Tag Archives: london

Not so great expectations…

26 Mar



What a fucking pain in the arse they are. Why do we do it to ourselves? Why do we naturally set ourselves up with a whole load of expectations which rarely, if ever, match up. I have been guilty of this my whole life. I’m famous for my “movie moment” imaginings and expectations that somehow a Richard Curtis style moment will happen upon my life and everything will be wonderful.

I’ve come to realise that this ‘great expectation-itus’ which I suffer from is probably linked to my positivity, because my positivity massively over rides any negativity in most situations and so stops me from being realistic. (It took hours of thinking, a chalkboard and some serious Einstein doodles to figure that one out). My ‘great expectation-itus’ theory states that instead of being realistic I over hype something to such an extent that I will only ever be disappointed, it is my positivity that is my actual downfall. I put great expectations onto almost everything – myself, my body, my job, friendships, relationships – I have these huge expectations that everything will be wonderful, that it’s all going to be fine, gloriously Richard Curtis technicolor, fine. And it very rarely is.

Dam him and his wonderful movie moments. The simple truth is they do not happen. Life happens. And the only expectation we can really expect, is that it’s going to be a bit crap sometimes, then other times it might be ok, quite nice or pretty good even. But that’s where it ends.

Right now those highly positive expectations that everything will be fine, well they have evaporated. I am so over this C-monkey roller coaster. I want to get off. I want a cancer holiday. A break from all the crap in my head, a day when it’s not in my thoughts. A respite from the niggling uncomfortable pain I still get. A time out from the daily view of what my body now looks like and the everyday exhaustion of convincing myself that everything looks fine. That I am fine. When the truth is there are days when I’m not fine. Not at all.

I would pay a serious amount of money to just go back, just for one day, to enjoy the old me, the old body that I gave such a hard time to – why can’t I be thinner, a bit taller, more gazelle like and less chubby bambi?!. God I could slap myself for all the times I put my body down pre BC. The truth is I’d give anything to go back and marvel at how truly brilliant it was. Not because it was perfect, but because it was mine, all mine and every wobble and curve was just the way it was supposed to be. I would go back and be so utterly grateful.

I am fully aware that I’m in a funk right now. This is not me. This is a tired, pissed off me, a me filled with head cold and sadness. This is the me that has also has a horrible feeling that I am going to need another operation. Operation number sodding five. I’ve had an operation pretty much every other month now for the last 7months and I am beyond over it! Stop the ride I want to get off. Now!

And if one more person tells me I’m nearly there and that this will hopefully be the last one….well, I will just smile nicely then punch them in the face. Hard. Because that doesn’t mean anything. Not any more. It’s still another operation, its still more general anaesthetic being pumped in me, more recovery rooms and morphine shakes, more pain, more bruising, more swelling and adjusting to yet another scar. It just royally sucks ass in every way, every single time. And I’m exhausted from it all. Exhausted at trying to stay positive and exhausted from keeping those great expectations and the ‘I’m fine’ sing-a-long going.

Ok this funk is not a good one, but I don’t care. I’m sitting right in it, like a teenager with a massive strop on. I am fed up. For anyone reading this about to tell me how lucky I am, I know ok! I know that I am lucky, lucky that it was caught early, lucky that my treatment is nearing an end, lucky that I’m even here to have a strop in the first place. I know all of that. I honestly do. I am grateful every single day for that. It will never leave me. I know there are millions of people who would swap everything they have to change places with me and be nearing the end of this crappy journey called Cancer, I know that and it makes me hate it all the more.

That’s right, I hate it! Absolutely, completely and utterly hate it. I hate that it was me, that it happened to me, that it’s still happening to me. I hate that it happens to anyone. I hate that horrible word and the way it can come in to your life and change everything, in one tiny horrifying moment.

I hate that it happened and I don’t care if that makes me a bad person. Like the teenager who’s slammed their bedroom door, turned up the music and screamed  “I hate you” to their parents, I am raging at that god forsaken word and everything it’s done to me – to everyone – it’s ever affected.

