I am a girl of the slightly dumpy, hour-glass figure, glasses wearing variety (who has been considering a neck lift for a while, but is unsure if it’s worth it). To look at me you would think there is nothing unusual about me (or maybe you would think there is something unusual about me–simply because I look too normal to be normal–) but I’ve got a secret I can tell you, and it is this: I love great white sharks. I sponsored my first great white when I was eleven (Eddie from South Africa, a particularly ferocious beast well known and disliked in the area for his rapid attacks on surfers) and have even been down in a cage to meet my vicious friends in person.

Now, it never ceases to amaze me how ignorant people are of great white’s. Most think they swim with their fins out of the water (they don’t: if you wanted to sneak up on a seal would you?) and many think they attack people for fun. But they don’t do that either! The other thing people don’t know is how they mate. Yesterday I overheard two slightly drunken grown men arguing about how great white’s mate and I had to step in and set them straight: “Nobody has ever seen two great white’s mate,” I said, confident. All that watching The Discovery Channel had finally paid off after all…

“Really?” said the guy on the left, astounded that a meek looking girl should be such an expert.

Then I said “Yes,” and walked away, pleased with myself and thinking about what to have for dinner.

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So I am guessing this man has to be a pretty good person. First he broke free of the evil clutches of the tax monsters, then he went on to start giving back to the world. For that you should read this blog and everything on it. There’s tons of interesting stuff, most of it connected with energy saving in one way or the other (obviously), all of it beneficial to anyone who dislikes the idea of chucking money down the drain by way of wasting energy.

And Eniginaren’t exaggerating when they say that social media is a phenomenon. No way! And they would know. They have loads of different blogs on the web and all of them serve a very different and unique purpose. Some discuss marketing techniques, while others argue the finer points of why filling the atmosphere is actually quite a bad thing.

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Picking up a brand-new-straight-out-of-the-womb-piping-hot-baby is something that nearly everyone will, at some point in their life, do.

Recently I was fortunate enough to be asked if I wanted to come and see a brand new baby and hold it, without gloves, almost when it was too hot to handle, and trust me not yet wearing any clothes for baby. Though it was terrifying to me I agreed. It being a once in a lifetime opportunity, possibly, I grabbed the baby quite literally with open arms and had a good go.

Turns out I am a natural! But not everyone is–oh no (and trust me not everyone is, because there is nothing more horrifying than someone who is really awkward around babies trying to pretend that they are enjoying themselves).

So here we go: it’s your lucky day!

Here are a few pointers for those of you with profound debilitating fear-of-picking-up-babies (in latin it might be called babymus-fearamus, I suppose).

1) Babies are tougher than you think. Sort of. Though not so tuff that they bounce off the floor. But that doesn’t mean that you have to be super gentle with them. I mean be gentle and support their neck, but otherwise let instinct take over. Assuming you have some but you should find out soon enough.

2) Babies do cry. Just because you picked him / her up and she started to cry doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. Don’t panic!

3) Chances are that if it feels awkward for you it’ll feel awkward for the baby. Look at others who hold babies and learn from their mistakes. Who knows, if you ask about then these tortured new fathers might even give you some pointers!

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Personally, I find football about as exciting as an empty brown envelope (and that isn’t a particularly exciting thing). I mean, what exactly is there to get excited about??? You have two mobs of grown men, running around a big field who are basically fighting over a bag full of fresh air! Or am I missing something here?

Yet everywhere you go, football is forced down your throat; it is on posters, soft drinks and packaging. It is also in every magazine you look at (except, perhaps ‘People’s Friend’ and a few of the top shelf publications). It all seems to be dramatically overrated to me. And who on Earth ever decided that it was important enough to be attached to our headline news??? Which team won a certain match or what player has pulled his hamstring is hardly on par with the state of our economy or the latest about the War on Terror, is it? It’s a funny old world.

And what about the money they get? It’s absolutely ludicrous! These people live in a totally different world to the rest of us; their annual salaries read like international phone numbers. Their biggest worries are whether they can convince the ref that they have a ‘poorly’ on their shin after falling over or which is the best moisturizer for rosacea. Dear, oh dear.

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I have always been a flat-footed girl. I can barely believe I’m admitting it now; I haven’t ever admitted it like this, not even in acting workshop when Miss Plaviowsly told us to “let everything out”. I know, I know, it’s shameful. I know how horrible it looks when I run down the street: that’s why I wear high-heels all the time. That way I never have to be seen to be the flat-footed, pavement-slapping woman that I am.

The worst thing about being flat-footed is when people shout “Run Forest, run!” at you. Like really shout it, so that the whole entire city can hear. Total strangers! They have no idea that in that one moment they are trampling all over my already dwindling confidence. That’s why I recently stopped doing anything more than a reasonably fast-paced walk, even when late to catch the bus.

Recently I saw a friend on my way to catch the bus. We could see the bus up ahead and so she started to run and scream at me to run too. That was when I said, “I can’t!”

“Why?” she yelled back, running all well and not at all flat-footed. The cow.

“Because I’m a flat footed leper!” I said. “Please don’t force me to!”

She laughed at me and came running back. “There there, I’m sure you’re exaggerating, we’ll run together, ok?”

Stupidly I agreed. We ran together, and after about three seconds she looked at me and burst in to fits of laughter. “My goodness, you are, aren’t you?!” she said.

Trust me flat-foots, don’t reveal your weakness. They’ll use it against you!

