Atom Feed (xml)
The Arsenal game on Monday night was sadly marred by what can only be described as racist chanting. I am usally proud to be a Rams fans. Everyone has commented on our supporters' loyalty in this most dire of seasons.
But the tendency, almost through boredom, to wind up star Premiership players in the opposing team actually works against us in every way. In fact, it fires them up to score hat-tricks. Not so clever, then.
Come on Rams fans. Support your team, don't just get bitter and twisted with our opponents. Roll on next season and some opposition we can actually beat!
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
Sir Alan Sugar and Me
SIR Alan Sugar’s down to earth attitude of mind would mean we would get on just fine. I am sure of that.
Nevertheless, in the unlikely event of me ever getting onto BBC’s hit show The Apprentice I would be sacked in the first week.
That’s because I failed to get a degree in back stabbing, a Masters in bitchiness or even an A* GCSE in selfish survival at all costs.
“You’re out of your depth, love,” Alan would say with a sorry glint in his eye. “You show compassion for goodness sake. You need to be a right cow to survive with this lot.”
Apologies for a rare TV addiction but right now The Apprentice is the only programme I make time to watch – along with more than seven million others.
And, though I know I shouldn’t as the language can get pretty ripe, I let my sons watch it, too. It’s an education.
“Watch and learn lads,” I say. “This is how horrible people can be at work sometimes.”
But the most revealing lesson in life that The Apprentice proves with a vengeance is my mediocre theory.
Many moons ago a fellow news reporter and colleague on the smallest daily paper in the country landed himself as a job on The Guardian in London, the sort of rag that would eat itself if it was chocolate.
“Aren’t you intimidated?” I ventured as he prepared for the big move.
“Jill,” he said in his lovely Geordie twang. “If there is one thing I have learned in life, especially at university, is that everyone is mediocre.”
How right he was. It’s just that the mediocre people who shout the loudest often get on. If there is one thing The Apprentice triple underlines it is that even arrogant know-it-alls are pretty useless, it’s just that they never admit it. Either that are they are hopelessly deluded.
We see this with amazing clarity thanks to fly-on-the-wall TV. The cream of Britain’s entrepreneurs and go-getters come together to do a task and a battle of egos emerges.
The project managers are undermined by members of their so-called team, everyone thinks they could do things better and they always make giant errors. Like trying to sell ice cream to shops that make their own, or offering a washing service and getting everyone’s clothes hopelessly mixed.
And when it comes to facing the steely gaze of Sir Alan in the boardroom afterwards, the blame shifting and blatant lying is incredible to behold.
Women, of course, are the worst. Men can stick the knife in but never with the intensity that some members of the fairer sex display. They plunge the knife through the shoulder blades at a rate of knots and give it a few sharp twists for good measure.
Their attacks get personal and their character assassinations ferocious.
They make each other cry for goodness sake, eyes ablaze with bitterness, mouths belting out bitter vitriol.
They stitch each other up, let each other down and are hopelessly indiscreet.
“Listen and learn lads,” I say to my sons. “Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you’re never stuck in a job where you’re just working with women.”
Us girls can’t help stirring it, can we? Men, bless ‘em, just stand on the sidelines, mouths agape, looking confused.
They might give each other a thump of they have a fall out but then it’s all forgotten and they start talking about football. But the conversation will never last too long. Men also know when to button it.
Women, on the other hand, sometimes don’t.
A chum was trying to get away from work on time earlier this week but her female boss demanded a word just as one of her friends passed in the corridor.
Instead of a swift “cheerio, see you tomorrow” a conversation was struck up while my pal stood on the sidelines, blood pressure building as she needed to pick up her son.
Though the first thing the women said to each other was “I only have a minute” more than 20 minutes of tittle tattle followed. They discussed, among other things, the unexpected death of a pet rabbit and its effect on the entire family; what colour pegs they used to hang out the washing (they should be the same, apparently); hair appointments; what they were having for tea and the fact that Delores (name changed, of course) had had a two-and-half hour lunch break with Jack.
My chum, being a little like me, was too polite to interject. Our parents brought us up to have manners, something now sadly lacking in society according to a recent survey.
