Just a real quick post to let you guys know I've moved over to a new blog.
You can find my new blog here.
See you guys there.
Amy.
You can find my new blog here.
See you guys there.
Amy.
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Just a real quick post to let you guys know I've moved over to a new blog.
You can find my new blog here. See you guys there. Amy.
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Dear Mr Anonymous,
I say Mr, but this could well be a Miss or Mrs. Or a Ms, if you want to be politically correct. Anyhow, I shall refer to you as Mr anonymous as I'm in a presumptuous mood, so forgive me if you are of the female kind. Thank you for taking some time to read my blog. Although, I wish you had read it a little more closely before commenting. Only because I did indeed mention the part where I 'messed with someone else's feelings'. In case you missed it, I direct you to paragraph four, line two, in which I type; 'I also decided to move on...'. This continues on to a brief explanation of what happened. I guess I could have gone in to greater detail, but I thought I'd keep those personal details, personal. Nevertheless, it seems you (whoever you may be) think I should post a blog that revolves around just that. So here is that post. What can I say? I like to please my readers! I did try to let this 'someone' down gently. This plan clearly backfired. Initially, I tried to distance myself. Not to get an easy way out, but because I genuinely needed time alone to think about what was in my best interests. I tried to explain this to my 'someone'. I also tried to arrange a coffee meetup, you know, to discuss matters. Yet, 'someone' didn't seem to like these ideas. 'Someone' wanted to be there, know where I was, who I was with and what I was doing, constantly. 'Someone' wouldn't take no for an answer. After 4 weeks of 'dating' some girls might be flattered, but for me it's more alarming. It might have been okay though if 'someone' didn't then ring up my best friend pretending they didn't know how I was because they 'hadn't seen or spoken to me for over a week'. (I spoke to that 'someone' the very same day). Maybe if 'someone' had been a little less intense and a not so pushy, I wouldn't have had to ignore all of your calls and messages. Maybe if 'someone' hadn't have rang up my work to find out if I was there or not, I wouldn't have been so cold. Maybe, just maybe, if 'someone' and I could have both been adult about the situation, I would have been able to give that 'someone' the explanation that they would have justly deserved. But, life doesn't always work this way. People aren't predictable and people like to do things differently. Most importantly, people make mistakes. So I'll straight up admit, I made some mistakes. I sort of wish I'd just told 'someone', look you need to piss off and leave me alone so I can sort my frikkin head out! But, the problem with me is that I try to not hurt people too much and more often than not I go about this in the wrong way. Therefore, I sincerely apologize to 'someone' for any hurt I may have caused and thank them for all the good they did in the four weeks that I knew them. So, dear Mr Anonymous, I hope you find the content of this post sufficient. If not, I am sure you will let me know. Yours Faithfully, Miss Not Anonymous. PS - You wasn't really anonymous.... (IP address 90.194.211.19, using Sky broadband at co-ordinates 51.49 latitude -0.1513 longitude, aka somewhere between Ranelagh grove and St Barnabas Street) but don't worry I won't tell anyone. So it's been a while. Six weeks and five days to be precise. How have I been those past six weeks? Well, it's difficult to say. I think in the last few months I have experienced a variety of emotions I have never felt before in my life. Emotions that escalated over the past six to seven weeks. It's difficult to try and be funny when you feel like everything around you is falling apart. People kept telling me to write but I couldn't pretend everything was hunky dory. So, unfortunately, my blogging came to a standstill. Not great after just three blog posts! I'll warn you now, this isn't a sarcastic, humorous post. It's a serious post, but I promise humour will be following. I'll begin explaining my silence by telling you all why I started this blog. It was a distraction. A distraction from a situation that I wanted to ignore and forget. Sunny and I were going through an extremely stressful time in our relationship. Suddenly our relationship had become a million times more serious then it was ever supposed to be. So I took up blogging. It was my escape from reality. However, all the fun seemed to disappear as the situation we were facing became more serious. Sunny and I gradually stopped talking, instead allowing other people in to our relationship. We