Be Careful What You Wish For

Once, when I was at university or at school (or some point in my life where responsibility was someone else's, well, responsibility), I had a conversation with a bunch of friends about where the most fun place to be stranded would be. I chose a Alton Towers, or Thorpe Park.

Yesterday a couple of friends/ colleagues and I went to Thorpe Park.

We'd already gotten off to a shaky start in the morning: Elles had accidentally slept in after a busy few days (to be woken up by Kat who was meeting her at her house). The fourth person who was originally going with us cancelled last minute, which threw our budgeting plans off a little (no-one ever goes to Thorpe Park or Alton Towers without a 2 for 1 deal handy). The parking metre in the car park I was using would only start working at a certain time of day, so even though I was organised and got there early I had to sit in my car and wait until the coin slot in the machine opened before I could go anywhere. Once we all got into Elles' car though, it seemed that it was plane sailing from then on.

As we got out of the car and made out way through the entrance of Thorpe Park, we joked about how we felt like kids again. "Make sure you stay with the group and hold someone's hand," teased Kat as I bounced around excitedly. We all made sure we knew where our valuables were, we had waterproof jackets for the water rides, and we felt pretty much sorted.

We put a couple of things in the lockers, and off we went. The first ride we went on was Colossus. The second one was X. As we got to the cloakroom area of X, Elles took her jacket off since it was getting a bit warm, and gave it in. At the end of the ride, we collected all our stuff and emerged to decide which rollercoaster to go on next.

Suddenly Elles stopped dead.

"Guys, where's all my change gone?"

There were five pound coins in her jacket when we entered the park- now they were all gone. Elles patted herself down to try and find the change, worrying that she'd been pick-pocketed... and she suddenly realised her car key had gone, too.

None of us live anywhere near Thorpe Park. Worst of all was that all of poor Elles' stuff- the rest of her money, her house keys, her bag- was all locked up in her car.

We felt cold: what could have happened? Both of Elles' pockets were zipped shut. Could one of the guys working the cloakrooms have taken it as a prank? One of them was a bit cheeky to Elles when she took her coat off, but it was very unlikely that a member of staff could have taken it- and bizarrely, her phone was still in the pocket. Could the key have fallen out on a ride? But both of the pockets were closed. It seemed most likely to us that the keys had gone missing around the time we were at X, since that was the only time the jacket had been moved.

After retracing our steps as thoroughly as we could (while trying to be grateful that we'd only been on two rides before we discovered the loss), We went to customer services and filled out a form, and handed it to a guy who gave off an air of seeing this sort of stuff happening all the time, and probably thinking what a brainless bunch of girls we were. We were then told that we had to wait until the evening when the park closed before a search could be carried out. If the keys didn't turn up, the car would have to be left overnight and we'd have to find our own ways home. In the meantime, there was nothing we could do- except have as much fun as possible. So, since we were stuck there for the whole day until closing time, this is exactly what we did.

When closing time came, we went back to Customer Services. Nothing had been handed in, and we were advised to ask the attendants at the rides themselves. We went to X first, almost certain that this was the place to find the keys- but despite the lovely staff looking high and low, there was nothing.

The only alternative thing that could have happened, then, was that the car key- along with the now-forgotten change- must have worked its way out of a gap in Elles' zipped-up pocket whilst we zooming around on Colossus. Which meant that it could have been flung absolutely anywhere. We asked the staff there anyway- who were also amazing- and they set out to do a sweep under the ride for us. In the meantime, we looked around the public footpath leading to the ride.

Between the three of us, Kat, Elles and I found all manner of lost items that had fallen afoul of the ride- lip balm, eyeliner, a badge, even glasses- but no keys. Resigned to having to fork out for a cab home, we made our way back to the entrance of the ride, where we were met by some people on the team who had finished their side of the search. No-one had found anything- and we hadn't expected them to, either. Then we heard a voice from behind us.

"You lost BMW keys, right?"

The other half of the team had come back from their sweep. One of the guys held aloft a single car key: Elles' car key.

There was a lot of squealing, jumping and hugging, and Elles even kissed her key. The key had quite literally been found amongst the bushes under the ride: so it had fallen out of the jacket, after all. In the end, we got to go home by car, everybody got their stuff back, and all was well.

You could say that the moral of the story is to be careful with your possessions- but then again we were, and Elles had actually double-checked that her pockets were zipped up. I reckon the real moral of the story here is that zips are fickle buggers and you should never trust them.

