So here we are, a new time zone, a new language and an awful lot more crepes. In short, the Coussens family have arrived in France!
We left sunny old England at 5am yesterday morning (that's thursday the 25th depending on when this entry gets posted) headed for Dover, woke up in France and ended up in Serris some six hours later. Unfortunately what should have taken two hours had in fact tripled- Mum has some incredible navigational skills and let's leave it at that.
After flexing our French skills, who knew I could be so fluent, we located our hotel and made our way to Disneyland.
We decided to spend two days here before meeting up with the other three families tomorrow and heading on to Nièvre.
I would love to know how Disneyland has the power to transform even adults into children, it truly is magical. All that is stopping me from buying an overly-priced Disney princess dress is my boobs, apparently Cinderella and her princess crew didn't make it to puberty.
But not all is lost. While every little girl under the age of 11 is skipping around dressed as Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Belle, there is one Disney accessory that does cater for the older woman: the Minnie Mouse ears. Yes, you may not be able to fit into a dress, but you can wear a giant pair of black plastic mouse ears on your head. Great.
We had our final day in the park today and will be heading back later this evening to see the fireworks and parade. All I have to do is control the urge to rugby tackle one of the dancing princesses and rob her of her costume. Knowing my luck I would get caught (once the female victim had been bundled)with the Cinderella costume stuck round my neck- the result of eating far too many croissants- kiss the wrong prince and discover my parade dancing skills aren't as good as I thought they'd be.
So there you have it. I may have to admit defeat on my princess dreams for the time being, but with 10 days still to go in France who knows what magic will happen.
Friday 26 August 2011
Saturday 20 August 2011
Serious note.
I'm all for writing things down and writing will always be a part of me. Granted most of what I write is female clamor and hormone induced, but that doesn't mean I can't write serious topical pieces too.
I suppose this is the perfect opportunity to write something serious and prove the above statement, but the truth is I would rather snort Smarties than write about politics, the economical crisis or similar subjects.
Obviously having such a nonchalant view on "serious" topics hinders my ability as a journalist and encourages words such as "ditsy" and quite frankly I dread to think what else. Either way, my writing certainly doesn't promote hard-hitting news, paper shuffling and "..from all of us here in the studio, goodnight."
I've been asked a lot recently about the area of journalism I'm most interested in and without a shadow of a doubt the answer is- and will always be- "features." That's the one thing I remember most about journalism in my third year, my willingness to work until dawn on any features that I had to do or needed to be done.
In an ideal world I would become a columnist, but I need to find some strong opinion that doesn't relate solely to men. I wonder if there are courses on how to become mean and opinionated?
But that is all by-the-by and for the time being the column of Captain P**s Off (my newly appointed nickname from the uni girls after my flamboyant rage about the world of retail) is on pause. Its on pause until an employer takes me from a retail scream into a feature writers dream- check out the degree-level rhyming there!
I suppose this is the perfect opportunity to write something serious and prove the above statement, but the truth is I would rather snort Smarties than write about politics, the economical crisis or similar subjects.
Obviously having such a nonchalant view on "serious" topics hinders my ability as a journalist and encourages words such as "ditsy" and quite frankly I dread to think what else. Either way, my writing certainly doesn't promote hard-hitting news, paper shuffling and "..from all of us here in the studio, goodnight."
I've been asked a lot recently about the area of journalism I'm most interested in and without a shadow of a doubt the answer is- and will always be- "features." That's the one thing I remember most about journalism in my third year, my willingness to work until dawn on any features that I had to do or needed to be done.
In an ideal world I would become a columnist, but I need to find some strong opinion that doesn't relate solely to men. I wonder if there are courses on how to become mean and opinionated?
But that is all by-the-by and for the time being the column of Captain P**s Off (my newly appointed nickname from the uni girls after my flamboyant rage about the world of retail) is on pause. Its on pause until an employer takes me from a retail scream into a feature writers dream- check out the degree-level rhyming there!
Saturday 13 August 2011
Motorway madness: re-writing the rules.
