I'm an emergency services vehicle , get me out of here

When my mum back in 1975 decided to name her newborn daughter after her father’s favourite female singer she could only see it as the beautiful name it was.

Nina, a name meaning little girl in Hebrew, strong and mighty in Native American, mother in Swahili and beautiful eyes in Hindi .

It’s a lovely list of things for a name to mean and almost worth the years of being teased by people doing emergency services vehicle impressions , not to mention asking where my 99 red balloons were ,for the sake of having a name that’s a little bit different to everyone else’s.

However, after reading that due his popularity in various reality shows last year that some parents are not only naming their children after Joey Essex but also some of his dubious vocabulary I do wonder if little Reem or Creepysick are really going to thank mum and dad some 18 years or so down the line as they fill in job application forms with their “of the moment “moniker.

 MEDWAY MESSENGER GIRL FROM THE NECK DOWN COLUMN 13TH JAN 2014

GREEN CROSS DOH

The buggy hangs off the kerb as mum gossips idly on her phone ,Baby inches himself further down his pushchair , laughing and kicking his feet  in the cool morning air as the cars come speeding past missing his toes with just millimetres to spare.

The couple wander across the road, eyes transfixed on their mobiles as their toddler ambles behind them unaware of the large stream of traffic heading straight towards him.

“C’mon hurry up, we’re going to be late” shouts the parent to the dawdling child as they drag them across the pelican crossing before the green man has a chance to arrive.

Our children, we’d do anything to keep them safe, right? So what’s with the basic lack of road and common sense that would have Tufty and the Green Cross Code man turning the air blue.

Are our mobiles or time really so important that we’ll risk everything for them including ours or our children’s lives?

GIRL FROM THE NECK DOWN - MEDWAY MESSENGER COLUMN

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A MILLIONAIRE SCORNED

I still adore Nigella says Charles Saatchi but if that’s the way he goes about adoration then if i was her I’d  be glad I got out .

For someone who proclaims to still have much compassion for his ex wife I find it amazing that he’s prepared to drag her so roughly through the dirt.

They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but they didn’t take into account the poor “diddums” hurt feelings of a millionaire businessman , a man so devastated at losing his wife that he moved on to the next available female showing  interest within months of them splitting.

(Trinny Woodall, I’d love to know how you feel about your beau’s revelation that he still worships the ex Mrs.)

So  as this charming man mopes his miserable face about town revealing that the marriage breakdown was everyone else’s  fault but his ,perhaps it’d be worth him remembering that no man no matter how much he says loves her has the right to grab a woman by the throat.

WOMEN BE PROUD OF WHO YOU ARE

Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman as Tammy Wynette once told us and nowadays even more so.

If you’re not a vision of airbrushed perfection with the look of thousands of other identikit Barbie dolls you’re made to feel like you’re not worth much regardless of whether you’re an university graduate , big corporate boss or Olympic medal winner.

It would probably seem odd to a bystander that a short, slightly pudgy thirty something mum would have any advice to offer to the likes of the above but please just give me a chance to prove you wrong.

The girl in the photo there once thought she was odd and awkward. Some of her actions probably did little to dispel that, I mean you try telling a class of fellow teenage girls that your perfect man would be  Dirk Bogarde in the doctor in the house films when their idols are Bros and New Kids on the Block, it’s a real tumbleweed blowing across the scene moment, believe me.

That girl at the time got it into her head that she was fat because fashion dictated in the early 90s that the super waif/heroin chic look was where it was at. She failed to see how amazing her hourglass figure looked in that frock as she was more occupied with not being able to fit her frankly fairly impressive chest into the tight fitting shirts her skinnier pals liked to sport. She is also unaware in that photo that in 8 years from now she will be wishing she had that figure back that she yearns for the days when she had just the one chin and no overhanging ex baby belly that could double up as Santa’s sack.

She will spend so many of her years thinking if only she was more prettier, less fat and not quite so weird that maybe more people would accept her , changing the way she is for others to fit in while never feeling like she is quite herself.

Then she will hit her late thirties and think “you know what, stuff it “(or slightly more ruder words to that effect) and flicks the proverbial two fingered salute at any thoughts like that.

She embraces the woman she’s become and lays to rest the girl that she used to be and no more lets anyone or anything dictate to her what perfection looks like.

She uses the contents of her slightly awkward and odd head to get herself noticed and people sit up and start to listen, which sure beats worrying about the size of her bum.

So I say to the likes of Rebecca Adlington and those of you (including all the fella’s as well) who despite whatever achievements you’ve made in life look into the mirror and don’t like what they see...

Be proud of yourself just the way you are.

Nobody is perfect, nobody needs to be.

 GIRL FROM THE NECK DOWN -MEDWAY MESSENGER COLUMN

THE BALLAD OF THE CHRISTMAS CLEANING FAIRIES

AN ODE TO MY OTHER LESS GLAMOUROUS JOB

BY SPAM FLARES ( GIRL FROM THE NECK DOWNS POETESS ALTER EGO )

Welcome readers of my column to this my last entry of 2013, I’d like to dedicate this piece to some of the unsung heroes of this joyous time of year.

So, to my fellow hygiene operatives, this one’s for you

Are we all sitting comfortably?

 Then I shall begin, with the ballad of the Christmas cleaning fairies and all their brethren.

T’was the week before Christmas, and all through the school, the atmosphere was festive; there was no need for rules.

Homemade decorations hung from ceilings with care and the teachers prayed holidays soon would be there.

