Fancy dress.

I was eight years old, the age of my first born, my eldest boy. I was invited to a fancy dress party by Rhian Glover who lived down the road. It was her birthday party. My dad, my creative and slightly wacky dad made me a costume.

I wanted a princess costume or a fairy costume or any costume that was pretty. (As I'm sure you remember, I was girly.) But no. Oh no.

I went to this party dressed as...wait for it, it deserves a drum roll, spotlight, round of applause... traffic lights. Ta-Da. Yes. I wore black trousers, a black top and a cardboard box that my dad had spent the week painting. Traffic lights. It's not clever, it's not cool. I mean who has EVER sent their kid to a fancy dress party as TRAFFIC LIGHTS?

That's not the only crazy dressing up that I've done. I've also dressed as Fred (the Homepride flour man), a bride groom, and a tramp. But traffic lights?

I have confronted my dad since about this violation of my human rights. He laughed, he practically foamed at the mouth he was so tickled. (I secretly think he'd forgotten the incident and was congratulating himself on a brilliant idea.) No doubt he would do it again in a heartbeat.

I couldn't sit down in it, it covered half my body. I couldn't play musical chairs or sleeping lions. Even musical statues was a problem. How lovely to eat your plate of party food standing in a corner on your own, while your friends wear party hats and help themselves to cheese and pineapple and iced gems.

The thing is, the crazy, stupid thing is, I am actually secretly pleased. Truth be told, I have considered doing the same for my kids, dressing them in the bizarre, the abnormal. You can imagine it, can't you. "Today Son, you are going to the party, not dressed as your favourite superhero. Oh no. Today son you are going as a lightbulb". Or a hammer. Or a signpost. Or an eye. Or an........ Excuse me while I consider the endless possibilities.

Girly wuss

"You want me to get the spider?"
This was my opening gambit this morning as I walked into the Nissan garage, where 3 men were standing with fliers, trying to guide a penny sized spider - including legs - to the door (which was a good 20 feet away.) (At least I think it was 20 feet. If I'm honest I don't have the faintest idea.)

I'm a girly kind of girl. Love pretty things. Shopping. Shoes. Pink. But when it comes to dealing with a 'man' situation (cars, garages, tool shops), I don't like looking stupid. I think the men will laugh at me, point at me, slap their thighs, pat each other on the backs whilst choking, and all because it took me a minute to park my car. (It didn't but I'm just saying.)

I don't know why I'm like this. I used to fancy myself as a tomboy kind of a girl. I'd play with my younger brother and his friends. We'd go out on our skateboards to the lane where we'd whizz down the hill and stop just before the road. Ok so the hill was gentle, the road wasn't busy and I used to sit on the skateboard (which was my brothers reject,) never stand. Too scary. And all whilst wearing a skirt. So no, not really a tomboy. But I did say I 'fancied' myself as one, not that I was.

I used to work in a very man dominated sound studio as a foley editor. I enjoyed the job but every single bloke I worked with had technical brains on them. I most definitely did not. (And still do not, FYI.) One time a Pro Tools reseller spent the day with us, demo-ing the latest kit. I sat there and played an alphabet game in my head, doing anything to numb the boredom. There was a natural pause after a few hours and I said "yes, but does it come in pink?" My colleagues laughed (in a good way) and I was allowed to leave the room. (And yes, it did.)

Anyway, I walked into the garage and was met with the spider scene. So my automatic reaction was nervous, seeing all these blokes. But my brave-o-meter kicked in and I volunteered to get the spider. One bloke looked particularly grateful but thankfully a burly chap removed it before I had a chance. I like to think i would have calmly scooped it up in my hands and glided to the door but I totally would have screamed and dropped it down my dress. (But THEY don't know that now do they?)

Grandpa.

Today would have been my Grandpas 100th birthday.

Happy birthday Grandpa.

He was a funny, sharp, interesting man, and I must say, I miss him.

When I was younger I used to play "hair tuts" with him. I'd sit him down and use my fingers to chop his hair. His, um, limited hair. (Yes, he was bald with a few tufts here and there.) Certainly never bothered my young self however.

The first time he was introduced to my husband (then boyfriend), I said
"This is my boyfriend Fitch."
My grandpa laughed and said,
"If they call him Fitch, what do they call you? Bitch?!"
Charming. But we laughed.

Every Christmas for every year of my life he would sit in the chair by the window and fall asleep after the Queen's speech, with a paper hat on his head and his mouth wide open.

We always pinched his custard creams because he would pretend to be annoyed.

He used to take us to the airport to watch the planes.

He loved Emmerdale.

The day before I had my fourth child, my first girl, I waddled in to see him in hospital. It was the last time I saw him.

He stayed on until I had my baby, then died a few days later. He never wanted to reach 100 and he certainly didn't want to receive a card from the Queen if he did. Humble, funny, interesting.

Happy birthday Grandpa x