Vinka finds her feet

Day Two dawned in glorious technicolour. For the bargain price of both kidneys, I had invested in a European internet booster, so my phone was telling me it was 20 degrees outside and sunny.

Hooray, what does one do in Paris by oneself on a midweek morning in March? Yep, they grab their camera and head out to find some interesting-looking buildings. Instead, I found some interesting-looking Algerians. They appeared friendly, although my guard remained up in case their motive was murder, rape, or worse - theft of camera! After spending some time in their company, and receiving a fascinating guide to the red light district in a combination of English, French and Dutch, we approached Le Basilica de Sacre Coeur.

Those of you with a passing interest in French cinema will be aware of Sacre Coeur from its prominence in Amelie (which was filmed entirely in Montmartre) "Oh great, more fucking stairs" I lamented - which seemed to be the theme of my entire stay. These are not just stairs, these are M&BloodyS stairs. I`m sure there were at least a million before you got halfway but, once at the top, the reward was breathtaking (both literally and figuratively) Those who smoke, are infirm or who live in England, and are therefore of a lazy disposition, should not attempt this challenge unless they are in possession of an oxygen mask, crampons and a Sherpa guide.

Result! A call from Pierre, to say he was coming to meet me for the afternoon. So, I gladly allowed him to take me on a tour of the local cemetary, which is spectacular - if you`re into that kind of thing, which I am - and left the Algerians arguing over who was going to ask me on a date.

Paris 2012

Not many people find themselves in a mental hospital on their first visit to Paris but, obviously, this was my first point of call on my debut in France`s capital. Unfortunately, this hospital was not of my preferred derelict, Victorian architecture, variety but, rather, a slightly dull, 1960s concrete construct in a run-down suburb of Northern Paris.

Upon arrival in Paris Nord, it occurred to me that I would have to negotiate the Metro - in French, at night, by myself and lugging, quite possibly, the largest size of suitcase acceptable for intercontinental travel. Having purchased the correct tickets on the 7th attempt, thank you for having no English instructions whatsoever, and sheer guesswork at the required line, my initial concerns were realised when I discovered the sheer number of stairs on the Metro. A) Whose bright idea was that? and B) No wonder French women stay slim! After changing lines and experiencing my own personal game of Snakes and Ladders - mostly ladders - complete with 100kg of extra weight, I arrived at the hospital to collect the keys for the apartment. There, I encountered my next obstacle...

Ahhhhhhh, the "Je ne parle pas Anglais" security guard. Luckily, I sprang into action with my top notch Franglais, which resulted in a bemused smirk from him and increasingly suicidal tendencies from me. I thought "je visite mon ami pour retrouver les cles pour làppartement, je ne sais pas ou est làppartement"* made perfect sense! A quick emergency phonecall and I was finally allowed up to the ward. Considering the state of me upon arrival, it is no mean feat that I was allowed to leave! The nurses were intrigued by the sweating, sobbing mess, resplendent in strawberry hat and Moomin hoodie. Under French mental health regulations, I probably qualified for a bed, nay, an entire wing to myself. Mad, noooooo, I`m British!!!

Onwards to Montmartre. Now, I have since experienced the fantastic qualities of the area but, as I exited the Metro at Blanches, my first sight was the famous Moulin Rouge. "Great, another fucking hill" was all I could muster. I finally reached Rue des Abbesses, my home for the next 5 days. The apartment block was like stepping back through a Parisian timewarp, all wonky stairs and creaky doors. After 10 minutes of wrestling with the 18th century door, and disturbing the lovely lady opposite (Françoise, whose English was as proficient as my French) I was in! You would think this would be the end of my ordeal, but no, due to the fantastically odd wiring - probably designed by an opium addicted, cad in 1870 - there were no lights. There were switches but no light fittings; Oh what fresh hell was this? Eventually, by the light of my HTC, I sent an SOS to a trusted friend "Save Me. I am in a fucked up, horror version of Amelie"

And day one came to a dramatic climax.

