status anxiety

Old school blogging

I've been tagged.

Name the person who tagged you
Alan

8 things about you [which, hopefully, I haven't told you before...]

I used to be a biker chick, riding pillion with my 6ft5 French boyfriend. I loved the effect of taking off the helmet, shaking my long hair out, lighting a cigarette and striding together into a bar in our leathers, helmets hooked onto our arms, looking intimidating when in fact both of us were pussy cats. What I didn't love so much was:

When his old trail bike used to stall at the traffic lights (something it used to do on a regular basis). Being a kick-starter which required a particularly violent kick to get going, I would have to dismount so that he could restart it. One time, I lowered my right foot to the floor, intending to carry out the "hop sideways and slide other leg off" manoeuvre, but I'd wedged my foot in the kerb so my only solution to getting off was to fall sideways to the floor in an inelegant heap.

When we travelled from Lyon to Brussels to "start our new life together" (ha ha ha ha ha). After ten hours on the bike, the pain in my buttocks was so severe as to almost make me forget that I was wearing a balaclava and red, waterproof dungarees. Almost. Not a pursuit for the glamourous.

Trying to brush my hair after a long ride with my hair sticking out of the helmet. Agony. Lots of squeaking. Eye-watering.

I have no curtains in my house, only blinds - some of which I made myself. We used to have bamboo blinds on our bay window in the lounge. I loved the look of them, but realised that, with the light on in the lounge, a passerby could see *everything* through the blinds. So, I made some opaque blinds out of calico which could be used in three ways: covering the whole window, covering only the bottom half of the window (but not obscuring the sash window lock, so the window can still be opened) or covering only the top half of the window. I like making things.

I can't cook a roast dinner. Okay, chances are I probably could, but I just don't attempt it because it scares me too much. I get stressed when there are too many things happening on or in a cooker - my ideal is two pots on the hob: one for pasta, say, and one for the sauce. Cooking a full English breakfast scares me for the same reason.

I harbour an ambition to rollerblade to work. The idea of gliding into the office every day strikes me as unutterably cool. This could become a reality when I start my new job (1.3 miles from home, map-measuring fans), but will probably be hampered by my complete lack of balance, inherent clumsiness and a fundamental, proven inability to skate.

I have a very good ear for music. I can listen to a tune and pick it out on the guitar, whereas Big has to look up the guitar tab on the Internet. No matter how hard I try, I just don't *get* guitar tabs and can't play from them. I used to be able to read proper music (I played the 'cello) but it takes me a long time to work it out nowadays.

I worry about my addiction to white mice. If I'm on my way to work and know that there are some on my desk, I'll really look forward to getting there so I can eat them. I guess it's one way of ensuring that I actually get to work.

I have a morbid fear of vomit. This is one of the reasons I don't drink and why I leave social drinking events early. If I am in a situation where I think someone will vomit, I go into a panic attack - racing pulse, uncontrollable shaking - and attempt to immediately remove myself from that situation.

This happened on the train home last Sunday. I spotted a young man in front of us who did not look well. He kept putting his head in his hands, looking up to catch his breath and seemed very unsettled. I knew he was about to vomit and could feel my nervous reactions starting. He asked his mother where the toilets were and disappeared up the corridor. The toilet was engaged and I saw him lurching towards the window, hand over mouth. At this point I told Big I wanted to move to another carriage and why. He rolled his eyes at me, but knew that I wouldn't take no for an answer. It ruined the rest of my journey home as I contemplated the scene and replayed it in my mind.

Though I haven't lived in a Francophone country for 10 years, I still occasionally find that the first word or phrase to come to mind is a French word which I will usually, but not always, translate into (sometimes awkward-sounding) English.

Tag 6 people
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I do not tag!

# Anxious spoke @ 7:23 PM