went from the fun-loving, happy couple to the shouting, screaming, kicking, biting couple. Okay, the kicking and biting is an exaggeration, but I'll admit I have a temper and things were smashed... multiple times. I was hurting. Sunny was hurting. Miscommunication and misunderstandings meant we were constantly angry at one another. We didn't deal with things the way we should have done and eventually decided to go our separate ways. The day Sunny told me enough was enough was one of the most painful moments of my life so far. Despite everything that was happening to us as a couple, I still loved this man with all my heart and believed that he loved me too. That and the fact I had never, ever been dumped. EVER! My pride was dented and my heart broken. We carried on living together for a while which just added to the heart ache. We were sharing the same bed still but the distance between us grew each day. I will never be able to describe to you the hurt that I was going through at that time. If any of you Weeblers have been unfortunate enough to have experienced heartbreak, you can probably relate. Prior to this, I thought that the extreme effects of a breakup was something you found only in books or movies. But heartbreak is very real and it is very painful. Every inch of my body hurt, more than ever before. My muscles ached, my heart felt heavy and my head pounded day in, day out. It hurt to move and it was difficult to breathe. Now I finally understand what love is. I thought I understood it before but I was completely wrong. So, I moved in with my best friend and 'brother' Sean. I will forever be in Sean's debt. Since I left home at seventeen years old, he has constantly been my rock. The best friend and adoptive brother I could ever ask for. I also decided to move on. Not in to a relationship. I just selfishly wanted someone to spoil me and distract me from all the pain. Some will say it wasn't selfish at all but I will always feel guilty for leading someone along only to hurt them. Maybe I'm being a bit too big-headed. Maybe he didn't really care when I stopped replying to his messages or answering his calls. All 124 of them... I joke, he wasn't that keen. A few weeks passed and I found myself in a lot of pain in my lower right abdomen. Something didn't feel right and I knew it was serious. For two years I had been complaining to doctors and nurses about this pain. Which used to come and go. Now, though, it was a constant pain. So Sean and I made a trip to the emergency doctors at Basildon Hospital during the early hours of Wednesday 18th June. I was turned away by the out of hours doctor who touched my tummy but offered no pain relief, tests or scans. I was told that I was wasting their time. I went home. Crying and frustrated. The next day the pain was worse so I returned to the hospital. This time to be given a blood and urine test then turned away yet again because I wasn't pregnant. However I was offered a scan for the following week. This would have been fine if I wasn't in constant pain and didn't have a job to go to. On the Thursday the pain was even worse, so I booked an appointment with a private clinic for a scan. I went alone, straight from work. I thought I had this sussed out. I was sure that this had nothing to do with the coincidental pain I'd been having the past two years but was an ectopic pregnancy. Sitting in the deadly quiet waiting room I braced myself for the nurses at the clinic to confirm this. But they didn't. They told me I definitely wasn't pregnant and just as the nurse began to remove the internal scanner I heard her whisper 'Oh'. Laying on that table with an internal scanner inside of my vagina wasn't exactly pleasant. It wasn't big, at all, but it was still pretty uncomfortable. She was whispering to the other nurse when I lost my temper. For three days I had been messed about by healthcare staff and I had lost a bit of patience. 'Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?' I yelled impatiently. After what felt like a good ten minutes of waiting, she eventually told me she'd found a large cyst on the right side of my womb. I don't know if any of you Weeblers have been told you have a cyst inside you, but for some reason when you hear the word cyst you automatically think the worst. The big C. Cancer. Leaving that clinic, crying and crying some more, I rang my Mum. Once she saw the picture of my scan she rushed me off to Hospital immediately. I waited there for hours. Eventually, when I started to bleed, they offered me a bed. It was midnight by this point. I was tired, in pain and fed up. Yet again, the doctor in charge of the ward tried to send me home before I crawled into my hospital bed, crashing out into a sleep coma. Everyday the pain worsened but still, the doctors tried to send me home. They