Janey's Blogs - November 2009
Wednesday the 4th of November 2009
Just me again
I love travelling by train and last week when I headed up to Hamilton to meet my mate's mum, my love was reinforced.
As soon as I walked onto the platform at Glasgow Central low level trains, I was greeted by a child's voice shouting: "Fucksake!" really loudly.
I spotted a young mum looking harassed and trying to deal with a wee toddler in a pram. The baby girl was about two years old and absolutely stunningly gorgeous. She had big amber eyes with thick long eyelashes, a mop of curly blonde hair and cheeky dimpled smile. She caught my eye and shouted "Fucksake!" really loudly at me and giggled. I never made a move; inside I was laughing as it was really funny to see a baby say this, but I kept a neutral look on my face.
The mum bent over and tried to shoosh the baby; she then stood up and said, "I am really sorry - she won't stop saying that."
"Just ignore her, don't fuss when she says it and just keep talking to me," I replied as the baby shouted "Fucksake!" over the top of us talking. People on the station started to stare with disdain at the mum.
The young mum explained: "My brothers taught her this and I can't stop her - She shouted it at the woman in Marks and Spencer's and at the ticket man upstairs. I am mortified."
"The reason she keeps saying it is because you react so violently or there are shrieks of laughter; she does it because it gets her attention; she is performing and knows her best punchline so well and it's a solid bit of material. I know. I am a comedian and that's what we do," I said.
The mum and I kept chatting and ignoring the "Fucksake!" that resonated round the station. Eventually the baby stopped shouting it out. She then started to point at other things that caught her eye as soon as she realised her punch line was getting no reaction. I told the mum to give her brothers a good kick in the bollocks about teaching a baby to swear and to completely ignore the "Fucksake!" until the baby finally gives up on it.
After my 'parent advice class' I got on the train to Hamilton.
At the station I spotted a poster for a beauty salon called 'YA BEAUTY' which made me giggle and then there was an advert for
'THREE BABY BEARDED DRAGONS' which were wee lizards up for grabs. I love local adverts: they are just awesome.
My favourite was an advert for babysitting which stated in bright red ink marker:
'I LOVE KIDS AND HAVE NEVER BEEN FOUND OR CHARGED WITH TOUCHING THEM AND AM AVAILABLE FOR BABYSITTING'
I can't think of anyone who would let that person near their kids!
To round off my week, last Friday I went up to Montrose to do a corporate gig and had a great fun night. The weather was horrific during the night, the wind whipped the trees bare and the rain battered the south east coastline of Scotland. I was worried sick, as husband and I had to get up early and head back to Glasgow for my flight to London and I hate travelling in storms.
I sat there in the dark of Montrose at about 4am and willed the weather to change and sure as hell, at 7am, Montrose was sparkling in the autumnal sunshine! We managed to get to Glasgow airport in time for my flight to London.
I had a wonderful gig at the 99 Club in Leicester Square, but woke up in London with my left ear totally blocked. I hate that. It is like being underneath water; it makes me partially deaf and hurts like hell.
I had an audition in London and went along half deaf. I was worried sick they would ask me questions and I wouldn't catch what they said. It went all right and I am hoping I did get the job.
So I am back in Glasgow and still have one deaf ear, husband is pissed off repeating everything and daughter is now miming things to me and asking me questions in the form of physical theatre and dance. Hopefully my ear will unblock or the doctor will revise his 'we don't syringe ears' policy and help me out OR a car will hit me on the head and my ears will pop.
Saturday the 7th of November 2009
November is cold
Am listening to Jay-Z and I do so love him... Empire State of Mind is awesome... anyway I am sure you are not reading this to find out what music I am into.
Last week, my ears decided to totally block up with bricks of wax. Yes, I produce more wax than a queen bee and my ear then cuddles it all around my ear drum, making me deaf. This was a pain in the ass as I had a lot of work this week: you try doing a charity auction half deaf!
The people at the Boisdale Club in Belgravia, London, really helped me out. They raised hands to pledge cash - love those nice folks - but the tartan carpets were odd though. You always know you are in England when you see hundreds of tartan throughout a building.
I then flew home half deaf, picking at the ear, filling it with ear drops (which are more expensive than crack per fluid ounce). I now have a healthy ear drop habit. They don't work. You know what works? Nothing, just in case you were interested. I filled my gungy ears with that stinky expensive fluid and all that happened was that it all ran onto my neck.