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Saving money used to be something that everyone did. Here’s an example:

When I was a boy I can remember by Grandmother having a jar (the jar seemed to be almost as big as me, and it only ever got bigger…at least for a while). Every week she’d stuff some money in to it and say to me – she’d have to shout this because I was so tiny that it was as if she was standing on top of a mountain range – “now you do that as soon as you can, OK?” and I would nod. This happened every week, but over the years I began to realize something: what I had always thought of as loads of money was actually barely anything. The older I got the less stuff you could buy. What a sorry state of affairs!

Saving money is discussed at the following blog.

And who can blame people for being skeptical where saving money is concerned? It seems to be almost impossible these days, what with all the other things a human being has to pay for. And the banks don’t exactly help, do they? No, they just seem to take your money. For every little bit you save you loose out, don’t you?

Of course, that isn’t always the case. It’s all about knowing what to do and what not to do. And that’s why you should check out blogs like the aforementioned: you’ll learn not only about money and economics and all that jazz, you’ll also learn about how you can help the environment, how we can save money at the same time as helping the planet.

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Someone once told me that if I couldn’t get someone to understand what I was saying, then it was my fault entirely. This led to a bit of an argument with the someone. I couldn’t see what he was on about. The more I thought about what he said, the more I thought I will never trust an apparently wise old man again. Wise old men, they’re not as wise as everyone makes out!

It took about five years for me to work out what the hell he was on about. Five long years of not getting my point across, until it suddenly clicked all at once. What the wise old man had meant, of course, was that persistence is key when trying to get someone to understand you. Getting angry is no good, you have to keep finding new ways to say the same thing, until one of them hits home. So I had an apology to make to that wise old man, but I was too late. The wise old man had died. (And I’m sure he found humour in the fact that I would never get a chance to say he was right, because he was like that.)

Click the link to read a post from people who are expert about getting their point across–I wouldn’t mind betting that wise old man is secretly behind this…

But seriously now, this is good stuff: it’s info about those mysterious carbon emissions you see. Remember carbon emissions? Kind of like the nobody-is-quite-sure-how-real-they-are Yetis of the climate change world?

Well, I advise you to take a look. It should get you thinking about things that matter to everyone, and you might even learn something to make you wiser.

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You walk around a garden-centre and you see them crying out to be bought–The posh lawnmowers. Petrol-powered, all snazzy: the Fonzies (you remember Happy Days don’t you?) of the grass-cutting world. But hang on a minute, when did this happen? What became of the good old-fashioned mowers that we used to love and care for, the ones we could fix with our bare hands, the ones that gave so much more back?

They stopped being bought is what, obviously. people started looking at them like they do at acne scars ! And what a crying shame! And there’s no going back either. We’re stuck with these high-tech monstrosities now. They have invaded almost every garden in the land.

Which was why I got in a rage when I found a proper hand-built lawnmower discarded on the street. To make matters even worse, and really let the lawnmower know it wasn’t wanted, there was a receipt on the ground next to it. It was for a brand-new lawnmower. The one that the owner of the orphan lawnmower had presumably just bought–

I rescued it of course, and took it straight home. The joy of rescuing it! I hadn’t seen one of these for many years, not since I was a boy. And it had all the features that I so loved–The squeaking sound, the rusty blades that only did half a job. In other words it was perfect, with its nuts and bolts falling off and all its character intact. So, do yourself a favour and rescue a mower today. Save this endangered species for future generations to love and adore!

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I can’t begin to imagine who came up with this daft saying, but I can only assume that the person was stuck in the dark with a) someone who had an extremely blunt knife b) someone and they were both in an absolutely massive room where no amount of stabbing came to anything. There simply isn’t any other logical solution. Which begs the question, why would someone be stabbing about with a blunt knife? Surely if you wanted to do the job properly then you’d at least go to the trouble of getting a sharp knife first. Or maybe I’m just over-thinking this–

Anyway, my point is as follows: my friend and I, after an argument about whether the saying was ridiculous or genius, decided to test the theory out. This consisted of a bet of five pounds—I said it was ridiculous—and me donning lots of protective gear. My friend had the knife. Then we turned the lights off and lurked about. I’m telling you, even with all the safety gear (helmet, goggles, pads, etc) on I was terrified of getting stabbed. And as it turned out the expression was ridiculous: I felt a harsh blow on my helmet and that was that, enough proof for me that this saying holds about as much water as a big beach bag, now how is that for a new catchphrase?

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I knew this day would come: the day when someone would push the ‘I hate rats’ thing one step too far. And that day was today–

First some history: I got my first rat when I was ten. She was called ‘Miranda Jessie’ (I am a girl and at the time would only consider having a girl rat, since at this age boys were twice as sinister as they are now—I am now 24). Miranda Jessie was one hell of a rat as far as rats go. She was kind, and loving, and decidedly un-rat-like.

Now back to today:

Walking behind a couple at the train station, I overheard their conversation. The couple were business vampires—the woman had the annoying luxury beach towel skin that only comes from spending vast sums of money—and were pointing to the train-tracks were a rat was scurrying. Immediately I became possessive of the poor little thing. So when the lady said, “they should all be gassed!” I flipped out.

“Excuse me?” I said, “what’s he ever done to you?”

They both looked confused. Then the man laughed, shook his head and said, “so how do you know he’s a he?”

I then went on to school them both on how one goes about sexing a rat. By the end of my little speech, which covered everything, including how rats are far less dangerous and disease carrying than the majority of men out on a Friday night, the man was stunned in to silence and the lady had shut up fully. So here’s what I say: stand up for your cause. Because not everything is bad just because people say so!

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