did another scan but still didn't know exactly where my cyst was, well, not until I told them off for trying to send me home. Then they assured me it was definitely on my ovary, so therefore it was 'safe'. The doctors and surgeons kept telling me to go home, telling me what it couldn't be causing me much pain as it hadn't ruptured yet. Now I'm no doctor, and I'm not a genius, but to me, the cyst rupturing wasn't something I particularly wanted and I most definitely was in pain. A lot of it. I can't complain about the Morphine though. That stuff was amazing! Not only did it taste nice, but the high was awesome. Ahem. Don't do drugs kids! Eventually, after five days in Hospital and arguing with several medical professionals, I went in for surgery. A Laproscopic Cystectomy. I was petrified. I had never had surgery in my life. It was meant to be a twenty minute procedure but ended up taking an hour and a half. Apparently the cyst turned out to be inside my ovary, not on it as they kept telling me before. It ruptured as they began the surgery and was a mess to clear up. My ovary had ballooned into a big round mass larger than my womb itself. It was removed and sent to the Mortuary where it will be examined and tested for Cancer. Six weeks for results! SIX WEEKS! When they showed me the pictures from surgery I cried out of relief. Two years of battling with GP's, nurses and hospital staff about this pain in my right side and now, finally, it was all over. Plus I woke up from the anaesthetic. (I was convinced I'd die from that, not the surgery). Recovery felt like forever. I ached all over and struggled to walk for a week. Three weeks on and I'm still in pain. My stitches are above my bikini line which, shallowly, I am upset about. Most importantly though, the pain in my right side is gone! So I can't complain about too much. Oops, I nearly forgot. I came out with a urine infection which was presumably caused by the catheter I had inserted during surgery. Due to the Hospital putting me on the wrong antibiotics, this urine infection then developed into a kidney infection. Basildon Hospital were mostly crap. In fact, the NHS are mostly crap. Mostly, but not entirely. Sunny visited me in Hospital. He contacted me everyday to make sure I was okay. We rekindled a friendship which soon blossomed back in to the relationship it was before. I am the happiest girl in the world and although I never thought I'd say it, I'm so happy to be back in that smelly, noisy, building site of a house share. (But seriously, Sunny please can we move?)
So that ends it, that is a round up of my past six weeks and five days. If you got to the end of this blog post than I applaud you. You are either very patient, or extremely bored. Nevertheless, thank you for reading. I promise my sarcastic self will be back in the next couple of days. Much Love. X. In case you've been missing me, which I hope you have but very much doubt, I have been busy preparing for, attending and recovering from a wedding a couple friends and I traveled to last weekend. It was our friend, Mark's, wedding and was set in a beautiful barn in a small town up North called Congleton. At the end of this post you will see a link to the Best Man's speech. You need to watch this! (Skip to 13 minutes for the best part.) For all you Weebly fashionista's, here is a list of my outfit of choice. I opted for something I would never usually go for, but I think the wacky half-head of hair helped me pull it off. I think. Lipsy cream sheer floral lace top - £38.00 Lipsy pink pu pencil skirt - £35.00 Lipsy nude peep toes - £55.00 (I found out these are actually Kurt Geiger! Designed for Lipsy!) Forever21 cream crossback bandeau - £4.75 Forever21 cream day trippin' crossbody bag - £16.90 *Pearl accessories from Forever21* I've already introduced you to the old man who lived upstairs. He was Indian and spoke very little English, which meant we never found out his real name. We all simply referred to him as 'the old man'. Despite speaking limited English, he would always say hello and goodbye if you happened to cross paths. Overall, he was a very polite and friendly man and, without fail, would have a great big smile on his face every time you saw him. Apparently, he owned a restaurant in central London, I'm presuming it was an Indian restaurant as he would always bring home curries for us to eat. Working in a Restaurant meant he worked till late but you always knew when the old man was home as he'd stumble through the front door, bottles of beer and whisky clinking in his bag. Despite being drunk the majority of times I saw him, he was still a quiet man. He'd stumble upstairs to his room and go straight to bed. One day, however, the old man didn't come home. It won't be a surprise to you that our front door is broken. I know what you're thinking, 'But Amy, you have a builder living in the house?'