Life, Love, and Rum: A blog of random musings & true stories.

Cougars go wild in Somerset: Part 2

It was just like the scene from American Werewolf in London: As we walked into the village pub all eyes turned to track the strangers as they made their way to the bar. I heard Andrea mutter, “ohh gawd,” between tightly pursed lips, but there was no going back now. We all lined up at the bar, gregarious smiles fixed on our faces trying to hide our discomfort as the landlady approached and asked what we’d like in her broad Zumerzet accent. I opened my mouth and I felt Andrea sharply jab me in the hip and telepathically hiss: ‘Do not mention her accent, for gods’ sake don’t mention her accent.’ I love accents and have a Tourettes-esque tendency of blurting out, ‘I love your accent!’ to any

Cougars go wild in Somerset: Part 1

“You should have turned right back there! I said, right! That’s what I said! Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?! I know these roads and Kim doesn’t! Why does everyone always listen to her and not me?! Now we’re on our way to Glastonbury and we’ll hit traffic soon!” I pouted, rolled my eyes, sighed theatrically and slumped back down in the seat glaring up at the rear-view mirror, knowing full-well Andrea would see my sullen gaze as she looked back to see if Kim was still alive. It was May, and ‘the cougars’ had taken off for a weekend in deepest, darkest Somerset. Well, to be fair, the forecast was sunshine and there was a Waitrose half an hour from the rural cottage we had booked, b

To pee or not to pee...

One day last summer, whilst I was surreptitiously tipping my empty rum and raspberry cider bottles into the recycling box, Malcolm, my neighbour, suddenly appeared by my side. “Mornin’, Purbeck, been celebrating, ‘ave we?” Malcolm originated from South London and still had a soft cockney drawl even after 5 years in semi-rural Dorset where he had settled in search of a more laid back and quiet lifestyle, with, in Malcolm’s own words; ‘less nutters about.’ Like myself, Malcolm loved the privacy and seclusion our houses offered, being located right beside the forest with high rhododendron and laurel shrubbery surrounding our properties, shielding us from the occasional mountain biker…and each

1982: The year of sparkly legwarmers and shiny leotards.

It was 1982. Coco, LeRoy, Doris - and the one who played the cello whose name no one remembers - had us all glued to the TV in eager anticipation of this week’s exploits at the New York School of Performing Arts. As the anthemic sounds of Irene Cara blasted out, photo frames bounced about on top of TV’s not yet equipped for the high-energy synthesizers reverberating with every song, and young girls around the country watched in excited awe, wishing they could go to a school like The Kids from Fame! I was 10 years old and thanks to Coco and Co, I had decided it was my calling to be a professional dancer, spending every waking moment practising my routines in my bedroom whilst playing the ‘F

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