Manners, kindness and compassion do not seem to get you very far these days.
Nevertheless, I’ll still teach all three traits to my sons – with a little help from Sir Alan.
Hard man he may be, but I detect a touch of compassion – and he still got to the top.
Nevertheless, in the unlikely event of me ever getting onto BBC’s hit show The Apprentice I would be sacked in the first week.
That’s because I failed to get a degree in back stabbing, a Masters in bitchiness or even an A* GCSE in selfish survival at all costs.
“You’re out of your depth, love,” Alan would say with a sorry glint in his eye. “You show compassion for goodness sake. You need to be a right cow to survive with this lot.”
Apologies for a rare TV addiction but right now The Apprentice is the only programme I make time to watch – along with more than seven million others.
And, though I know I shouldn’t as the language can get pretty ripe, I let my sons watch it, too. It’s an education.
“Watch and learn lads,” I say. “This is how horrible people can be at work sometimes.”
But the most revealing lesson in life that The Apprentice proves with a vengeance is my mediocre theory.
Many moons ago a fellow news reporter and colleague on the smallest daily paper in the country landed himself as a job on The Guardian in London, the sort of rag that would eat itself if it was chocolate.
“Aren’t you intimidated?” I ventured as he prepared for the big move.
“Jill,” he said in his lovely Geordie twang. “If there is one thing I have learned in life, especially at university, is that everyone is mediocre.”
How right he was. It’s just that the mediocre people who shout the loudest often get on. If there is one thing The Apprentice triple underlines it is that even arrogant know-it-alls are pretty useless, it’s just that they never admit it. Either that are they are hopelessly deluded.
We see this with amazing clarity thanks to fly-on-the-wall TV. The cream of Britain’s entrepreneurs and go-getters come together to do a task and a battle of egos emerges.
The project managers are undermined by members of their so-called team, everyone thinks they could do things better and they always make giant errors. Like trying to sell ice cream to shops that make their own, or offering a washing service and getting everyone’s clothes hopelessly mixed.
And when it comes to facing the steely gaze of Sir Alan in the boardroom afterwards, the blame shifting and blatant lying is incredible to behold.
Women, of course, are the worst. Men can stick the knife in but never with the intensity that some members of the fairer sex display. They plunge the knife through the shoulder blades at a rate of knots and give it a few sharp twists for good measure.
Their attacks get personal and their character assassinations ferocious.
They make each other cry for goodness sake, eyes ablaze with bitterness, mouths belting out bitter vitriol.
They stitch each other up, let each other down and are hopelessly indiscreet.
“Listen and learn lads,” I say to my sons. “Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you’re never stuck in a job where you’re just working with women.”
Us girls can’t help stirring it, can we? Men, bless ‘em, just stand on the sidelines, mouths agape, looking confused.
They might give each other a thump of they have a fall out but then it’s all forgotten and they start talking about football. But the conversation will never last too long. Men also know when to button it.
Women, on the other hand, sometimes don’t.
A chum was trying to get away from work on time earlier this week but her female boss demanded a word just as one of her friends passed in the corridor.
Instead of a swift “cheerio, see you tomorrow” a conversation was struck up while my pal stood on the sidelines, blood pressure building as she needed to pick up her son.
Though the first thing the women said to each other was “I only have a minute” more than 20 minutes of tittle tattle followed. They discussed, among other things, the unexpected death of a pet rabbit and its effect on the entire family; what colour pegs they used to hang out the washing (they should be the same, apparently); hair appointments; what they were having for tea and the fact that Delores (name changed, of course) had had a two-and-half hour lunch break with Jack.
My chum, being a little like me, was too polite to interject. Our parents brought us up to have manners, something now sadly lacking in society according to a recent survey.
Manners, kindness and compassion do not seem to get you very far these days.
Nevertheless, I’ll still teach all three traits to my sons – with a little help from Sir Alan.
Hard man he may be, but I detect a touch of compassion – and he still got to the top.
I'm an internet dunce
I’VE just discovered – not that it should be any surprise – that I am an online dunce with an internet age of seven.
