The Dreaded Q Word!

Most people like me fear the Q word. It terrifies you to your soul, giving you nightmares of mass murder in blind rages and reminders of irrational PMT anger. The very idea of the Q word makes most of us break out in a sweat and reach for the nearest lighter.

I am of course talking about smokers and the word... dare I type it... Quit!

But there comes a time for some of us where we start to realise that saying 'Well you know me, once I start something I never quit' is no longer mildly hilarious (which it once was I promise) but just a lame way of changing the subject and distracting the person while you reach into your pocket to dig out that last precious rizla.

It was because of this and the terrifying realisation that if I don't quit before I'm 30 my body is irreparably damaged for life, that last Wednesday I started attempting the dreaded Q word. This Wednesday I am still attempting the dreaded Q word. Yes, you'd be proud to know, non existent reader, that I am still plugging away after 1 week, only 5 cigarettes and 3 major panic attacks. Q word is just a tad stressful!

Luckily for me the Fella has been here most of the time for flat-hunting purposes which took my mind off of most of it. However, so far this is what I have learned about the Q word:

1. NiQuitine patches give you messed up crazy dreams if worn over night. Fun for the entertainment factor, bad for the sleep.
2. Any small, brightly packaged, high calory food quickly comes into the category of 'Well at least its healthier than lung cancer'.
   
3. The Q word apparently has a tendency to turn any mature, reasonably stable person into a spoilt 5 year old at any given moment. (This is where the Fella's inability to be phased by anything comes into handy).
4. There is no such thing as fresh air in London, smoker or not.

Now, I've been smoking since I was 14 so any adult problem that has come my way has always been semi-dealt with by the inhilation of poisonous fumes so I'm pretty sure there are more tears and tantrums to be had. I'll keep you posted.

"Danke Vel", "Alstublieft"

Before I go to any country I learn how to say "please" and "thank you" in that language out of pure, unwavering, British politeness (I think one of the best ones I've learnt has to be "Teşekkür ederim' which is “Thank you” in Turkish). Now because I knew the word for "please" in Dutch I found it slightly confusing when turning up in Amsterdam two weeks ago I said 'Danke vel' to someone at the airport and his response to this was to say 'Alstublieft', which means “please”. What was he pleading me for? Had I already given it to him and if so what the hell was it?

I wondered if perhaps it was sarcasm but then we all know that it is impossible for Europeans and sarcasm to ever co-exist without dire consequences. I was there visiting the Fella as he works in Amsterdam so I thought I’d ask him if he knew why they do that. He told me that it was just a tradition, just something they do, which I took to mean that he had absolutely no idea. If anyone can tell me a more satisfying answer than that then please do.

After that I stopped giving a shit and just went with it, but it has got me thinking about bizarre traditions and sayings that we have in this country that appear to have been pulled out of someone’s arse. As I work mostly in the theatre I’ve realised that a lot of them in this country tend to come from that area. This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.

One example of this being “In the limelight”, which basically means being in the spotlight. Limelight was actually a method used in the theatre before electricity. By heating lime in an oxyhydrogen flame (usually reflected using a bucket) it would create a spotlight for the actor.

The other is “Break a Leg”. Most people think that you say, “break a leg” because it became bad luck (for some reason) to say “good luck”. It was actually because the lever for the curtain used to be called a “leg” so basically “break a leg” was a short way of saying “I hope your performance is so good that the audience keep cheering and so therefore they have to keep opening and closing the curtain so much for you to keep taking bows that the leg breaks.”

I can’t think of any others right now but writing this has made me come over all Lovey. I feel the need to go flap my arms around a bit and kiss everyone on the cheek.

Ta ta sweetie darlings! Until next time my dears.

Three Weeks Without

About 2 months ago I had one of those moments where you realise your own mortality, I really hate it when that happens. This tends to result in me attempting to give up beer, cigarettes and making sure I take out my earphones and look both ways before crossing the road. It usually only lasts a few days before the Drinking Buddy rings me for a ‘quiet pint’ which more often than not ends in us standing outside the minicab place at 5am singing songs from Phantom of the Opera.

Three weeks ago, however, was not so much a realisation of my own mortality, but a realisation of how I look in a bikini. Now I am, or at least I used to be, one of the depressing people who can eat whatever they want and not gain weight. There are pictures from when I was on holiday in August in which I look quite good, not page 3 model but good all the same. How is it so much can go wrong in 4 months?

Three weeks ago I saw a picture of me, same bikini but in December. By belly appeared to have grown about as far as my arse had dropped and I panicked. Big time. I rang the Fella in floods of incomprehensible tears and once he had deciphered what I was saying he attempted to convince me that I was absolutely gorgeous but we both concluded that being a little healthier couldn’t hurt. So I cut out all take away food and vowed never to get the bus to the tube station ever again.

To congratulate myself for my dedication to my own personal health (nearly) everyday for the past three weeks I am going to reward myself with, yes you guessed it, a McDonalds for lunch.

Introduction: Personal Vices and Rufus Wainwright.

Before anyone asks, yes the title is in reference to the Rufus Wainwright song Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk. I thought it would summarise my vices nicely, the only problem being that I don’t actually drink chocolate flavoured milk, hence the slight alteration. Perhaps I’ll get told off for plagiarism and make loads of money selling my sob story about evil soulless record companies to The Sun. We’ll see.

Of course I have more vices than just cigarettes and strawberry milk, I am human of course, and just strawberry milk on its own isn’t really one of them. Its strawberry milk plus medium fries, a BigMac or a McChicken sandwich and 6 chicken McNuggets.

Yes, the rubbery textured and bland tasting, sugar fuelled burger tempts me at least 2 or 3 times a week and even that unsatisfied, slightly sickly feeling that you get afterwards doesn’t deter me. However I have managed to resist the temptation for three weeks now and replaced it with doing the 45 minute walk to the tube station everyday and 20 minutes on my exercise bike.

Of course that doesn't solve the issues of beer, smoking and a tendancy to watch Hollyoaks.