Sara Sizzle

I have a WILLY growing in my belly... and it's making me fat...

2011-07-10T19:20:00.004Z

When I was 36 weeks pregnant with Poppy I reached a tipping point on the matter of physical discomfort. This blog post from the time will remind you what I mean.

A point where I got so uncomfortable, so restless and tired and achey and fat that everything made me really quite cross.

This time, with the added exhaustion-factor of being responsible for a feisty 4-year-old, a 4-year-old who, rather than pasta pictures or a joyous acquisition of phonic-based-reading skills, brings home a rampant and wide ranging assortment of viral and bacterial illnesses to pass on to my poor, weary, expanding pregnant body, I hit that tipping point a week ago. A whole two-weeks earlier than last time.

I now find myself 35 weeks pregnant and in so much physical discomfort that, as I type this with my itchy swollen fingers, resting my Elephant-Man ankles, propped up on an assortment of pregnancy pillows in an attempt to soothe my back pain whilst aiding my breathing (laboured from a quadruple whammy of ailments including a chest infection, heartburn, hayfever and a 6 pound+ baby high in my belly and squashing my lungs) all I can think about is what I might be able to do to make myself feel just a little TINY bit better.

After a 3 hour wait on Thursday morning, the doc gave me some antibiotics for my chest infection. I've given in just now and taken some Paracetamol for a pounding headache and the back pain. And a Gaviscon tablet will hopefully make it feel a little bit less like a small mouse is slowly pushing food up from my stomach in to my itchy, cough-scarred throat.

But all of that leads to, firstly, paranoia about the baby, and second, nowhere near enough relief.

What I imagine I want is the most comfortable mattress in the world adorned with bespoke cushions made exactly to envelope my specific body in a cozy nest of joy. Maybe the matress or cushions vibrate. Not in a sexy-fun way, just to massage my back. And silk sheets. And an endless supply of freezepops with the top cut off for ease of access. All laid out in a luxuriant room the temperature of a walk-in-freezer. With episodes of One Born Every Minute being shown on an endless loop on a large screen positioned so perfectly I don't have to even move my neck slightly from my pillow to watch.

What I imagine I want is a giant person to arrive me who can cup my whole weary body in the palm of their hand and rock me gently to sleep...

What I imagine I want is someone to cut my chest open and take out each of my internal organs to give them a bit of breathing space. A rest. A chance to clear their heads, knock back a couple of ice-cold glasses of wine, have a bubble bath, take some forbidden medicines and then get back to the job in hand for the final weeks of this hideous pregnancy thing with a renewed acceptance for the situation and, who knows, maybe even some vigour.

Yeah... so, Gaviscon, appreciative as I am of its existence, just doesn't really cut it.

Some women are built for pregnancy. Some women have their neat little bumps and their healthy levels of human chorionic gonadotrophin. They have their slim thighs and their 38 week gestations and their cute-little-cravings for candy floss or sweets. They have their easy births of 7 pound babies who sleep through the night right away. And they can 't wait to do it all again.

And good sodding luck to them I say.

Unfortunately, no matter how much I thought things would be different this time, my pregnancies involve gaining half of my own body weight again through an insatiable need to ram processed carbs down my throat like a fat-woman the night before her gastric bypass at a Chinese all-you-can-eat-buffet. They involve cravings for things like brown sauce smothered protein, dairylea, butter, and LARD. OK, I would never eat lard, but you know what I mean.

My body produces big babies who like to make themselves at home. Stretching out, kicking back. Hanging around for 42 weeks (ok, I don't know for sure that this one will also be 2 weeks late but I'm pretty much assuming that will be the case).

My pregnancies see excessive water retention, hormones that rampage through every flabby inch of my body at record levels turning me in to a sobbing, swollen, angry mess of a person. I spend 9 long months thinking 'I hate EVERYONE" and then wonder why THEY DON'T UNDERSTAND.

THEY DON'T UNDERSTAND how hard it all is, how terrible I feel, how I was born to be one of those girls with the neat little bumps. I mean, I'm vegetarian for gods sake and my BMI was only 20 (20!) at the start of this.

THEY DON'T UNDERSTAND how unpleasant it is when breast milk squirts out of your nipples as you wash acres of flesh under a shower inadequate for your mass. The horror of the bottom of your feet sobbing in agony at the end of a day. Trying to text with saveloys where your fingers should be. They couldn't possibly even begin to imagine what it's like to have an actual WILLY GROWING IN THEIR STOMACH that can wee and everything.

THEY DON'T UNDERSTAND that I am only scowling and spitting venom because I'm suffering more than you could ever even begin to imagine. I only get so angry about THE HIDEOUS HELL OF commuting because I really really do need that seat. That respite for my tired swollen limbs.

You see, every one of us pregnant ladies thinks, in our head, that being pregnant makes us somehow special, almost royal. A cut above.

BUT the worst thing of all is this shocking but universal truth...

No one else cares.

And quite right too. Rationally. Un-hormonally.

I know i"m nothing special.

Devastating. But true. The commuting hell. The 3 hour wait for a doctor. The rude woman on the bus. So you're pregnant. So what? It's nothing to do with them.

Most women are pregnant at some point. That's like 53% of the population or something right? And we were all BORN. We were all foetuses in our own mothers' itchy swollen stomachs. Yep... nothing remotely special or remarkable about ME to the average Joe on the street. Or, indeed, on the 8.14 from Herne Hill to Farringdon.

But, all rationality aside, in my current hormonal and hugely irrational state I just don't see why EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD CAN'T BEND OVER BACKWARDS WHILST PEELING ME GRAPES, TILTING THEIR HEAD TO ONE SIDE SYMPATHETICALLY, AND MASSAGING MY LOWER BACK, TO ENSURE THAT MY DAY-TO-DAY LIFE IS AS PLEASANT AS IT IS POSSIBLE FOR IT TO BE CONSIDERING THE HUGELY DEBILITATING AND UNPLEASANT SITUATION I FIND MYSELF IN.

It really does not suit me. Not at all. Being pregnant + me? We hate each other. We've fallen out. I hate pregnant. Pregnant to me is like a mother-in-law who makes snide-ey comments that make you feel like shit but there, in your kitchen, at your desk at work, in the shower, in your bed, endlessly, prodding you, force-feeding you sugared ring-doughnuts and then calling you fat. But you can't really kill her (or even ask her to politely fuck off) because she's interminably linked to someone you love and want in your life more than anything.

Sucks.

Really really sucks.

Anyway, enough about me, how are you?

I haven't really got the energy to blog...

2011-06-11T20:33:00.000Z

... but to keep you entertained here are a few photos of me in the same spot taken over the past 3 or 4 days.

A fascinating glimpse in to my pregnant life.

Tonight I am drinking alcohol free Becks (yes, it has made its return!), cooking a frittata and listening to Poppy who should have been asleep 2 hours ago read her entire collection of Little Miss and Mr Men books to her 'Time to Sleep Baby Annabel'. Of course, she can't really read. Which is all the more entertaining in fact as Mr Greedy says things like 'get in my tummy you lovely pink fat cake' and other such nonsense that Roger Hargreaves almost certainly wouldn't approve of.

Anyway.

Just checking in as you do.

Stay frosty.

SS x

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 10: A song that makes you fall asleep

2011-05-24T17:04:00.000Z

Beautiful.

It makes me remember that a lot of beauty exists in the world and that thought helps me to sleep.

Beth Orton, Sweetest Decline.

It's a bit of an anthem of mine actually. Not in a tub-thumping, screaming down your ear, hands clapped over your head at a football stadium way. Just quietly. In the background.

Dear First Capital Connect Commuters. . .

2011-05-24T14:29:00.008Z

Stare at my bump and I'll stare at your face.

...works fine until the creepy old freak in a polyester and viscose mix pin-stripe Burton suit stares right back atcha refusing to look away. *Shudders*. . .

Hi Sizzlers

A confession.

Yes, I really do that. If someone looks at my bump for longer than I like them too I stare at their face until it blushes to an appropriate shade of red.

Commuter rage.

Hatred.

I'm full of it.

And yesterday some horrible freak stared right back at me for about twenty five minutes.

Serves me right.

The freak in question smelt rancid. Of stale Lambert and Butler, dry sweat and a pungent desperation for some female attention. More of an old mangey greyhound than a silver fox.

I should have puked on him. Or moved seats. But I'd already had to beg another physically repugnant twerp for a seat in the first place.

Why do these people always stare?

Notice I'm preggers, smile, shake your head in disgust if you so wish. Do whatever the f**k you like.

Feel free to offer up your seat (oh no, that'd be too much wouldn't it you absolute t**ts), to not elbow my unborn child in the head with your careless, spiky, dry-skinned elbow, or even to just plain ignore me.

All of these are preferable to the person two rows back to where I'm standing who just gawps at the belly like it's a fucking bomb strapped around my waist with clingfilm.