. Our front door only shuts when slammed, the louder the better. Living in the room next to the front door is not fun. Especially when everyone in the house share works strange hours. It was a Thursday evening. Well, technically it was one o'clock Friday morning, around the time the old man usually comes home from the Restaurant. Sunny and I were settling down for the evening, as was everyone else in the house. Then there was a knock on the door. Having been raised a Jehovah's Witness, I like to think that I have become something of a door-knocking expert. My knocking-senses told me that this was one of those important knocks. Therefore, I rushed out of my bed frantically trying to find my clothes. My knocking senses are clearly a little rusty, as Abbie managed to get to the door first. Pulling the tie on my dressing gown, I come out of our room and was shocked to see two Metropolitan Police Officers in our hallway. Now these weren't just any Police Officers, they were the most attractive Police Officers I have ever seen. Both tall, dark and handsome (and clearly ripped under their uniforms), I presumed this was a stripogram prank. Maybe 'presumed' is the wrong word to use, I hoped this was a stripogram prank. Unfortunately, after briefly daydreaming about stripping Police Officers, it became apparent they were here for a completely different reason. They were real Police Officers. Due to the builders 'reputation', I thought they were here for him, or maybe it was our dodgy tax-evading Landlord. Somehow, I was wrong. They had arrested the old man and had a search warrant for his room! We were all shocked. The quiet old man, arrested? Must be drink-driving, we all presumed. The Police Officers wouldn't reveal too much, but whilst being questioned it was clear that something much more serious had been going on. From what we could gather it was drugs related and the old man had given six previous addresses to ours. I'm not going to lie, watching the other Police Officers come in to the house and carry bags of the old man's things was a treat to watch. What can I say, I do love a good pair of biceps. The old man never returned. According to the builder, he is being charged with dealing Class A drugs but we all know that you can't believe a word he says. We will never know exactly what happened to him but what I do know, is that the Metropolitan police are a very fine species of male. Till next time, Amy. What a beautiful day! Just like yesterday, I'm writing this post from the comfort of my local pub. I told you we were regulars here. I'm too pale for sunlight, so I'm sitting inside the pub eating chips and drinking beer. My idea of heaven. I ended my first post about the Builder who lives in the attic. I have writer's block as there is so much to squeeze into this little post and I am determined not to bore you! Ironically the Builder cannot actually build. Okay, maybe that is a slight exaggeration. He can do the basics, as in the mediocre D.I.Y my seventeen year old brother is capable of. However, he has taken on all the construction work our landlord requires. This means building one bathroom, one bedroom downstairs, a staircase and a loft conversion into two bedrooms. As well as the building work, he has also taken on the plumbing, electrics and decorating for the entire house. The saying 'cowboy builder' is definitely an understatement. Nothing in this house ever gets finished properly. Our toilet isn't fixed, meaning when I am trying to take a number two the toilet moves back and forth. There are holes in the walls. Wires protrude from ever corner of the house. (I'm hoping they're not live). The plumbing for the upstairs toilet comes out from the ceiling and faces our bedroom door. This is worrying, as we have new tenants and I'm concerned that they're not aware that this toilet isn't usable yet. (They don't speak English). Our electrics frequently cut out. This is very inconvenient when you are in the middle of watching EastEnders or trying to cook dinner. The electrics are somehow set to a higher voltage, which means fuses blow on a regular basis. So far we have gone through four heaters, two kettles, two showers, one toaster and my childhood fairy lights. Despite the fact the builder is clearly incapable of such work, he is frequently taking on new work elsewhere. This work usually lasts a week or so until he is finally sacked. I think our landlord is either too scared or too tight to get a real builder in to do the construction work. The Landlord doesn't even pay the builder - instead he is exempt from paying rent. Which brings me on to my next point. The Builder was quite well off for a while. He claims a heap of benefits whilst dossing around The House Share, rent free, taking months to