this night was far from the end.
As the girl and I appeared from the ladies bathroom there was a buzz about the place. I returned to my boyfriend's side only to find him agitated and lightly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I placed a soft kiss upon his cheek and I could feel the film of sweat forming as a result of the anticipated dual. As I was told the story of what I had missed I watched as the actions were played out by hand, I saw from the corner of my eye though I was watching a much better performance. With only minutes passed since I found a cowering female in the bathroom, scared for what a random stranger would do, she was now downing drinks and dancing like nothing had happened at all. It was at this point I felt my opinions wane. It was later on that my overall sentiment towards Little Miss Oscar completely faded when she knowingly pocketed my lighter. BFF's I think not!
Continuing the night though, we were joined by another work colleague of Mr. Warehouse and Mr. CWG and his other half whom was absolutely lovely in comparison to the other ladies I had encountered that night, including a gargantuan lady who had tried several times to hit on Mr. Warehouse, both on Halloween and again at Saturday night's Disco. Not knowing anyone I took her under my wing and we became instant friends. I hope to see her again sometime as see seems really nice and someone I would love to get to know more. Dancing the night away we jived to the Macarena, The Cha Cha Slide and more Cheesey Classics reserved for Weddings and events such as this one. Drinking more and more and more, Mr. Warehouse and I noticed a certain Mr. CWG getting very, very wobbly, Watching Mr. CWG dance like a T-Rex with a shotgun wound and blowing kisses like a five-year-old was hilarious but we both knew that it would be our shoulders he was being carried home on later. And soon enough whilst having a heart to heart outside with a pub-goer, Mr. CWG stumbled through the doors and decided to prop himself up against the hard brick wall. Eventually he was slumped over it and seeing he was about to throw up I rushed to his aid, rubbing his back and making sure this time, my shoes and handbag were out the firing line.
And so the night was concluded with a long walk home, a drunken hooligan and the promises of a double-date on the cards for me and my new found friend and our other halves. Wandering back down the country roads, listening to the birds sing in the early hours of Sunday morning I realised just how much of a good night I had. It was simple but entertainingly eventful to say the least. So if Saturday night was anything to go by then roll on the party season and get into the spirit of things because in a matter of hours ... IT'S CHRISTMAAAS!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 15 September 2014
Life Should Be Lived
Evening One and All,
Life and it should be lived.
This exactly what I told myself when a certain someone pinged into my inbox Wednesday lunchtime. Reading the message and slamming it back down on the already unstable table in the small kitchen at work I noted a concerned look from Mr. Warehouse. Knowing I was unable to lie to him successfully I began to explain myself and my sudden outburst. My African Babybel had text me. I was angry. What made it worse was the now dulling affection that I had for him still lingered. Explaining everything I was judged immediately and told to block, dispose and delete Mr. Cheese from my life. Easier said than done but actually over the past fortnight I have found it is getting easier. More-so now that I know he isn't a ten minute drive from my bed.
Lets face it. What was really good about it? I am sure that I don't need to divulge to those that are regular readers that between the sheets was chillier than I would have liked, especially for a couple less than a year into a relationship. It wasn't great really was it. Mr. Cheese was never the man I would marry, my baby-daddy or the person I would spend my golden years progressively hating but continue loving. No. It was a nice thought that I stumbled across many a time but something I knew was unachievable. I wish it was different but it is not. Miss Tweedle-Dumb said to me the other day something that hit a nerve and something that I never had thought about before. She said that "Mr. Cheese never loved you like you knew love before. Mr. Workaholic was your everything as were you for him but with Mr. Cheese it was never even close". I fully understood what she was trying to say and in all honesty I think it was true. Mr. Cheese never loved me, despite how much I wanted him to. But on the one hand maybe that was a good thing, protecting me in the long run from myself and my own ideologies.
Wednesday Afternoon was not wasn't the first time I had heard from Mr. Cheese and it certainly would not be the last for as the sun set on a Saturday evening another dreaded ping sounded my eardrums. Light conversation ensued and with it some tit-bits of information on how life was in the waste-land of Ghana. I could tell that he was missing home and also my company but this had to stop. I did something I had promised myself I would not do. And as I began scratching at the surface of my smartphone, I wrote:
"I really didn’t want to do this but I feel now that I have to in order to gain some control of the situation. I love you and you will always have a piece of my heart but I can not carry on like this. I need to move on. I desperately wanted it to work for us but it was you who ended it, not me. You only have yourself to blame. I am sorry that things didn’t work out for us but that was your own doing and now I am afraid you will have to deal with the consequences of your actions. There is not a moment in my day in which you are not in my thoughts but you gave me up remember and I can’t continue with this any longer. I will always be here for you and your family should you ever need me but I cannot and will not wait forever. I deserve more than this. I'm Sorry."