So for now, my great expectations that everything will be ok, that my body will sort itself out, that the operations will come to an end, that I will be able to keep everything in check with a bucket of positivity – well they can take a running jump. Great Expectations do not belong here. Not today.

Today I am slamming my door. Turning up my music and screaming my head off.

I bloody hate cancer. And no magical movie moment will ever make that ok.

Dear Mum, you drive me crazy but…

8 Mar

Mothers Day

So I’ve been raking my brains for what to get my mum for Mother’s day. I could go down the token flowers / bubbles / smellies route (yawn) but the flowers will die, the bubbles will be drunk (probably quite quickly knowing mum) and the smellies will be added to the heap that’s currently gathering dust on her bathroom shelf.

Instead I thought I’d try something a bit different, I thought I’d write her letter and share it with the world so that she knows just how much I love her and how truly wonderful I think she is……so here it is…

Dear Mum,

So with Mother’s Day just around the corner I’ve been thinking of how I could possibly start to say thank you for being such a wonderful mum. The truth is I’m not sure I can. For as long as I can remember you’ve been there for me, guiding me along this crazy, fun, stupid and often terrifying road called life. Fulfilling the role of both Mum and Dad for most of my life you’ve shown me how to be a good person, how to keep smiling when everything seems to be falling around my ears, how to be caring and loving, how to stay positive, how to laugh at myself, how to stay strong and the biggest life lesson of all….that there really is no situation that can’t be tackled if you have a glass of wine in your hand!

When I was told I had breast cancer I walked out of the hospital feeling shocked, scared and broken. The first person I called was you. I can’t remember a time in my life when this wasn’t my natural reaction – every grazed knee, every trip to hospital (could you have had a more accident prone daughter?!), the multiple car prangs, the broken hearts, the bad days at work, the friendship wobbles, the ‘I’m moving house (again) will you help me’ call, the fashion dilemmas or recipe questions (your four cheese lasagne is the best in the world, fact!). Whatever the situation, whatever the question, the first person I want to call is you and somehow you always have the answer.

So on that horrible day when I got the news, it was your voice that I needed to hear, it was you I needed to see. And there you were, just a few hours later having run out of work and jumped on the first train from Bumpkin land to the big smoke with nothing but your handbag and a pair of knickers. When I met you at the station and we stood there on the platform hugging and sobbing I knew somehow it would be ok, because you’re my mum, and somehow you always manage to make everything ok. Then you got the wine out and I really knew we’d be fine.

“Supportive” is you through and through. You are a rock to so many people, me and Lulu, the girls, the whole family in fact, not forgetting your friends and colleagues. Everyone knows they can rely on you to be there, to give them a hug, to listen, to laugh, to pour the wine and to just be there. You are patient and kind and always see in the good in people. You’ve never gotten really angry despite the million times you could have ‘Yes sorry mum, I did have a house party when you told me not too, um yes I have pierced my ear, again, yeap I’ve crashed the car, again, oh and I’m really sorry but I’ve lost your camera, oh and the new camera you got to replace the one you lost, I’ve broken it, sorry, and um yes I did loose your wedding ring when I wore it to school once for a play….(What a nightmare daughter I was!)

Don’t get me wrong for all your loveliness, you also drive me completely crazy! Your inability to operate anything remotely technical is ridiculous, especially but not limited to; remote controls, hospital beds (don’t get me started on this one!), my car, my washing machine and the list goes on….You do my head in with your inability to start a sentence without the use of phrases like “At the end of the day”, “Can I just say” and “Yes but, lets be honest….”- like you’re going to lie to me?! And no, for the hundredth time, I don’t know ‘So and so, who used to live next door to such and such, who’s cousin went to school with that girl down the road, who’s dog looked a bit like ours…’ No, afraid not, I have literally no idea who the hell you’re talking about and never will.