*Roughly translated, in crap Franglais, this means "I am visiting my friend to get the keys for the apartment, I don`t know where the apartment is" Obviously, my verbs were not correct and this was spoken in mouse-like tones through a small hatch.

Marathon

Having managed to escape PE for most of my educational life and having avoided Sports' Day from the age of 6, it will come as a shock to most people to discover that I will be running the Brighton Marathon next Summer for St Wilfrid's Hospice in Chichester. Despite my aversion to anything sporty, aside from watching the gymnastics from the comfort of my sofa on a Sunday, I am determined to run and, more importantly, finish it.

My Dad once told me that I was on a one-woman mission to save the world. He may have a point. I do suffer from a form of "Charity Tourettes". If anyone needs help, it will always be me with their hand up, "pick me, pick me". This could be seen as me being caring and considerate or it could be seen as some sort of mental health disorder. "Oh, you need someone to prance about in a funny outfit? Okay" The things I do in order to help a good cause. I am surprised my two kidneys remain intact!

I shall be using this blog to record my progress, as I begin training. Watch this space...

Busy busy busy

Phew, what a whirlwind few weeks. I have barely had time to sit down and the only thing remaining of my old routine is watching Dynasty!

That said, I am quite chipper. I like having things to get my teeth into and being able to use my brain. The Dirty South is now up and running - the team are out and about and are doing a grand job covering events in the South. Southsea Fest is just around the corner and I will have my hands full with the new volunteering project, it'll be hard work but we are the first festival in the country to offer this scheme. Woohoo! Quite frankly, I am busier than a busy thing on a particularly busy day BUT in no way am I bored!

The majority of my life now is unpaid. It seems silly but all the work I do for Southsea Fest, the webzine and my voluntary work will help me far more in my chosen career path than my actual job. I am happy with the things I'm doing, which means I am better able to cope with the mundanity of my work life. The thing I have to stop, is the ideas I come up with when I have 5 minutes of downtime. It just results in yet more work! Is there a way of controlling that do you think?

Arse Idol

Last night I attended the premiere of "Love You Too" at Cinema Number 6. I shall not be reviewing the film on here, that will be available over at The Dirty South website.

What I do want to discuss is the afterparty! Squishing so many people into Sam's terraced house was quite a feat! Much alcohol was consumed and I am entirely to blame for "Arse Idol", an idea based on the amount of nudity contained within the film. I felt the other blokes needed a platform to exhibit their wares (haha) It's only fair!

So, 5 contenders stepped forward and I attempted to mark each backside based on technical ability and artistic interpretation. The results are as follows:

Xan 5.5/10

Mark 6.5/10

Sam 7/10

Isaac 7.5/10

Jack 7.5/10

The fact there was a tie-break situation was nearly my downfall! I do not feel able to discuss the events following my adjudication, needless to say I ended up with a scrotum on my shoulder and will need counselling for the forseeable future :D

Grrrrrrr, the Vinkasaur roars!

There are not enough hours in the day to achieve everything. Short of cloning myself (which is not wise, the world is not ready for two Vickys!) I shall just have to soldier on. As such, sleep deprivation is the norm and I am becoming a total insomniac. Telly is rubbish at 3am, radio is rubbish at 3am and being awake is rubbish at 3am :(

Several ideas have been put forward to alleviate my sleeping (or lack thereof) issues:

1 A mobile (not phone, but the whirly animal things that hang over a cot) I immediately rejected this idea on the basis that it will probably keep me awake even more by wanting to play with it!

2 Soft and soothing music. Even Selected Ambient Works is not doing it for me (Volume 1 or 2!!)

3 Reading. I am currently reading (or attempting to read) The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas. I will be awake sobbing and visualising Auschwitz, so have rejected this idea on those grounds.

My own idea is a combination of a mallet and chloroform. It's foolproof! I may be left with minor concussion or increased headaches but if it means I get some sleep, it's a risk I'm willing to take. A tired Vinkasaur is a grouchy Vinkasaur :(

A dilemma approacheth

Anyone who knows me will know that I do a lot of work for charity. In fact, most of the work I do is for charity being that I only work for 15 hours a week. I love what I do - always have done.

