15 The Disclaimer

There are a few things afoot for this girl at the moment, which is all very good but has meant that my blog has taken a back-seat. I haven't abandoned it, nor is it the case that I've just nothing to talk about. Quite the contrary actually. It is just down to time constraints and I hope that normal service will be resumed by next week.

Unfortunately I couldn't wait until then to inform you that the sad day has come and that I've had to put a disclaimer on this blog. I was worried that if I left it any longer I might get sued in the meantime.

It started when a guy I know got in touch to say that he'd read one of my earlier posts, The Headmaster about a disastrous haircut I'd had. He'd taken note of my comment that you wear your hair every day and shouldn't scrimp when getting a new 'do'. He decided to forgo his usual trip to the barbers and instead splash out on a trip to a proper salon.

The problem was that as well as being £40 poorer, he also hated his new look and wondered 'what I was going to do about it.'

Er..?

The next thing was that when planning a night out with a friend she insisted I confirm by text that I will not write about any of our antics.

Now I can't win with this one. Some people worry that I will blog about them, whereas others are upset when I don't!

Some even inform me how they want to be described in the posts, which is all very well, but if I did as they asked you could be mistaken for thinking that I hang around with supermodels.

Recently, I've had many people tell me that they read about my money pot riches and they too are going to do that too.

Now I'm really sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the pots are not magic. You can do all the wishing and rubbing you want, but if you've only put £6.47 in, £6.47 is what you will get out. The money does not procreate and have little money babies. The trick is to have it for years like I did and lose track of what it has got in it. (See picture above for reference purposes)

So, in conclusion this blog will now bear the footnote that everything you read here is purely the opinion of the author and you should not take any of her advice unless you are mental. It is also recommended that you do not try anything at home unless supervised by a responsible adult. And you also need not worry that I will write about anything you say or do on nights out with me. I mean I have not mentioned anything about Taggart getting us barred from a bar after she was sick on the dance floor now have I? No, I haven't because I am extremely discreet*.

*Note that this rule does not apply to any men that have treated me badly. Rest assured that you will at some point definitely feature in here. And I won't even change your name. That means you Alan, Gerry, Robert, Jamie...

23 Giddy Kipper

You would think I'd never been on holiday before. Excited is not the word! I can't even concentrate properly, my head is already on the beach.

It probably explains why it took me so long to work out what the dodgy smell was in my fridge earlier. It was a real puzzle because there isn't even that much in there. I picked everything up one by one to sniff them. The mayonnaise, the milk, the wine, the yoghurts, the chocolate. All fine. Nothing out of date. Weird.

I felt pretty stupid when I realised that the aroma was that of fake-tan. From my own out-stretched arm.

I'm probably extra-excited because when Taggart and I first talked about going away, my bank account was screaming 'No!' and it wasn't looking like I could go anywhere.

I was in the middle of thinking up hair-brained schemes to get some cash when I spotted my money pot. I've been putting money in it for a few years, a pound coin here, a fiver there and was only going to break it when it was full which it wasn't quite yet. I was saving for a rainy day though and it has been pissing down recently and I really want to go on holiday, so I decided it was time to smash the pot.

After a quick google to find out the best way to do it (put a chisel in the money slot and just 'lift' the top off) I sat and counted my money...

I only flipping well had seven hundred and fifty-four pounds and twenty pence!!!!

Yep, £754.20!!!

I know - I couldn't believe it either! You wouldn't even imagine that much would fit in the pot. I felt like a lottery winner.

So after a quick call to Taggart to inform her that I'm actually rich and just hadn't realised it, we had a quick search on the internet and a few hours later had booked our respective flights (her from Glasgow, me from Manchester) to meet up in the Canaries.

We've both been giddy kippers since. Well I know I have and the fact that Taggart keeps sending me texts saying things like 'Do you fancy meeting up on Monday? What about meeting half-way? In Gran Canaria say? Woo hoo!' suggests that she is too.

It has an extra special place in our hearts as well, because both Taggart and I used to work there. We knew each other from school but it was the 'Summer of 97' while working in the sunshine, miles away from home that we became proper friends.

Of course it is irrelevant really. We were whippersnappers then, while now we are mature adults. It doesn't really matter where we are going because all we intend to do is sunbathe and relax. We aren't even going to go out. So while I will in theory have plenty of time to blog, I just won't have anything to write about. I mean I know that Taggart and I seem to attract drama to us wherever we go...but not this time. Nope, 'Rapunzel and Taggart do Gran Canaria' is going to make for a very boring read so I won't inflict it on you.

(Note to any men - you realise if you ask me out on a date now, I'll think that you only want me for my money?! And on the same theme, note to everyone - I do not want to return from my holiday to lots of begging letters. Get your own money pot!)

1 Doctor Doctor

I've got a job. Starting tomorrow. If you thought that would put a smile on today's miserable face, then you'd be sadly mistaken. Note the lack of exclamation marks.

It's because it isn't a real job. Not a TV one I mean. It's a temp job. At a hospital. A needs must kind of thing.