And with that my wings came yet again. As strong as they were before I finally renounced Mr. Cheese and found myself rising above his egotistically hedonistic reply. I did deserve better. "If Mr. Cheese can't love me then he shall have to let go so that I can find someone that will" I thought to myself. Yeah! Fuck you man! I thought as I continued with my new obsession - American Horror Story! If Mr. Cheese couldn't satisfy me in every way then why the hell am I still getting hung up on it. I need to build a bridge and get the fuck over it!
Feeling empowered I turned to my growing little black book and primly placed at the top of that list (at present anyway) is Mr. ToyBoy himself! Ever since our blissful First Date a few weeks ago I had been desperate to see him again. Sadly though the messages have been fleeting and it seemed almost as though our second date was just a bunch of words said to end our first encounter on a favourable note. Approaching this subject with tenderness I asked Mr. ToyBoy why it was that we were postponing our Second Date a third time. Bracing myself for an honest rejection from someone nearly four-years my junior I opened the text. To my surprise it was completely on the contrary. Compliments and apologies aside, between the lines Mr. ToyBoy seemed almost upset at not being able to keep to our earlier appointments and was feeling anxious in wanting to go on a Dinner Date with me. So we have agreed that whilst we have both been busy with work, friends, family and school - I mean college - we will hopefully rearrange our date for the weekend after my birthday. After all rescheduling is what I do for a living.
Rescheduling however will not be on my to do list come Friday night when my weekend of celebrations continue. Whilst Thursday will be the day in which we all mourn another year towards my death, Friday will be party time as myself and a whole bunch of guys and gals from work will be hitting Bedford Town Centre to get down and get funky with the best of 'em! Saturday morning I plan on waking with a size-nine in my bed and after shoving him out the door I shall nurse a fuzzy head whilst sipping fresh coffee and snaffling up the rest of my Subway like a slob until my girls arrive. Dressed to the nines in what I hope to be fancy-dress, I shall yet again be set loose onto the streets of Bedfordshire in the hope that many shots shall be swallowed and many a man shall be flirted with. Sunday Morning will be a time for reflection as I shall bid farewell to the partying antics for another year and head back home to my Grandparents house in Luton to visit family and take sanctuary in a good old roast dinner with all the trimmings and a good old chin-wag with Nanny.
And whilst I am excited for the merriment, I am also well aware of a phone call from someone less than festive. Mother shall be calling. Something I know she takes great pride in doing every year. Not only for the fact that she can spoil one of the only days in the year I get to take pleasure in but also the fact that together with my Father she birthed me and so has a small role in my creation which she feels the need to reinstate every year. I am however prepared for it as I always am. I shall be at work and my schedule is looking busy with meetings all day, a steady flow of paperwork to get through and other activities to keep me occupied I am positive that I will not let her burden my day any more than the minutes she wastes breathing to me words of many happy birthday returns, all laced with poison and hate.
And so I must dash. I have a million and one things to do before the euphoria begins and one of them is sorting out what I am going to wear on Friday along with the theme for Saturday, preparing food and drink for Saturday night, doing the washing, making sure the toilet is scrubbed and ensuring that those roots are touched up! So much to do and so little time - I wouldn't have it any other way!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Life and it should be lived.
This exactly what I told myself when a certain someone pinged into my inbox Wednesday lunchtime. Reading the message and slamming it back down on the already unstable table in the small kitchen at work I noted a concerned look from Mr. Warehouse. Knowing I was unable to lie to him successfully I began to explain myself and my sudden outburst. My African Babybel had text me. I was angry. What made it worse was the now dulling affection that I had for him still lingered. Explaining everything I was judged immediately and told to block, dispose and delete Mr. Cheese from my life. Easier said than done but actually over the past fortnight I have found it is getting easier. More-so now that I know he isn't a ten minute drive from my bed.
Lets face it. What was really good about it? I am sure that I don't need to divulge to those that are regular readers that between the sheets was chillier than I would have liked, especially for a couple less than a year into a relationship. It wasn't great really was it. Mr. Cheese was never the man I would marry, my baby-daddy or the person I would spend my golden years progressively hating but continue loving. No. It was a nice thought that I stumbled across many a time but something I knew was unachievable. I wish it was different but it is not. Miss Tweedle-Dumb said to me the other day something that hit a nerve and something that I never had thought about before. She said that "Mr. Cheese never loved you like you knew love before. Mr. Workaholic was your everything as were you for him but with Mr. Cheese it was never even close". I fully understood what she was trying to say and in all honesty I think it was true. Mr. Cheese never loved me, despite how much I wanted him to. But on the one hand maybe that was a good thing, protecting me in the long run from myself and my own ideologies.
