Robyn’s Nest

I’ve had a bit of a festive-themed day today - two meetings at work about Christmas cards and a text from the chairman of the volleyball club asking if, as social secretary, I can start thinking about venues for the Christmas bash.

Cripes folks, it’s only July and it seems so strange to be mentioning the C word! Anyway, one of the Christmas card meetings was like something out of a comedy sketch - myself and two colleagues sat around a table with a guy from one of the design agencies we pitching to work on the company Christmas card - I won’t bore you with the exact details of the project.

Anyway, this guy arrived a tad flustered as he’d got a bit lost, taken a phone call in the car, and just lost his focus. On dropping his stuff on the floor and knocking the conference phone on so we nearly jumped out of our seats, he exclaimed: “It’s going to be one of those days isn’t it?” It certainly was.

It wasn’t that the Christmas card ideas were bad, far from it, but this guy was clearly flustered and desperately trying to stay cool. And failing. He whipped out a mock-up of a card from his briefcase and…. wait for it… in doing so managed to whack me across the face with it, my nose mainly.

Me and my colleagues (me gripping my nose) just burst into fits of laughter and this guy melted in a pool of embarrassment. I really felt for him. He apologised a thousand times and we made a few jokes about Christmas cards being used as weapons.

It was just so funny, I can’t tell you. It’s probably a sign that we we talking about Christmas far too early in the year. I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the meeting and this guy will forever be know as the chap who whacked his Christmas card idea around my face. It’s one way to make an impact I guess.

I went to a beach volleyball tournament in Bridlington at the weekend - my first taste of volleyball with the sand between my toes.

Now, I knew the weather forecast was for rain, rain and more rain, but as it was a scorching day on Friday when we began our journey up north, I just refused to believe the weather could be that bad. Mistake. My bag-load of vest tops and suncream proved as much use as a chocolate fireguard; what I actually needed was waterproof clothing, thermal underwear and goggles.

Anyway, it was still an absolutely wicked weekend and much fun was had by all. It’s not the weather that makes a tournament, it’s the people; and I certainly chose the right bunch. Here’s a summary of the highs and lows of Brid 2008:

Highs

• Our team calls. Named the Beauty School Drop-outs (all our teams had a Grease theme) our team - two boys and two girls - invented some tournament calls. These included “Cuckaberra” for good volleyball, “drop-out” for average volleyball, and “gum tree” for rubbish volleyball. Rubbish volleyballers are therefore called “gummers”.
• The lads made my flip flops into wedges using sand. Very creative and very funny but just not practical. I couldn’t walk in them.
• The campsite night spot called Makis. Pure cheese, pure fun. (Particualrly the girl band trio called Pure Adore who performed naff songs, in between arguing over dance moves and putting each other off, all done in plain hearing of their audience. That’s what happens when you talk into a microphone. Also lovin’ their bikini top/white combats combo. Chavtastic.)
• Mandy and Eddie’s combat dancing - in slow motion of course.
• Mandy’s singing. She can’t hold a note but she’ll happily sing in front of 20 people she only met the night before. Now that’s brave.
• Smooth skin. Water plus sand equals natural exfoliation and most of my body was covered in water and sand at some point. Even the inside of my mouth.
• My mate’s lap dance for her husband. Very professional, I can see a change of career on the horizon.
• Boycotting the dancing on stage ban. When the DJ’s back was turned we jumped on stage to do the YMCA actions and then jumped back down. Amazingly, the DJ never noticed.
• The funny things you can do with a battered sausage and two fishcakes.
• Electricity. Straightening your hair in a tent? Brilliant idea.
• Swooning over a 6ft 6ins guy, even if he only 21. Tres cute! And I have his phone number!
• Putting JM’s watch forward an hour when she wasn’t looking and her accusing us of all having cheap watches. Sucker!
• Our matching  T shirts - Pink Ladies for the girlies, T Brids (yes Brids not Birds) for the boys.