Seriously. I'm pregnant, I'm not a strange alien being with one pink, pus filled eye, leopard print antlers and a clear perspex aquarium full of piranhas for an abdomen.

The worst offenders. . .

If it's not the jowly, balding, ill-fitted suit wearing 'business men' pawing at their PC laptops with small hairy hands that are the worst offenders then it's girls in their early twenties who most make me want to whip out a boob and squirt breast milk in their face.

Oh the joy I would take in coming back to haunt you like the ghost of gestations past when you get knocked up sometime in the future. Remember me? No? Thought not. I'm the girl you looked at like something you scraped off the synthetic-leather-bottom of your cheap Primark shoe before pushing past me and sauntering in to the last remaining seat on the 8.58 to Farringdon and diving in to your cheap canvas shoulder bag for your 18-month-old Rimmel mascara to make those eyelashes look even more horrendous.

Oh, and by the way, no one with even a tiny ounce of chic in their blood would go to work with a ladder in their tights, birdsnest hair and an attitude like yours. And clean out that makeup bag. Slut.

*Takes a deep breath*

I dunno. It scares me when I think I don't ever remember giving up a seat for a pregnant woman on my commute before I had Poppy. Was I that girl? I really hope not. I may have been guilty of not paying enough attention to even notice a preggers lady though.

Sit up. Pay attention. That's what I say. That's what i'm learning more and more is one of the most important things to do in life.

Fury aside, i'd like to give a big shout out to undoubtedly the most lovely and accommodating demographic of commuter which is young guys. Actually that's a lie, they're not always young - just dressed like they have some sort of life pumping through their veins and at least a flicker of a brain that does not revolve around nothing more than their own podgy-middle-class-middle-aged-wine-glugging existence. You can usually spot them by their Threadless thsirts or Kindles.

They will always give you a seat. And a smile. So thanks guys. I like you.

The rest of your can f**k off.

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 9: A Song That You Can Dance To

2011-04-21T18:47:00.002Z

Oh my goodness.

One of my proudest achievements in my whole entire life is having a photograph wot I took in Belle and Sebastian's 2011 Calender (May - and it's a pucture of Poppy).

As part of my thanks for letting them use that picture I got guest passes to see them at Birmingham Symphony Hall and Chicken and I were invited on stage to dance.

I am such an amazing nerd. I know. But this song makes me dance like no other now. Happy dance.

Check this out. An actual video of the moment Stuart invited us up and us on the stage DANCING. Well clapping and kind of jigging around a bit.

After this we stayed on for a second song and then Stuart gave me an actual real-life medal and I nearly died of happiness.

I was also pregnant in this video. So I will forever show this to my future son (yes, it's a boy!) and say 'you were in my tummy then'. And he will get so bored of hearing the same story he will want to strangle me.

'I feel like dancing on my own, where no one knows me and where I can cause offence just by the way I look'...

Indeed.

Belle and Sebastian - There's Too Much Love

Or if you'd prefer the non-live version (which doesn't feature Mark and I):

I will always dance to this song. Always. Until i'm 97.

The 30 Day Song Challenge- Day 8: A song that you know all the words to

2011-04-17T19:14:00.000Z

Oh my goodness gracious. Remember when you used to get song lyric booklets in the middle of Smash Hits magazine?

I used to be ace at knowing song lyrics to millions and hundreds and tens of songs but I'm rubbish now. Although it still winds me up when I hear Chicken or my Dad singing along to the radio and getting lyrics wrong.

I've picked this one because I learnt all of the words for a purpose, that purpose being my school's Stars In Their Eyes competition that was held every year for Children in Need.

I had just turned 15 when me and my two best friends from school, Megan Rimmer and Karis Flavell, slipped in to some blue boiler suits we'd picked up at B&Q, pulled on our Adidas shell toe trainers and some Goggles from the Chemistry department and 'tonight Matthew we're going to be. . . Mike D (Michael Diamond), MCA (Adam Yauch), and Adam Ad-Rock (Adam Horovitz). A.K.A. The Beastie Boys. . .

Intergalactic.

I tell you, our dance routine was a thing to behold.

Yours

Sara Sizzle
Superstar MC and general bad ass.

Chicken and Egg: The Sequel

2011-04-10T15:47:00.004Z

I've been meaning to announce the news on The Sizzle for four weeks now - as it was at that time first time around that I did so and it always felt about right. But I've been crazy busy and hormonal and just haven't pushed it high enough up my list of 'to-dos'. . .

So, after that rather bumbling and unnecessary prefix I would like use this post to announce (to the two people who read my blog that may not already know) ... drum roll please ... Chicken and I are expecting our second baby, codename 'Quorn' and due on 15th August.

For any curious chronophiles out there that makes me whole 22 weeks pregnant as of midnight tonight and a mere 18 weeks from my due date.

I've been lazing around in bed today as I have a terribly terrible cold or virus of some sort that's wiped me out and I'm actually being a good girl and listening to my body and what it says I need - rest!

This afternoon I've been reading over all the posts I did on here during my last pregnancy and laughing and cringing and generally lulling myself in to a heightened sense of 'ah, I remember that' ness and feeling all dead nostalgic and stuff.

I feel like a totally different person to the girl who announced being pregnant with Poppy on here over 4 years ago. I feel old. I feel more content with life even though, for some probably tragic reason, my excitement doesn't seem to fizz over in to my writing as much as it did back then.

Maybe that sizzle and fizz will come back again over coming months . . . or maybe I've just grown up a bit.

I still say ace too much though, some things never change!

So far this pregnancy has been a bit tougher than the first one. Partly that's because it's been longer - when I was pregnant with Poppy I didn't even know I was expecting until I was a couple of months in to the whole daunting process. I'd been out boozing and drinking and all sorts before I found out and felt paranoid and terrible about that the whole time - but if that had any plus sides it was that it did make the whole thing, well, 10 weeks shorter!

This time I felt terrible from the moment of conception. We'd planned it all and so had already stopped smoking, cut down on the drinking, taken folic acid etc. etc. etc. blah. So why did I feel much sicker and tireder and more achey and bleaugh?

Age? Maybe a bit. Hormone levels higher. Plus, of course, looking after a nearly-4-year-old and working and the stress of those two things combined with nursery runs and commutes and all of that side of things definitely made for a tougher start to the 1st trimester this time around.

My days now start at 6am getting up and ready for work, and don't really slow down for a second until 8.30pm - 9pm when Chicken and I finally sit down to dinner having got Poppy home entertained bathed and in bed after all three of us have been out all day long.

I've been totally and utterly shattered and that hasn't stopped in the second trimester like it did last time.

I'm feel strangely close to this baby already. Not that I didn't with Pops when she was in my belly. But I think now I have the experience of knowing how much I will love and worry about and care for this baby, having felt that for the first time with Poppy, it's been a much quicker process to feel close to this one than last time.

On the flip side of that lots of things are less exciting. I can't find even 5% of the same motivation to go and buy the baby loads of STUFF. I don't care about that side of things as much as last time. In fact, I've been spending all of my spare cash on Poppy, doiing up her room, buying her toys, new clothes, haircuts. . .

Overcompensating much?

Of course I want to make sure the baby has everything it needs and more, but my focus is much more on trying to eat right and take care of myself and the baby than on making sure I have my hospital bag ready or buying 35 multipacks of sleep-suits from Mothercare.

God. the hospital bag. How deluded I was last time when I said I wouldn't ever wear disposable underwear? I'll be packing 4 times the amount of that this time. Last time I packed 14 headbands and no nipple cream. No cotton wool because of my own ridiculous phobia - but babywipes - not even unfragranced and totally unsuitable for a newborn. All the mistakes I learnt from and now have to relearn all over again.

I am feeling anxious about the birth already. My birth with Poppy was long and induced and I was hooked up to so many drips and antibiotics and all sorts of monitors - I don't want the same thing this time.

I'm not anxious about the pain. Last time I got to 5cms without any pain relief at all and it was only when they told me they were about to attach a Syntocinon drip that they encouraged an epidural. I was meant to be on the drip much earlier but they had no room on the labour ward so I'd been left on a different ward on antibiotics overnight up to that point and had survived fine having regular contractions. I could have happily (ok not happily but reasonably comfortably) have gone on past the 5cm point. So I'm not too worried about pain.

I'm worried about it going wrong though. It's so scary. It was scary when Poppy came out blue. I wasn't prepared for that. No one told me. I imagined all babies were pink and screaming.

I feel anxious about Poppy and being away from her if I get stuck in hospital after the birth like I did when I had her.

I feel anxious about the change to the dynamic of our family - we are so settled, the 3 of us, our little cats, our routine.

But we are all completely and overwhelmingly excited about our new addition. Be it a little boy or a girl (and we should find out this week...)

Having said that, I don't think it's anywhere near as real to Chicken and Pops as it is to me. But perhaps that'll change after our 22 week scan.

