So, what a weekend!

This is a flattering photo of neither of us, but I fancy I look a tad better

James’ friend, Devan, came over Friday night, which was also James’ birthday, and we went up to Linda’s (J’s mum) house for steak (awesome!) and James was basically a total ass the WHOLE time.. I don’t know if he was acting up because his friend was there (he’s not a toddler, I swear), or was just excited for snowboarding the next day, but either way, I was absolutely dreading the rest of the night. When we got home, the boys had gone and bought 3 bottles each of this super strong cider, and James hadn’t packed anything. He whined loads, but eventually we all settled down on the sofa (it’s a big sofa….)


and ended up having a really freaking fun evening! See, Devan does photography stuff, and product design at Uni, so he has awesome gadgets (I have a desperate need for an iPad Pro…) and so we got on really well having geeky chats about photography. The boys got more and more drunk, and as I wasn’t drinking, I laughed my head off. Plus, hilarious snapchats. Overall, it was really not as bad as I thought it might have been, and now I’ve learned that I should be a bit less uptight over stuff like that and relax first.


We were in bed by half midnight, and they were up at 4:30…out the door by 4:50! Off to France for a week of snowboarding, alcohol, and pizza (and apparently Danish girls doing the splits…. o.O)

He really is such a dick…

I, on the other hand, had something to attend to. I had to meet my dad’s girlfriend. Long story short, my dad had a midlife crisis, cheated on my mum with a 28yr old (I was 22 at the time, I think) and contrary to what everyone said would happen, is still with her. My parents’ divorce was finalised over Christmas, and by happy accident, my dad’s gf (her name is Helen, which is unhelpfully also the name of my aunt (my dad’s sister, who he lives with)) was here this weekend. And I somehow ended up agreeing to meet her.


I thought this might be a bad idea for a few reasons, not least being that if James wasn’t here then I couldn’t depend on his particular brand of humour to cheer me up, and also that he couldn’t be there too to drive me home when I got myself drunk in order to cope. This therefore meant that I a) couldn’t drink, and b) had to make sure that I was mentally capable of coping on my own. So, I made preparations.


See above. This is my plan. I don’t know about everyone else, but I feel infinitely better when I have my “warpaint” on. Rightly or wrongly, I feel better in makeup, and when my hair is done, and I have my nails sorted. I feel prepared, and I feel like me. If I haven’t got my nails painted, I feel weird. It has been (as you can see) some time since I did my roots, but I wanted to have my lilac hair back, so I did that in the morning on Saturday. It had been a weird bluey-yellow-grey which was…well, weird.


I painted my nails (well, I painted a false set and stuck them on), and I made sure I did my makeup with an old Lancome palette that I know always goes on well. I used my new MAC foundation that seems to go on amazingly, match perfectly, and stay put (I have yet to try it under testing conditions, but for now I’m in love), and made sure my eyelashes were ready to kill. I wore my new Jo Malone perfume that fills me with happiness and calm everytime I breathe it in, and my H&M jumper that I was so happy to be able to wear in a size S. In short, I put on my armour, pulled up my big girl panties, swore under my breath that I was an adult and that this would need to happen eventually, and drove to dinner.

Long story short, she’s exactly what I expected, and I’m still creeped out by her age (more specifically, the age difference between me and her, and the fact she should be my SISTER not my potential step mother), but I feel I managed perfectly reasonable conversation, I chatted and smiled, and tried not to pretend that she wasn’t there. I painted my aunt’s nails, grumbled that James was on holiday and I wasn’t, and then left at about 22:30 because that’s a reasonable time to be in bed.


When I got home (had to totally defrost the inside and outside of the car, and had to pop into Tesco for loo roll) I made my bed (after discovering that the white, 100% Egyptian cotton fitted bedsheet delivered from Amazon was in fact a white, polycotton double duvet set, and subsequently contacting them to have them sort this out), lit the candle, removed all makeup, got into clean (Harry Potter) pyjamas, and laid there ignoring everything and just focusing on my breathing.


I managed a whole 8 hours of sleep, and then transferred myself to the sofa for a duvet day of wrestling with Photoshop (it won the battle, but I will not let it win the war), and then watching film after film, and ordering Dominos because I wanted it.


Weekend rating overall: 5/10, do not recommend. Also, I do NOT like sleeping on my own. James needs to get his butt back home.



My life isn’t particularly interesting, or at least it wasn’t before I met James. 
James is 26, nearly 27, and has a burning passion for motorbikes. He has owned (in the two years since I met him) at least 5, possibly 6, motorbikes, spent thousands of pounds on them, and crashed more times than I even know. 

The relevance of this is that whilst I have always liked motorbikes, I never had an overwhelming need for them. This has changed. 

It started with watching MotoGP – this was a moot point as there was no doubt the MotoGP would be on, whether I chose to watch it was entirely up to me. I found I loved it! I’d always been bored nearly to tears by the F1, and was dreading this new motorsport, but here I was getting into it, enjoying it, laughing at the commentators, and learning very quickly not to ask questions when something interesting was going on (read: someone crashed).

From there, I started going to Snetterton (our nearest track) and watching James on his trackdays. In the beginning, we weren’t official, and he’d been in a pretty poor relationship before me, so I’ll be honest – he acted pretty badly to me. He’d ignore me, make fun of me to his friends etc. Unfortunately for him (luckily for me!), his friends liked me, and we got on, so gradually his attitude changed. (We’re now two years on, and he’s apologised, so it’s all good).

From then, I became an unofficial pit girl, I learned more and more about motorbikes, grubbed in and lugged tyres about, even when I was dressed in floaty dresses and sandals, because I loved it. Here was a world I didn’t know existed, full of people who didn’t mind that I knew nothing, and were willing to chat to, and teach, me.

James and I are just back from a European trackday in Cartagena, we went to one in Portimao in October (it was my birthday present from James!) and I can honestly say I don’t mind if these are how we have our holidays now… I understand people may not get it, may think we should go on beach holidays to Mallorca or something, but being with James has changed me into this person. Not because he wanted me change – he loves that I love it, but didn’t force me – but because I think that’s what happens when you love someone; sometimes, their interests become your interests. Their passions become your passions.

I have no hobbies to speak of. I used to swim, horse ride, scrapbook…all of which have stopped gradually for one reason or another. I have interests – I love reading still (even though I’m not always nose-deep in a book anymore), I do a little bit of scrap booking and “Hobbycraft-ing” now and then when I decide I can face getting everything out… James and I have settled into a nice rhythm where I can help him in the garage and come to trackdays, but I keep myself amused, I don’t need him to be around all the time to feel wanted and appreciated. Now, my “hobby” is being a pit girl, “brolly bunny”, unofficial (and nowhere near as good!) photographer, and general supporter, of my lovely motorbike-mad boyfriend. 

And to be perfectly honest, I really wouldn’t have it any other way.