Lows

• Serving the ball and it landing behind you. No, I’m not a magician, it was just very windy.
• Having a snotty nose but no clean or dry hands to wipe it with. Sand everywhere!
• Playing volleyball with sharp rain bouncing off your face and every item of clothing sodden. Brrrrrr.
• The wedgy fight. Losing your knickers in a club is not cool, particularly if they were pulled off by a girl and were your favourites.
• Needing a wee in the middle of the night, having to undo three zips to get out of the tent and trek across the grass to the loos only to realise you’ve forgotten your access pass to the toilet block.
• Calling “mine” when a ball comes your way, only for the wind to blow it onto the arms of someone on the opposite side of the court.
• Hard to be fashionable on a volleyball court when it’s pouring with rain and blowing a gale. Cycling shorts and a waterproof jacket zipped up to the eyeballs is not a good look.
• The ducks waking us up early in the morning with all their quacking. Makes a change from the traditional cockerill I suppose.

My pre-summer fitness campaign has taken a bit of a nosedive in recent weeks. Although I started with the best of intentions, I need to give myself a bit of a kick if I don’t want to look like a beached whale when I hit the Costa Del Sol next month.

Last week I failed to do any exercise what so ever - and I can’t even remember what my excuse is. And last night, although I planned to jump on the cross trainer as soon as I got home,  instead I curled up on the sofa and fell asleep in front of Hollyoaks.

The weekend’s antics were no advertisement for good health either. It was my mate’s hen weekend and although it involved a lot of walking across town, it also involved guzzling copious amounts of alcohol, several trips to Wetherspoons for burger and chips, dancing in killer heels (although this could count as exercise?), danish pastries for breakfast, not enough sleep and not enough water. It also involved pulling my hair in a ridiculously tight side ponytail and wearing so much glittery eyeshadow I struggled to blink.

So, I must get back on track. The hayfever/cold I seem to have developed isn’t helping - I feel a bit fuzzy and sound a lot like a man - but that’s no excuse if I want to beat the bulge. And, as I refuse to diet, exercise is the only way.

I don’t think tomorrow’s volleyball AGM counts as exercise either, although it may give my eyes a workout - trying to keep them open - and probably my mouth too - I usually have a lot to say!

Well, Bank Holidays are for drinking and, as a diagnosed binge drinker, I thought it rude not to indulge in an alcoholic beverage or two… or three.

Two nights out on the trot certainly took it’s toll on me and, needless to say, Sunday was less than productive. I didn’t actually get dressed until 4pm and that was only to scoff burger and chips and slump in front of the cinema screen (Forgetting Sarah Marshall is brilliant by the way; Russell Brand rocks!).

But my hangover was nowt compared to my mate’s. She stayed in on Friday but something odd happened on Saturday - namely her out of character intolerance to booze. We shared three bottles of wine and had a glass of champers each and that was it. But half way through the night the contents of her stomach decided to make an appearance on the nighclub floor. Time to take her home, me thinks.

I shuffle her into a taxi with the help of a fellow volleyballer - who is only 16! How can two 20-somethings be looked after by a teenager? Wrong! Anyway, my mate was house sitting for her boss last week and looking after her two doggies, so I stayed with her. I couldn’t remember where the house was and every time I asked drunken bud she just grinned at me like she had no idea who I was.

We found the house, I put drunken bud to bed, fixed her up with water and was about to turn the light out when the contents of her stomach decided to make a second appearance - all the way down the side of her boss’s bed and lovely cream sheets.

Now this bit is a tad gross, so if you’re sqeamish skip this paragraph. Drunken bud, still with inane grin on her face, simply brushed aside the vomit chunks which had fallen on her pillow and went back to sleep. I, meanwhile, set to task covering the offensive stomach contents (a Greek mezi topped up with vino) with kitchen roll before the two dogs rushed in for what they thought was an extra dinner. Yuk.

What a nightmare. Ironically, it was our end of season volleyball do and before the chucking incident our coaches had handed out some awards. In hindsight, I think there should have been one for biggest lightweight!

My eyes are so tired and dry and I’m blinking so much that people probably think I’ve got some kind of nervous twitch. I haven’t, I’m just fookin’ knackered.

The reason for my sore peepers? Dehydration’s probably got something to do with it - I don’t drink enough water - but I’ve been overdoing it on the sport front lately and it’s taking it’s toll.

They say exercise is good for you, and I’d be the first to endorse that fact usually, but today I think I need a bit of a rest. Last week I spent five out of seven nights playing sport - korfball, netball and volleyball - and last night I had korfball training and netball training back to back. I resembled somthing along the lines of a beetroot with a sweat problem when I got home!

So, not only have I got tired eyes, but my bones are aching too, particularly my shoulders, and my calves are twinging at regular intervals - probably not a good idea to be wearing killer heels to work then, eh?