At present there are a load of projects I am juggling. The Dirty South will be launching soon and Southsea Fest ventures are about to kick off in earnest, plus I am helping a group get funding for counselling services, advising on a youth project and there are several charity events I am planning for the rest of the year (more on this at a later date!) There is no doubt that I am busy!

So, when an opportunity arose for me to be the regional coordinator for Refugee Week I was really excited. It's a voluntary post for one day a week between now and July, covering the South and South-East region. The aim is to be the point of contact for RCOs and for the media. I would love it, I'd be really getting my teeth into things but I know that the press enquiries and community group queries will not only happen on a Tuesday from 9 til 5.

I am stretched almost to breaking point as it is, if I took this on too would it be the straw that broke the capybara's back? Technically there simply aren't enough hours in the week for me to take this position but if I don't I would be missing a huge opportunity to enhance my experience, help out the regional Refugee Community Organisations (RCOs) and raise awareness. I find it hard to say no when asked to help but, in truth, I am finding this a difficult decision to make.

Hurtling towards Christmas again.....

So, a week has passed. Already. My Nan always warned me that time flew when you got older but I was not expecting such breakneck speed until I was well into my seventies, clad in chiffon, with 16 cats and a penchant for hairnets. As it is, my birthday seems to come round twice a year and Christmas is neverending! She's a wise woman, my Nan, casting aside her habit for knitting pants for teddies and calling me by every name bar my own :)

In some respects I feel I have skipped a generation entirely and have morphed into Nanny Olive. Aside from my love of tea and cake in the afternoon, I seem to have become more forgetful AND more scathing of popular music. "Chipmunk, in my day that was a small rodent" I do have similarities to my Dad too. I can vividly remember him complaining about how hard it was to replace his vinyl with CDs (what a fogey) and it was only recently I realised I had been doing the exact same things for years with my cassettes - do you *know* how hard it is to get Strangelove on CD?!

Whilst talking to my Mum this week I was frantically looking for my mobile. I turned my whole room upside-down in the hunt (one handed of course) until I realised it was clamped to my ear and I had been talking into it for 30 minutes prior to panic. Lost glasses, forgetting why you've walked into a room - all classic examples of early onset "Nan-ness" Unfortunately, I have not completely transformed into my Nan, as I am without the ability to knit! My poor bears will have to remain naked for the forseeable future....

Saints?

We are approaching Valentine's Day. St Valentine was the patron saint of lovers, the betrothed and had the less glamorous job of "protection against plague" To me, his job description was all over the place. Hit and miss, as it were! As I was discussing with my housemate earlier, it's a bit like being in charge of a country but also having responsibility for making sure each sock was part of a pair.

To keep myself amused this evening I have compiled a list of potential saints:

1) St Elsewhere: The patron saint of avoiding people after embarrassing situations

2) St Reatham: The patron saint of shitty areas of London which have delusions of grandeur

3) St Amina: The patron saint of the discomfort suffered after an infrequent visit to the gym

4) St Itch: The patron saint of insane Disney characters

5) St Ylophone: The patron saint of pointless musical instruments that you could get as a kid which have now been replaced by Air Guitar or Rock Group

6) St Arving: The patron saint of revisiting the fridge every 5 minutes despite there being nothing in there

7) St Arling: The patron saint of bird poo

8) St Arch: The patron saint of burning a hole in your favourite shirt right before an important meeting and/or job interview

9) St Ring: The patron saint of random bits of detritus and fluff extracted from your pocket

10) St Abbing: The patron saint of gangs

Oooooh, I could do this for hours :D

Grouchysaurus!!