You are also highly embarrassing, like all good mums should be. Last Easter being the perfect example. In a moment of pure ’embarrassing mum madness’ you called my office and asked the person on the other end of the phone if they’d mind popping out to Sainsbury’s to buy me an Easter egg, because you’d forgotten to put one in the post for me. You kindly said you’d reimburse them, of course, but if they could see to it that I had one that would be lovely……I was 32 years old, the person on the other end of that phone was the MD of the agency….who subsequently called a mini company meeting to retell the story of my mum asking him to buy me an Easter egg, before finally presenting it to me in front of everyone …..mortified!

But as is typical with you, it was also bloody hilarious and just one of my many, many funny memories of you. Like the way you like to dance in front of the fridge – because you can see your reflection and weirdly like to dance with yourself?! Or your appalling singing voice and your tendency to completely disregard the actual lyrics of a song in favour of your own made up version, who can forget the classic “Hose me down” by James. And I’m not even going to get in to the graphic personal details you love to share about me and my sister to any Tom, Dick or Harry you meet – nothing is sacred, nothing. Strangers please gather round and let me tell you about the time that Jodie did…. (lets just leave that there shall we). We know you’re proud but still, it’s embarrassing! Although on that, I am slowly realising that maybe I’ve inherited the sharing gene, this is hardly a private blog is it….hmmm.

But I wouldn’t swap you for all the world and I know that these last seven months would have been immeasurably harder if you weren’t right there, by my side every step of the way. Holding my hand, wiping away my tears (and your own), giving me encouragement, telling me I was still gorgeous boobs or no boobs, giving me cuddles, taking me away when I couldn’t face the world, cooking for me, cleaning up after me, taking care of me, keeping me laughing, helping me every single step of the way. All the time just being you. Wonderful you.

So when I get snappy because you’ve left my car in gear (again), or you can’t figure out how to use my telly (again), or I’m huffing because you’ve told me the same story five times already and I’m at that mother/daughter point when I just need to get away from you because you’re doing my head in……please know, that even in those stroppy moments I completely and utterly adore you.

Happy Mother’s Day, you’re one in a million.


P.S Don’t worry, there will still be bubbles ;0)

Grace is a very grubby girl….

21 Sep

Patience is a virtue, virtue is a grace, Grace is a girl who forgot to wash her face. Or so the saying went when I was nine.

It always kind of bothered me, why did Grace forget to wash her face? How do you just forget to wash your face? Did she have to be someplace so urgently that she just left the house without noticing her big, dirty, grubby face?!

I came to the conclusion some time ago that essentially Grace was just a bit dirty, a dirty little stop out if you will. Literally.

I feel a bit like Grace. Not with the grubby face, god no, I am meticulous about the whole face cleaning business – there’s a whole night time / day time ritual that bores even me.

But I’m definitely more of a go, go, go girl – again not in that way. Ok so in the PG version I just like things to move quickly. I like to skip ahead to the best bits – god there really is no way to write this without it sounds like blog porn?!

Essentially I want to fast forward the boring stuff and get straight to the exciting bits. I’m not one of these “Life is a journey” people. To me, life is a series of really brilliant things, with scatterings of shit times and whole chunks of just average, normal, day-to-day stuff. Which is fine, but I’m secretly just waiting for the next big exciting moment to come along.

But this month I’ve mostly been waiting. I’ve tried to distract myself with the house move and the new job but essentially I’ve been waiting…waiting for the next operation to come. Waiting to see if Leftie has “rested” enough, waiting to hear if I’ve been pumped up enough, waiting to see if the muscles have stretched enough. Waiting, waiting, waiting. (Sigh)

It’s only the enforced waiting that’s made me realise how quickly everything happened before. How I’ve effectively been on fast forward since that fateful day back in June.  From the first time I heard the C-Bomb to the day of the mastectomy a total of eleven days passed, it felt like years, but it was just eleven days.

Then every day or week after something has happened. First the immediate recovery and adjustment, running away to the seaside, the weekly hospital appointments, watching little Lefty grow, finding the new flat, getting ready to start the new job – everything just seemed to fast forward at a rapid pace. Then someone hit pause, while everything else could move on the reconstruction had to wait, until Lefty had rested enough.