I had warm-up work for a sitcom called Life of Riley. I needed to hear. I ran to my doctors to get an emergency appointment and was seen by a woman I have never met before. She was either Latin American or faking a funny accent to add a frisson of excitement to my ear examination... or maybe I couldn't hear her properly.
"Are you Spanish?" I asked.
"No, I am Asian. Is there something funny about the way I speak?" she snapped at me.
I had now insulted a woman who was about to poke a big shiny pointy thing into my ravaged tender ear hole. That will learn me.
Apparently the wax STILL hadn't softened enough for them to syringe it. The wax in my ear is made of titanium steel and is refusing to let the expensive stinky drops soften it down. Perfect.
"When will it be ready?" I pleaded.
"Three weeks or maybe never!" she shouted at my ear.
Must remember to never get Asian people mixed up with Jennifer Lopez; my ears are doomed. So I went home and syringed them myself, fuck it.
So some wax did come out and I can now hear enough to get by.
The warm-up work was awesome and tiring at the same time: asking people to laugh at the same joke on set can be weary, but that audience were amazing. Met the lovely Caroline Quentin who helped me out a few times by coming over and chatting away to the studio audience and that helped when they got bored of me talking.
I didn't have to fly to Southampton this past weekend as the Jongleurs comedy club there has shut. I will miss the gig but Southampton was a pain in the arse to get to from Glasgow, so am enjoying a weekend free.
Well, I am actually working tonight in Glasgow and managed to fill in the gigs, but the news I am trying to convey is this - I get to stay at home for a weekend!
I am struggling with the no smoking.... well actually I started smoking again that's how much of a struggle I was having. Now I am OFF them again... Wish to fuck I could just kick the damn habit.
Tuesday the 10th of November 2009
I can smell Christmas coming can you?
Yes, Christmas has a particular scent: it's cinnamon and spices and supermarkets pump it out discreetly in case we forget what the spending season smells like.
I hate being manipulated like that don't you?
Christmas or winter to me smells like wood burning and the frosty bright mornings remind me of the seasons changing. I don't know anyone who boils cinnamon, makes spiced oranges or who mulls wine - not from present day nor my past, because I wasn't alive in Victorian times when Christmas came into its own.
It seems we modern folk can't have our own Christmas identity; we have to hark back to the olden days to get one. Cards and TV adverts show small Victorian-dressed children with rosy cheeks and furry muffs staring through bevelled shop windows as their ankle boots are deep in crisp snow. Is there anyone alive who can recall that? NO!
To me childhood Christmas memories are of musty socks hanging over our old coal fire in the front room and my brothers fighting each other with tangerines in socks as weapons. So keep your cinnamon scented wafts: it means nothing to me, Mr Supermarket psychological manipulator!
We will be having a quiet Christmas as always, just me, husband and Ashley. I might go see my dad on Christmas Day as this will be his first as a widower and I would hate that he was lonely. We don't do family at Christmas, to be honest. I don't really have much contact with my family and the less said about husband's family the better!
My own brothers and sister are just busy with their own lives; they have kids and husbands/partners of their own and I rarely see them, which is fine with us all. But, when I hear of people who all get together and have dinners etc, it makes me hanker for a big family of love. Which is probably nonsense as I am sure that those big families all fight like hell and are just being nice to each other. At least my brothers and sister don't fight amongst themselves (as we don't get together!).
Went to the doc's today and explained about my colon pain and stuff you really don't need to know which involves my bowels. He told me I would be referred to a specialist called Dr Dover to which I replied: "Is his first name Ben?"
To which my doctor said: "No. Why?"
"It was a joke... Ben Dover... the bum doctor.... Its funny when you say it all together," I quipped.
"Ah, you are a comedian. I forgot," said my doctor with a sardonic look.
So, maybe I am not a comedian after all. Dr Shaw exposed my lack of humour right there in the surgery at 10am
So life at Godley's World is ticking along fine, been busy - had an ear infection, went deaf, had loads of work and writing hard and this Saturday I am doing my one woman show at Easterhouse Platform The Bridge at 8pm. Do come along if you want; it will be fun!
Friday the 13th of November 2009
Note to my teenage self
Dear Janey, you are probably sitting listening to a Donny Osmond LP on your big record player and dreaming of becoming a Mormon, flying off to Utah and marrying the toothy singer... It won't happen. Stop crying and dreaming of Salt Lake City and swoony Osmond kisses. He marries his teenage sweetheart and she has all her teeth; you have nine missing.
