Bruised shins

I have just woken up with a stonking hangover. Not a little, fuzzy-tongued hangover. Not a vague, furry-headed hangover. No; a big, whopping, cannot-move-out-of-bed-and-am-writing-on-laptop-because-suspect-may-be-sick-if-try-to-turn-on-main-computer hangover. The birds - one of which, I realised at three am this morning when I woke up to drink three pints of water, sounds like an iPod scrolling (click click click click click) - have never been jauntier. I swear to you: the perkiest birds in the country have flown to Welwyn Garden this morning and perched themselves outside my window. Along with light. Lots of light. Waiting for me to open my curtains so that it can rush straight into my head and make me cry. Which isn't going to happen, because these curtains are staying shut today.

I have never loved a hangover more.

One of the decisions I made about four weeks ago - when I tried to take money out of my overdraft and the computer said no - was that until I found employment, I wouldn't let myself go out, socially. There was just no way I could possibly justify getting more and more into debt just for the sake of some fun; it would be incredibly irresponsible. And I've stuck to it. For four weeks, I've not left the house. I've written, I've gardened, I've dressed up like a wally and I've decorated the main bedroom, but I've not had a drink. And I've not seen friends. 

Yesterday, however, I finished my novel. Finished, finished it. There's nothing else I can do with it, now: it is done. Now all I have to do is start shovelling it into envelopes and playing the long rejection-game (I knew my love-life had trained me for something). So, to celebrate, I went to see one of my very best friends - one of the friends that makes me laugh hardest - and I drank four pints of cider in a very nice little pub by the Thames. I laughed until my face hurt. And then I wobbled home, ate a pizza, burnt my lip, fell into a chair and bruised my leg, had a giggly phone-call with a boy who makes me giggle, and passed out with no clothes on. I had, in short, the kind of night a 27 year old is supposed to have more often than once in four weeks. And it felt bloody marvellous.

So - frankly - the birds can sing as much as they want, today, and the light can shine as bright as it likes. Nothing is taking the (slightly queasy) grin off my face this morning. Because this hangover, I earned. 

What boys have

A friend just emailed me. This morning, she had a pivotal conversation with her two year old son.

"Tom's boobs," he stated over breakfast, pointing at her chest (Freud would have a field day). 

"No," Julie corrected him. "Mummy's boobs. Girls have boobs, Tom."

"Girls have boobs," he repeated seriously. 

"So if girls have boobs," my friend asked, "what do boys have?"

"Bikes," Tom answered.

A pretty succinct appraisal of the gender divide, I'd say. 

Jammy

Well: it went swimmingly. Tarts were grabbed off my plate by hungry commuters, my feathers stayed intact, I was cheered by a group of builders, and a little old lady came up - slightly concerned - took a Jammy Dodger and then said sweetly: "are you the Queen of Tarts, dear?" To which I very nearly said yes. 

I took lots of photos, but none for this blog, I'm afraid. I'm The Write Girl: it's all in the imagination. Otherwise I'd be The Photo Girl and I'd probably get more visitors.

The lesson, however, has been learnt. Nothing is as scary as it seems, as long as you take it on with a grin. In fact: I think I cheered up quite a few grumpy people this morning. My grandma's strawberry tarts (with home-made jam, she reminded me) certainly did. One visitor actually tried to take two, and I had to politely tell them to get some manners.

Now all I have to do is look forward to the next challenge.

Silly tarts

I've just learnt an important - if blindingly obvious - lesson.

You know how fancy dress parties are fun? The key to the fun, apparently, is the party bit. Not the fancy dress bit.

I just tried on my outfit - red sticky-up-round-the-neck-thing (ruffle?), heart-covered strippogram dress, long black cardigan (mine), long black leggings (mine), long black underskirt (mine) and crown (not mine) - and had to sit down on my bed for a few seconds because I was hyperventilating with fear. Pure, unadulterated fear: the kind I used to get when I was very small and I saw a large dog. 

To enjoy fancy dress (it suddenly became blindingly clear), it has to be dark, you have to be drunk, and you have to be with a large group of friends who also look like idiots. You should not be on your own, sober and in broad daylight in front of a group of commuters; some of which, quite possibly, you went to school with. It should not be before breakfast. And you should not be broadcasting this across the county.

I'm not even sure Queen of Hearts works, actually. 

"Isn't it going to confuse people?" the gentleman at Hertbeat FM said when I rang to update them. "You know, seeing as there's also a Heart FM, and that's spelt with an a?"

I stared at my phone, and then I stared at the (say it: say it) maribou trimmed skirt on the back seat of the car. 

Bugger, I thought.

"No," I said as bravely as I could. "I'll have logos. And I'll explain."