do a week long job. The term 'well off' means he had the funds to buy a convertible BMW and order hookers to the house every week. Our house turned into a temporary brothel, where pimps took guard on our doorstep. Now, I have nothing against these women as people. Sure, I disagree with prostitution itself, but I don't judge the men and women in the sex industry. After all, sex and money is what makes this wicked world go round. However, the kind of women that used to visit our house were most definitely crack addicts. There was one prostitute in particular that captured the heart of the Builder. Seriously, the builder tried to date this prostitute. This is so painfully cringe-worthy, it hurts to type it. I guess her unique name, Cinnamon, must have stuck out from the rest. Cinnamon and the Builder began their 'relationship' with a business transaction. We can't judge, many couples meet each other at work too. Apparently, during this transaction Cinnamon gave the Builder her personal mobile number. They exchanged some messages and eventually she came over free of charge. No pimp included. They exchanged some more messages and on the eve of St Patrick's day (the builder is Irish by the way) he set off on an hour long car journey to fetch his Princess from the magical kingdom that is East London. Surprisingly, when he arrived at the address she gave him, she was no where to be seen and her phone number suddenly blocked. The Builder never hired prostitutes again. I can't say that I wasn't relieved. The Builder likes to constantly show off his glamourous and criminal past. Here are a list of my favourite stories:
1) Apparently the builder owned several nightclubs in Romford. This was where he met his ex girlfriend, the mother of his five children, who was also a crack addict. 2) He was arrested and charged for dealing firearms which closely links to my number three. 3) The Builder used to be hired as a hit-man. He says he can't remember how many men he's killed. 4) He also claims he was a drug dealer, earning £30,000 a week. Not a year, not a month, but a week. After living with the Builder for four and a half months, I have concluded that in reality he is a very sad, sensitive man who hides behind a false persona of a bad-ass criminal. I still don't understand why he feels the need to constantly prove himself as the big man to us tenants, but at least it gives us some entertaining stories to tell. Until next time, Amy x I write this first blog post from the comfort of my local pub, The Royal. Most of us tenants are regulars here. It would be rude not to be seeing as we live directly opposite. Although I have started writing this blog in mid-May, I must start my stories from the day that I moved in to The House Share. You have missed far too many humorous tales for me to just gloss over the past four and a half months. Conveniently, I moved in on the first of January this year. I had been living in the lovely one-bed flat I shared with my ex and my beloved cat, Thor. Yes, I really did name him Thor, I am a die-hard Marvel and DC fan! I'm deadly serious when I say my future son, if I have one that is, will be named either Kal-El or Loki. If you don't know who these wonderful men are then we cannot be friends. Back to the point, I left my flat, my ex and my cat to rent an en-suite bedroom in Purfleet. The House Share is more like a building site than an actual house. The first time I set foot in The House Share I was a little too tipsy to notice the line up of tool boxes and slabs of wood across the hall way. Neither was I aware of the wires that poked out of the walls, let alone the lack of carpet on the stairs or the build up of sawdust on the floor. What I did notice though, was the sound of drilling the following morning. Hangovers and drilling do not mix. At the time of moving in there was six tenants. Sunny and I rented the first room downstairs. Next to us was Jay. A twenty-something chef. Jay gets the shakes when he drinks too much coffee and is probably the most clumsy human being I have ever come across. Upstairs lived The Old Man in the back room and Mo in the front room. We never found out The Old Man's name as he didn't speak much English. He would leave the house at lunchtime and return a little before midnight. Usually drunk. You'd know he was home as you'd hear the bottles of beer clinking in his carrier bag in the hallway. Apparently, he owned a restaurant in London somewhere. Mo also speaks little English. He cleans cars for a living and is one of the most polite and sweet people I know. Mo is always in the kitchen cooking chapatis and super-spicy lentil dahl and will always insist that he should cook for you too. Finally, in the attic lives Dave, the builder. Don't get me started on Dave. Well, actually, Dave is a good place to start.
Amy x |