Oh, and about Thorpe Park being the most fun place to be stuck at? I was right.

~Fin~

The Biscuit Button

What happens when you place a small child right next to a big red button?

So I was on the train (as a large proportion of my entries seem to begin) on my way to see some friends in Birmingham this weekend. I was feeling a tiny bit annoyed at my seating arrangements: I'd booked my tickets well in advance, requesting forward-facing window seats. I'd been allocated a small, cramped backwards-facing seat right at the end of a carriage facing a wall with no windows at all, like the naughty corner in a classroom. I was also seated right next to the broken, stinking toilets, which didn't improve my mood.

Thankfully about halfway through my journey I was given some on-board entertainment to cheer me up.

A few stops along the way a harassed-looking couple walked on, pushing along a four or five-year-old in a stroller. The kid was asking lots and lots of questions, as only a child can do. You probably know the sort of questions: the kind where the child isn't interested in the answer, only in asking even more questions. In any case, I'd already brightened up- I love it when children do this, and love it even more to hear how their parents deal with it.

The only space on the train left was the corner right next to me on the other side of the aisle, which happened to be the place for wheelchair users- complete with a great big tempting red button marked 'EMERGENCY' installed low down for easy access. By the time the couple and their toddler had made their way over, the train had already pulled off from the station.

Now, either the dad, who was pushing the stroller, just didn't see it, or he didn't make the connection between children and buttons in his head- but for whatever reason, he parked the pushchair so that the child was sitting right next to the emergency button.

To my glee, the first thing the little rascal did was press the button. A worried female voice sounded over the intercom.

"Hello to the passenger who pressed the emergency button- are you alright?"

There was a brief pause. Then, with the careful, clear and political pronunciation of a child who has been taught to be polite, the kid replied:

"Have you got any biscuits?"

There was a muffled mass guffaw as the surrounding passengers who had overheard (myself included) tried to stifle their laughter. The father snapped to attention, pulling the child in his stroller away and hastily apologising at the speaker as the lady laughed down the microphone "No love sorry, no biscuits!"

I quite agree with the kid though- I'm all for biscuit buttons on public transport.

~Fin~

Have You Ever Witnessed Bad Parenting...

... And really wished you could go up to the parent/ carer and slap them around a bit?

Today, after wandering around a shopping centre for a bit, I sat down on a bench for a breather. In front of me was a frozen yoghurt stall (the kind where you can choose all sorts of things for toppings), and to the left of me was a fancy cupcake stall.

I heard the loud, open-mouthed cough of a child who's not yet learned to cover their mouths (or never been told) and looked up warily- the cough belonged to a very large little girl, looking no older than six years old, accompanied by who I think was her grandfather. When I say very large, think about nearly twice as big as Honey Boo Boo. In short, the poor girl was quite obese.

At this point I wasn't really focusing on this, though: I was focusing on how the little girl had her face pressed up against the screen that shielded the yoghurt toppings, every so often producing a single, open mouthed cough in the direction of all the fresh fruit and things. It was an impressively disgusting cough: she opened her mouth wide and stuck her tongue out a little. Not pleasant when so close to food, but Grandad didn't comment.

'Fine whatever,' I thought. 'Just as long as they don't walk past me and the kid doesn't cough her germs near me.'

So of course, as you know the way the universe works around me, out of the many benches and many spaces there were, they walked straight towards me and chose to stop by my bench. The child sat right next to me. I tried not to visibly flinch when the girl coughed in my general direction.

I noticed that Grandad had ordered the girl a medium sized yoghurt with three toppings. Now, this frozen yoghurt place is always very generous with their portions and me, a grown woman, can only just about finish a small sized one with two toppings. The portion size of this pot was gargantuan- how was this little girl- a big little girl even so- finish all of that? Sure enough, the child had only eaten a few scoops before announcing that she had had enough.

What happened next horrified me more than a little.

The grandfather- not the little girl- pointed out the cupcake stand, and asked her if she wanted one instead. The girl, quite sensibly, asked him why. Grandad's response?

"They look really pretty, and they're probably healthier too. You can throw that away now, let's go get a cupcake."

And so I watched in stunned outrage for the now enthusiastic little girl as she chucked the largest part of her wasted frozen yoghurt into the bin and they both made their way to the cupcake stand. Of course, the girl plumped straight for one of the larger ones rather than the small ones.

There's not really much else I can say about that...