Lots of things about being pregnant are the same as last time.

The physical side feels almost identical. I'm carrying loads of extra water like with Pops - although I didn't even realise I was last time until a few days after the birth when I realised my legs were half as big as they had been the day before just all of a sudden and my fingers no longer each had the circumference of a Walls sausage.

Poppy has been really sweet about everything. When we told her she looked very thoughtful and then asked if she could give me a hug. God, makes me tear up thinking about that. Of course you can hug me Plopsoid! Always.

She's started referring to 'before you had a baby in your tummy' and 'now you have a baby in your tummy' as if they are two distinct periods of our relationship and her life. 'Do you remember you used to show me how to do ballet before you had a baby in your belly?' which, of course, I would still do now. But she remembers things from, say, 6 months ago and then if we haven't done them since she seems to automatically assume that's simply because of the baby. A worrying trend I'm trying to knock on the head. But I guess it's important that she realises things will change.

So yeah - preggers. Me. Again. After how much I went on and on to anyone who'd listen about never doing it again and how much I hated being pregnant the last time. But I wont say 'I must be mad' because I really am incredibly and immeasurably happy about it.

I thought I'd link in my next song in my 30 Day Song Challenge now.

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 7: A song that reminds of you of a certain event

When I was pregnant with Poppy I may have used this blog as a place to get excited and talk about stretch marks or to moan and grumble and be a bit of a brat, but I did spend a lot of my pregnancy lying in or on the bed in our little 1 bedroom, 4th floor flat and just thinking about everything and falling in love with little Pops before she was even born.

I used to sit with Mark's iBook and listen to music and play songs to my belly whilst holding a glow ted I'd bought for Pops against my bump.

It's sad that such a big part about how I felt about being pregnant last time is lost in how I documented it. But that choice just shows another part of who I was then I guess. . .

This song was one of those songs I used to play lying in bed and daydreaming, but also one that I played to her again by putting my iPod near to her in her little plastic cot as I sat and watched her sleep on the 3 or 4 nights we were stuck in hospital after she was born.

I don't know why I picked this song at that time as one that I wanted the baby then known as Quiche to hear, but it still always makes me think of her as a newborn and her delicious smell and the worry and the pain and the happiness.

This song reminds me becoming a mum for the first time. That is an event and a half, innit?

Cyndi Lauper - True Colours.

Lovely song for a lovely lovely little daughter of mine ...

Sara Sizzle xxx

PS - Of course, I have an equal amount of stretch mark anxiety this time around. Don't worry... I haven't changed that much.

Now, someone pass me the coco butter.

Yay!

2011-04-02T14:05:00.002Z

Even if I am doing housework. It's the bestest time and I love it.

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 6: A song that reminds of you of somewhere

2011-03-22T17:27:00.001Z

OK OK, my 30 days appear only sporadically. Punctuated by lots of stuff I don't really want to blog about and other stuff that I really do and just haven't got around to.

I'm on to day 6. A song that reminds me of somewhere.

I've picked a song from my adolescence.

Blast Off. A club night on a Saturday in the Wolverhampton Civic Hall.

Boys and girls of the late nineties in their Saturday night staples of retro sportswear mixed in with a healthy dose of vintage flares, cheap vest tops, home dyed hair, pierced noses and unbridled lust for Jarvis Cocker.

I remember all those Saturday nights of my teenage years.

The £1 can of Red Stripe, the female bouncers in the toilets, banging on your door if you were in for more than a minute. The snogs, the Stone Roses, the 'Back-Bar' with its poor attempt at a Motown night where you'd usually find the hottest boys and the coolest girls.

I remember that whenever this particular song played that everyone danced. And no matter how wrong your evening had gone and no matter how off your face you were, you danced too. And loved it. A load of idiots dancing and smiling together at a glorified school disco in a hall.

But we felt oh so cool.

Beck - Loser

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 5: A song that reminds you of someone

2011-03-16T19:55:00.003Z

Cutters Choice rolled in thin cigarettes and smoked whilst gulping at pints of GB Lager after a £1.25 fry up.

The Pilgrim Pub, Liverpool, between the Catherdrals, with its £2 treble shots, the lack of natural light, its booths and its Absinthe and its John Lennon murals painted on mirrors. Lunchtimes after a morning English Literature lecture on class, or madness, or adolescence. Our two writing creative writing notebooks open on the table - us reading out sections of our writing to each other and her writing small notes inside mine. Her laughing, drawing doodles of howling women at pianos. . .

That sketch I did of that certain naked man. That sketch in her notebook with an accidental withered arm. The laughter. Lollipops. Shared secrets from the after-the-lights-go-out happenings of our early university days. . . the sexual deviancy and the smoking and the drinking and the fuzziness of it all.

And this song. Again and again on the jukebox. £1 for 5 credits. And we'd pick this for all 5.

Bob Dylan, Hurricane.

Yep. Most of all this song reminds me of my friend Kate, or Blob. A good egg Blob. I don't see her enough these days. And I don't listen to this enough either.

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 4: A song that makes you sad

2011-03-15T19:37:00.004Z

I'd like to do this day as a top 10 and think I will do very soon.

Here's my choice though.

Sonic Youth's version of Superstar.

Makes me very sad.

The 30 Day Song Challenge- Day 3: A song that makes you happy

2011-03-13T20:21:00.010Z

It was late February or, maybe, actually, in fact, early March.

Mark and I had just got together.

To be frank, our lives were, seperately, a bit of a mess.

We'd both been homeless for a period of about 3 weeks. Although it had felt like 3 hours.

Things were that kind of adrenaline fuelled, fuzzy kind of mental you usually only get on big massive benders that go on for days. But this was our real life. Sober life. Sober during the daytimes at least. On weekdays. Other than a glass of wine over lunch...

It was a time full of short-stays at nightly rented apartments in dodgy-pockets of West London, of rodents, itchy sheets and of the constant lingering stench of pound shop air fresheners trying and failing to cover the constant lingering stench of dry urine on the chintzy, carpeted hallways.

Eventually, I was able to move back in to the flat in Belsize Park I'd been renting before I'd split up with my previous boyfriend. A flat that i'd never really liked in the first place and that was, void of the furniture, appliances and basic habitability that my ex-boyfriend had taken with him when he moved out, a dispiriting place to be moving BACK to... at best.

A beast of a girl snored in the flat above me. Rolling, endlessly, around the place. Flailing her obese arms and legs around the bare wooden floors and howling at the North London moon. This flat had no central heating, it had a threadbare 'carpet' in the living room covered in fag burns and paint and a sort of thin layer of saw dust that you couldn't get rid of, no matter how much you hoovered it. The futon in the living room had a questionable stain on it and pointed at the 14 inch BULK of a TV I'd had in my bedroom since the age of 10. Someone had thrown red wine all over the walls (aherm...)

My ex had taken all the bedclothes. And lightbulbs. You had to turn sideways to step in to the bathroom which was so absolutely freezing cold it felt like washing in an outdoor shower. In Winter. In Greenland.

Mark had been spending some time staying with his sister and it was on one day with her, on the way for a crisis meeting in the local pub, that she put her 'housework favourites' CD in to her car stereo. And Mark was reminded of this amazing song. A few days later he played it for me.

He imported it from his sister's naff CD to the iTunes on his Macbook (or iBook as it was called back then) which, together, we bought some speakers for. And which he left with me one afternoon as I took the day off work to spring clean my Belsize Park dungeon.

I just have this really clear memory of being alone in that flat on that particular day, late afternoon, the fresh smell of fresh lemon juice and pink grapefruit candles, and the sparkle of the oven and sideboards and WORLD from my day-long efforts at scrubbing and varnishing and painting and enliving the whole entire place.

I'd bought some new bedclothes. Cushions. Lightbulbs. Candles. The sun was out. I had the front door - which led on to a shared roof-terrace / balcony thing - open and could see the clear sky outside as fresh air blew in. I remember this song playing on the iBook through the speakers we'd bought as I smoked a Marlboro Light and drank a cup of tea. Things felt good. That they would all be ok.

A new beginning.

So, even though this song is about 25 years old, to me it will always be about that period of my life and it will always make me happy.

Mental. As. Anything.

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 2: Your least favourite song

2011-03-13T19:15:00.002Z

Cripes.

This is really hard. I don't tend to give too much thought to the music I don't like.

So, I pick this. And for one reason alone. Mark hasn't stop listening to it and dancing around to it and generally making me want to pull a Sylvia Plath over it for what feels like 4-EVA. Innit.

Dance Wiv Me...

I don't have any massive beef with grime. I just don't like it.

Mark, ever down 'wiv' da charts dat e iz, is well in to all this sort of stuff.

Grimey.

The 30 Day Song Challenge - Day 1: Your favorite song

2011-03-11T16:38:00.003Z

To me, this choice should have come last. The culmination of 30 days of soul searching.