Wednesday Afternoon was not wasn't the first time I had heard from Mr. Cheese and it certainly would not be the last for as the sun set on a Saturday evening another dreaded ping sounded my eardrums. Light conversation ensued and with it some tit-bits of information on how life was in the waste-land of Ghana. I could tell that he was missing home and also my company but this had to stop. I did something I had promised myself I would not do. And as I began scratching at the surface of my smartphone, I wrote:
"I really didn’t want to do this but I feel now that I have to in order to gain some control of the situation. I love you and you will always have a piece of my heart but I can not carry on like this. I need to move on. I desperately wanted it to work for us but it was you who ended it, not me. You only have yourself to blame. I am sorry that things didn’t work out for us but that was your own doing and now I am afraid you will have to deal with the consequences of your actions. There is not a moment in my day in which you are not in my thoughts but you gave me up remember and I can’t continue with this any longer. I will always be here for you and your family should you ever need me but I cannot and will not wait forever. I deserve more than this. I'm Sorry."
And with that my wings came yet again. As strong as they were before I finally renounced Mr. Cheese and found myself rising above his egotistically hedonistic reply. I did deserve better. "If Mr. Cheese can't love me then he shall have to let go so that I can find someone that will" I thought to myself. Yeah! Fuck you man! I thought as I continued with my new obsession - American Horror Story! If Mr. Cheese couldn't satisfy me in every way then why the hell am I still getting hung up on it. I need to build a bridge and get the fuck over it!
Feeling empowered I turned to my growing little black book and primly placed at the top of that list (at present anyway) is Mr. ToyBoy himself! Ever since our blissful First Date a few weeks ago I had been desperate to see him again. Sadly though the messages have been fleeting and it seemed almost as though our second date was just a bunch of words said to end our first encounter on a favourable note. Approaching this subject with tenderness I asked Mr. ToyBoy why it was that we were postponing our Second Date a third time. Bracing myself for an honest rejection from someone nearly four-years my junior I opened the text. To my surprise it was completely on the contrary. Compliments and apologies aside, between the lines Mr. ToyBoy seemed almost upset at not being able to keep to our earlier appointments and was feeling anxious in wanting to go on a Dinner Date with me. So we have agreed that whilst we have both been busy with work, friends, family and school - I mean college - we will hopefully rearrange our date for the weekend after my birthday. After all rescheduling is what I do for a living.
Rescheduling however will not be on my to do list come Friday night when my weekend of celebrations continue. Whilst Thursday will be the day in which we all mourn another year towards my death, Friday will be party time as myself and a whole bunch of guys and gals from work will be hitting Bedford Town Centre to get down and get funky with the best of 'em! Saturday morning I plan on waking with a size-nine in my bed and after shoving him out the door I shall nurse a fuzzy head whilst sipping fresh coffee and snaffling up the rest of my Subway like a slob until my girls arrive. Dressed to the nines in what I hope to be fancy-dress, I shall yet again be set loose onto the streets of Bedfordshire in the hope that many shots shall be swallowed and many a man shall be flirted with. Sunday Morning will be a time for reflection as I shall bid farewell to the partying antics for another year and head back home to my Grandparents house in Luton to visit family and take sanctuary in a good old roast dinner with all the trimmings and a good old chin-wag with Nanny.
And whilst I am excited for the merriment, I am also well aware of a phone call from someone less than festive. Mother shall be calling. Something I know she takes great pride in doing every year. Not only for the fact that she can spoil one of the only days in the year I get to take pleasure in but also the fact that together with my Father she birthed me and so has a small role in my creation which she feels the need to reinstate every year. I am however prepared for it as I always am. I shall be at work and my schedule is looking busy with meetings all day, a steady flow of paperwork to get through and other activities to keep me occupied I am positive that I will not let her burden my day any more than the minutes she wastes breathing to me words of many happy birthday returns, all laced with poison and hate.
And so I must dash. I have a million and one things to do before the euphoria begins and one of them is sorting out what I am going to wear on Friday along with the theme for Saturday, preparing food and drink for Saturday night, doing the washing, making sure the toilet is scrubbed and ensuring that those roots are touched up! So much to do and so little time - I wouldn't have it any other way!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
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