Oh, by the way, buy a toothbrush. I know you have hardly any cash but, seriously, that stuff they say about decay is right: a toothbrush is important. By the time you are 40 years old, you will have paid £2,000 in veneers and bridge work at a private dentist.
Yes, you will have private health care; I know it's hard to believe right now.
So, get the record player turned off and start staring at school books. Try harder to understand maths and don't give up on art or English; you will be good at both in future. Just try to understand me when I say you will write, paint and you really need to understand percentages when you get older.
I know it's the 1970s but please don't wear a plaid shirt tied at the waist with your curly fringe hanging over your eyes and, if you do have to look like that, please don't get a Polaroid photo taken in Mr Woods' garden. I have seen the picture and it made my eyes water. It is even on the internet, something I can't quite explain right now, but will be really big in the future.
The 1980s are just around the corner and hair perms get really fashionable. Please DO NOT get a perm. You have really curly hair and it will result in you being housebound for three days and a hair-do that makes Gladys Knight and the Pips jealous. No white girl should have hair bigger than Diana Ross.
If you are still not convinced of this advice, go to the local library and look up a boxing promoter called Don King and never ever forget that that's what you will look like if you get a cheap perm in a Parkhead hair salon called 'Hair Flair' in 1981.
Also, just to save you a lot of time, money and energy, you CANNOT skateboard, play the violin, do yoga, cook soufflé, wear strapless bras, pink eye shadow and you will never enjoy ballet performances.
Oh, by the way, that dream you had about a TV being made into a wrist watch? That actually gets invented. You were a visionary!
So Janey, don't go into school tomorrow and declare that you are leaving, I know you have a shoe issue, but take up your mum's offer to wear her slip-on sandals and get through the week. Having no shoes is not a good enough excuse to screw up your life.
Your dad will buy you shoes next week. Go there in your bare feet if needs be as you really need to go get an education, get into university and leave with a degree. If you do that, me getting into jobs later in life will be a hell of a lot easier; people are snobs and TV companies prefer folk with a Uni degree, even if they are shit at the job; it helps on paper.
Just on another note, your breasts will grow. I know they look like two moles poking their noses through pizza dough, but they really get big, seriously big and it is amazing how much they get big. Have I emphasised that enough? 'Big Boobs Janey' will be a nickname.
Don't throw a medicine ball at a guy called Craig Armstrong on your hockey pitches. He is a wee bit older, geeky and likes music. He really becomes the most famous person from your school and is an amazing composer. You will love his stuff and download it (don't ask what that means; suffice to say you will never use vinyl records forever, but do keep them safe anyway). Just avoid hurting him, especially his fingers: they are his life and don't call him a tweedy fuckwit - it makes him never want to speak to you again. He has a really long memory.
Tonight, when you watch Sale of the Century on the telly, don't let your mum slag off Nicholas Parsons. When you get older he will become a nice friend and you will feel bad about your mum shouting at the TV and calling him an 'English Toffy Nosed Bastard'.
I know you are wondering what the hell happens later in life, so far I have scared you with dental work, big tits and Nicholas Parsons, but bear with me.
Sometime soon, you will get a boyfriend called George; he is really quiet, drinks too much and has deep psychological issues. What you think is a quirky attitude is actually a dark violent streak; he likes to stab men with a knitting needle.
He might be a good kisser and doesn't push you into sex, but he really does get into needles later on in life and they aren't for knitting with. Who knew heroin would be such a big hit in inner city Glasgow?
You will break up with him when he asks you to marry him. One suggestion - don't laugh out loud - remember the violent streak?
He doesn't take rejection or laughter in his face very well.
Ignore him and walk away. But worry not - you do make a lucky escape.
I do really want to warn you about the next man but, if you don't marry him and don't go through the scary shit, you don't get to produce a beautiful daughter and become a funny comedian.
I suppose you need to tread that crap to be the woman you need to be, but the husband is OK. It's amazing how annoying he can be but, here's a clue, don't talk too much. I think you need to know that the talking thing bothers people; keep some of that inside but, if and when you meet your husband's family and feel like being cheeky, go right ahead.
You actually develop a really good repertoire for arguments and you usually win.
Don't worry about jobs; you actually become self-employed from a young age and that continues throughout your life - and stick to your theory about not drinking, not smoking and never touching pills or drugs. You were right about that and, in later years, if someone offers you something called 'smack' you will be right to refuse to smoke it off a foil tube: it kills most of your friends. That sounds scary but, trust me, it is over in a blink and you eventually write a play about it. Yes, you will write a bit, did I mention that? Just try to remember everything as you need to recall it to write it.