Despite the utter relief that I’m not playing in tonight’s netball match (’cos I’m not insured/affiliated to the league yet) and my desperate need for a night in front of the box, I do think sport is a truly great thing.

Not only does it allow me to eat pretty much what ever I want (diets don’t work for me, and I can easily polish off a tub of ice cream in one sitting), it keeps me fit and gives me a great social life. My sporting chums are much-os fun-os.

I’ve never been a fan of the gym, I haven’t got the motivation to attend, although I have on a couple of occasions invested in an annual membership only to give up after a couple of inspired months. Lessons learned there.

Sport, on the other hand, gets me motivated from the off. I play because a) it’s a chance to catch up with mates and get the latest gossip, b) it’s a fun way of keeping fit, c) if I don’t keep playing/training I might get a bit rusty, which leads to d) if i play/train crap then I may lose my place on the team or sacrifice some of my court time to better players. I’m hoping at some point there’ll be an e) - fit male players to dribble over - but at the moment this is not the case.

So, tonight’s sporting activity will include changing channels on the TV and trying out new seating positions on the sofa. And if I’m feeling really energetic, I might run a bath.

Do you ever feel like you’re taking too much on? It’s one of my vices - I just can’t say no! (within reason, of course).

Years back I was one of those saddo people, stuck in a negative relationship, didn’t go out much - and certainly not at short notice - and spent most of my time eating. What a bore.

Since then I’ve gone full circle and as much as I crave a night in front of the TV every so often, just to have a break, I find myself getting increasingly restless. There are so many things I want to do, and there just aren’t enough days in the week to do them.

Obviously, work takes up a lot of time but without my job I’d be skinterooni and work’s not all that bad either - interviewing Naval pilots for example!

At the moment, as well as work commitments, weekly volleyball training and weekly korfball training, I’m tackling the CIPR Diploma in Public Relations, have registered for a shorthand speed development course, am about to join a netball team, am organising my friend’s hen weekend, arranging an end of season volleyball do and trying to bolster my fitness (so I’m ready to hit the beach this summer) by using the cross trainer as much as possible.

In between all this I need to eat, food shop, tidy, do washing, read Media Guardian and Heat magazine, catch up with friends and family, paint my nails and regularly apply fake tan. Nightmare. And because I don’t live all that near to many of my friends and all my relatives, I spend a lot of time in the car.

So, what’s the solution? Start saying no to things? I just can’t do it. Yes, I’m busy, and no, I don’t have much down time, but there’s nowt better than getting a sweat on at volleyball or hanging with my mates. Would I sacrifice that for a night in front of the box? No way!

I was talking to a work buddy today about my evil April and she cleverly suggested turning May into a month of treats. Kinda like compensation. What a good idea!

So, after a whole month burying my head in books May will be the month for having fun and letting my hair down. Plans include the following:

• A night on the tiles with my best mate
• Hen weekend in Nottingham on the theme of Pink Ladies (although this will involve ice skating, eek, not my favourite sport)
• A visit from Sambo and Bloater
• A Ladies Wot Dine event at my place (third in a series of dinner and wine events with the girls from work - it will probably involve singing too)
• Ceilidh in aid of Relay for Life (some volleyballers and co are arranging a series of super fun social events to raise money for a charity close to a friend’s heart, as he’s just been given the all clear from Leukeamia)
• Two Bank Holidays, which means two three-day weekends and two four-day working weeks, yippee
• Race for Life in Milton Keynes (running with some work buddies, helping with my pre-summer fitness campaign)
• Pyjama party with some of the Leicester girls. It’s my turn to host it I think (the last one involved our version of pin the tail on the donkey - using a cut-out willy - and pass the parcel with thongs as prizes. What fun!)
• The end of volleyball season means long nails can stay - book manicure
• Hair cut, colour and conditioning treatment. The straw look is not high fashion
• All the stresses and strains of work and study will fade away with a hot stones massage
• Sessions with the personal trainer, what a hottie! (Sorry, I didn’t quite get that move, can you show me again please?)
• Spending spree, investing in some summery outfits (hopefully Mr Sunshine will have shown his face by then), some Urban Decay make-up and what ever else takes my fancy
• Sunbed sessions - the pre-holiday preparation starts here, bring on the summer glow

Only 30 days to go….

