It's definitely not safe to go back into the water....

On the 1^st December news broke of a shark attacking and maiming four tourists in Sharm el-Sheikh. A couple of days later they caught a particularly large oceanic white tip, re-opened the beaches, and two days later another woman was killed by a shark. From this information I have decided two things:

One- The Police in Sharm el-Sheikh have not watched Jaws. It’s Shark Trickery 1/01: Chill for a day or so, let the fuzz catch a smaller shark, wait for the beaches to re-open and attack immediately. The authorities simply need to head out to sea in a bigger boat with a bounty hunter, Richard Dreyfuss and a few gas tanks.

Two- Package deals to the Red Sea will be much cheaper next year, so in these difficult times of recession it’s now top of my holiday destination list.  I will investigate the feasibility of diving in a suit of armour or trying to get through Egyptian customs with a speargun. Only foreseeable problem is that my boyfriend is terrified of sharks- so much so that if I hum the Jaws theme tune while he’s in the bath it upsets him.

I’ve actually had a couple of run ins with sharks myself. My first was on the Gulf coast in Florida. My Mum and Gran had waded out to their waist (probably for a wee) and were chatting. Suddenly Mum saw a fin behind my Gran and before she could say anything the shark hit her so hard in the back of her legs she fell over. Luckily my Mum was holding me in her arms, or I think 6-year old me would have been a delicious snack as they fled back in.

It wasn’t a great holiday all told, it later emerged that the shark had come inshore because Hurricane Hugo was building in the  Gulf. I spent the rest of my first holiday abroad in a hurricane shelter. And I was already heartbroken from seeing Mickey Mouse take his head off and smoke a fag at Disney World.

My second altercation was in the Dominican Republic where my dad and I decided it’d be a clever to go snorkelling in this dark cave - no one else was snorkelling there, not even the locals, what could go wrong?

We were in the cave for about half a second before I looked down and saw a huge shadow move below me. I looked at my Dad- his pale face and expression of abject terror let me know he’d seen it too. I glanced down again and saw that tell-tale fin.

Being an only child I’ve always been overprotected by my father - He once got me a can of weapons grade tear-gas “to keep in my purse for nights out”. But when there’s a shark near you, it’s every man for themselves, it's more terrifying than the acting in Jaws 3. He swam out of that cave so fast he was on the beach having a beer to get over the shock before I’d swum a stroke.

But have I learned how to avoid shark attacks? Yes. Make sure there’s a weaker swimmer with you at all times, and if you see a shark don’t say a word, just swim away quietly and let it eat the other person. And if like me you’re going to Sharm el-Sheikh next year; learn the word for ‘shark’ in every language. So if a Ukrainian or Russian tourist swimming near you starts screaming, you know what’s up.

Now to end on a more festive note, yet keeping to the theme of ravenous beasts that need feeding, I’d like to use the power of blog for good and draw your attention to the Hungry Mouths campaign at the Wood Green Animal Shelter http://www.woodgreen.org.uk/how-to-help/hungry-mouths/. Give money to feed the kitten…or the sharks will come and eat you.

Sister Act

I just had one of those moments when you wish you could disappear into a hole in the floor. Three of us were talking about a local school that has been taken over by a church run Academy. One person then commenced a ten minute atheistic tirade. This was followed by a long pause before the other pulled a crucifix out from her blouse and declared how important her faith is to her. I, of course, diffused this tense moment with my verbal proficiency: "Err...Biscuit anyone?".

My first school was not only church run, but a convent. My parents sent me there because it was only a couple of minutes walk from home rather than any holy motivations. In fact the closest to prayers I've ever seen my father get was at the Heineken Cup Final when Leicester Tigers played Wasps. He looked heavenward and cried "For Christ's Sake can't they just score a try?".

If you think my time in a Convent was filled with kindly nuns imparting knowledge like a scene from The Sound Of Music, you're wrong.  Nuns can sniff out doubters like a spaniel can sniff out drugs. When one Nun, Sister Teresa, walked down the corridor I felt distinctly colder.

I had a harrowing experience one day when I was attacked by a chain smoking, six foot bully from St. Paul's Secondary School next door. When I told Sister Teresa how I was playing an innocent game of Pogs and he kicked me and stole my lucky gold slammer, which I still miss incidentally, she simply told me "to pray for him". And it didn't work, as far as I know he didn't shove my slammer up his own arse. Although I can't be sure.

Sister Teresa had disliked me since a class about Original Sin when I asked why God had let Eve eat the apple: "Did He let her do it on purpose or was He just not watching?" I asked. There's no easy answer to that question.

I made it worse one holy communion. I was really hungry and liked the taste of the wafers so I went round twice. She noticed and dragged me aside. "You can't eat Jesus more than once" she reprimanded. She told me to apologise; "Sorry" I said shamefacedly. "Not to me," she snapped and pointed upwards before marching away.