"Mmm," he said, and then I rung off just before I started sobbing into the steering wheel.

You know what? I'm going to do it. I'm going to take one of the deepest breaths I've ever taken and do it. Every time I think I've confronted all of my fears, another one always pops its little head up to try me. National telly? Done. Travelling the world on my own? Done. Asking a boy out and being told to sod off? Done. Dressing up like a total dickhead in public? Not done. And - if you asked me which of the above was the scariest - this is it. By far. I'd rather land on my own in a far-flung city at 2am (done) and get mugged within ten minutes (done), and then have to sleep under a pier (done), before ringing my mum and dad in tears (done done done done) than do this.

Which means, I think, that it has considerable value. Because if I do this, I can do anything.

PS: Dad keeps eating all my jam tarts. If I don't do it tomorrow, I won't have anything to do it with.

Tomorrow

My split-personality will have to be in full force tomorrow, because my day is going to be as split as possible.

At 7am, I shall be at my local train station, rigged up like The Queen of He(a)rts, handing out jam tarts that my grandma is currently baking, with little Hertbeat flags and stickers, encouraging commuters to listen to Hertbeat FM. I shall, with no doubt at all, look like a total tool, and I'll be lucky if I get away without being lynched. I shall then take my kit to another train station, where I shall do it again.

I will then go home, get changed into non-cartoon gear, and take my book manuscript to an agent. Following which, I'm meeting up with one of my best friends to get horribly, horribly drunk. Although not too drunk, because I have to return the costume to the fancy dress shop on Thursday morning.

"What with the Best Job thing, and now this," I said to my dad on the way to pick up the feather-trimmed costume (I don't remember the Queen of Hearts wearing feathers, but apparently she does), "I'm going to look like a fame hungry twinkie, aren't I."

"Yup," dad said. "Absolutely obsessed with it."

"Do you think anyone will know I don't actually want fame?"

"Nope. Not even for a second." Dad paused. "You're wearing leggings with that thing, right?" he said. "Because you look like a stripogram."

"I'm wearing a full length skirt underneath it," I assured him. "And a wig. Nobody will know it's me."

"Mmm," dad said. "They know your name at the radio station, right?"

There was a silence.

"They do," I confirmed. "Bugger."

So that's it. Shy Holly is going to have to be pushed into her box tomorrow, because otherwise I'm going to be so terrified I probably won't leave the house. I knew that chasing dreams was hard work, but I didn't know it would be so bloody scary.

Neighbours

Having failed to move me into the back garden, dad is now focusing his energies on attempting to shift me in the opposite direction.

"House opposite has been sold," he said pointedly today during The Simpsons break (never, never will a conversation be started during the show itself, and most of our deepest dialogues take exactly two and a half minutes). 

"Oh," I said. I don't really care about the real estate market, to be honest: if I did, I probably wouldn't be living at home with my father.

"Yep," dad continued. "To a man. 25 years old."

I looked at him in surprise, and dad pretended to watch an advert about toilet roll. There was a silence.

"Single, apparently," he added. "Single, home owner, living just across the road. I was chatting with Anne about it."

(Anne is our next door neighbour. We have never talked. There's no reason to.)

"Oh," I said coolly.

There was another pause.

"Yep. Quite impressive, single guy: quite attractive too, I've heard."

And then my dad turned and winked at me.

"Dad," I asked him after a few stunned seconds. "Do you have a crush on our new neighbour?"

"No!" dad shouted, predictably upset that I had accused him of gayness. "I'm thinking about you," he added in a slightly more controlled voice. 

"This isn't the Waltons, you know," I said. "You don't have to try and make me marry anybody within a fifty metre radius."

"Humph," I'm pretty sure I heard him mutter as he went to put the kettle on. "I reckon we're going to have to spread the net a little further than that if we're going to have any luck."

In a normal family, trying to set your daughter up with the 'new guy across the street' before you've even met him would be weird enough. From my dad, however, this is even more worrying. This is a man who - until I was 21 - walked out of a room if I said the word 'boyfriend'. A man who referred to my partner of three years as 'that guy'; who still purses his lips when I go out on dates, and who categorically informed me when I had my heart broken last year that 'romance was for girls'. Any mention of grandchildren - despite the fact that I am 28 this year - brings him out in hives, and he then rocks into the distance, scratching and muttering 'too soon, too soon'.

And now here he is: effectively wrapping me in a pink bow and leaving me at number 19 with my dowry in a parcel round my neck. These days, I think even a road between us seems - to my poor old dad, who just wants a bit of space - like a better option than nothing at all.

"Thanks for the unnecessarily detailed update," I managed when The Simpsons had finished, "but I think I can handle my own love life."

There was a small silence, and then dad lifted an eyebrow.