Just so you know, you will produce a tall wonderful child and she will get everything you never had. She will be clean, educated and never need to worry about fresh underwear; your vow for the future of your child to be happy, well fed and educated will come true.
Don't worry about labour pains; they aren't as bad as everyone tells you and you recover quickly.
Something else I want to tell you - enjoy your body. You have wee skinny legs, so go show them off. Stop worrying about thinking you are fat: you're not. Be confident and, when those boobs grow, take time to watch men stare at them; savour that moment when they are up high and firm. It will feel like a distant memory when you are older... enjoy the pert tits.
Don't wear baggy shirts to disguise them, get a good bra, a tight tee shirt and get them out there; they look amazing (I know I saw the photos). But you will suffer from self consciousness over the. Ttry to enjoy them, Janey; it's a time to relish and it passes before you know it and you will spend your middle age kicking yourself for hiding them when they had looked their best!
My last big thing I need to tell you... get to know your mum a bit more. She is a bit scatty, but just look at her; make sure you embed every single facet of her face into your memory. Don't give her a hard time, hug her. Climb into bed and let her read to you. I know you are 16 years old, but she is a great reader and you grow up and take that skill with you.
Breathe in the smell of her, even the strange ones. Touch her face, smile and hold her. She had a crap life and you really want to share some time with her. If possible, get that Polaroid camera out and get a photo of you both together. It would be nice, but probably won't happen.
She needs you; you don't know that, but she isn't good at saying stuff that scares her. Let her dance with you, get her to sing a musical with you, let her pick which song she wants and get up and dance around the room.
Hold her tight, Janey, and don't ever forget how the skin on her face feels or the thickness of her hair or the flecks of amber in her brown eyes.
Most of all, Janey, don't give yourself a hard time for wanting more than she had. So go get shoes, get ready for a bra-fitting and always brush your teeth; you have a long way to go and I will be here when you get there!
Monday the 16th of November 2009
This is how I live
I was in Aberdeen last week doing a show at the Lemon Tree; a storm lashed the Granite City and sideways rain like a giant fire hose was drenching each street at a specific annoying angle. The new shopping centre was lovely but unfinished and the cash machines gobbled up cards and refused to spit them out, like greedy plastic-swallowing hookers.
The hotel had a wee single bed which slid along the floor when you sat on it and to top it all the fire alarm screamed us all awake and made us all stand in the sideways rain in our pyjamas. I wanted to burn to death instead.
Touring is so sexy.
I was tired when I hit Aberdeen station to get the train home. There was a big fat steely-haired woman in a rail worker's jacket at the ticket gate.
"What ticket do I put through the machine to get onto the platform? There are nine tickets printed for this journey. I don't know which one to slide through the machine!"
She sneered and shouted: "The one that says Journey Ticket! Why don't you check?"
The tickets have tiny writing and there are so many of them it really is hard to figure out which one is the valid ticket.
"Listen up, fatty, NINE tickets here. Now tell me which one? They all look alike. What is your job? Staring at pigeons?" I shouted at her.
Just then, two really old people came behind me with a deck of tickets. (Why are there so many wee orange tickets printed out for A JOURNEY?)
"What ticket do we use to get through? - There are so many." the wee old stooped man asked fatty fuckwit.
"What do you think? The one that says Journey..." she started to yell.
"OK, you annoying pedantic fat pain in the butt, I will stand here and I will show people which ticket as the TRAIN is LATE! I will do your job and help elderly people with the tickets!" I screamed.
Pigeons flew away in fear.
So I stood there at the gate and pointed out to people who were staring at a fist full of tickets and who asked fatty sarcastic arse for help.
Every time she attempted to use her nasty sneering attitude, I butted in and helped the people. It wasn't altruistic, I was just annoyed at her - and bored, to be honest.
She then told me to stand back from the gates and I refused.
She got the stationmaster bloke who came over, listened to her moan about me standing at the gate and then came over and told me to move.
I explained that she was ignoring people's pleas for help and explained the whole situation and the elderly man and wife came over to back me up. Fatty was told off and made to go back to the hut, where I hope the chained her to a radiator and let her piss her own fat legs. What a cow.
They put a young Polish bloke on the gate and he politely explained to people who were struggling to figure out which ticket to slide through the machine. Screw you, Aberdeen station ticket woman.