As parents and children nestled snug in their beds, thoughts of parties and pressies danced round in their heads.

The cleaners from their beds had got up, and proceeded to classrooms with bucket and mop.

When out of the silence there arose such a clatter, what’s up? Call their colleagues, what is the matter?

“Look at this” one cries “look at the litter, someone’s covered this classroom in a layer of glitter!”

Cheese footballs kicked aimlessly, have missed their target, now ground all to bits making mess on the carpet.

Biscuit crumbs on the floor like new fallen snow, while crisps scatter in places they aren’t meant to go.

There’s paper and pencils and shavings galore intertwined with the weaving of the carpeted floor, bin bags by the dozen, full to the brim with excess decorations and Christmassy trim.

The staff room is next where grownups do linger, though you’d be forgiven for doubting when you see the crushed chocolate fingers.

 Toilets sparkling, glittery with wee, paper strewn like tinsel round this porcelain tree.

Sinks covered in paint and desks smeared with glue gum, classes start in two hours, what can be done?

On Hoover , on duster , on hot tap for water , fill bucket with bubbles and this mess they’ll slaughter.

They’ll stack chairs, move tables and scrub at the mess, at the end of their shift this room will back at its best.

Pick up all the sports bags, mislaid coats, gloves and hats, books from book corner even stuffed cats. They’ll replace everything back how it once was with care; you’d never know of the bombsite that once lay right there.

So remember as you mess and trash the work place those housekeeping saviours that save you from disgrace.

Who slip away quietly like the tailor shop mice, they don’t expect thanks although it might have been nice.

 Respect them this yuletide, make them swell with delight  

Say Merry Christmas all cleaners and to all a good night.

 

So that’s it from my column for the rest of this year , girl from the neck down wishes you well and lots of good cheer.

See you back here 2014, same time and same place, hope my awful poetry hasn’t made you sick of my face!

There’s one thing left to say and that’s the end, it is clear

I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year xxx

PUBLISHED IN MEDWAY MESSENGER 23 DEC 2013

 

 

CARD-TOON CAPERS

It’s that time of year again; time to find out if you’ve made the grade. Have you done enough to make the public love you and will others be jealous of how popular you really are.

No it’s not the x factor final, nor the strictly dance off in that great lit up ballroom of which i speak  , but the annual Christmas card giving and receiving.

Will you be a winner in the popularity stakes with walls heaving under a tonne of folded glittery cardboard depicting the jolly red suited bloke, various animals or maybe even Jesus himself .  Or are you, nobby no mates with a few thin papery jobs that refuse to stand upright.

As the workplace postie makes their rounds will you be filled with despair or gasping with delight at the mutual love being shown for one another tonight.

Quantity or quality, which one is better, there’s only one way to find out...

WRITE !

GIRL FROM THE NECK DOWN COLUMN PUBLISHED IN THE MEDWAY MESSENGER 23 DEC 2013

Slow no no

On seeing a post by the djs from one of my favourite northern soul / mod nights joking about introducing an " erection section " to the night so couples could dance with the one they love ( or not as the case may be ) it got me thinking back to the days of my youth when the slow dance was the king of the disco . 

A sure fire way of knowing just how popular you were with the opposite sex and boy I must have been pretty repellent cos I then realised I've only ever slow danced properly  a couple of times in my life.

Maybe it's the fact I'm very awkward about people touching me in general unless I really know them , maybe it's because I feel the urge to burst out into immature laughter at the thought of a man grinding his down unders against me or maybe it's because at 5ft and a fag end there's not many fella's with whom I can rest my head gently on their shoulder ( belly button perhaps but it's not quite the same ) , the slow dance has decided it's really just not for me.

The first was at a disco given after a school classmates brothers football presentation which came as quite a shock given the clothes I'd chosen to wear. Trying to dip a toe in the world of alternative indie fashion the outfit I'd decided that evening to wear was a pair of Levi 501's , a baggy white t shirt stolen from my dad topped off with the brown cardigan that my father frequently accused me of stealing .my makeupless face framed with my gold rimmed John Lennon glasses ( all the better for seeing the boys with ) and I was good to go.

( my dad must've been the only father who told his daughter you're not going out dressed like that because she was too covered up ! )

So anyway despite the fact i was clearly bringing specsy back while the classmate was busy chatting up the dj  ( supposedly she went out with him for a couple of weeks although there was a rumour she had made that up ) little mole like me got approached by a beefy older lad who asked if I wanted to dance . Having always been a bit backwards in the art of flirting this was the first time any bloke had shown any interest so I jumped at the chance. 

It's said that dance is a form of mating ritual but this had all the sexiness of two people shifting a large wardrobe , at the end there was no number swapping or much lusted after snogging nope not even a peck on the cheek , just a rain man like " thank you " as I ambled awkwardly away ...I didn't hear from him again , surprise surprise !

Making a profession out of being the worlds worst flirter / flirtee my next slow dance didn't fair much better , I was a little more accomplished at the art of dressing like a woman by then so the outfit was right but again the dance was wrong . I don't think I could have danced any further away from the chap than if I'd been doing it from the shop unit next door.

Various times after that fared much the same , it didn't even matter if I was truly attracted to that person , the slow dance had all the sex appeal of moving a comedy table with one of the chuckle brothers ....to you , to me 

  So I decided to give up my slow dance dream , no more would I be shuffled round the floor like an old ladies shopping trolley , I branched out and embraced the art of dancing like no bodies watching and I've been flying solo ever since ...

And solo is the best thing to be once those limbs of mine begin to feel the beat 

 

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