The job has been a great distraction. It’s just what I needed, a fresh start, lots of new people, new challenges and I love it. But even this has come with it’s own C-Monkey related issues. Mainly the crisis every woman faces every single day, the thing that keeps us up at night, that occupies our thoughts in the shower, or when making that first cup of tea….what the hell am I going to wear today?? This is a universal problem for women across the land, but what I have only just realised is that C-Monkey has gone through my entire wardrobe, tried on everything I once liked (he looked very fetching, if a little camp) and then destroyed it. I have been living in pretty causal, comfy clothes for a while now; work wear really wasn’t required in the hospital corridors. But now I’ve started the new job, I want to look super polished and PR fabulous and it’s a bloody struggle. This wardrobe is no longer my own. C-Monkey has ransacked it. He has made previously pretty dresses fit in all the wrong ways, he has shrunk tops, taken zips in, removed buttons and don’t even get me started on his attack of my bras. There are no wires left!

Quite simply my wardrobe has halved, scrap that, it’s reduced down to a third. The only items I want to wear are loose, baggy, shapeless things that hide the ‘under construction’ Franken-boob from the public eye and the ever-expanding body beneath. Oh yes, C-Monkey may take away with one hand but he also gives with another, he gives you….wobble. Yes, wobble and chunk. And not the good kind.

The day C-Monkey arrived he bought a wheelbarrow of wobbly bits; he hid my gym kit and made a deal to swap my Lefty with the chunk in his (I want to say trunk…_) wheelbarrow. Because exercise and me have parted ways, which was kind of expected and not something I’ve even worried about…..but I do miss it. Accepting my new body, the extra wobbly bits and the not so wobbly bits (yes Lefty I’m talking about you) and the lack of control to do anything about it is actually really hard. Nothing fits, nothing feels like it use to, or hangs in the right way, my body is a bit of a stranger to me.

So now my morning routine involves a good hour of frantic hunting for anything, anything, I can wear that still fits. Something that isn’t too tight, or shows the difference in size between the two, or that flaunts Righty and his bouncy ways too much. Yes he’s still showing off and bouncing about happily while Lefty stays rigid. Blazers are my new best friend.

But not for much longer. The wait is finally over. This weekend the Franken-boob will finally be replaced by a proper, soft, life like implant. Lefty will be reborn! No more pipe, no more weird hard wonky boob, no more pump up the jam sessions, no more wardrobe wars (ok so there might still be a few of those, the gym bunny is a little way off yet) ….but yes finally, finally, the time has come and I’m actually excited!

And maybe a little terrified.

I don’t really like to think back to the last operation I had, the mastectomy. Those horrible dark, pain filled days afterwards. I just can’t face it. I don’t want to remember. But it keeps sneaky up on me the closer I get to going in. I’m scarred it’s going to be like that all over again. Waking up in recovery, the shock, the shaking, throwing up, the dizzy spells, that horrible drain, the pain…….I can’t concentrate for thinking about it.

I tell myself repeatedly that this isn’t the same, it’s a much simpler operation, effectively just popping one out and popping a new one in, done.  But still I think about it.

I’m also worried about what it’s going to look like, the new boob. In a weird way I’ve sort of been able to excuse Franken-boob and the way he looks because he’s been ‘under construction’ – so if he looks a bit funny, or feels weird, that’s to be expected. But after this next op, well he’s supposed to be almost finished ….almost perfect. But what if he’s not, what if he never looks ok?

I say almost finished because the ‘decorations’ won’t be done for another few months – maybe I’ll get my ‘baubles’ done just in time for Christmas, how very festive! Apparently they like to leave the new implant to settle for a while, as it may shift slightly (more settling time, joy!). If they put the decoration on now and it shifts I might well end up with a nipple pointing sideways?! As funny as that might be for 5minutes and potentially useful (handy key hook anyone?) I’m glad they’re not taking that risk.

So here I am, it’s nearly time. I definitely haven’t learnt to be patient and I may not be feeling very brave (at all) but at least I’ll always have a clean face and possibly a very nice, new bouncy Lefty. Here’s hoping!

The challenge begins!!