It could be a bit of a game for my friends when I tell them I've got work...is it temp or telly?..hot or cold?...higher or lower? It could be a game if it wasn't so obvious from my voice which one. When it's TV work I'm hyper and they can't always make out what I'm saying. My temp work voice is monotone. Bless my friends though, they always try and put a positive slant on it for me and remind me how it's some money coming in (barely) and how it will get me out of the flat (have they seen where I live, I could happily never leave?!) and how I might meet a nice doctor.

Now I'm interested to know, has anyone ever met a fit doctor? Do they exist, aside from in TV programmes? I've temped in hospitals before and have never met a Dr McDreamy or McSteamy. Not even a 'they could sort of pass for one of them... if you squint.' Mind you, my hospital jobs have tended to see me sitting in rooms the size of cupboards, typing up notes about ear wax and old men's bowel examinations. No doctors to be seen. Good-looking or otherwise.

I'm going to be positive about this though. I mean it's a bit of money coming in. It'll get me out of the flat. And you never know, I might meet a nice young doctor.

6 The Headmaster

You know things are bad money-wise when you have to go to a builder to get your hair cut.

It had got to that time again and having been turning down jobs willy nilly so not exactly feeling flush, I'd been looking into cheaper ways to get a new 'do.' As well, I was currently between hairdressers, which as many girls will know, is far worse than being between boyfriends. The one before last was great but then he moved away. Then the last one I felt just didn't take enough time or care on the job. (You realise I'm talking about hairdressers now, not boyfriends?!) So having no money and no loyalties to anyone, I found myself at the Toni and Guy Academy early yesterday morning, lined up with the other victims, sorry clients, while the trainee hairdressers ran their eyes over us and chose who they wanted. The builder picked me. (He's not a builder now obviously. He's a hairdresser. Well a student one. I just wanted to be clear that he wasn't some brickie in doing work on the salon and decided to try his hand to hairdressing that day. He also didn't actually pick me. He was more encouraged to take me. It felt slightly as if I was the fat child at school that no-one wants on their team. No worries though, I'd been picked and was in the game!)

Well if I was concerned that the last hairdresser was too quick I didn't have to worry about this one. I'd been there two hours and it still wasn't finished. Two hours without a coffee. Two hours without chat apart from when he'd told me about his change of career. Two hours of sitting in an extremely uncomfortable position (tall hairdresser meant the chair was up high and as there were no foot-rests my feet dangled making me feel like a toddler at the dinner table). We were nearing the end though and apart from the sore legs and numb bum, so far so good. The teacher had been over and assessed almost every scissor movement and made sure the builder was putting in the right horseshoes and gradients (no i've no idea either?) and we were now at the front section. We planned what we were going to do. He told the teacher what he was going to do. Then he set about doing it...snip! Erm, somehow I seemed to have ended up with a fringe. I'm sure we were not going to do a fringe. Teacher came over...'oh you shouldn't have done that'. I was right, we definitely weren't going to do a fringe.

Lesson learned for me? Hair cuts are a necessity, not a luxury. You wear your hair every day. Don't scrimp on them. Plus at 'proper' salons you get a coffee...and a foot rest.
Lesson learned for builder turned hairdresser? Who cares! He doesn't have to live with it!

Obviously it doesn't look as bad as I thought though as flatmate got in and asked what I'd done all day.
And my horoscope for today..(I kid you not)...a bad hair day is a great hat day!

2 Modern Day Rapunzel

You could say I'm like a modern day Rapunzel. Ok I'm not trapped and I'm not waiting for a prince to rescue me. Nor do I have long hair. I do live in a tower though. A tower in Manchester that is the tallest residential building in the UK to be exact. According to my friend's 3 year old that makes me Rapunzel and as someone that is clued-up on fairytales I'm sure she knows what she is talking about....

Allegedly I have quite an unusual life. Not just because I live in this tower but also because I'm a freelancer so never know when I'm working next or whether I will have enough money to pay the expensive rent for my lovely apartment. People tell me that would be their idea of hell but I thrive on it. A well-meaner once said that it was ridiculous to live the way I do and it would be better to rent somewhere cheaper and save money for a rainy day. Apart from the fact it is forever raining in Manchester, it seems illogical to me to live somewhere I'm not as happy with, so I can save money in order to live somewhere in the future, somewhere like....where I live now.

As well as that I'm also single at 33, which may not be that unusual in today's society but in amongst my group of mostly married or attached friends it is. They tell me I'm fabulous and they can't understand it which is very nice and is the kind of thing supportive friends should say. It does suggest though that they think it's something I'm doing wrong and doesn't take into account that it may be through choice, which to a large extent it is. Admittedly the Kingdom of Singledom is a difficult place to live - there are some weird residents and weird laws but as well as that I'd much rather be happily single than unhappily attached to the wrong person.

As I'm forever the optimist though, I've just joined a dating website in a bid to meet that elusive Mr Rapunzel and in order to entertain my friends with stories from my side of the grass. I've also got a brand new flatmate - a guy whose surname I can't remember and can't say even if I could. And I've started a new fitness regime at the gym after over a year of my only exercise being the walk to the shops.

So quite an unusual time in general. Maybe even more so because I had my first marriage proposal today. Sort of. It was by text and the guy in question didn't actually ask me but said he may 'just have to propose.' That's almost the same though isn't it? It's promising as he's currently only spent half an hour in my company. Not sure what my answer would be if he did, will judge after our planned date....