So its Saturday morning and I'm (yet again!) sitting in Starbucks having my morning dose of caffeine and willingly doubling the size of my hips.
My morning mocha does two things for me, firstly it keeps me from saving up too much money and secondly it makes up for spending the last 30 minutes on the M25 surrounded by madmen.
Now, this could be the part where I rant about female drivers- yes, I'm fully aware of the irony- or I could use this time to introduce my novel idea for a book.
I trust you've heard of the Highway Code and if you haven't then you should be shot. The Highway Code is a list of do's and don't's for road users, allowing all drivers to drive in a safe, albeit a tad slow, manner.
This is great, but is there a published book that tells people how to drive on a motorway?
As a result of my daily motorway journeys I have made a few observations and I believe these could seriously enhance the motorway experience for drivers and passengers alike.
Firstly, have you ever noticed that if you drive at 80 MPH in the middle lane (second lane if you're on M25) then the people in the left-hand lane drive faster to 'keep up'. This is a simple fact and one I believe we can use to our advantage. Not only does this eliminate slow drivers, but it also decreases accidents due to poor (slow) drivers as well.
The people that fall into the above category are the ones who drive at 50MPH in the slow lane, whilst listening to pre-recorded stories (read by themselves) in their car tape player and most likely driving a Volvo of some kind or another. This is of course excluding old people and wimps- lets face it neither should really be on the road.
My next motorway observation is the erratic driving and behaviour of the so called "Boy-racers."
Now, for this example I should point out that I currently drive a 2000 Reg, black Golf. It is not the most powerful vehicle on the road, but it does make a fantastic sound and bizarrely has the ability turn heads. Sadly the head turning isn't due to men looking at my car and thinking "Wow, what a set of wheels!" It tends to be a glance in my direction, a wink and a engine rev.
This is where I get a tad confused. Am I meant to participate in this testosterone race (you're in a 1.2 Saxo and you're not going to win) or just act my age and watch them accelerate into a lamppost. Believe me the latter is far more fun.
My initial thought was to discontinue the production of all Citren cars and ban all Saxo models from the road. But just as I congratulated myself on this genius plan a pimped-out Punto rattled past me at 95 MPH. Not impressed.
However, the world is not at an end and there is hope in the active culling of all body-kitted cars in Britain. It tends to come on those motorway-rammed rainy days, when the weather is so miserable you're left questioning your dedication to your job and when the radio stations are all playing the ultimate collection of suicidal anthems. There in the distance, pulled over in the lay-by, smoking away is a little hatchback. Through the blustering rain you can just make out a 17 year-old boy kicking his £5000 Alloy wheels (that's at least 5x more than the car is worth), swearing to the high heavens and wishing he'd bought a proper car.
If you are still not satisfied at the Boy-Racers comeuppance feel free to drive past them slowly, smirking away, windows down and singing through the rain "Things can only get better" by D:Ream. You may be surprised at how good it feels!
Alongside the children in their overpriced-pimp-machines a third motorway observation is the timid mid-life crisis men.
I'm not talking about the men in the DB9s, 911s or the SLRs here, I'm talking about the men who have the engine power but are too afraid to use it. Some cars are built to be practical and some are built to look, sound and drive like a dream. So why have a beautiful automobile if you're going to drive it like a child on its first day at school?
There is also a very simple solution to this one too, give me the car keys so I can race every boy-racer until their car self-destructs and voila, two birds with one stone.
So there you have the synopsis for my book: "How to drive on the motorway." Not exactly a work of art, but definitely something to mull over with a mocha in hand and a full days work ahead.
My morning mocha does two things for me, firstly it keeps me from saving up too much money and secondly it makes up for spending the last 30 minutes on the M25 surrounded by madmen.
Now, this could be the part where I rant about female drivers- yes, I'm fully aware of the irony- or I could use this time to introduce my novel idea for a book.
I trust you've heard of the Highway Code and if you haven't then you should be shot. The Highway Code is a list of do's and don't's for road users, allowing all drivers to drive in a safe, albeit a tad slow, manner.