The journey home was pleasant except I had a screaming kid on the seat opposite. I didn't get angry, I merely got off my seat and went into First Class where the ticket checker let me sit the whole journey for no extra charge. See? Some people on trains are nice.
On Saturday, I went up to Easterhouse to do my one woman comedy show and it was awesome. Lovely to see so many people turn up for comedy and the show went well; Ashley sold 25 of my books for me, what a lovely child!
This week I am off to London. I have some gigs, some meetings and another big audition. Scary stuff but, contrary to the rumours, I am not going into the jungle... don't believe everything you read on the internet.
Monday the 23rd of November 2009
Comedy can be hell
Late blog - I know. Sorry, I was either really busy or asleep in London.
The time just flew past and I didn't quite catch up with myself.
And I have been partying a wee bit. I do that in London - I rarely go out in Glasgow and save all the time up and end up staying out at The Groucho Club till 2am, then sleeping in like a fat old dog.
My trip here has been really interesting. Firstly on arrival in London I decided to call up Gordon Smith who is the boss of the Scottish Football thingy and I applied for the job as Scotland football manager. The fact I called it 'thingy' should indicate I am not really suited to the job. But the press were touting Sean Connery as the next manager and, because I actually live in Scotland, I thought I should be more in the running so to speak. I can order men about, I can actually play football and I am great at strategy: what's not to like?
"Do you have a valid coaching license?" Gordon Smith asked.
"No, but I do know Hologram Tam and he is the world's best forger and he can get me one," I laughed.
Well, they never called back. So I guess the job is not for me.
London is wonderful at this time of year as the Christmas lights are up in Oxford Street and I LOVE the lights. I am such a sentimental twat at times, but I just love the wintry feeling and the twinkling lights.
Hyde Park is just a carpet of crisp golden leaves and the sky at teatime over London is scudded with crimson smudges that reflect onto the oily surface of the Thames; it's just amazing!
It's as if someone had taken a whorey pink lipstick to the sky and had dragged it over the dappled clouds.
The pale blushing sky creates an inspiring backdrop to the Houses of Parliament; you have to see it to know what I mean. I love London.
I don't love drug-fucked alcoholic men with skinny hard-faced blonde women who come to comedy clubs to scream at comedians. I hate those bastards more than anything and yet Camden seemed to draw them in on Friday and Saturday night.
It can be exhausting verbally fighting with coke-fuelled men in front of 200 people for money, but I am an MC and that's my job. I won, they were thrown out and the comedy went good. OK, here's some tips for anyone who fancies coming to enjoy a comedy gig.
Don't snort Peru up your nose; it doesn't make you amiable in a crowd of quiet people listening to one person.
Don't patently ignore someone with a microphone speaking to you and try not to carry on foaming at the sides of your mouth as you scream at other comedy goers asking you to shut up.
When 200 people shout 'LEAVE! LEAVE!' accept that they don't like you and just fucking leave. The people have spoken, my friend.
Don't abuse someone for being Scottish then try to cover that abuse up by declaring you are half-Scottish; that's just mental and invites some of the best retorts from a Scottish MC.
Never go anywhere where you want to talk more than the people everyone else has paid to listen to. It really is that simple. Stay at home and shout at yourself, is all I am saying.
Other than that, life is good. Meetings went well and I now have some serious writing to do.
I got to hang out with Monica my best mate in the world and it was so good to see her. We get to talk really fast Glaswegian and not worry about pronunciation or slowing down for other people. Though she does speak amazing Italian, French, Spanish and possibly seven other languages in a fabulously funny Scottish accent. I hear her talk to some of the European chefs she represents and piss myself laughing - she is amazing.
Nothing strange, funny or weird happened for me to write home about - am sorry - I feel as though I am letting you all down if I haven't punched a politician or fell down a flight fo stairs in front of a Hollywood superstar, but sometimes my life is dull and is all about looking at the awesome skies over London. Am home tomorrow... Speak soon.
Tuesday the 24th of November 2009
Mr Pigeon go away
I haven't had a decent lie in since London. Honestly, you would think I had a proper job or something. Not having to get up early and be places is the very reason I became a comedian. I do nowt!
This morning I had to get up and go see the specialist about my 'bowel' issue. Suffice to say I am getting a colonoscopy quite soon which I am sure is sexual to a few hard-nosed politicians, yet evil to me.
I have NEVER found excitement in shoving things up my back bottom; seriously, it's exit only - and those folk who shove hamsters and lava lamps up theirs need executed or put in a special ward. OK that might have sounded extreme, but I am having a strange day as a pigeon attacked me as I slept.