"Can you?" he said in genuine surprise. "Oh. That's good, then."

I'll tell you something, though: if Mr Single HomeOwner and 25 suddenly turns up on our doorstep to return - ooh, I don't know - a lawnmower, or a bowl, or a packet of sugar, my dad's going to have some explaining to do. Frankly, if I move out for a man, I'm moving further than that. 

Beating Herts

My mum is clearly in the wrong profession. Or the right profession, depending on how you view teachers.

"I've had a few ideas about this Hertbeat thing," she said when I eventually answered the phone (if you don't ring three separate times, these days, I can't be bothered to answer. It's amazing how busy I am, considering I don't have paid employment).
"Mmm," I replied dubiously, putting down my newspaper and ice lolly. "Excellent. Hit me with them, then."
"Well," mum said, taking a deep breath, and I knew immediately that I was in for a treat because it was her I've had too much coffee 'well'; her I've marked an essay that doesn't totally suck 'well'; her I've been drinking Pimms at lunch again 'well'. "Do you know why it's called Hertfordshire?" she said excitedly.
"Nope," I said. I thought this was just a conversation starter, but apparently it was a genuine question because mum barked:
"Think about it, Holly. What's a hert?"
"A deer?"
"Right. And what's on the county logo?"
"A deer?"
"Yes, and a ford, which is the river Lee."
"Right," I said.
"So," mum said, and she took another deep breath. "So you need to find somebody who has a little deer which you can take into the town centre on a lead, and then you can serve them dressed as The Queen of Herts, with little paper deer on your dress, with a hert, serving out tarts."
"Tarts?" I said, trying not to laugh.
"Jam tarts. With little deer on them," mum improvised. "And you could take a little ghetto blaster thing, and get it to play the sound of a heartbeat really loudly."
"Well..."
"Ooh!" mum shouted. "And then you could get a toy deer, and bop it around to the music, and that could be a Hert Beat."
I was laughing by this point: a fact that mum managed to ignore with great dignity.
"And," she said: "I know this is a little controversial, but you could get the toy deer, and you could beat it with a stick."
At which point, I abruptly shouted with laughter.
"Like a hert beat, you know?" mum explained in a slightly offended tone. "No? Do you think the RSPCA would be upset?"
"Probably," I said, "and I haven't got the foggiest idea where I'll get a deer on a string from. But awesome," I said when I had calmed down. "Absolutely amazing. I was thinking cakes and a t-shirt, but there are some cracking ideas there, mum."
"Well," mum said proudly: "the last lesson of the day was very boring, so I had some time to brain storm."
"Thanks," I said, meaning it. Not for the ideas - which, frankly, if I actually did would end up with me being dragged off to some kind of special room - but for the support. Mum was always a bit dubious about The Best Job, and I think she's making up for previous reticence with an enthusiasm that slightly endangers the carpet.
"S'alright darling," mum said chirpily. "And if I come up with anything else, I'll let you know. You make my heart beat," she said coyly at the end.
"Too much," I said.
"Thought so," she agreed. "Always one step too far, eh?"
And then she went off to Google Fancy Dress Shops in my local area.

She's got one cracking imagination, my mum. But I'm not letting her near any of my toys.

The Queen of Herts

You want the good news or the bad news? "The irrelevant news," my dad normally plumps for: but I'm not giving you that option, because frankly it's bloody irritating.

The good news is: as of this morning, I am officially a 'Hertbeat FM Apprentice'. This means that I have to compete against five others in my local area for a job I would love (trainee presenter on the breakfast show), and the fact that it should be 36,000 times easier than it was the last time I went for a job I wanted (TBJITW, obviously) is not making me feel any better. Frankly, it doesn't matter a jot if you're up against thousands and thousands of international candidates from around the world or five people from Welwyn Garden City, Hitchin and Stevenage: it's all about what you have to offer, and how good you are. And that hasn't changed, even if the odds are better this time. 

But it's great news anyway. My favourite thing about Best Job (apart from starting this blog) were the radio slots, so it could be an amazing opportunity. And it means that another door is opening, even if it means it might shut again before the week is out. Which leaves me feeling like Alice In Wonderland, but in a good, pre-potion kind of way.

The bad news is: I now have to refer to a job title that spellcheck yet again hates. It keeps trying to change it into Heartbeat, because cunning puns are apparently not built into its functionality server. It's short for Hertfordshire, I keep trying to tell the wiggly red lines: but they're not having any of it, so I'm going to have to push the geek in me to the bottom of my stomach and try to ignore them (although it's like trying to have a good day when you've been given a B on an essay, frankly).

Over the next few weeks, I have to do 'tasks' that are allocated by the Hertbeat FM team (I met them when I went into the studio for Best Job, and they're awesome. Awesome. They also - I might add - apparently read this blog), and every week one of us will be fired.