This is great, but is there a published book that tells people how to drive on a motorway?
As a result of my daily motorway journeys I have made a few observations and I believe these could seriously enhance the motorway experience for drivers and passengers alike.
Firstly, have you ever noticed that if you drive at 80 MPH in the middle lane (second lane if you're on M25) then the people in the left-hand lane drive faster to 'keep up'. This is a simple fact and one I believe we can use to our advantage. Not only does this eliminate slow drivers, but it also decreases accidents due to poor (slow) drivers as well.
The people that fall into the above category are the ones who drive at 50MPH in the slow lane, whilst listening to pre-recorded stories (read by themselves) in their car tape player and most likely driving a Volvo of some kind or another. This is of course excluding old people and wimps- lets face it neither should really be on the road.
My next motorway observation is the erratic driving and behaviour of the so called "Boy-racers."
Now, for this example I should point out that I currently drive a 2000 Reg, black Golf. It is not the most powerful vehicle on the road, but it does make a fantastic sound and bizarrely has the ability turn heads. Sadly the head turning isn't due to men looking at my car and thinking "Wow, what a set of wheels!" It tends to be a glance in my direction, a wink and a engine rev.
This is where I get a tad confused. Am I meant to participate in this testosterone race (you're in a 1.2 Saxo and you're not going to win) or just act my age and watch them accelerate into a lamppost. Believe me the latter is far more fun.
My initial thought was to discontinue the production of all Citren cars and ban all Saxo models from the road. But just as I congratulated myself on this genius plan a pimped-out Punto rattled past me at 95 MPH. Not impressed.
However, the world is not at an end and there is hope in the active culling of all body-kitted cars in Britain. It tends to come on those motorway-rammed rainy days, when the weather is so miserable you're left questioning your dedication to your job and when the radio stations are all playing the ultimate collection of suicidal anthems. There in the distance, pulled over in the lay-by, smoking away is a little hatchback. Through the blustering rain you can just make out a 17 year-old boy kicking his £5000 Alloy wheels (that's at least 5x more than the car is worth), swearing to the high heavens and wishing he'd bought a proper car.
If you are still not satisfied at the Boy-Racers comeuppance feel free to drive past them slowly, smirking away, windows down and singing through the rain "Things can only get better" by D:Ream. You may be surprised at how good it feels!
Alongside the children in their overpriced-pimp-machines a third motorway observation is the timid mid-life crisis men.
I'm not talking about the men in the DB9s, 911s or the SLRs here, I'm talking about the men who have the engine power but are too afraid to use it. Some cars are built to be practical and some are built to look, sound and drive like a dream. So why have a beautiful automobile if you're going to drive it like a child on its first day at school?
There is also a very simple solution to this one too, give me the car keys so I can race every boy-racer until their car self-destructs and voila, two birds with one stone.
So there you have the synopsis for my book: "How to drive on the motorway." Not exactly a work of art, but definitely something to mull over with a mocha in hand and a full days work ahead.
Sunday 7 August 2011
Cheetah or Man?
It comes as no surprise that since leaving the university world some of my beliefs and attitudes have taken a new turn.
One such thing is my attitude to men in relationships.
This may sound callous but if a guy at university had a girlfriend, who wasn't at Chester University, then that meant you had the green light with him so to speak. There was nothing wrong with a few kisses and cuddles, everyone was young and there was no consequences.
However, now if I was approached by a guy and discovered he had a girlfriend he would be politely shown the door. Maybe this is the romantic inside and my determination not to share my non-existent sex god, or maybe I'm just normal after all?
This all sounds lovely, but there is only one flaw to this picturesque happiness: the good looking, smooth talking, instrument playing (9/10 he will play a guitar!) compulsive-cheating male.
They are out there, there's one in every Village and I can guarantee you will know at least one. These animals tend to be found eyeing up girls (and their mothers), wooing left right and centre, and charming the world with only a smile and a wink of the eye.
