Feminist and proud

I've been a feminist since I found out what it really was, not the media image of it. Paxman this week bleated on and on about how white middle class white men feel marginalised in the BBC.

Finally given you a taste of your own medicine have we, Paxman? Got some idea of how it feels to be maginalised have we? Good.

Before you all start slanging me, let's look at the evidence. 3000 years of male oppression, versus, oh about 40 years of feminism. I don't think we've got them on the run yet, but we've certainly got them moaning. There's a long, long way to go, but this is a good sign.

If you don't think you're a feminist ask yourself this question:

Do you believe in getting the same money for doing the same work as a man?

If so, you are a feminist.

Nuff said.

Yours in strident mode
Lucy

Trains, hotels, carparks

I had one of my recurring anxiety dreams last night. A train station somewhere in the Highlands. Reached by a train taken straight from a beach. I'd lost everything on the previous journey, or had my handbag nicked. No-one leant me 20p for a cup of tea, or helped me. Burdened with luggage as usual, I was sat panicking on the platform, waiting for a train I had no ticket for, wondering whether I could board it or not. Then I woke up.

I hate these dreams. I have had them for years, the first train dream was as I left university, set in a train/tube terminus somewhere near a gravel pit. That one was easy to work out. This one, I'm not so sure.

I also wander the corridors of hotels sometimes (quite like those ones, I've never been in 'The Shining' or not yet). The worst take place in carparks, where I'm being chased through a dirty, dank concrete vision of hell by scarey people who I can't see. I'm not necessarily a Freudian in this regard, but I do believe that the subconcious is reacting to something - maybe the first sign of upset due to the move?

Either way, I woke up in a bad mood. If anyone can throw some light on this one, feel free to comment.

Yours in search on a cup of tea and 20p

Lucy

The Stooges hurt!

We went down to that there London Town this weekend, to see Iggy and the Stooges and stay at my sister's fabulous boutique hotel on the Isle of Dogs.

Well it was her house really, but as it used to be mine and we've both been there loads, it felt like a fabulous, bijou hotel that's very familiar but now done up to the nines and just gorgeous. I'd recommend it, and it's sooooo reasonable!

I was only mildly upset that the guy at my old local curry house didn't recognise me. It has been over 7 years.

Anyway, Iggy was on his usual form for about the first 5 songs. These were the ones where we were very close to the front, so close in fact that Dr G was going to head to the stage for the usual stage invasion. But as he was the only thing stopping me being swept away, he stayed put.

I was off my feet completely, inside the crowd action, and feeling pretty hemmed in by this point as I couldn't see anything except lager cans and banging heads, so we got out. And had an ice cream (with a flake) and watched from the side.

I now feel bruised, as tho' Iggy himself has been pummelling me on the back for the last two days. I'm guessing this is nothing new to Iggy fans. However, it'll be a while before I go near a mosh pit again. I'm getting on y'know!

Yours with a birthday coming up
Lucy

I found the yoga mat

Yes, the dowsing worked. On the landing, 2nd box I dowsed. Ker-ching!

I had my first yoga session today, wonderful stuff. Now feeling totally blissed out.

The guy taking it (known locally as 'mr bendy') asked if we'd done it before. I told him that I'd done yoga on and off since I was six.

He looked at me and said 'that's...unusual'. I said 'my mother was a hippy'.

That's partly true. So now it looks like my mother has her pen name.

Your floppy blogger
Lucy

I'm a nightmare

Today my boss told me 'you're a nightmare to manage...but in a good way.' Apparently I work so quickly and produce things so fast that my only failure is to communicate to the team what's happening during the process. It's done before anyone knows about it, I'm so fast I'm like a firebrand. He also said if he had 25 like me he could sit back and relax. I'm not sure what to make of this.

A back-handed compliment to be sure. But I did get what he meant.

Your flaming blogger

Lucy

Dowsing for my yoga mat

Those of you who know me, know that I dowse. I don't think anything of it really, it's something that apparently everyone can do, it's just a question of how you do it.

Personally I use jewellery, usually the diamond necklace known at my 'baby bling', because the wonderful Dr gave it to me after the birth of Missy. It's a deeply personal piece, and as I wear it alot I assume it's embued with the essence of moi, which can only help.

Now, somewhere deep in the box mountain is my yoga mat. And I need it because I'm going to my first yoga class in years tomorrow morning at the fancy new gym. I've opened most boxes but nothing yet, so I plan to dowse for it and see what happens. I'll let you know.

Naturally there's a story or two about dowsing. Sir dowses, in fact he taught me. And a while ago we visited the Cheese Ring and dowsed for ley lines using rods. It was my first time with rods but they're quite fun, the reaction is stronger than the necklace, as they cross rather dramatically when you find what you're looking for.

We had a map of the ley lines there and were happily pottering about charting their position and exclaiming.

All of this went on with heckling from Dr G, who was lying in a ditch with a hangover shouting

'Burn them, they're witches!'.

To which Sir replied rather dryly, 'Wizard, actually'.

It didn't shut him up, but I laughed alot.

I'll let you know if I find the mat. Keep your fingers crossed.

Lucy

The girl from Ipanema

'The girl from Ipanema' is one of my all-time favourite songs. And I love it in pretty much all it's forms, and there are many. Obviously the best one is the original, can't beat Astrid's voice here.