Picking your favourite song is, for me, akin to picking your favourite offspring, human, Haribo or, worse, maize-based snack.

It's very tough.

But i've signed up to this challenge and I'm going to go with it.

So, after much consideration, I've chosen the following as my favourite song.

It had to be Belle and Sebastian. And, because I had to narrow it down in someway beyond that, I decided to limit to the first 3 records to begin with because, as a friend of mine recently commented, they had something even more magical about them when 'they had more songs about teenagers with mental health issues and weren't quite so happy'.

After that I probably got down to 8 or 9 tracks I really really especially extra love from those 3 records. And then I simply picked the one that my gut told me to.

Like most of the songs I really love, it's the lyrics as much as anything else that I adore about Expectations.

I kind of feel a bit weird trying to talk about it like I'm some sort of music reviewer (ha - maybe this 30 songs thing isn't the best idea).

To me it's just perfect.

Of course, it's a song about being a teenage outcast. And being frustrated about it and that same teenager becoming frustrated at the mundane prospects of their life.

Lyrically, my favourite part of the song is this little bit:

"And the head said that you always were a queer one from the start
For careers you say you went to be remembered for your art
Your obsessions get you known throughout the school for being strange
Making life-size models of the Velvet Underground in clay

In the queue for lunch they take the piss, you've got no appetite
And the rumour is you never go with boys and you are tight
So they jab you with a fork, you drop the tray and go berserk
While your cleaning up the mess the teacher's looking up your skirt.."

Like I said, I actually feel a bit wrong trying to write about it in any analytical way or owt. I'm not worthy to.

It's just brilliant and my favourite and my best.

You can listed to it on Last FM here.

You should do, it's ace.

Sara Sizzle

PS - even writing this short entry part of my brain is saying 'pick The Model, pick The Model'...

ARGH!

Something to get me back in to the swing of things...

2011-03-11T15:30:00.001Z

I'm doing something self indulgent to kickstart a return to Sara Sizzle.

It's a pretty self-indulgent blog already so I'm hoping this exercice doesn't lead to all 2 of my readers dropping off.

It’s called The 30-Day Song Challenge.

The idea is to share reveal all' - perhaps even literally with your own YouTube video in which you dance nude on day 7 - about yourself by choosing one song a day, for 30 days.

Looking at the list, I can tell that some songs will be easy to choose, while others will require more than a little thought *brain explodes*

See the list below...

The 30 Day Song Challenge

Day 01 – Your favorite song
Day 02 – Your least favorite song
Day 03 – A song that makes you happy
Day 04 – A song that makes you sad
Day 05 – A song that reminds you of someone
Day 06 – A song that reminds of you of somewhere
Day 07 – A song that reminds you of a certain event
Day 08 – A song that you know all the words to
Day 09 – A song that you can dance to
Day 10 – A song that makes you fall asleep
Day 11 – A song from your favorite band
Day 12 – A song from a band you hate
Day 13 – A song that is a guilty pleasure
Day 14 – A song that no one would expect you to love
Day 15 – A song that describes you
Day 16 – A song that you used to love but now hate
Day 17 – A song that you hear often on the radio
Day 18 – A song that you wish you heard on the radio
Day 19 – A song from your favorite album
Day 20 – A song that you listen to when you’re angry
Day 21 – A song that you listen to when you’re happy
Day 22 – A song that you listen to when you’re sad
Day 23 – A song that you want to play at your wedding
Day 24 – A song that you want to play at your funeral
Day 25 – A song that makes you laugh
Day 26 – A song that you can play on an instrument
Day 27 – A song that you wish you could play
Day 28 – A song that makes you feel guilty
Day 29 – A song from your childhood
Day 30 – Your favorite song at this time last year

...can you squeeze me into an empty page of your diary and supernaturally change me?

2010-12-29T17:44:00.008Z

I just got back from the experience that is over two hours at the hairdressers...

I go to this sweet little place in Herne Hill. Here, if you're interested. It's great as it has a big window looking out over the centre of the village - the bakery, the florist, the pub and the station - so it's an A1 location for people watching.

No matter how much I like the place, though, going to the hairdressers is always at least a bit, say 37.6%, scary. For everyone, right?

This time I was, in the first instance, most traumatised to find I had been assigned a male hairdresser. Sexist, I know. I just thought, oh no, he'll think my hair is minging and say to all his friends 'urgh I had this girl with the most horrible horrible hair in today...' and they'd all be like 'urgh, horrible horrible witch' and stuff like that and things.

So he made me a little anxious, to say the least, when he appeared behind me and I saw his tattooed arm reflected in the mirror.

I needn't of worried though. He was actually completely ace. When the assistant girl offered me a magazine I declined, instead opting to take my book, Stuart Murdoch of Belle and Sebastian's diaries, out of my bag.

I saw him spy my book and then, moments later he went over and turned off the radio, plugged in his iPod and treated the almost empty salon to a delightful playlist full of The Smiths, Belle and Sebastian and various other delights.

It turned out to be one of the top moments for me of the past few weeks - looking out at the gloomy gloomy day at the folk in their new Christmas wellies braving the drizzle for a little trip to The Blackbird Bakery as Mozza narrated the dispiriting yet somehow beautiful afternoon's happenings of SE24.

I think i'm quite pleased with the job the man did. It's shorter than i've had my hair for years. But that is what I asked for. And it's redder too, despite only going in for a tint on the ends where my bleaching days of yore mean the colour is lighter than my natural red, no matter what I do.

Here are a few snaps.

What do you think? It's a bit too dark in this room to take decent pics with Photobooth and my camera is out of action. Still, you get the idea.

Peace out.

SS x

"You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats."

2010-12-29T10:19:00.007Z

I'm lazing around in bed, reading an excellent and animating book that Chicken gave to me for Christmas, flicking through another, watching cute videos of shocked hamsters and generally enjoying myself rather a lot.

Shortly I need to drag myself up out of bed and go through to play with Poppy before doing some post-festive tidying away of all this new stuff we've acquired and then nipping out to have my unruly ginger tresses sorted out at the hairdressers.

Christmas was cool and the past month has been completely mental, but i'm not really in the right frame of mind for a long rambling catch up today, so I'll stick with what's on my mind right now. Cats.

I have Louis here with me. Louis Louis. I've only introduced our two cats, Louis and Billie, on this blog once before. And since that fleeting introduction quite a lot has happened in relation to our relationship with them.*

*no matter how many times I try to rephrase that sentence I can't get it right, it's like my writer's brain has switched off for this week off work. Avoiding the busman's holiday thing. So apologies for the clumsy language and brackets galore.

Before I explain take a little glimpse at my bed buddy...

He's the bestest cat a girl could ask for. Love him a lot.

So, let me tell you about the cats in our lives and what's been occurring.

To explain all of this properly I need to do a really quick flash back to the summer when we first moved in and got the cats.

Our landlord had a cat when he lived here, so, when we picked up the kittens from the RSPCA, our backdoor already had a cat-flap ready and waiting for them, although it had been taped up.

So, after a few weeks of having the teeny kitteny Billie and Louis we tore the tape away and opened the cat-flap up for them. 'Go off and explore' we said to them nervously. And that they did.

Probably a week or so after we started to let them go off on their adventures, Chicken was out on some boozy night out and I was in bed doing not much at all. Much like now, in fact. I think I was watching Coronation Street on the itv catch-up thing on my Macbook.

I felt a weight jump up on to the bed, I must have been drifting off a bit because I remember seeing a flash of black and thinking 'oh hai Louis' but not having enough energy to sit up and talk to him.

Anyway, probably half an hour passed. Louis had curled up at my feet but was really restless. Making lots of noise and rolling around. It was really quite distracting and, finding myself in need of a wee, I decided to sit up and carry him in to the kitchen and his bed and out of my way.

It was only then that I took a good look at the feline at my feet and realised it wasn't Louis at all. It was a huge fat black and white cat that looked exactly like Louis, only in an XXXL form. They even had the same half a white moustache.

I felt a little violated to have been joined in bed by a stranger, but he seemed friendly enough, so I just took him through to the back of our flat where the cat food and the cat-flap, did my wee, and then went back to bed.

This impudent black and white mog made several appearances - in our living room, in our kitchen, sunbathing in our garden - over the weeks that followed.

And, so much did he look like Louis, Poppy gave him the name 'Louis's Dad' in the actual real life belief that he was Louis's biological father. Sweet.

No sooner had he been given both his new title and parental responsibilities, than he disappeared. And we didn't see him for aaagggees. He'd pop up in conversation every now and then. But Louis didn't seem to miss him so we weren't too fussed.

Fast forward a couple of months and Billie started acting very strangely.