This shocking revelation was made to me after I tackled a questionnaire on website www.myinternetage.com.
Launched by communications company Orange, it gauges your internet experience to work out your ‘internet age’ and was built to quantify different generational attitudes to the internet.
The site is on track to become one of the UK’s largest ever studies into internet use. I followed in the hallowed web-steps of 16,000 people, including Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry, who, no doubt, scored a little better than me.
The website told me in a gentle teacher-to-child way, that “I’m doing well but I have a lot to learn”.
My problem soon became apparent. I don’t download or upload, use instant messenger, talk to anonymous online punters, parade my private pictures across Facebook or make funky video clips for You Tube. In fact, I am so out of touch the computer survey could only assume I was a child.
Bit patronising really. Most seven year olds are more computer literate than their parents. For example, my high-tech, switched on, internet-savvy kids (aged nine and 12 but with a joint internet age of 182) wanted a Facebook page. I said no but (and this is probably illegal) said they could create a site for me. It kept them quiet for all of five minutes.
Consequently a web page exists in my name plastered with rotating Burton Albion and Derby County logos. It also states that my favourite TV programmes are The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the person I would most like to meet is Robbie Savage “because he’s a real character”. So far, the sophisticated online community – with respectable online ages – have not cottoned on to the fact that an ancient mother-of-two is living in a 12-year-old’s world.
And that says it all for me. The internet is a make believe wonderland, where people sit for countless hours escaping from reality when they should be doing the garden, housework, essential DIY or at least cooking the tea.
Me? I’m too busy doing the washing to bother with it all. Just coping with oodles of e-mails and text messages is enough for me.
This morning I had 600 spam e-mails in my work inbox. The vast majority were utter junk but, irritatingly, I had to flick through the lot as genuine stuff gets trapped amid the rubbish.
To my tender, seven-year-old- internet-age sensibilities, the online world seems to be obsessed with replica watches, cheap viagra and men’s privates.
Tempting subject lines among this hefty batch of spam included: Playboy bunnies in beach photo shoot; No woman can resist you; Express your masculinity better!; Nominated for an MBA; Safe natural way to size up; Very CheapPrice Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate dip1omas eklyvjxa yq33rp3 (that’s how it read, by the way) and Be as attractive as 007.
All laudible pursuits, no doubt. I’d love to look like Daniel Craig but I am not sure his macho muscles would look so good on me. These spam machines really should learn to differentiate between the sexes!
Anyway, those waste-of-space e-mails have been sent to the great recycling bin in the sky – but still used up valuable minutes of my day. They underlined to me yet again what a complete waste of time the web world can sometimes be.
Yes, it’s great for shopping, football news and booking holidays but, beyond that, I can’t help feeling it’s seducing a generation of people into being obsessed with the virtual world rather than the real one.
For example, a chum practically married to his PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) spent his entire weekend downloading a whole series of the Sopranos. He hasn’t actually watched any of it yet. When time allows, he can enjoy countless hours of fun glued to a screen as big as the palm of his hand. Whatever lights your fire...
Personally, I haven’t got the time to download that lot, let alone watch it. Perhaps I’m spending my time stupidly doing mundane stuff like washing the car, shopping for food and scrubbing the bog. I’m going to be left behind, a technological dinosaur, unable – or unwilling – to embrace the digital age with the passion it demands.
The trouble is I have hit 42 – the official age when your brain gives up the ghost when it comes to learning anything new, or so the experts say. I’m sure anyone reading this who is beyond that age will beg to differ.
I certainly do. What age has taught me, however, is that life is too short to spend countless hours glued to a computer screen.
If that means I’ve got an internet age of seven, so be it. I’m rather proud of the fact. Because at last it means I’ve got a life.
This shocking revelation was made to me after I tackled a questionnaire on website www.myinternetage.com.
Launched by communications company Orange, it gauges your internet experience to work out your ‘internet age’ and was built to quantify different generational attitudes to the internet.
The site is on track to become one of the UK’s largest ever studies into internet use. I followed in the hallowed web-steps of 16,000 people, including Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry, who, no doubt, scored a little better than me.