A while ago I can up with the concept of the one-note album - one classic song simply repeated in all it's many forms, classic or otherwise. The darling Dr G made me a version with 'Summertime' on it, which kinda worked. Boy there are some odd/rotten versions out there.

I'm listening to the tribute album to 'The Pink Panther' theme right now. And on it is a very good (well no-one else I know likes it, but I do) version of Ipanema.

Sir has asked for some pictures, but as my digital camera has yet to emerge from the box mountain, here's one I made earlier.

Yours
the girl from the Isle of Eriska

Busy week

It's a busy week here at Balmoral Towers: this week we migrated the ecommerce server at work to a new platform.

For those of you who don't work on the web, that'll be a random selection of odd words that mean nothing. For those that do, you'll appreciate how big a job that can be. And the fact that we're left with very few problems is a huge relief to all concerned, mostly me.

However, it's left me exhausted, what with that, the move and the usual stuff of life. I plan to hit the new, gorgeous pool today if possible. And after yesterday's sausage and mash extravaganza, I have enough mash to make Nigella's cottage pie. It's all austerity Britain here now we have an enormous mortgage, make do and mend etc.

Dr G isn't keen on my idea to turn the front garden into an allotment, but as we need to save money, I can't see why I've got to mow something that's not earning it's keep. I hate mowing anyway, it's like hoovering the lawn. And with the possibility of home-grown veg being right outside the front door, I can't see why not.

This is credit crunch Britain. Flowers and lawn are all very well in the NICE years but we need to make money and I don't intend to spend what little we have on veg if I can grow it myself.

So before I lead you all in a sing song, just remember:
Keep Calm and Carry On.

Lucy

In praise of the sausage

I've found that there's very little in this problematic life that can't be solved with the application of sausages and mash. In fact, it's a generational thing - my grandmother (known as 'Nanny', altho thankfully not employed, but related), and I used to eat them straight from the grill off in her kitchen. Sitting on stools with the backdoor open and the fly screen blowing the sunshine in, we'd sit there with a fork-full of sausage each, munching contentedly.

In fact, I put my (mild) sausage obsession down to her. And naturally there's a formative experience involved.

My mother was, in those days, maritally challenged by Sir (known then as 'thatb*stardyourfather' - yes that's right, no spaces, no breathing between the words either) and given to much ranting/crying/having big fits.

We were all standing in the garden, my mother resplendent in 70s fashion - the flares, the cap, the denim shirt - ranting once again about 'thatb*stardyourfather'. Something to do with money as I recall. But being four, it went over my head, and anyway, I'd heard it all before.

Nanny stood there, in a pinny, herself looking like a Victoran throwback (or that's how I recall it). As mum went off towards the house mid-rant, she turned to me and said

'your mother...

your mother, she's got the right a*se ache.'

Now I suspect it occurred to her even as she was uttering this that this wasn't something you should say to a four year old. Especially one as quick as I. And even though I was playing 'Jungle Book' and dressed entirely as Mowgli (orange speedo trunks, a bamboo cane as a spear, barefoot and naked otherwise), my MOST FAVOURITE THING to do at the time, I had a suspicion that what she'd said was wrong. And being manipulative, I might be able to put that to good use.

In her very next breath, she uttered the immortal words 'fancy a sausage?' and the incident was entirely forgotten as we ate sausages off forks and waited for my mother to calm down.

I always remember it fondly when I eat sausages. Firstly because they are wonderful, and secondly because I was easily bribeable with food at a very early age. And that hasn't changed.

Yours with a tummy full of wild boar/apple sausages and cheesy mash,

Lucy

First past the post!

As everyone knows, I have a fear of 'first posts'. There's just so much pressure to be witty and incisive. So I'm just going to go for it, spelling mistakes and all.

We hit Holmes Chapel two weeks ago today, and I'm really enjoying it here. The Scottish estate is a lovely place to live, and everyone seems to be very friendly so far. We are about 60% unpacked and when the additional stuff goes up into the loft, we'll be even closer. I'm pleasantly surprised by how much I like it.

Leaving Dundee was so hard, I hadn't thought past it. But now we're here and I intend to be as happy as possible. (Oh I think I've just made a commitment to happiness, the old me would be hiding under the desk waiting for the sky to fall on her head!)

I thought I'd introduce the main protagonists. I've decided to do this under a pen name (mostly cos I can't spell). And my family and friends who live here and will visit have pen names too:
- I'm Lucy Lowe, this is my p*o*r*n star name. My first pet was called 'Lucy' and the maiden name of my Grandmother is 'Lowe'.
- my husband is The Good Dr, Dr G, or if he's annoyed me, him indoors
- my daughter is missy.
- the cats are t-dahl and sag aloo (they have indian names anyway).

The rest I shall name as they present themselves.

Why am I doing it this way? Well much as I understand that the web is personal, I've also seen lots of people get burnt by it. And I intend to have a long and fruitful blogging relationship with you all.

I can't promise the spelling will be any good, and I can't always promise sparkling wit or wisdom. But I can promise weekly postings and I hope to make it as successful as this blog by a good friend of my dad's (who shall be called Sir) - the daily millbrooker.

Yours having broken her duck,
Lucyxx