The Grouchysaurus is an even rarer species than the Vinkasaurus. It's the grumpy, sullen and tetchy cousin of the Vinkasaurus. Basically, what the Vinkasaurus becomes when severely riled! It is seldom seen but Portsmouth City Council seems to bring out the be(a)st in most people :(

I can deal with incompetence, even with gross incompetence but somehow lack of communication, incorrect information, horrendous customer service, threatening behaviour AND gross incompetence pushes me over the edge. The majority of people will have complaints about their local government: dodgy dealings; expense scandals; misuse of taxpayer money; building of the Spinnaker Tower; etc etc but my council refuse to believe you can be a student if you are over the age of 21 (fancy that!)

I was recently investigated for council tax fraud, as I claim a piffling 25% discount for single occupancy. Whilst I do have a housemate, he is a full-time student and is exempt from paying council tax. So, Portsmouth City Council in their worldly-wise way declared it an impossibility that he could be a student as he is 28! It beggars belief that they investigated me for taking money from them, when in fact I was entitled to money in the form of a whole £4.35 a week in council tax benefit, which they witheld pending my "investigation" (I did tell them what they could do with this after they discovered I had not claimed my 25% illegally!)

The latest council tax drama involved a visit from a bailiff, as I had missed a payment of £8 back in November. Worthy of a prison sentence, indeed! This bailiff visit is costing me £24.50 in addition to my council tax and the arrears. Quite how one is expected to function under such Draconian laws is beyond me. I have to inform them every time I sneeze (in triplicate!) and yet they couldn't let me know I had accidentally missed a payment?!

Perhaps if I had received my whopping £4.35 a week, none of this would have happened. You gotta love bureaucracy!

My Music Wishlist for 2010

I thought it was probably about time I put together a wishlist for the coming year. I have separated it into categories, tonight's being the music related vision. I don't ask for much:

1) Tim Smith gets better and Cardiacs get back to the live circuit (This is at the top, as it is my dearest wish!) I feel a sense of loss at not having seen them for so long, the bitter irony of Tim having suffered from a cardiac arrest is still not lost.

2) Strangelove reform. Every other bugger is doing it so why not them?! My life would be nearly complete - Chapterhouse are touring for the first time in ages, My Bloody Valentine have returned....surely the next step is for Patrick Duff to see sense and come backkkkkkkkkkk :)

3) Richey Manic reappears (chances of success are slim it has to be said, but he'd make a fab zombie if he were to come back "dead") He was the best one, apart from maybe Nicky Wire at a push, and they've gone Dad Rock since his disappearance!

4) Vinkafest is launched in Staunton Country Park. Aphex Twin headlines the first night and NME hail it as "the best new festival" (we all know how accurate *they* are) Eddie Izzard comperes and Gordon Ramsay hails the "vegetarian, gluten-free menu" as groundbreaking :) £50,000 is raised for my favourite charities and I receive an MBE for my contribution to music!

I can't think of anymore, I'm far too distracted with my "Top Ten Mammals" list :)

Standard Living

As humans we are expected to settle down and procreate. After all, that's why we're here. The older I get, the more likely I am to wish to buck this trend. I am no nearer getting a biological clock or maternal streak than I was when I was 17.

Weddings are stressful! I have several friends who were previously laid back and fun to be around. Since announcing their engagement these people have become possessed. Everything becomes urgent, all other topics of conversation are now irrelevant, catering has replaced Big Brother and don't even get me started on the guestlist!! Why do people do this to themselves? Do we, as a society, genuinely still need to feel we are part of an accepted tradition? Is it to keep the parents happy? Surely, it can't be for the sake of the kids, as most children are born out of wedlock these days.

The only thing more likely to give me an anxiety attack than weddings, is children. I love kids, I get on brilliantly with them, they respond well to me (I have a theory that it's because I look and act like a 7 year old Moomin, so am non-threatening to your average child!) but I don't feel mature enough to have my own. Maybe I never will. I would want to be equipped with a user manual and have passed several exams before I am let loose as a mother. Perhaps I would be more inclined if there was a handy 0845 number you could call: Press 1 if your child has eaten Lego; Press 2 if he/she is having a tantrum in Tesco...you get the idea!

I am starting to accept that I am the exception rather than the rule in the majority of things and I have yet to decide if my friends who have kids and/or are married are insane or living the dream....