The website told me in a gentle teacher-to-child way, that “I’m doing well but I have a lot to learn”.
My problem soon became apparent. I don’t download or upload, use instant messenger, talk to anonymous online punters, parade my private pictures across Facebook or make funky video clips for You Tube. In fact, I am so out of touch the computer survey could only assume I was a child.
Bit patronising really. Most seven year olds are more computer literate than their parents. For example, my high-tech, switched on, internet-savvy kids (aged nine and 12 but with a joint internet age of 182) wanted a Facebook page. I said no but (and this is probably illegal) said they could create a site for me. It kept them quiet for all of five minutes.
Consequently a web page exists in my name plastered with rotating Burton Albion and Derby County logos. It also states that my favourite TV programmes are The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the person I would most like to meet is Robbie Savage “because he’s a real character”. So far, the sophisticated online community – with respectable online ages – have not cottoned on to the fact that an ancient mother-of-two is living in a 12-year-old’s world.
And that says it all for me. The internet is a make believe wonderland, where people sit for countless hours escaping from reality when they should be doing the garden, housework, essential DIY or at least cooking the tea.
Me? I’m too busy doing the washing to bother with it all. Just coping with oodles of e-mails and text messages is enough for me.
This morning I had 600 spam e-mails in my work inbox. The vast majority were utter junk but, irritatingly, I had to flick through the lot as genuine stuff gets trapped amid the rubbish.
To my tender, seven-year-old- internet-age sensibilities, the online world seems to be obsessed with replica watches, cheap viagra and men’s privates.
Tempting subject lines among this hefty batch of spam included: Playboy bunnies in beach photo shoot; No woman can resist you; Express your masculinity better!; Nominated for an MBA; Safe natural way to size up; Very CheapPrice Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate dip1omas eklyvjxa yq33rp3 (that’s how it read, by the way) and Be as attractive as 007.
All laudible pursuits, no doubt. I’d love to look like Daniel Craig but I am not sure his macho muscles would look so good on me. These spam machines really should learn to differentiate between the sexes!
Anyway, those waste-of-space e-mails have been sent to the great recycling bin in the sky – but still used up valuable minutes of my day. They underlined to me yet again what a complete waste of time the web world can sometimes be.
Yes, it’s great for shopping, football news and booking holidays but, beyond that, I can’t help feeling it’s seducing a generation of people into being obsessed with the virtual world rather than the real one.
For example, a chum practically married to his PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) spent his entire weekend downloading a whole series of the Sopranos. He hasn’t actually watched any of it yet. When time allows, he can enjoy countless hours of fun glued to a screen as big as the palm of his hand. Whatever lights your fire...
Personally, I haven’t got the time to download that lot, let alone watch it. Perhaps I’m spending my time stupidly doing mundane stuff like washing the car, shopping for food and scrubbing the bog. I’m going to be left behind, a technological dinosaur, unable – or unwilling – to embrace the digital age with the passion it demands.
The trouble is I have hit 42 – the official age when your brain gives up the ghost when it comes to learning anything new, or so the experts say. I’m sure anyone reading this who is beyond that age will beg to differ.
I certainly do. What age has taught me, however, is that life is too short to spend countless hours glued to a computer screen.
If that means I’ve got an internet age of seven, so be it. I’m rather proud of the fact. Because at last it means I’ve got a life.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Rams fan signs up for another season
"Hey! You've got a text message!"
My trendy (!!) phone alerted me to an incoming text and this one was from none other than Rams player Alan Stubbs. Yes, really.
Unfortunately my monentary hope that he'd spotted me inthe South Stand and just wanted to know me a little bit better, was soon quashed. I swiftly realised that I was just one of around, perhaps, 20,000 people who got the same message urging them to go online to see a special video Stubbsy had made for us.
In it, the poor bloke, clearly embarrassed in front of camera, urges Rams season ticket holders to cough up the sheckles for another season - "I've committed myself to the Rams for another season, I hope you will, too."
Well, of course I will Alan! In fact, unbeknown to you, I'd signed up for the new season that very day. Always intended to. Only the fact that I don't earn Prem wages made me drag my feet.