5 Jun

Hmmm….. Ok well the votes are in, they have been counted and verified and I can now reveal that the first challenge of the Seven Day Itch is……….Dans Le noir!!!


So that’s it folks, I will shortly be taking myself off to have some dinner…..in total darkness. I imagine it’ll be a pretty messy affair, random and hopefully a whole heap of fun, with large a side portion of stupidness.

But before I take myself off to cover my face in food I have to find a dinner date……which could in fact be more tricky than actually eating in the dark?!

Who to ask??? I haven’t actually been on a date, date, for a really long time. Not a proper girl and boy type real date. One that starts sober….you know.

I could ask one of my best friends and I know they’d happily throw themselves into the challenge of face food, but I think that would be cheating. Nope I need to find a date. A proper boy to chat to, giggle with, flirt with a bit and generally just make things just a bit more interesting.

But where can I find this Mr Darcy look-a-like who’s charm, wit and ability to coordinate cutlery in the pitch black would make him the perfect match for the challenge???…..Answers on a post card please….

So while I mull that over let me recount one of the pther first experiences I’ve had recently – all in the name of the Seven Day Itch.

What new, crazy thing have I tried……non other than a fish pedicure. Yeap you heard me, a fish pedicure. This isn’t some magic new foot cream made from fishy bits (which actually sounds gross!) nope it’s a new beauty thing whereby you stick your feet into a tank of fish while they munch away at your dead foot skin.

It is sooooo gross when you actually think about it….. Fish are going to eat at your skin….nibble away at all the yummy bits of dry skin from your feet……seriously…..I’m going to pause here while I throw up a bit….feel free to join me.


But I did it. Oh yes. Along with about 10 other people during my friends Hen do we did it. We took over this gorgeous little spa in Soho, popped some bubbly (trust me, you wouldn’t want to do this sober), got our feet cleaned by a rather hunky man (possibly the best bit of the experience) and then took our seats.

Fishy HQ - Soho

In front of each of us was a mini fish tank, teeming with loads of little fish, just swimming around presumably waiting for some tasty toes to get into the water.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I find fish a little freaky. Always have. I dream about them all the time, weird being eaten alive by fish type dreams so the thought of actually putting two of my limbs into a tank of fish that are absolutely going to eat you…..well it’s  a lot to get your head round. Pass the bubbly please!

It is such a bizarre experience to lower your feet into a take of fish and feel the feeding frenzy begin. Because that’s what it is – a feeding frenzy. The fish go absolutely crazy, swimming around your feet, trying to get in between your toes, up your ankle – it’s actually quite horrible. The feeling is like small electric shocks as they nibble away. It’s so, so ticklish I can’t even tell you.

Here fishy, fishy

And so as soon as I took the plunge, and the feeding fenzy started, so did the squealing. That’s the only word I can use to describe the sound that I made. It was a high pitched gasping sort of squeal. And once I started I couldn’t stop. And I wasn’t alone, all ten of us were squealing, gasping, swearing and generally giggling our heads off.  The staff loved us!

The squealing begins!

Still squealing....

And as if the whole thing wasn’t weird enough the spa served snacks. Yes snacks?! So while the fish were getting their feed you could tuck into something too……I am not kidding when I tell you that the lady next to us was eating chips. Now think about that for a moment……she was eating chips……while fish ate her….fish & chips….well, it took on a whole new meaning for me ?!!!

So fish pedicure. It is just a really, weird experience. But so bloody funny.

Would I do it again? Nope I don’t think so but I’d absolutely say it’s something you have to experience. And the results….well lets just say those fish are clever little buggers, my feet have never been smoother.

Again…..SOOOO GROSS!!!

The seven day itch…

20 May

Ok, ok I’m sorry…

I’m really, really, really sorry….seriously, sad face and everything!

I have neglected you and for that you have every right to log out, to de-blog (is that even a word?) and generally shun me from your life. I won’t blame you, I won’t even sulk, I promise.

I could pile on the excuses, that since I’ve been back it’s been all ‘go, go, go,’ first week back at work (to sum up – massive shock to the system but lovely seeing everyone), finding a new flat (Still searching?!) and getting sick (random ear infection that makes me feel like I’m either permanently drunk or on a boat)…..but I won’t, I’ll just say, again, that I am very, very, truly sorry.