Two in one week??

Yep, two blogs in one week. I think I must just have a lot to get off my chest....

Not only will I have written two blogs this week, I will also have visited Brighton twice! I think it's safe to say that I have been out in Brighton more since I moved back than I did when I was a resident there. Although, as anyone who has lived in Brighton knows, you will spend so much on rent and council tax that there is barely enough left each week for a tin of beans let alone a night out.

Last night's expedition was to Spellbound with Mister Seamer. Spellbound bills itself as the "80s night for people who hate 80s nights". This is a bizarre concept. Despite not playing Rick Astley or Sonia it was, in essence, an 80s night! Okay, the crowd were a tad older and a little more "beige" in appearance but there was still a school disco feel about the evening. Amongst the fleeces and slacks were the goths, ahhh the goths, what can I say about them? I have always harboured a dislike for a particular sub-genre of goth. We've all seen them. The ones who are attempting to recreate Gary Oldman in Dracula: frilly shirt; dark glasses; comedy beard; long coat and cane (is this to ram up their backside if they get bored I wonder?) I have friends who suit the "trad goth" attire and wear it well. Others, amusingly, look like Gandalf's slightly camp, younger sibling...which can never be a good thing! A few words of advice if you are thinking of following this trend: legally your cane can be seen as a weapon; you *will* fall over in a dark room if wearing sunglasses; and people *will* think you're a pretentious tit if you attempt to discuss Byron in the toilet queue. You shall not piss!!!

I shall investigate Spellbound further at a later date but not too soon, as overdosing on the 80s can make a girl feel geriatric!

Something a bit music-y....

On Wednesday I ventured to Brighton with Messrs Seamer and Parham. In itself, this was an achievement, due to freak flurries along the south coast...global warming my butt!

I was looking forward to an evening of good friends and old fashioned post-rock, courtesy of Saxon Shore, and was not disappointed. Aside from the embarrassing incident, which occurred when accidentally offering the band my emergency pants, and the 14 mile trek to the toilets, it was a humdinger of a gig. I was, however, disappointed with the opening band. Their collective age was 30 and, using my finely-tuned powers of deduction, they were local. They kind of gave the game away by spending 10 minutes asking the audience if they knew random people and waving at their friends. Whilst every band has to start somewhere, there is no hope for them ever leaving Brighton if they exclude the remainder of the audience with their teenage babble. As such, local bands talking at their mates is at the top of my newly-formed "2010 hate list". Watch out for some new additions over the coming months :)

Also near the top of my hate list is pub toilets. Either you have the luxury of toilet roll but no lock (thus, having to balance precariously on the edge of the seat and perform the "foot on the door limbo") or you have to suffer the indignity of no toilet roll but a miraculously available lock (one bonus is that at least nobody can gatecrash whilst you practice your ablutions!) My only advice is to go everywhere with tissues shoved up your sleeve, that way you can go lockless with confidence :D

Happy New Year. Your horoscopes follow....

I am fascinated by horoscopes. I am not entirely convinced of their accuracy and neither am I convinced that, as a Taurean, myself and 2 billion other people worldwide will have a windfall this week. With that in mind my first post of the new year will outline your year ahead but in a more realistic fashion:

Capricorn (22 December - 20 January)

Not looking good for you. You will sneeze in November.

Aquarius (21 January - 19 February)

Also, not looking good for you. You will get a bit hot in July.

Pisces (20 February - 20 March)

Yep, not good for you either. You will have a slight headache in April.

Aries (21 March - 20 April)

Outlook is bleak. You will meet a random person in June (unless you're in a relationship, which means you won't meet anyone new at all this year!)

Taurus (20 April - 21 May)

Don't bother leaving the house. You will spend too much money in December.

Gemini (22 May - 21 June)

Stay in bed. You will break something in October.

Cancer (22 June - 23 July)

See above. You will eat too much on your birthday.

Leo (24 July - 23 August)

Buy a gun. You will find something at some point this year, no specifics.