My suspicions that she hated me were confirmed when I asked to be Mary in the Nativity and she informed me that I'd already been cast as Herod. I shouldn't complain though as I did also get to double as a sheep, which was nice.

 

When the school was eventually taken over by a grammar school I felt a lot more settled as it attracted young people from all different religious backgrounds. Indeed, apart from being famous for giving us the Attenboroughs, Gary Lineker and Gok Wan, Leicester is also the most multi-cultural city in the UK. And just as everyone else was encouraged their own religious beliefs I was allowed my religious doubts.

Mind you, in Year 6 when the Drama Department did Jesus Christ Superstar as the end of term play I auditioned for Mary. And they cast me as Judas.

My grandma has got a boyfriend. He's called Phillip.

My Gran doesn't reveal exactly how old she is. We'd probably need to carbon date her or count her rings to find out for sure but I'd guess that she's probably approximately two hundred years old. In any case, we'd assumed she was safely put out to pasture. But no, she's wandered into the stud farm.

All the problems started when she got her new hip. It's made up of some super-metal alloy and she's now unstoppable. She's like an eighty year old Terminator, but scarier.

Recently I've been enjoying shocking people by telling them that my grandma brought her new boyfriend to my granddad's funeral. Now whilst this statement is true, it is slightly misleading. My maternal grandmother did bring her partner to the funeral, but it was my dad's father that had passed away. Nonetheless I still enjoyed the look on people's faces when I told them.

In fact her husband died thirteen years ago. I'm sure you'll agree with me that she seems to have moved on a bit too fast. I wanted to know how she's met this elderly Casanova. Turns out that she saved a seat for him at a game of bingo at Age Concern, an organisation that I now suspect is a sort of match.com for the mature singles.



Singles Night in Leicester



Everyone I tell about this will inevitably have one of two responses: The nice people say "Oh it's sweet". Well, they haven't had to listen to my grandma's discussion about how his chin whiskers tickle her face.  The unkind people (boys) say "I bet he's shagging your Gran". This response makes me feel very wrong, a bit like Bruce Willis in the Sixth Sense when he finds out he's dead.



Phillip, at the tender age of about seventy, is my Gran's junior. Yep, she's a cougar. She's always liked Elizabeth Taylor and loved Joan and Jackie Collins (no, they're not the same person). She's obviously been following Demi Moore's tweets. Maybe she watched Courtney Cox's new sitcom (she's probably the only one who did). In any case, she's a cradle snatcher. I don't understand the current trend for women to opt for younger men. My boyfriend is almost seven years older than me and he's still the least mature. As I glance over at him now he's wearing his Superman Pyjamas and playing Streets of Rage on his iPhone.



"No, you can't get ice cream until after you've had your dinner."



Now I recently visited her house for breakfast. What I'd expected was boiled eggs and soldiers, perhaps a mug of Yorkshire Tea. What I got instead was the news that they're engaged.

This is shocking news.

I panicked at the thought of several more cousins. I don't have enough money to afford a whole extra family's birthday cards and Christmas presents. My mum took the prospect of having a new step-brother and sister at the age of fifty very calmly. But I've seen all the Disney movies, and what do they teach you? That you shouldn't eat apples and that Step-Parents are always evil.

At some point I shall be a bridesmaid at their wedding, probably wearing a dress that she's knitted herself.  I suppose I will have to comfort myself with the thought that there's no stopping the Terminator anyway, and that I haven't seen her looking so happy for thirteen years.

Quarter Life Strife

I recently went to see Biffy Clyro at DeMontfort Hall in Leicester. In the middle of the mosh pit, surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers there was one older guy with grey hair. I stared at this odd man out until I suddenly realised- that weirdo is my father.

He turned fifty-five recently and at this turning point where most men buy red sport cars my Dad started going to rock gigs. Mum permitted him to shave off his beard and grow his hair longer, she tolerated his newfound penchant for black jeans, I only hope she’ll step in before he gets ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on his knuckles.

I observed these changes in my father as you might watch a natural history programme. Sometimes in my head I imagine a voice over by David Attenborough, such as “And now, the adult male only too aware of his own mortality will act like a complete twat”. Fully confident that, being female, I was less likely to have a mid-life crisis and even if I did it was at least a couple of decades away.

How wrong I was.

A couple of months ago I turned twenty-five. Usually I wake up on my birthday very excited that for a whole day I can freely be a pain in the arse and no one is permitted to tell me off. I’m the sort of person who tells everyone it’s their birthday- the postman, the cashier in the grocers, the tramp sitting on the floor outside the grocers. But on this particular occasion I felt like I wanted to keep it a secret.

