I have been ‘tagged’ by the lovely Dulwich Mum. This means I’m supposed to write 8 interesting things about myself. As my next culinary offering is still in the oven, I have obliged, using the term 'interesting' rather loosely…
I have a book-smelling fetish. You have to open the book, bury your nose right down to the crease where the staples are and inha-a-ale. Gorgeous. It’s only books with smooth and shiny pages that smell this way. It’s probably a carcinogen that smells so delightful, but I have to take my kicks where I can.
I am not in the habit of carrying a diary as grown-up women are supposed to. If I have to remember something I swap my rings around and put them on the wrong fingers. This works for a limited amount of times, then becomes extremely confusing as I cannot remember why the solitaire diamond is on the three-diamond ring finger, or why my mother’s wedding ring is stuck halfway up my thumb.
I am a PADI Advanced Open Water Diver. However my last bout of diving was so long ago I would make a very dangerous diving buddy; don’t let me check your gear before we tumble backwards off the boat. Highlights of my diving career include the very un-PC wreck-diving in the Philippines, (I understand military types refer to them as ‘war graves’) and being charged repeatedly by a trigger fish in Thailand as I tried to qualify as an Open Water Diver. My kind Dive Instructor ignored the part of the dive where I sat on the bottom hyperventilating in terror, and chose to pass me on my prowess at buoyancy control and on my sexy curves in a shorty wetsuit. (It was pre-children, they were curves not bulges)
I used to own a very old Datsun, donated by my Father. With the help of some arty friends I did a marvellous paint job on it, with flowers and my name on the door. When I am rich and famous I shall buy another and pay someone to paint it like the Scooby Doo Mystery Machine. I shall pay someone else to make me look like Daphne.
I can juggle with three balls, and very briefly with four. My finest juggling moment was in a private room at a Mongolian restaurant. There were lots of eggs on the table for us to crack into our Mongolian hotpot. I decided it was the perfect opportunity to display my juggling prowess to my happy, drunken friends. I started the juggling display and brought the house down when one of the eggs flew up and simply disappeared. It had gone up into a huge extractor funnel that was hanging over the table, and had lodged itself neatly on an unseen shelf. Big respect for the Pig that night.
I once brought traffic to a standstill in China. One night after emerging from a bar I took my place on the traffic podium that is in the middle of big Chinese crossroads. The policeman who normally directed the traffic was long gone. It took me about 10 minutes to cause a gridlock of fantastic proportions. Not only did they stop because I was waving my arms in an authoritative manner, but also because I was a grinning, blonde foreigner shouting at them in Mandarin. I was having enormous fun when a black car with tinted windows inched its way to the podium. The tinted windows rolled down and from the backseat a man clad in the green uniform of a ‘very important military type’ fixed me with a hard stare. Beijing airport flashed before my eyes, me holding a one-way deportation ticket. I did the only reasonable thing and with a winning smile I waved him on shouting in my best Mandarin, ‘keep moving! Move it along! Quick! Quick!’. He stared in disbelief, cracked a smile and amazingly, moved along.
I have given birth naturally to three of my four piglets. I have done this with the aid of the gas, Entinox. I know its technical name because I have tried to buy it on the internet and have it delivered to my home for personal use. I fly as high as a kite on Entinox and have very vivid hallucinations. During my first labour I was convinced I was diving – something to do with the mouthpiece and all that slow breathing. When the midwife told me to hold my breath and push I flatly refused as the first rule of diving is to NEVER hold your breath underwater.
I had a ringside seat in the stadium during the 1992 Barcelona Olympics and watched the American 4x4 relay team power home to win a world record. I was sitting in the Press seats and after the team had cavorted in front of me draped in the US flag (for the cameras, not really for me), one of them hurdled the barrier and ran up the steps towards me. He had not been captivated by my beauty, but was heading up to do an interview with the American reporters behind. As the mass of sweat-glistening rock hard muscle passed me by I breathed in very deeply. It was a very moving experience.
So, that’s me all talked out, what a long post and no pretty pix I’m afraid. If they will permit me and are in the mood for a game of tag, I pass on the tagging burden to: Stay at Home Dad, Drunk Mummy, Brom Man, Lizzie and New Mum in Town…