She kept going out and then just not coming back for days and days. The first time we were worried sick. Eventually she turned up at a local vet's surgery. They managed to contact us via her first owner who had had her microchipped (weird that she got them both microchipped yet gave them up and back to the RSPCA before they were 5 weeks old...)

After than incident we kept Billie inside as often as we could, but as soon as we let her out that'd be it. She'd be off for at least 48 hours. At first, Chicken used to get a bit upset, especially when she went through a period of coming in smelling of someone else's perfume (she really did) but after a while we accepted it.

I guess we started to get used to it...

In the meantime Louis had metamorphosed from a scared, shaking little tyke, very untrusting of humans, in to the world's most affectionate cat. I mean, we haven't had it verified by the Guinness Book of Records or owt but I'd question anyone who claimed to have a cat who lavished more love on its cohabiting humans.

Anyway, I digress (forgive me, It's hard not to with this story.)

One evening, Chicken was in the kitchen unpacking some shopping (probably putting everything in the wrong place thinking 'I know where to store the loaf of bread - on top of the toaster, genius') when the cat-flap went. He span around and was relieved to see Billie who had been off on her adventures for three days at least on this particular occasion.

Quickly though, Chicken realised something was very wrong. Very wrong indeed. Because Billie was wearing a collar, complete with tags, with someone else's phone number on it!

Someone else had claimed ownership of our cat!

And here she was, flouncing in to the kitchen, pawing at the cupboard the cat food's in in search of tasty salmon...

Chicken immediately phoned the number on her collar and the guy that answered claimed he had only put the collar on her as a means to contact her owners. It seems Billie had been spending quite some time at his house (in the street at the back of ours), even sleeping on his bed most nights.

Outrageous. What a little harlot.

Attempts to keep her inside were, and still are, completely fruitless so these days she's swanning in every day or two for a couple of hours and then wandering back to her 'other' house. We stay in touch with the guy on the next street and call him if we haven't seen her for a few days...

Perhaps most bizarrely of all, he said that when he first put the collar on her, he had calls from two other families asking about her as she was always in their houses too. Unbelievable.

At the same time all of this was going on, when Chicken and I were working our way through the negative emotions that come from rejection and abandonment, who should come back in to our lives than Louis's Dad.

This time, over a period of days and then weeks, he basically became like part of the furniture. We'd get in from work to find him curled up on our bed with Louis. He took over the armchair in our dining room as his bed of choice, and he snacked on the biscuits and meat we left out for Louis (and Billie...) each day.

He's now like part of the family. He begs for food off of our plates (he's a distinctly podgy cat) and we even had to introduce him to our cat sitter who was popping in over Christmas to put down food as we didn't want her to turf him out.

We have no idea where he's from or who he belongs too. All we do know is that the name 'Louis's Dad' has stuck fast. Poor little moggy.

Cats really are the most curious of creatures. I love having them around.

A cat-flap is a briliant thing if you love cats. As well as Louis's Dad we have intermittent visits from pretty much every one of the neighbourhood cats. One day I walked in the kitchen to find five of them in various comfortable positions around the dining room. It's like some sort of day centre our flat is.

It's just a shame Billie doesn't want to be part of it anymore :-(

Anyway, I'd better go, I've just had another visitor and she needs some attention:

Happy Almost New Year

Sara Sizzle

PS - the other day we were walking down our street and I saw a giant ginger fat fat cat and I said to Poppy 'look, it's Billie's mum', looking, as it did, like an XL version of Billie.

'Don't be STUPID Mummy' was Poppy's reply. 'That's not Billie's mum, that's just a ginger cat.'

Ha. Should have known better.

Do something pretty while you can...

2010-10-10T13:22:00.005Z

Poppy and I spent the morning doing cutting and sticking and things.

It's my favourite thing for us to do together.

We each made lots of pictures. We've swapped our favourite ones and are going to stick them on our bedroom walls. . .

Encouraging Pops to be creative, enjoy creating things and use her imagination is really super important to me.

I was listening to 'We Rule The School' on my iPod on the way to pick up the papers earlier today. It really resonates with my hope that I can help Poppy to see her childhood and adolescence as an opportunity to explore every possibility, be herself and enjoy the freedom she has that us boring old grown-ups don't always have the chance to delve back in to very often.

Listen to it on this little YouTube video. Possibly the prettiest song in the whole world.

Write About Love...

2010-09-28T20:08:00.020Z

I've missed the Sizzle. Really I have.

But sometimes the sizzle runs low when you're working full-time, consumed by an ever bloody battle against domestic entrohpy and battling the bedtime tantrumyness of a wilful 3 year old scampstrel...

Excuses excuses.

Still, I'm alive.

Hurrah.

And fastly approaching the (again) nothingness age of twenty eight years.

Here I am, 27-and-a-lot year old me.

I still love leopard print above most other things. I still spend more time watching reality television than the average death-row prisoner sepends staring at the ceiling in his cell.

I still haven't finshed my novel.

I still drink way too much white wine.

I still take photos of my feet ... most days.

In fact, you name it, loving Poppy, having too many clothes, sharing X Factor excitement with the ever-understanding Chicken, beige dinners, nicotine cravings, badges, kittens, CHICO, ballet pumps, cheese, writing, procrastinating, dashing about a hamster on acid, moaning, laughing, flopping my tired legs over Chicken every evening on the sofa, Kirsty, Phil, too many candles and not enough sleep, a work-ethic and capacity for talking about work to rival Victoria Beckham (what? she works hard, defo.) and a never decreasing adoration of nerdy men, things pretty much roll on with the same tedious monotony/ fabulousness (depends what time of day you ask) in Sizzle Land.

So what is new?

Hmmm...

I have a niece.

Oh yes. Most excitingness of 2010. My sister Katie had an ikkle pickle bambino called Maise-Moo. OK, strike the 'moo' that's just me. But she's super ace. As ace as CHERYL COLE, at least.

Look, here she is...

Oh, that's not the best pic is it? Pesky bambinos. Try again:

Beaut. huh?

Love the little tyke. It's weird being an aunt. It's like love-o-rama. WIthout the eat-your-own-Rimmel-nailpolish-decorated-hand panic. I like it. Love it.

The Pops loves Maisy-Moo. Even if she has become the world's most teenage toddler. I'm not even sure she's a toddler anymore.

Look at her... all grown-ed up:

What else is new?

Ooooh, we moved!

Yes. Really.

Again.

A-FRIGGIN-GAIN!

This time, to leafy Dulwich where the schools are genius producing and the deli-style shops sell things like orgainic British asparagus for £5.60 a pop.

Here's a little glimpse at the new flat:

The new flat is super-nice. Love it a lot. Sometimes I feel like a chav in a shell-suit on Bond Street when I stumble home with my Costcutter wine I have to admit. But it's worth it. Location location and all that malarky.

Here's some exciting news...

We got CATS.

RSPCA rescue kittens. Found in a BIN. Little Billie (Piper) Sizzle and Rather Big Louie (Theroux / Walsh) Sizzle.

They bring an extra element of chaos to our already ridiculousness-of-a-life-ness in amazing and truely sizzling ways.

One day they even drageed in half a dead rat.

Eeek.

Long term readers of The Sizzle will know why this may cause an over average amount of distress for Chicken and I. But if you need a reminder, check out a past post on the previous animal residents of chez sizzle here.

They're cuties thought. Looky.

Oh hai, we're just havin' an ikkle cuddle:

Sweet, huh?

On nights I get broody I try to convince Chicken we should get more rescue kittens. One in every shade of kitten-colour. One to coordinate with every ASOs purchased outfit.

I don't think he's much in to the idea.

Poppy becomes a calender girl

So, as you may or may not know, I bloomin' LOVE Belle and Sebastian. They're super ace. I would say my iPod is on music>artists>Belle and Sebastian roughly 42.7% of the time.

SO when they announced a photo competition to promote thier new album I was very excited.

The big idea was that their new (seeming likely to be AGAIN amazing) record is called Belle and Sebastian Write About Love. And whilst genius song-writer, lyrical god and all-around sexy-as-anything Stuart Murdoch was doing the artwork for the album, he got Kim from the ace band, Zoey Van Goey, to write 'Write About Love' in chalk in a few secluded spots in Glasgow, and took her picture.

He asked fans to do that same. Amazing. Ace idea huh?

You can see all the entires here.

Anyways... I did a fair few entries... looky looky.

And, after a roller coaster ride of a month, during which Stuart himself called me a 'WEIRDO - Good Weird' (YES! It was one the proudest moments of my life to date) one of my pictures has been picked to be in Belle and Sebastian's 2011 calendar.

This is the pic:

In return Chicken and I are off to see them in December at Birmingham Symphony Hall and I'm expecting a 'parcel' (yes *squeals* intriguing) from them sometime soon.

Oh god. I love Belle and Sebastian in a scary and all-consuming fashion.

Poppy's photo also features in their first episode of Belle and Sebastian TV which you can see here (or on the video I embedded a few weeks back, but it's sitting weird on my page).

