Bummer

The fiance and I are planning a 3 week driving holiday around the west of America in October, but because I am been so unbelievably poverty stricken we have been putting off buying the plane tickets until we find The Best Price Possible. Until yesterday the best we could find was £420. That is not very best at all. Last night we found a flight for £260, so we jumped for joy, and then jumped to book it. Then I remembered I still hadn't booked the time off work and despite getting an unnoficial go-ahead from the bosses, 3 weeks is quite a long time and I didn't want to buy a plane ticket, no matter how reasonably priced, and then find out they'd changed their minds and I couldn't go. So we said we'd wait until tonight and I'd officially got the time off. After all, how likely was it that the flights would change in 24 hours by that much?

You can guess how this is going to end.

They've gone up to £380.

Bummer.

The shniffles

Currently, I live in a house of Snot.

The other half has a had a near-fatal case of man-flu for the past week, in that it nearly killed him not being able to play 5-a-side football, but the poor soldier managed to drag himself to the sidelines to cheer along his pub team the next day, before crawling back to bed at half-time in defeat. Defeated by The Snot and fever, that is. His team won 2-1.

I have been sleeping in the spare room all week, so as not to be kept awake by the piglet/man snorting and sniffing in my ear-hole all night, with the added bonus that the computer is in that room so I've been able to enjoy YouTubed DT snippets before bedtime (see last post re. the tragicness), and as such have been hoping to escape The Snot myself, although as a woman it would of course be nowhere near as fatal for me.

No such luck. I left work this afternoon, indeed, I got all the way until the end of Eastenders, Snot-free. But throughout the course of the evening The Snot has slowly infiltrated and got the better of me. I too am now Snotty.

The other half has been given anti-biotics today for a particularly nasty sinus infection, so I can't take the michael out of the"man-flu" too much, but this does mean our bank holiday weekend camping trip is postponed from tomorrow afternoon until at least Saturday morning for a Snot Status Review. Now, at this rate, he will have recovered and I'll be snorting and sniffing. But maybe, with me being a girl, its inferiority in the seriousness stakes will mean I just might be able to brave 2 days and nights in a tent.

Or maybe we'll stay at home all weekend with Lemsip on tap, several family-sized chocolate bars and Doctor Who boxsets series' 1-3, stoically braving The Snot. Because that's just who we are - heroes.

I called this post "The shniffles" because if I write "snot" one more time I shall start to feel a little bit sick.

Crrrush

I thought I may as well start a new blog as I mean to go on, which more than likely means "whittering on" about the trivial things in life of huge significance to me at this current moment in time.

Would this be to do with work, love, money, or any of the usual steretypical 'big issues'? Uh, no. All that's occupying my mind at the moment is my latest celebrity crush (see the right of the page).

Now, spending all my spare time (and some time that really isn't spare and should be usefully occupied pondering work issues, or conversing with my fiance, to throw a few examples out there) fantasising about a man I will more than likely never meet, never mind snog, marry and live happily ever after with, would be all well and good if I was 13 years old with braces, a tendancy to blush cripplingly when talking to boys and an A4 ring binder with "I Love David Tennant" tipp-exed all over it. But at 23 years old I am none of the above. I am tragic.

I've always been a bit of a romantic soul. I know this because my keyboard teacher, when I was 8 years old, announced to the class that I was one such creature when I didn't want to play When the Saints go Marching In or Jack the Knife but insisted on persistently practising all the A minor tunes, like Fleur de Lise and Greensleaves. I attribute my consistent string of not so much celebrity crushes as celebrity obsessions for as long as I can remember to this leaning towards all things romantic.

The first celebrity crush I can remember is Robbie Williams, back when Take That first started. My best friend Sheena and I used to have sleepovers where we would go through our Take That magazines and argue about which photos he looked best in. From those humble beginnings my crushes continued through my teenage years (Shane from Westlife, David Boreanaz from Angel and Buffy, several long-haired, hairy-chested WWE wrestlers) to Richard Armitage whilst in uni (North and South, cravats, mmmmm), Gerard Butler in anything he's ever done, but especially when he has no clothes on, and now The Who himself, DT.

Boyfriends, hell, fiances, never inspire as much infatuation as my crushes. And no, I'm not a weirdo hermit who can't interact with 2 dimensional people, but do in fact have 2 degrees, a career, a relationship, and a 3 week driving holiday across the US in October to enjoy in my fully-rounded real-life life.

So why 23 years old and still crushing on unattainable males? A mystery. Will I ever grow out of it? God, I hope not.

Mmm, David Tennant ...