But I had to smile as I watched Stubbsy's semi-tortured performance in front of a video camera. Good on the Rams for getting so high-tech with their promotions but why, oh why have we all got to become video stars? You Tube has got a lot to answer for.
I've even been urged to put mini video clips of myself on this blog. "What do you want me to show 'em?" I ask."Me pegging out the washing or scrubbing the bogs?"
Any ideas warmly welcomed...
My trendy (!!) phone alerted me to an incoming text and this one was from none other than Rams player Alan Stubbs. Yes, really.
Unfortunately my monentary hope that he'd spotted me inthe South Stand and just wanted to know me a little bit better, was soon quashed. I swiftly realised that I was just one of around, perhaps, 20,000 people who got the same message urging them to go online to see a special video Stubbsy had made for us.
In it, the poor bloke, clearly embarrassed in front of camera, urges Rams season ticket holders to cough up the sheckles for another season - "I've committed myself to the Rams for another season, I hope you will, too."
Well, of course I will Alan! In fact, unbeknown to you, I'd signed up for the new season that very day. Always intended to. Only the fact that I don't earn Prem wages made me drag my feet.
But I had to smile as I watched Stubbsy's semi-tortured performance in front of a video camera. Good on the Rams for getting so high-tech with their promotions but why, oh why have we all got to become video stars? You Tube has got a lot to answer for.
I've even been urged to put mini video clips of myself on this blog. "What do you want me to show 'em?" I ask."Me pegging out the washing or scrubbing the bogs?"
Any ideas warmly welcomed...
Parks rule OK
MOVING house to live near a park has changed my children’s lives beyond belief – for the better.
So I was perplexed to see that Derby City Council is contemplating closing 10 play areas to save money.
Being close to a park was a key reason why I chose my new house.
After years of living in a quiet but dull road with nowhere to play (we had a field behind us but the owner put up barbed wire and sent residents a stiff letter informing them that they we could not use it), I was chuffed to spot a small but well maintained park opposite the house I liked.
It was so close I knew that I would finally be able to give my sons a taste of the freedom I enjoyed as a youngster.
Nevertheless, I could never have anticipate the total transformation of their childhoods which the park has brought about. From day one, the local lads included my sons in their daily football matches. Two or three times a day a youngster arrives at our house on his bike, a ball stuck up his jumper, and asks: “Are you coming to the park?”
It’s a jumpers-for-goalposts mentality which I thought had vanished forever. On long summer evenings the matches last for hours. And it’s safe, too. A glance out the window assures me that they are fine.
That small neighbourhood park has improved all of our lives tenfold.
House builders should be forced to incorporate them into every major development instead of squeezing houses with practically no gardens into every square inch of space.
And they moan that children don’t exercise enough.
Lose parks? We should be making more of them.
So I was perplexed to see that Derby City Council is contemplating closing 10 play areas to save money.
Being close to a park was a key reason why I chose my new house.
After years of living in a quiet but dull road with nowhere to play (we had a field behind us but the owner put up barbed wire and sent residents a stiff letter informing them that they we could not use it), I was chuffed to spot a small but well maintained park opposite the house I liked.
It was so close I knew that I would finally be able to give my sons a taste of the freedom I enjoyed as a youngster.
Nevertheless, I could never have anticipate the total transformation of their childhoods which the park has brought about. From day one, the local lads included my sons in their daily football matches. Two or three times a day a youngster arrives at our house on his bike, a ball stuck up his jumper, and asks: “Are you coming to the park?”
It’s a jumpers-for-goalposts mentality which I thought had vanished forever. On long summer evenings the matches last for hours. And it’s safe, too. A glance out the window assures me that they are fine.
That small neighbourhood park has improved all of our lives tenfold.
House builders should be forced to incorporate them into every major development instead of squeezing houses with practically no gardens into every square inch of space.
And they moan that children don’t exercise enough.
Lose parks? We should be making more of them.
The oldest friends are the best
Like two cackling old dears, we put the world to rights over the cheapest pub round known to man – 65p!
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.
They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.
They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