Belle and Sebastian TV.

Beautiful songs. All 3 on that video.

I started making some jewellery.

OK, this is a work-in-progress as i've counted tonight and i've done a total of seventy six designs... but I've started making some jewellery which I'm hoping some people might like.

Because my camera is being A FOOL I can't download the latest pics. But here are a few to wet your nose for some Sizzle Jewels:

I was loathed to post those pics as I think my stuff has got much better in the past month or two and the latest pics will not download. RAGE. Still, it gives you an idea.

Anyways, as I said. Things are, pretty much, Sizzling along as usual here. But I WILL. I will. Update. My darling Sizz.

So,my lovelies, stay frosty.

And see you soon.

Promise.

Double super promise with pink glittery sprinkles on top.

Peace out sizzlers.

SS x

PS - I'll leave you with this which pretty much is ME at the moment, in lovely musical form.

"But we don't have the money
(money makes the wheels and the world go round)
Forget about it, honey

Make me dance, I want to surrender
Your familiar arms, I remember..."

Love. LOVE with a capital L. O. V. and E.

The Curse Of Being Totally Useless At Life

2010-03-12T22:41:00.007Z

I really very much a lot need to get better at life.

Just been thinking this more and more recently. Why are some people able to:

- Organise

- Plan

- Save

- Own fewer clothes

- Have children that look immaculate. Or at least less like they have slept in a wheelie bin and then been dressed by Russell Brand

- Piss less than an alarming amount of people off

- Know what standing orders are going out of their bank account

- And not give silly money to charities every month that they don't even have any strong emotions about. But none to ones they do

- Give up smoking, once and for all

- Never lose their wallet

- Hire a Polish cleaner

- Sit still

- Go to sleep without worrying about animals in pain

- or without having to be read a story to (to switch off my brain) like a strange overgrown toddler

- Not eat meals 3 times a week that consist solely of the colour beige

- etc.

Huh, huh?

Anyway.

Chicken is starting actually REAL LIFE driving lessons tomorrow.

Oh. God.

This is going to lead to a whole host of long and detailed anecdotes about his clutch control.

He is also going to start a creative writing course on Friday nights.

In short he is trying to be better at life.

This is a positive step.

But it means not having my LoveFilm companion/leg rest with me more often than normal.

Meaning MORE Fridays like this one where I eventually get the Popstrel to bed and then spend my evening eating processed carbs, smoking on the balcony and watching Sky Real Life documentaries about unfortunate humans.

Well.

It stops now.

Oh yes.

I am NOT going to do that.

I am going to do something more constructive.

Last week I watched a BBC documentary and then a Channel 4 documentary about Real Life magazines. Awesome huh? I mean, it's like they've realised I watch more television than any other human on earth and so ploughed money galore in to television specifically made for me.

But, with the whole 'useless at life' thing that got me thinking...

Why why why is my Real Life novel (which Chicken thinks should be called Real Life, but that I am adamant is going to be called Smuggling Peanuts*) FINISHED and ready to send to publishers at this point?

Huh?

Because I am useless at life. That is why.

I was just rereading the opening of it. Needs a rewrite. But I thought I'd post it here in the hope that if some of you read it and comment on it I will be gifted with enthusiasm to finish it.

I have around 20,000 words in total. But I will just post the first couple of pages.

I’m a chain smoker. My Marlboro Light. Like a sixth declining finger. Even now.

I’m a white wine drinker. Buckets of it. Dry, when possible. And preferably cold. I’m a borderline alcoholic. I’m a lush.

I drink myself to sleep to dull my insomnia. Insomniac. Worrier. If I count sheep I can’t stop and lay there until morning. 10,987, 10,988, 10,989…

I hear the beeping of the northern line tube train doors in my restless, sweaty sleep.

I don’t know the date of my parents’ wedding anniversary and have a nagging feeling that it may have been last week.

I’m a teenager. Inside at least.

I’m a journalist. Just like I always wanted to be.

I’m 26.

I feel 16.

I’ve been here two years now. Two years, three months and two days. And. And, I like my job.

I love my job.

I write stories about other people’s misery. Adultery. Cancer. Adultery. Prostitution. Smack heads. Black heads. Boob jobs. Bullying. A bit more adultery. A bit more cancer. Lung. Breast. Lots of breast. Left, right. I write from their point of view. Or the magazine’s. Never my own.

My life is in the third person or somebody else’s first. I like it that way.

I write for a ‘real life’ magazine and I have no life.

Real

Life.

I can’t do crosswords.

I have no common sense.

I’m single. I’ve been single for six weeks.

Six weeks and two days and thirty-seven minutes.

Thirty-seven or thirty-nine, depending on which line exactly was the one that put the nail in. Dumped. ‘I’ve been seeing someone else’. That was the first one. ‘I love her’, the second. Two minutes apart. Almost exactly.

Heart ripped out. Stamped on.

I cry a lot.

I am pathetic.

I’m a good friend when I try hard but so easily neglect. I’m neglectful. I’m forgetful. My whole life is chaos.

I store diamond earrings in bin bags and I’ve lost my passport. I have seven months worth of ironing piling up on my hallway floor. Clothes I wont ever wear and couldn’t afford to buy in the first place. My fridge is full of Chardonnay and I don’t even like Chardonnay. My make-up bag contains no lids. I’ve run out of toothpaste. My handbag is full of empty fag packets and broken lighters and lipgloss and pens (again sans-lid). Matches, laddered tights. Empty bottles of Evian. A diary I’ve never written in. I usually forget my keys.

I haven’t watched anything but ITV2 for three days because I’ve lost the remote.

I don’t know anything about current affairs.

I can’t drive. I couldn’t afford to learn if I wanted to. I’m scared of cars.

I’m scared of a lot of things.

Cotton wool.

Treading on a fish.

Dying.

Death.

Clowns, of course.

Bank statements.

I am in debt.

Overdraft. Student loan. My Dad. Yes My Dad. And I’m 26 (outside).

I haven’t paid my phone bill for three months.

I’m a slut. I’m actually a slut. One bloke for a year (one year, two months, two days) then straight in to bed with Daniel. What was I thinking?

I wasn’t.

I was drinking, I was chain-smoking, I was single, pathetic. I was chaos. I was juvenile. I was worrying. I was a slut.

A slut who had just been dumped. I wasn’t thinking.

I have the lowest pain threshold in the world. If I stub my toe I wail for an hour.

I’m a hypochondriac.

My doctor hates me.

I’m paranoid.

I never eat breakfast. In fact I often forget to eat at all.

Forget.

I don’t remember the last time I managed 5-a-day. Or even 1.

I’ve been dumped.

Dumped for Sian from advertising sales who, may I add, won employee of the month this morning for selling three full-page ads on a four-issue deal for porcelain plates, collectable dolls and special edition stamps adorned with pictures of fat corgies.

Sian. With her fucking double Ds and her fucking skinny jeans and her fucking fucking my fucking boyfriend.

She got a bottle of Champagne and some flowers and a voucher in a green envelope for John Lewis that she’ll probably drink and smell and spend with Michael. My Michael. And he’ll probably put in the extra and buy her a pink iPod Nano just like the one I had. The one I had. And lost.

When Sian’s win was announced everybody cheered and clapped and said well done. Even though they know what she’s done to me. Even me. Clapping.

Pathetic, like I said.

I am almost blonde. I am almost pretty. I am a size 10 and I’d like to be a 6. I am almost intelligent and almost successful, for my age at least (that’s 16. Not 26.)

I am a little bit neurotic. I have mild OCD. I had an ‘almost’ eating disorder when I was 14 and once got described as ‘a low level Courtney Love’. I’ve never had depression and always kind of wish I had. I want to be seen as quirky but it comes across as psychotic. Or worse, boring.

This morning I walked 2745 steps with my umbrella up and then realised it wasn’t raining. And hadn’t been since yesterday.

I wear mismatched bras with ugly pants. I never want to have sex again.

When I was five I had a pet goldfish called Willy. Willy. I overfed it and it died. It? ‘He’, I guess.

The day after it died my Mum drove me to the pet shop and bought me a new one (‘Fanny’) that got eaten by my brother’s cat. Four hours and thirteen minutes later. When I left it on the kitchen table to go and make myself some toast. Because I’d forgotten breakfast.

I am useless I am useless I am useless.

But none of this matters. It wouldn’t have.

I had a while. Years. I could have sorted myself out.

I still could.

I still…

It’s just too late. Too late now.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What the fucking fuck am I going to do?

I’m pregnant. Pregnant.

My period was four weeks late when I noticed. Four weeks.

And here I am. In the toilet of The Regent. Two First Response peed-on pee rods, some very clear pink lines, a six-tenths empty pack of ten. And a baby. Apparently.

I’m a single, chaotic, chain smoking, alcoholic, bulimic, pregnant PREGNANT slut. In a pub toilet. That is me. The first person me.