So you could leave me……but if you did you miss finding out all about my new challenge!!

Drum roll please….brrrrrrrrrrrrrr (imagine drum roll here please)

I give you ……The Seven Day itch.

Ah yes, The Seven Day Itch. It is genius. It really is. It might even need its own theme tune….I’ll tackle that another time.

Ok so the Seven Day Itch is not a sexually transmitted disease, nor is it a rash or an excuse to cheat on ones partners at regular intervals (although what do I know, I’m sat on the single shelf?!)

“The Seven Day Itch” is the name  I have given to this new phrase in my life. To be exact, the new challenge I have set myself since coming back from Auz. For those of you that have been with me since the beginning know that after returning from Auz I made myself a promise, an oath if you will,  (there really should be some kind of anthem playing over this speech…)…yes…..an oath! That I, ZomersetGirl, would take the new-found bravery, excitement and happiness that t’was bestowed on me, in that wonderful land down under, into my life and henceforth, seize every opportunity to stay happy, meet friendgers and be brave!! (sniff….oh it brings a tear to my eye…good times)

And so it was that the Seven Day Itch was created, as a testament to that oath and a reminder that I will never forget that precious time in my life.

So how does it work I hear you cry?? Well as you know there are 52 weeks in the year, yeap there definitely is, I’ve checked. It is my goal to try something new, something totally random, exciting, possibly ridiculous and damm right brave, once, every seven days.

That’s 52 new, amazing experiences each year!! Yeah, that’s some serious living man! And I might add some great content for all you lovely lot. Now before I get ahead of myself I know that we’re already in May so I have technically missed out on a big chunk of those 52 weeks already, but here’s the loop-hole – Australia?!

Yeap for three (ish) of those months I was having a massive adventure, every single day – so I think that covers that, and as for January well, as you know I was a quivering wreak on the floor of my life back then so I think you can let that one slip by. And so there you go….

The Seven Day itch is born……it’s rather marvellous isn’t it.

So here’s where you come in. I have a vivid imagination and being in one of the best cities in the world I have access to some crazy things….so I’m pretty sure I can get this life challenge thing off to a good start – but I don’t want to do it alone….. Nope I want you, yes YOU to help me.

I want you to be part of my Seven Day Itch – send me your suggestions of what I should do, hell you can even dare me to do stuff and I will absolutely (if not too scary) rise to the challenge!!

In return for your suggestion you will get to witness my escapades in all their shambolic glory – through video, pictures and of course my own ramblings.

So are you in???

To kick us off I have listed five potential things I can try first, I’m starting relatively softly just to warm up, don’t want to pull a muscle or die on my first challenge?!

So which one should I do…well that’s up to you –

– Go on a date to Dans Le Noir – The totally pitch black restaurant where you’re basically blind throughout. Just two concerns here, one – the idea of food all over my face and two – who the hell would I go with?? Time for a date????

Food all over my face!

– Speakers Corner – Read aloud some of my very own blog entries from AdventuresofZomersetGirl to a crowd of….several (mentalists)….at London’s most iconic free speech stages

Have I told you about the time I met a Shark...

– Take part in The Friday night skate – a massive skate session that takes place in London each Friday night, apparently all you need are a pair of skates and to be able to skate….erm….ok I have no skates and can’t really skate…but that won’t deter me.

Warning: i can't skate!

– Learn to make sushi – It absolutely one of my favourite foods, I LOVE it, think I’d probably just eat everything as I was making it – yummy!

Yummy! The sushi not all the men...of course

So there you go, If you want to see me take on any of those just let me know, the one with the most comments wins and I’ll throw myself into it.

Or if you have a better idea….bring it on!

Movie moments – take one

8 May

As you may have already gathered from my ramblings I have quite a vivid imagination…crazy neon colours type vivid. Now, I’m going to let you in on a little secret, a small, somewhat embarrassing thing I do called ‘Movie Moments’.