Which leads me to an irony to top all ironies. Queensland Tourism told me - after the shenanigans were all over - that one of the main reasons I didn't make the final of Best Job was my 'promotional activity'. I was great on media relations but low on creative stunts, apparently, and they had hoped for more. The first task for the Hertbeat FM job is to promote Hertbeat FM locally, in a creative, stunt-y kind of way. Excellent.

The thing is: after an initial freak-out, I suddenly realised that Queensland and Hertbeat were asking two very different things from me: and it was this one I was comfortable with. Queensland wanted me to promote me: myself as Caretaker of Hamilton Island. Hertbeat FM wants me to promote Hertbeat FM. And - while I'd rather shoot myself in the face than tell the public why I, personally, rock - I'm quite happy to tell them why something else does. 

So - knowing that my competition may well try and nick my ideas - I'm laying them out here first. I shall be The Queen of Herts. I'm thinking: cakes with the logo, handed out to commuters in the morning; stickers, given to local shopkeepers; videoing the local people about Hertbeat; dressing up as The Queen of Herts. You name it: I'll be out there, giving it my best shot. 

Not because I've learnt my lesson, you see, but because this time I actually believe in what I'm trying to sell.  

 

A bit of fresh air

My parents are trying to move me out into the garden.

They're not being very subtle about it. This morning, at about 8am, they both knocked on my bedroom door.

"We're going out," mum shouted. "Do you want to come?"

"Depends where you're going," I said from underneath my duvet. 

"The garden centre. We're going to look at patio slabs. Want to join us?"

"Not even a little bit," I shouted back, and then I curled myself back into a ball and went back to sleep.

When they returned a couple of hours later (this, apparently, is how long it takes to look at patio slabs), they had bought me a present. 

"Come and have a look," dad beamed at me. "It's in the garden."

I ran through the house - tail wagging - and then I stared at the clingfilm wrapped gift outside for a few seconds.

"It's a deck-chair," mum explained eventually.

"I can see that it's a deck-chair," I said. "Wow. I don't know what to say. Thanks for the deck-chair, mum and dad."

There was a pause, and then mum nudged me with her elbow.

"Well, are you going to open it, then?" 

"Obviously," I stated flatly. "Because otherwise I won't be able to sit in it."

Once my brand new deck-chair was on the grass, I went to dutifully sit on it.

"Not there," dad said. "A little further down the lawn."

I moved the chair, and then made to sit down on it again.

"A little further," dad called. "There's a nice sunny spot on the other side of that trellis."

I moved the chair to the other side of the trellis, and then went to sit on it. You can't even see the house from there, so I'm guessing that the house can't see me either.

"Very nice!" dad shouted. "Do you like it?"

"Mmm," I answered.

Mum and dad then poked their heads through the trellis at me. 

"We've been looking at sheds too," mum said chirpily. "There's a big one with a porch and everything. You can put the lawnmower in the back, and then there's room for a writing table and a chair and stuff in the front."

"We thought we might get it for you," dad said. "As a present."

"What for?" I said. "I don't need a shed."

"You could write out here," mum said. "You know. Away from the house."

"I only write on computers," I pointed out. "You know that."

"We'll get a long extension lead."

"What if it gets cold?"

"You've got a jumper, haven't you?"

"There are a lot of spiders."

"You like spiders. You've always liked spiders. It'll be fun. A bit of company."

There was a shocked pause, and then I snapped: "Do you want me to bloody sleep out here as well? Because I've got a sleeping bag under my bed if you think I might need it."

Mum and dad looked at each other for a few seconds, and then beamed at me.

"It's just big enough," dad eventually said, "but we measured it and we think you'll fit."

So there we go. If I was a little more sensitive, I might think I had outstayed my welcome.

Hamster-brained

I received an email today from one of my closest friends. Her boyfriend is involved in a new tv programme idea, where people dress up in large animal costumes and then date each other.

What do you think? she wrote.

I scrolled down, and somewhere in the chain of emails was one from her boyfriend. Thought of Holly for this straight away, he had written. Will you ask her?

I have never actually met her boyfriend, so I can only imagine exactly what my friend tells him over dinner.

I'm not going to do it. It sounds great fun and fantastic viewing, but frankly - with the BBC documentary due out in July - I think I've made a tit of myself in front of the nation quite enough for 2009 already. Perhaps if it comes around again in 2010, I might have no shame again.

It still raises an uncomfortable realisation, however: my friends now see me as the kind of girl who would go on televised dates in a massive, fluffy hamster costume.

Awesome. Who says I've wasted the last year? 

Just look at the reputation I've gone and got myself.