And. To top it all off. I don’t know who the father is.

Michael or Daniel.

‘Come on down’.

The poor poor poor little bastard.

Impregnation scenario one.

Friday 20^th June 2008.

Daniel Shreeve, 31, from Walsall.

The good stuff

He’s lost the brummie accent.

Steady job - has worked as the advertising sales manager since the magazine launched in 2003. February 2003.

Nice.

You have to give him that.

Daniel Shreeve, 31, I must say, is nice.

What else?

He has short brown hair. Brown eyes. He’s 5foot11 and maybe a half. He’s quite clever and quite sexy and, if I remember correctly, fairly well endowed.

Don’t lie.

Very well endowed.

He wears adidas shell-toe trainers and cords. Every day. He wears various t-shirts in brown and blue and black and grey. Each with their own uniquely irritating logo or slogan or bandname or, sometimes, stain.

He’s sweet.

He’s never made me laugh.

He’s quite fit. I guess.

I close my eyes for a second, Remember that night.

Fuck.

We’re playing pool.

The rest of them have gone on somewhere else. We stayed saying. ‘We’ll just have one game’. We are both off our faces and he is winning. I ask him for help.

I am such a cliché.

He stands behind me and rests his fingers on my forearm.

His lips are so close to my ear I can feel his breath in my hair. It smells of lager and chewing gum and cigarettes all at once. Just like mine does.

I lean back into him, daring him to touch me more. I don’t know why I’m still flirting when I know, we both must, that it’s going to happen anyway. It’s been heading that way since 8.21pm when he bought me a large wine when I asked for a small one then touched my leg by accident then kept it there out of anyone else’s sight under the table.

His hands move to my shoulders and now he’s definitely not helping me anymore.

I should be scared.

I haven’t fucked anyone but Michael in the past two years.

But I’m not. I’m not scared. I’m drunk.

But I know exactly what I’m doing.

Leave the old Kate behind.

Now his hands are slipping off my shoulders, towards my chest. I move forward a little so my breasts touch his fingertips. We’re in the middle of The Grapes on a Friday night surrounded by men in suits and girls in blouses and a few yellowing piss-heads that have been here since lunchtime.

The music is loud. It’s Britney Spears or Mariah Carey or something like that and I wonder if anyone in the room likes it.

His lips brush against my neck, and I cock my head so I’m closer.

As he presses against my back my heart catches in my throat.

His razor stubble brushes against my bare neck.

I remember something.

We’ve been this close before, once, I’d forgotten.

It was before Michael. Just after I started here and someone had a birthday and someone (me) hadn’t had a shag for eight months.

Anyway, that time, he’d got weird. Or scared. Or something. He’d stopped things.

This time, I bring my fingers to his and squeeze them, coaxing his touch tighter around my breasts.

‘Is that better?’ I turn to him and lift my hands to the back of his head. I pull his mouth down on mine and my heart pounds in my ears. He’s surprised and stiffens against me, starts to push me away.

Now that it’s happening, and it’s late and I’m pissed, and I really really don’t want to sleep on my own again tonight, I’m not going to let him stop it. I open my mouth and his tongue slides in. That’s when he pulls away ‘Kate,’ he says, holding me by the shoulders. ‘Kate, Michael’s my friend.’

‘Michael’s a cunt’ (did I really say that?) I grab his wrists, snake my fingers up his forearm and pull him to me again. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

Thirteen minutes later we’re in a cab back to his place.

His place. I’m trying to remember what it looked like.

Leather sofas, wooden floors. A dead plant. Loads of computer games and DVDs and bits of computer everywhere. Once white ceiling ever-so-slightly yellowed by nicotine.

Sometime in the hours after arriving I kiss him. Maybe it is two minutes after we walk in the door.

I am standing in his kitchen which is filthy and he is leaning on his kitchen bench, hands in pockets. He has a huge bag of teabags. PG tips. Thousands of them. And I wonder if he stole them from work. Or if he just really likes tea.

He’s saying something about his fridge being empty and I move across the room close to him.

He is wearing a Star Wars t-shirt.

I hate Star Wars.

I kiss him, pressing, lips closed and soft. Like a mother kissing a baby. What am I doing?

For one instant he is still. For one instant I think ‘Fuck, what am I doing?’ and that there is nothing I can say.

Then he moves towards me. He trails his closed mouth across my top lips so I can feel the tiny prickles.

I like stubble.

His hands come out of his pockets and cup my face while he kisses my mouth. Inside his mouth seems too soft for a man. Softer than Michael’s. Fuck. Fuck Michael. Concentrate.

I wonder how he chews with such a soft mouth.

Stop being so fucking weird I think, you shouldn’t think that, not now.

His mouth is warm. He knows how to kiss.

I’m drunk. I’m so drunk. I am dizzy and hungry. And. And oh my god he knows how to kiss.

Skin near my hip is cold against his hand. His hair is soft.

He pulls up my vest top, it’s over my head, and his fingers are so much darker than my skin that I seem brand new.

I am.

Leave the old Kate behind. Have some fun.

He does not seem afraid of my body.

He does not scan my flesh to check for lumps that should not be there.

I should have worn a better bra.

I should have worn my Agent Provocateur balcony bra. The red one. I should have thought this over a bit more carefully. I should have waxed. Is my deodorant still working from this morning?

He’s unhooked my boring black bra and his left hand has found my right breast. It is cold and quite rough for someone with a sales job.

He pauses for a moment . Exhales, perhaps he is also disappointed that I’m not wearing a red lace bra. Or perhaps I look panicked. Like a girl who has only had six lovers in her entire life and only one in years who broke her heart just two days before.

He frowns and swallows and tilts his head so our foreheads touch.

‘We can…would you rather…’

I shake my head. I lean forward and kiss the side of his throat. He bends his head back and groans. Now he kneels on the floor and I can feel his lips and tongue on my side, sliding around towards my belly button.

He says ‘get down here’.

It’s filthy. The floor is filthy.

Leave the old Kate behind.

I kneel down so that I am almost eye level with him. He has both my breasts in his hands now.

I try to count his kisses , but then he takes my nipple in his mouth and, fuck, I can’t count. Not a single number will go through my mind.

I wish he’d open the window. It’s warm in here and I can barely breathe and it’s deathly still and I’m so pissed. And I keep thinking, try and remember, try and remember it all.

Why. Why did I think that?

The taste of him is in my mouth and in the air and in my hair. The taste of him is under my nails and whenever he kisses me he must only taste himself.

Looking back what is strange is what he didn’t notice and what he did. He didn’t seem to notice that my tummy has a little rounded bulge. But he did notice the small white scar on my right knee from when I feel over chasing my brother who’d stolen my roller-skate out of spite when I was six. He kissed it and bit it.

I’m sure he noticed my pubic hair needed a trim.

When he fucked me he started off very patient, very slow, and only when I started begging did he speed up.

I felt my orgasm begin a long way away. Soon, he could feel my muscles squeezing and shivering and he held me tighter and kissed my neck. It started small and shy but in the end I tried to pull away because, god, it’s all too much. Too much feeling, too much tensing. My back arched. My thighs squeezed him.

I didn’t count how many strokes he took, unlike every time with Michael, I didn’t notice how many times he said my name.

After we finish and catch our breath, the cold of his kitchen floor tightens my breath. His semen is smeared on my thighs. His semen is on the floor too. But that doesn’t mean…

He should clean up before one off us slips and falls over.

And why the fuck does he have all those teabags?

* Actually it should almost definitely have a real life mag headline as a title. Like 'Tortured to Death By My Dad's Severed Finger' or 'The Day My Vagina Collapsed'

Food for thought people, food for thought.

I've got a new baby...

2009-11-22T16:36:00.002Z

He's so so cute.

I hereby declare you Generation A, as much at the beginning of a series of astonishing triumphs and failures as Adam and Eve were so long ago

2009-11-22T14:15:00.005Z

If you like Douglas Coupland, and have read Generation A (or want to), you will love this video.

And if you like that video you might want to read my latest blog post on sarasizzle.com

And if you like my blog post then... awesome. Thanks.

Things that I want...

2009-11-22T11:07:00.005Z

A dressing table...

Oh how I desire you.

A well lit venetian mirror. Draped with Gucci flora foulard scarves.

Neat lines of unique minature perfume bottles.

A huge and ornate dusky pink vintage atomizer.

A giant bottle of Channel number five.

A tiny flawless teddy Poppy bought me for mothers day.

Casually kicked off silk slippers next to plush, clean white vanity stool.

Red lipstick.

Crème De La Mer moisturiser.

A crystal glass ashtray.

A small but devine selection of Molton Brown scented candles. Spicy ginger. Nutmeg.

Swarovski crystal treasure boxes. Three of them in different sizes of miniature.