If there was entry on Wikipedia for Movie Movements it would read a little something like this: Movie Moments – this is a process whereby an individual of sane mind creates an entirely fabricated scenario which is then played out in their imagination. The scenario often resembles that from a movie and will also include an all-important sound track to add to the experience.

To give you an example every single time I’m working out, in a gym, running, anything…. it’s a movie moment. To be more specific the exercising movie moment I’m in – is a montage, a transformation montage to be precise. It’s that part of any romcom movie when the jilted girl gets fit, looses loads of weight and generally looks fabulous. It is in my head where I transform from a curvy (wobbly), short arsed wilderbeast into a galloping long legged gazelle – all to the soundtrack of kick ass songs like “Since you’ve been gone” by Kelly Clarkson or “Single Ladies” by Beyonce. I’m serious. I imagine my transformation montage every single time I’m exercising.

Another movie moment would be the ‘randomly meeting the man of my dreams movie moment’….I have this one a lot. For example recently I was enjoying a coffee sat in the window of a gorgeous boutique café and started imaging my movie moment scenario……maybe a guy will trip up right outside the window, I’ll giggle, he’ll see me, laugh too, our eyes will meet, we’ll share a muffin and wham! – love of my life…..you get the picture.

I loose myself in these little movie moments all the time. And whilst I know they are totally absurd, ridiculous and actually a bit sad I am desperate for one to happen in real life. But of course they never do. Of course not – because they totally absurd, and ridiculous. And even though I know this, even though I know they will never, ever come true, I’m still over come with disappointment that they don’t?! I know. Crazy right. Oh yes.

So this is what happened when I returned from Australia. 24hours is a long time to be travelling. It’s epic in fact. And so fuelled by a severe lack of sleep, far too much red wine and 2 night nurse tablets (seriously not recommended?!) I started to imagine my movie moment arrival home….These were the various scenarios I played out in my head –

Movie moment 1: I come through the arrivals hall, pushing my luggage trolley, searching the sea of faces for my family……and then running towards me, pushing through the crowds come my two gorgeous nieces, screaming my name, with massive smiles on their faces, closely followed by my mum (who’s naturally crying with joy) and my sister. I scoop up my nieces covering them in kisses and cuddles, I’m crying too at this point, then on to a massive, meaningful hug with my mum and sister. We’re all crying and laughing. Reunited. They are over joyed to see me. It’s wonderful. The sound track here would be something like “You’ve got the love” by Florence & the Machine.

Reality check – I land at 6am. Yes 6am. There is absolutely no way on earth my sister would drag my poor nieces out of their beds at 3am to travel the 3hrs up from bumpkin land to London just to meet me off a plane. Not a chance.

Movie moment 2: (Please hold the judgements on this one, I was drunk and drugged remember!) I come through the arrivals hall, pushing my luggage trolley, searching the sea of faces …..and then….him. Yes. He’s there. Standing there with a massive bunch of flowers, and maybe a balloon, and most definitely a banner of some kind (I love a home made banner!). We walk slowly towards each other…. neither of us say a word…..we just….know. We embrace, tears streaming down our cheeks and then we kiss and it’s all wonderful…..The sound track here would be something like Coldplay or Snow Patrol, maybe the last minuet of Open Your Eyes, with all the strings and violins – I LOVE the violins. Goosebump central!

Reality check – HELLO?!!!! WTF?!! Have you not just spent 3months getting over this guy, come on woman get a grip. I practically slapped myself round the face on the plane once I’d played out this little movie moment in my head.

NO, NO, NO, NO….NEVER GONNA HAPPEN. STOP IT!! Deep breath. Right then.

So eventually I settled on a version of movie moment 1, with a few little tweaks, namely that it would just be my mum. My wonderful mum. The woman who’s spent the last 3months telling me how much she loves me and can’t wait to have to me home….yes my mum, a lovely movie moment of me arriving into Heathrow running into the arms of my mum for a massive cuddle and a few tears. This was brilliant. The perfect arrival at the airport scene – like something out of ‘Love Actually’. And this time it was gonna happen for real, finally one of my movie moments would come true.