Virgo (24 August - 23 September)

It's a hard life for virgins. Somebody will say something about you in May.

Libra (24 September - 23 October)

Give up now. Something you've always wanted won't happen.

Scorpio (24 October - 22 November)

Leave the country. It will rain in April.

Sagittarius (23 November - 21 December)

It's an intriguing year ahead for Sagittarians. The moon in Venus suggests an exciting encounter in March will result in a new project being proposed. Single? This is the year for you to meet a Virgo with a twinkle in his/her eye. Watch out for money worries in May but this should set you on the right path for an inheritance in September. June would be a great time to reconsider your career and perhaps investigate travel.

I'm sure the above is about as reliable as Mystic Meg, if a little more cynical!

Is there life outside of Pompey?

The simple answer, of course, is "VERY MUCH SO".

Last weekend, I went North. Back to my roots, as it were, in West Yorkshire. Somewhere around Sheffield on the M1 I always get that warm, fuzzy feeling, the kind you get just before going to bed :) I was heading to Leeds, my favourite city in England.

The journey began boringly enough (apart from the drunk woman abusing the driver at The Hard) but at the services in Daventry there was a kerfuffle from the youngest passengers. During our 15 minute scheduled stop, one of the chavlets was dumped by her boyfriend. By text. Harsh but not entirely unsurprising considering how mental she was. Following 10 minutes of tantrum in the middle of the car park, she was refusing to get back on the coach! The driver, knowing there are some National Express guidelines for dealing with psychotic teenagers, tried everything from bribery to threatening to leave her on the M1. Eventually, her friend managed to convince her that a service station is not the best place to spend the night and the journey recommenced.

This blog is mainly going to be about coach journeys, so I shall continue with the travelling tales and focus on the journey home. My Leeds experience can wait for a further blog.

Victoria Coach Station can only be described as a collection of the lowest life forms gathered in a stiflingly confined space. Still, at least there are sharps bins in the loos, just in case you decide to jack up whilst waiting for the 431 to Penzance! Plus, a pigeon flew in my face which made me drop coffee all down my jumper!

Why is it that I seem to have nutters gravitating towards me like a fly to shit? The man diagonally in front of me had a blatant addiction to Vicks nasal inhaler, shoving it up his snout every 30 seconds for about 70 miles. He also sported the ultimate "man in his 50s" combo: hideous combover; faded green jeans; brown hiking boots; beige fleece and a bottle green padded gilet...work it baby! Even his chewing annoyed me, being that he insisted on biting off two mouthfuls every time and resembled a cow chewing cud...yuk!

I did, however, come across the coolest nun in christendom. She sat opposite me and was checking her Facebook on her Blackberry. Is this now standard-issue equipment for the nun about town? I wish I knew what her username was, I'd go add her!

Having been stuck in Wandsworth for just over an hour in rush hour, it was a blessed relief to see the A3. Nine and a half hours on your butt is just not fun and I was sooooooooo happy to be returning to Vinka Towers! Still, my first long-haul coach trip is now under my belt so here's to the next excursion. Happy motoring to one and all :D

Stranded in the PO2

It's raining. Again. The isolation I feel at being in the grim North of Portsmouth is further compounded when the weather is this bad. In the Summer, I will happily meander down to the sea front with a spring in my step but, strangely, when there is a full-scale downpour I don't feel so compelled. It's dark too. And cold.

By constantly complaining about the weather, I do feel that I am bowing to the stereotype of being "British". We queue and we complain. Usually about the weather. As Brits we find it hard to deal with both ends of the spectrum, having neither the stamina or patience to endure sub-zero temperatures and rain, nor the Mediterranean stubbornness when faced with 42 degrees! We seem to like the middle road - about 25 degrees with a bit of sun. Give us a parasol, a beer and some chips and watch us grin :D

Where I live, you don't need a weather forecast. Our TV is magic and can predict the weather. Guaranteed, if there is a storm coming, the Sky TV will turn itself off. 30 seconds later, the heavens will open and the gitbag of an appliance will be vindicated! Does that mean I have Psychic TV?