My weekend will go something like this:

Friday night

• Back to the shire for curry with dad and teenage siblings (haven’t seen them since before Chrimbo so lots of catching up to be done)
• Raid dad’s garage in bid to bolster my own personal wine supply

Saturday

• While back in the shire, visit Suicide Nan. She’s had a few self-inflicted brushes with death over the years and I haven’t visited for probably a year. Bad granddaughter! Still, I can’t say I’m looking forward to it and no doubt time will stand still while I’m there
• Catch up with big little brother. Haven’t seen him for yonks either so I may let him brew me a coffee
• Return to MK and rustle up a feast of drinks and nibbles ahead of the girls’ imminent arrival
• Eat, drink and be merry, and then give the dancefloor a hammering
• Drink water, go to bed and remember to take contact lenses out

 Sunday

• Wake up and take Nurofen
• Clear up Saturday night’s mess
• Trip to Ikea with Jen if we’re feeling sparkly enough
• Volleyball match in Wellingborough - and we have to win if we want to take home some silverware at the end of the season
• Collect secondhand cross trainer I’ve invested in in my attempt to improve fitness without leaving the house
• Try and assemble said cross trainer without losing my temper

I made a return to volleyball training last night after a five week break. I’d forgotten how it feels when you haven’t touched a ball for a while - bright red and stinging arms from passing, stiff fingers from volleying and sore shoulders from hitting. Oh, but it was all worth it.

It was great to run around, get a sweat on and see the girls again. My right ankle’s still weak and my good left ankle was twinging as I keep shifting my weight to that foot when I jump, overcompensating I guess. But I can’t wait to be part of the team again this Sunday as we face our last two National League matches of the season. And it will be so good to go out on a high so I’m keeping everything crossed.

It did make me chuckle last night to see how the players have progressed through the season. The captain has her swollen thumb strapped up, there are a few of us in ankle supports and one of my mates had a knee brace on which made her look like a robot on court. And they say exercise is good for you?

I am so so so so cross with myself. Not for playing volleyball when the physio told me not to (only one set by the way, before the girls ganged up on me and banned me from the court “for my own good”) but for falling off a pavement and damaging my dodgy ankle further.

Okay, so a few shots of toffee vodka may have contributed to this wobble but still, if I could turn back time I would. I feel thoroughly frustrated and angry and grumpy and am trying really hard not to swear on this blog. Oh fuck it, I just did. I am a bloody idiot!

I did have a good weekend but watching volleyball instead of playing isn’t half as much fun and my 10 minutes on court was hardly worthy of the silver medal placed around my neck on Sunday. Well done girls! But I did leave my mark elsewhere - there’s a crash mat at Aber University with a me-shaped indent on it.

Not only was I relagated to the sidelines at the weekend I was also the nominated “beer bitch” as I hadn’t been on the Aber volleyball tour before. A “tour virgin” is the terminology I believe. Great. Evenings spent fetching other people’s beers. And this is a particularly tricky task when there are 15 to 20 people in a round and they all want cocktails with names like Sweaty Box, Cheeky Vimto, Princess Leah and Rubbish Lay. And they’re happy to point out when their glasses are empty too. Gits. Gotta love ‘em.

So yesterday, after a culmination of lack of sleep, eating crap food, drinking too much and falling off a pavement, I was in a foul mood, the only plus being that I’d booked a day off work so I couldn’t inflict this misery on my work colleagues.

My anger increased when my hairdresser - who would clearly rather have been somewhere else (a Weightwatchers class I should suggest) - failed to dry my hair properly after colouring it and, I realised when I got home, that she’d missed a bit at the front. A mini tantrum followed, in the privacy of my own bedroom. Aren’t you supposed to leave a salon feeling super glam, not like a semi-drowned rat with a mousey brown patch at the front of your head?

Anyway, it was date number five (with the same guy I hasten to add) last night and the poor old sole had to suffer my misery. I nearly scared him off, but not quite. He turned up with chocolate and a funny DVD and managed to make me laugh, ending my day of shiteness on a high.

Mr physio made me laugh today too with his comedy drawings of me and the exercises I’m supposed to do. Falling off a pavement did me no good what so ever and simply jumping or hopping on my bad ankle hurts. Oh bollocks!

Note to self: Avoid pavements with high kerbs, and best steer clear of cobbled streets too.