By the time the plane had landed I’d sobered myself up and had started to get all nervous and excited. I was gonna see my mum, I couldn’t wait.

I walked through the arrival doors with all the other passengers, a big smile on my face, nervously searching the sea of faces for my mum. My fellow passengers were being greeted by loved ones all around me, it was wonderful. I walked on a bit, slowing down. Still searching the crowds for my mum. My trolley slowed down a bit more, then eventually stopped. I looked and looked but there was no sign of her. I was certain that at any moment she’d come bursting through the crowd to sweep me up in a massive cuddle….but no, no mum. No mum at all.

Maybe she’d got stuck in traffic, she’d come running in any moment now. Five minuets passed. Then 10. By now everyone on my plane had been collected, embraces had and reunions done. Not me. I’m still there with my trolley and now I’m starting to get worried. This is Zomerset Mum, she would never be late, something awful must have happened. My Auz phone wasn’t working now that I was back on UK soil so I begged the main behind the information desk to let me use his phone….

“Mum?? Where are you, are you ok?”

“Oh hi darling yeah I’m fine, just on my way to Heathrow…”

“WHAT?!!! On your way to Heathrow?! I landed an hour ago?!!!”

“Oh, really, oh god. I’m sorry darling, you told me not to rush….I’m on my way though”

“Fine I’ll meet you in the café called Bite – see you soon.” HUFFF.

Brilliant. My own mother had basically forgotten about me. I mean, I’d only been away for 3months it’s not like she missed me or anything?! I was sooooo pissed off. This was the movie moment I felt certain I’d get. My movie moments are always a disappointment (being as they are massively ridiculous and in the “never gonna happen” category) but this one….this one I was certain would happen. But no. Mum forgot about me. Lovely.

Eventually she arrived and after failing to find the café (that was all of 50meters away from the arrival area) I heard my name being called on the tanoy – great, just what I wanted, my name being called over the loudspeaker. Oh the shame of it.

So rather than an emotional, lovely embrace what happened was a very moody exchange of “I can’t believe you weren’t here” and “how could you forgot about me” and “Well you told me not to rush”…..etc etc

It turns out there were three reasons why Zomerset Mum was so late –

1)    She got very, very drunk the night before with her friend Sue (yes Sue I am placing some of the blame with you!)

2)    Because of the above, she left a little bit (read a lot) later than she should have done, hampered no doubt by the massive hangover she’d woken up with

3)    Due to all of the above she had forgotten everything I’d told her about my flight times

So there you go. Movie moments. I have them all the time and they never, ever come true. If only my damm imagination would take a break and save me from this disappointment.

Actually that’s a lie. One movie moment did come true. When I first came to London the phrase fish out of water couldn’t have been more appropriate. I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing, I was dressed wrong, had a funny accent and kept thinking that at any moment a couple of blokes would escort me out of the city saying “sorry love, you just don’t belong here”. I was so uncool. Seriously uncool. I’d look at the Starbucks girls and wish I was one of them. They’d come swishing out of Starbucks their mocha, choca, late, extra foam, shot, thing in hand, mobile in the other, looking uber stylish in their amazing outfits and killer heels, heading off to some meeting or another. I didn’t even like coffee. That was never gonna be me.

But a few years ago, I was dashing off to a meeting wearing my favourite outfit, a super tight black and white stripped dress, with my waist nipping black blazer, killer accessories and my bright coral heels. I looked hot. I rushed into Starbucks to grab my usual – a skinny hazelnut latte and ran out into the sunshine. Then I stopped. Oh my god. I was a starbucks girl! It had actually happened. I had somehow morphed from a lost bumpkin into the kind of girl I used to stare at. Such was my joy at realising this I called my boyfriend at the time, to try and explain it to him. I was a starbucks girl! Of course he had no idea what I was talking about and I’m pretty sure he thought I was drunk but I didn’t care. I was so happy.

So there you go, maybe that’s why I can’t stop imaging the movie moments. Because maybe, just maybe, one day, one of them will come true….oh god I’m pathetic!

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