If you didn't think Prince Charming existed think again. He may not be straddling a six-foot stallion, but one touch of his bulging biceps and he will be straddling something else!
These are without a doubt the WORST type of men and there is absolutely nothing you can do about them.
I think it is men like this that are wiping out romance, they may not realise they are doing it- who are we trying to kid. With a First class degree in female-ology they know exactly what they're doing... but I truly believe romance is dying because of men like this.
What happened to roses, holding hands, love letters, kisses in the moonlight and that beautiful three worded sentence?
If you are after the meal deal instead of the real deal then join the queue and don't look back. But if your philosophy circulates around love being patient then I don't believe you shouldn't have to compromise your own happiness and your heart.
So grab a brown paper bag to catch your love sick: The time of the non-cheating male has begun!
One such thing is my attitude to men in relationships.
This may sound callous but if a guy at university had a girlfriend, who wasn't at Chester University, then that meant you had the green light with him so to speak. There was nothing wrong with a few kisses and cuddles, everyone was young and there was no consequences.
However, now if I was approached by a guy and discovered he had a girlfriend he would be politely shown the door. Maybe this is the romantic inside and my determination not to share my non-existent sex god, or maybe I'm just normal after all?
This all sounds lovely, but there is only one flaw to this picturesque happiness: the good looking, smooth talking, instrument playing (9/10 he will play a guitar!) compulsive-cheating male.
They are out there, there's one in every Village and I can guarantee you will know at least one. These animals tend to be found eyeing up girls (and their mothers), wooing left right and centre, and charming the world with only a smile and a wink of the eye.
If you didn't think Prince Charming existed think again. He may not be straddling a six-foot stallion, but one touch of his bulging biceps and he will be straddling something else!
These are without a doubt the WORST type of men and there is absolutely nothing you can do about them.
I think it is men like this that are wiping out romance, they may not realise they are doing it- who are we trying to kid. With a First class degree in female-ology they know exactly what they're doing... but I truly believe romance is dying because of men like this.
What happened to roses, holding hands, love letters, kisses in the moonlight and that beautiful three worded sentence?
If you are after the meal deal instead of the real deal then join the queue and don't look back. But if your philosophy circulates around love being patient then I don't believe you shouldn't have to compromise your own happiness and your heart.
So grab a brown paper bag to catch your love sick: The time of the non-cheating male has begun!
Saturday 6 August 2011
Shoe-looms
I'm not one for splashing cash and I've been brought up on the proverb "don't spend more than you can afford." But sometimes you do get hungry and your eyes do get bigger than your stomach.
Today Mum and I went to London. We spent the morning plodding around the National Portrait Gallery, peaking at black and white photographs of Movie stars from years gone by. Then in the afternoon we hit the shops!
In three weeks time 15 of us are heading to France to take on their waterways and to test our navigational skills- I'm not responsible for the map reading so we should be ok.
On the shopping list today was the usual holiday attire, shorts, flip-flops and a french guidebook full of useful phrases (thankfully my French does not require a phrase book, unlike my brothers! He learnt German at school instead of French.)
It was while we were walking down Savile Row that I felt a twinge in my bank account. You see I've been planning to treat myself to a certain pair of heels for a certain event that is due to take place in November.
This is admittedly not the wisest of things to do and if I was to tell you that it will take till November to pay for them you will see my predicament.
I made the decision on the shoes a few months back, and as my rent is not too expensive and I have no other bills to pay/ children to feed and dress I decided now was the only time I could really afford to be so extravagant.
Ordinarily I would have laughed and thought "Keep wishing Miss Coussens" but for some reason these shoes seem to scream at me "You messed up, but you know what? You came back fighting and you did it!"
I know that every time I look at these shoes it will be a reminder that no matter what the hurdle is you can always jump it and land upright on the other side.
They will probably only be worn about three times in my life (November being the first occasion) but they will be left in my will to my daughter and become the first of many heirlooms I hope to pass on down and add to the existing collection.
They say that money makes people mad. I'm glad I am poor.