Unintentional Gluttony, Brain Freeze and Rest

I revisited one of my favourite places for cake today (which also happens to be the location that this post took place in). I always become a little over-ambitious when it comes to dessert, so I tried to go light on the drink- to no avail.

Also (see, this post isn't just a lazy repost!) the last part of this post's title should really be 'Lack of Rest'. I've been burning my candle at both ends lately, with a full-time job, writing for four blogs in total, baking and recipe-creating for two out of those four blogs, looking into more writing work on the side to build experience and looking into training and courses for myself in my spare time. Then I exercise nearly every day, and snatch a few moments here and there for other hobbies like craft and music (ah the days when all of my spare hours were spent on the piano...) There are, quite literally, not enough hours in the day.

I love being busy, but I thought I was fine with energy levels until today on the tube, when I wandered onto two wrong trains in a row to meet my visiting friend today, and then straight away led her onto three wrong trains in different directions to a place that I go to all the time.

I think it's a sign I need some me-time. Looking at my diary, I think I can book myself a time slot for that sometime in June...

Mean Ice Cream Man

I went out for my first run since autumn last year today because the weather is finally catching on that it's spring. It was challenging- not because I'm out of practice (I found other ways to keep fit during the long winter)- but because there were so many other people out enjoying the sorely missed sun. My self confidence has fallen a bit, hiding under all the winter layers, so the real challenge was getting out there in all my Lycra glory. I needn't have worried though, because as soon as I took my first step, I felt awesome- I hadn't realised how much I'd missed running.

The biggest challenge was not chasing after the ice cream van like a rabid greyhound after a hare.

It was a reasonably hot and sunny day to be out running, and I was quite red in the face and obviously baking a little bit. Just as I came to the tough uphill part of my run, an ice cream van drove past- and started to drive really slowly just ahead of me. At first I thought he was looking for a place to pull up, and it dawned on me that he didn't even have the jaunty ice cream van music playing.

Then I realised he was trolling me.

I saw his stupid grinning face in his wing mirror and considered scowling back at him, but decided to act nonchalant. Even so, the horrible bastard continued to trail just ahead of me all the way up the hill, until we both came to the top and he sped off, laughing.

I hope he gets lemon sorbet in his eyes.

~Fin~

So I Went to Berlin and...

... Ate cake the size of my face:

Co-invented Treslechesblaubeerrosemarmeladehaselnusssahnekuchen:

Saw some funny stuff:

Saw some powerful stuff:

And drank some girly beer:

And again, like in Australia, nothing particularly crazy happened. I even had a free seat next to me on the flight home. There was one small weird (or rather uncomfortable) moment on public transport though, on the bus to Schoenefeld airport: I was sitting directly opposite a young French couple, close enough so out knees were touching, and they were pretty much eating each other's faces for the whole journey. I stared to resolutely out of the window that I had a crick in my neck by the time the bus reached the airport.

Other than that, it really does seem like the truly bonkers stuff only happens to me when I'm on home ground. Interesting...

Public Transport: Stuck in the Air

Next weekend I'm going to Berlin to visit my friend Vicky, and it'll be the first time ever I've travelled by plane all by myself.

I'm not scared at all- I'm rather excited actually. However there is just one small matter that concerns me, and it's the same with any form of public transport:

What the random stranger sitting next to me is going to be like.

Or even if I'm going to be stuck with a few choice weirdos, never mind if they're right next to me or not. Some of my best stories and strangest memories comes from tales of the general public whilst on a train or bus: from stoners performing magic tricks to get out of paying a fare, to stoners metaphorically crying on my shoulder about their life (I really wish I could remember enough of that bus journey to do it justice here), to massive guys stinking of rotten cheese and literally falling asleep on my shoulder and squashing me to being on a train full of drunken football supporters and dog show competitors (at the same time). Only this time I'm going to be stuck in a tin can thousands of miles up in the air with them.

Of course I've been on flights where there have been irritating people on board, from the classic screaming child and back-of-seat-kicker to, most recently on the way back from Australia, a guy who took his shoes off and put his bare (and smelly and quite dirty) feet up when food was being served. It's always different when you're by yourself though, as there's nobody to go 'Get a load of this guy!' to.

Maybe I'll come back and absolutely nothing wacky will have happened to me, which will go towards confirming my theory that weird stuff only happens to me in Britain. We shall see. To be honest, if the last time Vicky and I met up is anything to go by, anything crazy that happens will most likely be self-inflicted. In fact, my German doppelgänger out there is probably about to write a blog entry about two mad British girls...