Here is the story.
My bed is beneath my window, so my pillows are basically where your knees would be if you were hanging out of my top floor windows. I like it that way but sometimes I push the windows open full and birds come up under the eaves, spot the gaping window and do a wee peep in. They see me in bed two feet away from them, then don't understand they need to be quiet and let out a big loud squawk or make a pigeon warbly noise. We stare at each other as my eyes open - big fat bird sitting on the inside of my window ledge, me lying on the pillow hoping it doesn't come any nearer. I throw up an arm. It shits on my pillow and flies out into the back court. That is what usually happens, but today was funny.
I slept after the hospital appointment and I woke up at 11am to see two pigeons pecking at my jewellery box on my window ledge. They clearly fancied a wee wander in and tapped across the shelf ten inches above my skull and then sat there warbling to each other.
The noise woke me up. I gently lifted my head, the bigger bird panicked and just fell out of the window... screeching... like it forgot how to fly. But the sassy smaller bird pecked my velvet jewellery box and eyed me side on. It was challenging me! I am sure it was a 'she' as 'she' gaily tip-tapped across my window shelf, shit on it and deftly flew into the grey Glasgow sky.
This is what I miss about Glasgow: the sheer audacity of its pigeons.
It is good to be home, though, despite the colonoscopy and the pigeons.
Monday the 30th of November 2009
Don't let me look back in anger
Things are happening in my life that keep making me look back; it's not good news. Recently, when I was in London it happened. I immediately recalled the first time I went to London to stay with my pal Finlay.
It was 1994; I was hardly doing any comedy and was running my pub at the time. Just the sheer excitement of being away from the pub, husband and my child made me giddy with happiness.
Soho looked like the most amazing place in the world; the big bright lights of Piccadilly dazzled me like the oik I was back then.
It was fantastic to be free from domesticity and just be me and just be with my pals. I recall looking in Time Out magazine and wondering how I could possibly contain my bursting exhilaration at the thought MY NAME one day might be in those listings as a comic at a club, it just made me foam at the mouth.
Years later when I wrote articles for and was featured in Time Out, I giggled and had a wee heart-warming feeling, recalling the Janey who thought that was THE DIZZY heights of fame - and it was a good feeling.
But somehow I now feel a bit flat; it might be because I am getting older and am becoming tired whilst travelling. I am not sure what this feeling is, but I miss the excitement of being so amazed at doing stand up.
Does that make sense?
You need to know I LOVE doing comedy; I feel I am finally me onstage. It is the best feeling in the world and I honestly am blessed that I get paid for doing something I think is easy and wonderful; I know I shouldn't say that. I should say how comedy is so technical, a skill that takes years to hone and blah blah about the art - but I love comedy and it doesn't feel like hard work to me.
Please don't take from this that I am poo-poohing my art or being flippant about all the years it's taken me to get to a decent level, but I just get worried someone is going to walk up and say, "You are just talking, why is that a job?" and I am scuppered! I have been told by many people in my life growing up to 'shut up' and now I get paid for talking. That makes me giggle inside, yet there is this awful foreboding feeling inside me.
Do I finally have depression and my brain can't compute what that actually means? Can that happen?
I have never had depression before and always rail against it as I have been surrounded by depressed people my whole life and they really annoy me (sorry if that's sounds unsympathetic, but if you live with someone with depression it basically means, when they are sad and don't want to go out, you are NOT going to the beach either - and you don't have depression) There is nothing for people who DON'T have depression but live with people who have depression - they get therapy - you get moaned at.
So I don't know why I am feeling strange and odd lately. Maybe I am just going through an odd phase, yet the only thing that makes me happy is going onstage.
Ashley is all grown up and writing for a living and doesn't need me so much, husband is happy and fine and I might be suffering from some empty nest thing. Everyone knows how much I love being with my daughter and I talk about her all the time. I know I do... but you have no idea how proud I am that she is just lovely and funny and such good company to be around.
I think I might be having a mid-life crisis. I may end up like those women who get their hair cut like Suzie Quatro and start wearing fringey leather jackets and start visiting the Hard Rock Cafés all over the world collecting beer mats, tee shirts and getting photos taken with Jimmy Hendrix's guitar. Can that happen to women overnight?
Why is looking back to me being all glowy about comedy and visiting new cities not making me happy?
Or maybe I shouldn't write a blog in a damp Manchester hotel room with a really bad period pain and a colonoscopy to look forward to? It might be that then, eh?