Today Mum and I went to London. We spent the morning plodding around the National Portrait Gallery, peaking at black and white photographs of Movie stars from years gone by. Then in the afternoon we hit the shops!
In three weeks time 15 of us are heading to France to take on their waterways and to test our navigational skills- I'm not responsible for the map reading so we should be ok.
On the shopping list today was the usual holiday attire, shorts, flip-flops and a french guidebook full of useful phrases (thankfully my French does not require a phrase book, unlike my brothers! He learnt German at school instead of French.)
It was while we were walking down Savile Row that I felt a twinge in my bank account. You see I've been planning to treat myself to a certain pair of heels for a certain event that is due to take place in November.
This is admittedly not the wisest of things to do and if I was to tell you that it will take till November to pay for them you will see my predicament.
I made the decision on the shoes a few months back, and as my rent is not too expensive and I have no other bills to pay/ children to feed and dress I decided now was the only time I could really afford to be so extravagant.
Ordinarily I would have laughed and thought "Keep wishing Miss Coussens" but for some reason these shoes seem to scream at me "You messed up, but you know what? You came back fighting and you did it!"
I know that every time I look at these shoes it will be a reminder that no matter what the hurdle is you can always jump it and land upright on the other side.
They will probably only be worn about three times in my life (November being the first occasion) but they will be left in my will to my daughter and become the first of many heirlooms I hope to pass on down and add to the existing collection.
They say that money makes people mad. I'm glad I am poor.
Thursday 4 August 2011
To Morocco and beyond.
Apologies first. My lack of blogging has been appalling and as I am not really one for excuses you will have to settle for "I'm sorry."
Secondly after a very spontaneous trip to Gloucester last weekend it would appear that the Uni girls and myself are suffering from our first real batch of separation anxiety. As a result when the word "Morocco" followed by the words "One week all inclusive" was uttered you can imagine the excitement.
We know from past experiences that we can all live together so that won't be an issue, and we all get along like family so that won't be a problem either. The only exception to this theory is when I'm having a huffy moment or Becky is having to battle her Mac and Blazin' Squad- both instances cause great amusement and there would be much rejoicing.
Anyway, this is my breakdown of events when we land in Morocco: Claire spooning the toilet within 20 minutes of arriving at the hotel, after accepting a few too many welcome drinks. Amy on the balcony gazing out over Morocco and most likely humming and trying to be very very mature. Becky jumping on the bed and laughing to herself. And myself hyperventilating until I find my phone charger.
In reality we will probably lose our suitcases and Claire, get food poisoning on the first night and then get sold off for marriage. Note how I didn't write: "and then WE get sold off for marriage." Yup you've guessed it the victimisation is back!
The Sex and the City girls may have done it with camels, but we will be taking Morocco by force. (Unless we find a better deal for Butlins at Bogner first!)
Secondly after a very spontaneous trip to Gloucester last weekend it would appear that the Uni girls and myself are suffering from our first real batch of separation anxiety. As a result when the word "Morocco" followed by the words "One week all inclusive" was uttered you can imagine the excitement.
We know from past experiences that we can all live together so that won't be an issue, and we all get along like family so that won't be a problem either. The only exception to this theory is when I'm having a huffy moment or Becky is having to battle her Mac and Blazin' Squad- both instances cause great amusement and there would be much rejoicing.
Anyway, this is my breakdown of events when we land in Morocco: Claire spooning the toilet within 20 minutes of arriving at the hotel, after accepting a few too many welcome drinks. Amy on the balcony gazing out over Morocco and most likely humming and trying to be very very mature. Becky jumping on the bed and laughing to herself. And myself hyperventilating until I find my phone charger.
In reality we will probably lose our suitcases and Claire, get food poisoning on the first night and then get sold off for marriage. Note how I didn't write: "and then WE get sold off for marriage." Yup you've guessed it the victimisation is back!
The Sex and the City girls may have done it with camels, but we will be taking Morocco by force. (Unless we find a better deal for Butlins at Bogner first!)
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