Grumpy Old Woman?

During yet another bout of boredom I was channel surfing and settled upon "Grumpy Old Women" I am by no means old but I am positive I have skipped a generation and become my Nan. Recently I have found myself berating music ("this isn't music", "what happened to writing a tune", "I remember the original") and, even more terrifyingly, police officers are definitely getting younger.....a sure sign of reaching OAP-dom :( BUT nothing could have prepared me for siding with Ann Widdecombe on the subject of motherhood. Ann Widdecombe!!!

Being of a slightly dappy nature, I am looking forward to an age where I can justifiably be eccentric. I plan on having the works: endless chiffon; bright orange hair; 15 cats and a dusty library of Barbara Cartland novels. Hooray for being a crazy old cat lady! I figure, if I play my cards right I can go the whole Miss Haversham hog and sit in a rotting wedding dress, barking instructions to minions in my care home. Good times :D

At work a few days ago, a discussion arose around the subject of dancing like a Mum. This is a fascinating phenomenon. Do I not dance like a Mum, purely because I'm not a Mum? I have friends who have yet to bear fruit and still do the elbows-out-two-step. How is this possible? On the flip side, I know Mums who have a fantastic presence on the dancefloor. The concept confuses me greatly (but then most things do!)

One other subject that vexes me greatly is, at what point does one become "Madam"? I do object to 18 year olds referring to me as Madam. This seemed to happen almost overnight. Is there a male equivalent or as a bloke are you always Sir?

I suppose I should take advantage of being young-ish, free and single (pffft) while I have the chance. I can be a Grumpy Old Woman once I hit the big 6-0 :)

Today I want to talk about.....

.....Porpoise Sex Toys. It was a topic that came up in conversation today. Obviously, not a discussion that everyone has but, where I live, it's the norm rather than the exception :)

I was thinking about Manatees (as you do) and how they are known commonly as "sea cows". A little odd, I thought, as you rarely hear of Manatee Mozzarella! My housemate, being extremely well-read on the subject of aquatic mammalia, mentioned Dugongs. "Dugongs", I remarked, "is that the Manatee equivalent of a sex toy?" I will admit that I was only half-listening (and half-joking) and this is where my misunderstandings occur, but, in addition I do possess a level of naivety akin to a 7 year old in some respects. (I have since Googled Dugongs and very nice they seem too - for a mammal!)

A further example of my selective hearing/general confusion is the delightful Portsmouth band "Speed the Collapse". I totally misheard that when I met them and was referring to "Speedy Flaps" for at least 2 months! Again, Google (and the aid of slightly more sane friends) is a useful tool. But, where would everyone I know be without my constant confusion? It's good for yet another embarrassing Vicky anecdote if nothing else.

To summarise, the topic of this blog was technically "selective hearing" and not Porpoise Dildos, but where's the fun in that?

Cows do the craziest things....

...for example, sitting outside my bedroom window mooing like a good'un. That's what it sounds like anyway. It is, in fact, the delightful westerly gales that seem to be battering my house. Add to that the newly arrived water feature under my window and it's almost like having Hurricane Katrina in the PO2 :( My cat is a huge fan of the windowsill fountain and spends most days licking the walls...not a euphemism! Can a cat be poisoned by emulsion or have they genetically adapted and it now forms part of their 5 a day?! (Biscuits, Water, Emulsion, Tuna, Random Lint/Fluff)

As a pedestrian I do find the barrage of rain and gale force winds a trifle annoying. Most storm drains in Portsmouth seem to stop functioning whenever they are faced with a storm and as a result anyone out in the elements takes their life in their own hands when leaving the house. Don't get me wrong, I quite often sport a wetsuit and flippers when out and about but even that is no defence against an Aqua Cars driver hellbent on drowning innocent passers by! Should I just admit defeat and invest in a kayak? And if so, where the hell does one store such an item? Are kayaks allowed to use the bus lane? So many questions.......