Pregnant Pauses All Round

I am mortified. Because I experienced first-hand a phenomenon that occurs at least once in every woman's life, and in my opinion, at my sprightly 19 years it came all too soon...

Let me explain. No, let me. Please. It occurred last weekend (yes, I know; but as a woman I waive the right to simmer about this for any period of time between a week and Oblivion) when Etnad and I trawled up to quaint little Gillingham to acquire his new car, a shiny new Nissan 100NX (named Lynx because of its acronymous license plate).

Obviously Etnad couldn't drive the car back, the insurance not having kicked in until his 19th birthday last Sunday, so we bought along Jeff (Etnad Senior) to drive it back. I came along for the ride too, mainly to inspect the car and provide a feminine aspect to the discussion of aesthetics and machinery ("Oooh, look at the shiny redness"). I was wearing one of those nice, billowy smock tops that appears to be a la mode, and it was rather windy so my top kept billowing up.

It wasn't until the friendly dealer (himself a Devonshire dumpling, much like Jeff, Etnad and to some extent myself) extended a hand for us all to shake, and I said "We've bought the family along" indicating the presence of Father, Son and Son's Girlfriend, did the dealer say "So, when are you due then? Soon?"

Of course, had my wits and intellect not just gone crashing out of my backside, I would have said "Oh, not for another SIX YEARS." However, I merely twittered, "Er...no?" while my gallant other half in an attempt to stop himself laughing out loud had rammed his arm wrist-deep into his mouth.

So there you have it. Of course, I do hope this means that when I eventually do become ridiculously fat, someone will not ask "Aww. Good luck with the baby."

Joint Effort

Today's blog chronicles most of the festival, and features Kittiebell as a guest contributor. Teeny's entries written in normal orange, Kittie's in a rather fetching purple.

DAY ONE - 10:25 AM

This is the life. OK, so it's twenty five past ten and I'm eating a cheeseburger. Yum, yum...But £4? What the fuck? This seriously goes against both my morning ritual and diet plan, but hey, I'm on holiday. So I've decided. Hell Yeah. We just confronted two eight-legged fiends of the big and meaty variety (Liz bravely remained in the tent while I beat a hasty retreat) so now we're winding down.

This morning was great and all; waking up and 5:45, Liz's mum herding us out of the door, driving us to the port and seeing us off. The ferry trip accompanied by the 90p toast was joyous, much more so than having to wait half and hour for the FUCKING bus to the site and then said bus journey leaving us feeling like my tits after a brief run (sorry, had to get that in there for Luke's benefit). At eleven we plan to explore, and I can feel my stomach filling with a mixture of Kick, greasy cheese and left-over adrenaline from my (or rather Liz's) spider-vanquishing escapades. I leave you now with Liz, who is molesting my facial orifaces with a blade of grass. Typical. Five minutes in, and my comrade is already acting off her tits.

Yours are bigger. Yes, thanks for that. Yay for randomness (and Teeny's obsession with boobs). Well, obviously I have to pander to the stereotype set out for me by Luke. So: tits, tits, tits. Happy now?!

DAY TWO - 11:37 AM

So. We are currently in our tent, which is now filled with junk HELLS YEAH. Teeny is munching on a Nutri-Grain. Last night was fantabulous: we saw the Kaiser Chiefs, KT Tunstall, The Hoosiers, and (although we tried to avoid it) we caught a bit of N.E.R.D. Better than catching Gonorrhoea I suppose...or is it? KT Tunstall was amazing, you really notice her strong Northern accent when she talks, and Teeny really got into the whole 'body pop' routine she taught us. Well, of course I bloody did, it was genius. I'm thirsty (sorry, random thought). Anyway, The Hoosiers were also amazing, we missed half their set but they were still good.

Forgot to say: KT is an amazing guitarist and also has a bloody good voice live, would definitely see her on her own tour.

Anyway, on to the Kaiser Chiefs. One word: WOW. They were amazing, better than I imagined to be honest. The lead singer Ricky Wilson had so much energy, he climbed up part of the scaffolding tower on the stage, ran around and off the stage and was always running around the stage. I would love to know where he gets his energy from. Jesus, woman, this is a journal entry. Not 'War and Peace'. I better sign off. Isle of Wight festival is rocking. Bring on more!

Festival

It's true, I couldn't think of a better title than that.

So I'm in a small enclosure known as the BT Chill Zone, where I have come to seek solace from the audio travesty that is The Kooks (flame if you want, I regularly fire-proof my inbox). It's bloody cold but fantastic. However if I had a quid for every weirdo that's decided to rub up against me (quite literally)...There was the dude in suspenders and pink pants who rubbed his arse against mine as we walked, there was the drunk guy who stroked my shoe as Liz and I were sat down eating baked potato (followed closely by his mollified girlfriend who apologised until she went blue), and there was the drunk guy who accused Liz and I of being men. Among many, many, many others, and I suspect many to come.

A word before you read any further: NEWTON. FAULKNER. ROCKS. Seriously. Go and see if it's on YouTube or MyFunnel or such garb, I think it may even be on (horror) ITV1. Do it. You won't regret it.

Anyway, a proper blog, supposing previous examples are anything to go by, will be up as soon as I get back, have some ice cream and a proper meal and scrape off the top five layers or so of my skin. And a hug from Etnad, whom I have missed achingly (if that's even a word. I just don't know. I've had a tanker of that 'legal high' oxygen stuff, and to be honest I don't think it's done anything, but we never know. We just never know).

I think that's the end of the Kooks. Off to see Sting and The Police!

'Cause this is F I L L E R! Fi-ller Niiight...

Seeing as though yours truly is off in the general Isle of Wight direction tomorrow night, I don't really see much point in offering the select handful of you that actually read this tripe a proper post. So this is going to be a filler, probably one in which I outline the basis of my week thus far and then shove photos of Soupy and George at you like some over-zealous parent. Sorry and all that. If you wish to make a complaint do so into the mirror; I find it helps practice for when I meet Jehovah's Witnesses or Tory Party candidates.

So in the words of the late Orson Welles*: "Look at my turtles, wenches".

This be George. He's in the grass.

*There is a slight possibility that Orson Welles didn't say this. Sorry.