I started to think about all the things I should have done by now. I rooted out an old diary from school as I knew I’d written a list entitled ‘Things to Do Before I’m 25’. I hadn’t done too badly- I had succeeded in two points: A Get a boyfriend and B Move to London. I had failed on points C and D though. I have not travelled around the world and it’s unlikely that I’ll win the Nobel prize for Literature in the ten months left before I turn 26. I had also failed on the final point E - Get an Andrex Puppy.

I started to fixate on this- I’d always wanted a dog. Why hadn’t I got one? Because to have a dog you need to have a house with a garden. Why don’t I have a house with a garden? Because I don’t have any money. Had I made a mistake picking an industry where it’s rare you earn the mega-bucks? Should I give it all up and become a financial advisor?

This line of thought led to an entire afternoon spent on facebook obsessively looking at what all my University mates were up to. I haven’t been on facebook for such a length of time since the Great Cider Upchucking of 2006 when I spent a full day de-tagging photos of myself.

Cider Chunder 2006: Scene of the Crime

My first instinct was to go for a haircut. I got a fringe, a straight across one like I had back when I was twelve and dreaming of Andrex Puppies. My second thought was to pretend that I was still at University and hadn’t grown up. I visited a friend in Bristol and we went to a nightclub. On the way in I was delighted to be ID-ed by the bouncer. The fringe was clearly working. I showed him my driving licence with such pride you’d think I was presenting him with the Nobel Prize I haven’t won yet.

My friend went to the bar but I headed straight to the floor and started dancing around enthusiastically. Soon I was beginning to feel a bit tired, I’m usually in bed by now I thought, and the music seemed a bit loud. I paused and looked around. There I was in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers. Not only was I getting older, but I was turning into my father.

I heard a voice in my head: “And now, the adult female only too aware of her own mortality will act like a complete twat”.

Talkies

I promised myself I wouldn’t waste money on popcorn when I went to the cinema last week. Most of the time it’s been sitting there all day and developed a subtle taste comparable to cardboard. And it’s so expensive- I’d spent the day scrounging an Orange Wednesday code off my mates so why should I lose the money I’ve saved on popcorn? A relic of the Great Depression it became popular in cinemas during this time as it costs mere pennies to make but people will pay much more for it. I was so sure this time I wouldn’t be taken in by this exploitative capitalism. 



Yet as soon as the smell of popcorn wafts over from the gauntlet of snack counters in the foyer I’m hooked, I’m like Pavlov’s Dogs- and I don’t just mean dribbling. Ten minutes later, there I am in the back row shovelling it into my mouth, surrounded by fellow grazers up to their elbows in popcorn tubs.


Having popcorn in the cinema is a tradition which is clearly too ingrained in my psyche to fight. But you know what’s not a tradition…? Talking during the movie. As far as I’m concerned the only noise I should hear in the cinema is the sound of the film and the soft nibbling of the aforementioned snack.


When did talking in the cinema become so common? I conducted a survey amongst my vast array of friends to see if they had been bothered by it. Both of them had. In fact they said that in recent visits to the cinema they’d always had some level of talking. It’s clearly on the verge of becoming an epidemic.


My first bad experience was having the man beside me, between sending text messages, explain the plot twists and story layers of Wanted to his girlfriend throughout the film. For those of you who’ve not seen it, it’s no Inception and about as twisty as a ruler and has about as many levels as an ice rink. I would have told him to shut up but he was huge, he looked like someone who might ask you for ID when you’re going into a club and you’d give it to him even though you’re clearly at least twenty-five. So I asked my boyfriend to tell him to shut up. On the plus side the fight that followed was actually more entertaining than the action sequence on screen at that moment.


Since then I’ve been nervy about asking people to be quiet and tend to put up with it. Once, in a particularly dodgy Cineworld, I was surrounded by a crowd of guys who proceeded to heckle throughout Ironman. I gently advised that it was unlikely Robert Downey Jr. would react to their taunts but this only made them worse and they developed into a kind of frat party in the cinema. I decided to find an usher to quieten them as during the golden age of cinema peacefulness I remember being ‘shh-ed’ by many an usher. The only one I could find was sulking in a corner and, after laughing at me, followed me into the cinema to attempt to discipline the rabble. Turns out he went to the same school as them and a few minutes later he took over as chief heckler. Iron man and I didn’t stand a chance.


So what happens now for those of us who enjoy the quiet?


We can go and see movies at 3am to try and avoid the crowds. We can commute for an hour and pay fifteen pounds for a ticket to see a film in a high-class regional cinema. We can wait for the film to come out on DVD. My best suggestion is to use that lasting tradition of cinema to combat the talkers: Throw your popcorn at them.