Drawers lined with beautifully pattered paper - lightly scented with rose water.

One filled with pretty jewellery boxes containing diamond earrings and vintage pearl bracelets, the other H.Couture lipsticks and mascaras, a horde of Touche Éclat.

Ah.

That is the dream.

I am currently lusting over this one in particular:

Although I sense my final choice may well be an antique.

Yes I am a girly girl.

Well, I can be when it takes my fancy.

Someone find me my dream home then lend me a few tens of thousands of pounds to furnish it.

Pretty please?

“I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man who had no feet.”

2009-11-22T10:44:00.008Z

My little sidekick... Or, Her little sidekick...

2009-11-19T23:10:00.007Z

My Pop Star is a bit off-colour at the moment.

She has a cold that's gone on her chest.

I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT.

When.

She.

Is.

Ill.

Or sad. Or angry. Or frustrated. Or uncomfortable.

Her cold, coupled with:

- the terrible twos (and they really can be terrible)

- her recent referral to an orthopaedic paediatrician as she has a combination of what is effectively knock-knees (although I'm summing that up from various things the doctor has said) plus re-accuring knee and leg pains she's complaining of...

I'm worried sick.

I cried my eyes out on Tuesday when I had to drop her off at nursery - - usually a task I reserve for Chicken as the picking-up nursery slot is oh-so-much-more fun.

(The 'Mummy Mummy' *shrieks of joy you are here YOU ARE HERE* when you arrive to pick her up... in stark comparison to the looks of utter disbelief at the callous abandonment as she sits down to munch her Cornflakes when you drop her off are a harsh reality of putting your toddler in childcare. Highs. And. Massive MASSIVE lows).

On Tuesday, a bit tired, a bit full of cold, as I went to leave she just looked so utterly heartbroken to be left alone with the other children and nursery nurses.

Then, as I left, her tears subsided for a moment when the nursery nurse said

'let's watch Mummy walk away from the window'.

*nod nod* from Poppy.

Heartbreaking.

I walked down the path from the nursery with tears streaming down my face. Looking up at the 1st floor window at Pops in the arms of a practical stranger as she watched me walk away.

Watching me walk away something that she relished. A final glimpse of mummy before tea-time.

ARGH!

I rang Chicken in a right state.

You just get so many emotions.

Guilt.

Sadness.

Confusion.

And, in all honesty, many times...

Relief.

But it's a negative emotion. A negative relief.

Exhaustion playing tricks on your brain.

This Tuesday morning she managed to break my heart. I still feel a bit broken.

I'm sure she's ok.

My mother's instinct tells me she is often playing on the attention she gets when she's ill...

She seems to be 'feeling poorly' more than ever.

Strange, when at nursery when she 'felt poorly' last week she got to go to a 1st b-day party with her absolute favourite nursery nurse and act as a helper who was then worshipped by the rugrats in the ever-snotty-baby-room.

Often, the running around like a loon and screaming for 'Dora.. or... Diego PLEASE', her desire to 'EAT SOME ORANGE JUICE AND CHOCOLATE COINS... NOW!' comes only seconds after her seeming declarations of heart-wrenching illness.

'My tummy hurts'

'My leg hurts'

'I feel very sad Mummy'

Those are her favourites.

And of course these declarations of unhappiness make me stand up to attention like a army recruit in danger of not 'passing out' and letting everyone down.

Because I love her.

And love does weird things.

Even when I know, or am 99.9997% sure she's just after attention... I do what she asks or what makes her feel better...

Because I want her to be happy.

Anyway, I'm getting depressing.

Tell me to shut up.

To talk about Pops more generally, putting all this aside.

My GOD she is sweet at the moment.

Tonight, when I had finished reading her her stories (The Gruffalo, twice, The Bear Snores On, once, Where are You Blue Kangaroo, three times) she asked for her phone.

She has a phone in her room.

Not a working phone I add.

A Hello Kitty phone I got from my work collegaues as a gift a few years back.

I hand her the phone.

'I'm going to call Auntie Amanda' she says.

'OK, what for?' I say...

'Shhhh' she says back annoyed.

(pause - she holds phone to ear concentrating...)

Hello.

Hi. Yes. Auntie Amanda?

It's just Poppy calling....

Yes, hello.

Yes, hi.

It's just me.

I am in bed.

Yes.

I'm ok. Thank you.

I'm with Mummy.

Ok.

Yes. Ok.

Love you too.

(pause)

I will.

Bye.

Bye-Bye'

Then, she hands the phone back to me.

How on earth does a two-year-old imagine such a conversation in her mind?

How on earth could anything be more sweet?

More clever.

More Poppy.

Argh. I love her so much.

I dread the day she's not my little side-kick anymore. But I know that day will come.

Because I can't be one of 'those' mums.

However much I'd love to be.

I don't think I should be out clubbing with Pops when she's 16 and I'm 39/40.

But, then again, that's not that old is it? ;)

Peace out

S S

xxxx

Photos of my Photos

2009-11-18T16:21:00.008Z

I've just finished framing a few of my photos.

It makes me smile like a post Sunday roastie satisfied Cheshire Kitten.

This one (below) has appeared on this blog at some time or another.

I don't have names for any of my photos.

I struggle with it.

Unbelievably as I'm a writer by trade.

This photo was taken in Prague at Museum Kampa. Awesome place.

I have an ongoing project which I am obsessing over right now.

As you know, I take all these stupid photos of my feet.

After watching Lost in Translation again the other week I have decided I am going to make a massive canvas with all these photos in a huge collage, complete with the Scarlett Johansson quote from the film that is oh-so appropriate for my adolescent obsession with photography.

"I tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre. I guess every girl goes through a photography

phase. You know... taking dumb pictures of your feet."

Anyway - particularly like the one above so I'm framing it. It'll be in the collage too though.

This next one was actually taken by Chicken in the park in September. Although I have done loads of Photoshop work on it and did all the camera settings, so I profess it is my image.

My legs and the back of the Pop Star. Something about this makes me really happy. Probably because it's screams 'care free' to me and that's what I desire more than anything...

I love the over-exposed look to it. And Poppy's hair looks beautiful.

These pics don't do it justice. BTW - if you click on them you can see them bigger and zoom in for a closer look.

Can't seem to rearrange these photos without screwing up the HTML so here's another one of the photo from Prague...

Anyway - no idea where I'm going to hang these photos. Our flat is so tiny. We've outgrown it massively.

Time to move again.

I already have photos everywhere that i've taken and framed.

E.g. these by the kettle.

This one of Pops that I simply adore and which sits next to our polaroids from days of yore (BP - that's before Poppy)

Below (and by our sofa) are two of my faves.

Chicken always moans that the only one of my photos of him I have framed is a blur... he's just a shadowy shape.

Bad for his ego, but I love the pic.

The top image is of my two sisters on my elder sister's hen weekend when we were shopping in Birmingham.

It really captures their relationship well I think.

Click on the image to zoom in.

I have many others dotted around the flat... and many many more than are waiting to be framed.

Some days I think I like photos more than words. It's my relaxing passtime. I could take photos, edit photos, look at photos, imagine photos... all day long. And the day would go in a (excuse the pun) flash.

Here are some of the pile waiting for some wood:

In my next place I plan to have a study where I do my writing and I'm going to frame everything... eventually, money permitting - and have a mini Sizzle gallery. Can't wait. I know i'm no Rankin but I enjoy it.

And everyone should do the things that make them happy.

Especially if it can't hurt anyone!

Anyways. Enough about photos.

What do you wanna talk about next?

Danyl Johnson: The Story of an X Factor Winner - In Reverse.

2009-11-02T08:42:00.013Z

It was August 22nd 2009.

Saturday night.

After 13.6 bedtime stories, Poppy is finally in bed.

The wine is cold.

I have Twiglets.

Could life get any better?

Well yes. Yes it could.

Because on August 22nd the first X Factor show of the year started on ITV.

Chicken and I were squealing (yes literally, we really are quite pathetic when it comes to the show) as the opening credits erupted into the familiar du-da-du-dudududu....

And then, to make the evening even more of a sucsess - Danyl Johnson stepped on to the stage.

(watch this audition - again - and think about what he's really showing us here...)

Since that moment, Danyl Johnson has been a victim of a veritable storm of criticism. A hate campaign focused entirely on a insurmountable 'flaw' in his personality.

A personality 'flaw' which - I have to say - I've seen absolutely no evidence of.

Poor Danyl Johnson has been accussed of one of the most heinous of all reality television crimes.

Arrogance.

Arrogance - right up there with not being 'yourself' on Big Brother.

Overspending on The Apprentice.

Being Johnny Rotten on I'm a Celebrity.

Arrogance is one talent competition faux-pas too far for the GBP (that's Great British Public).

What completely flummoxes Mz Sara Sizzle is that, other than his (former, my god former) confidence on the stage I have seen absolutely no evidence of arrogance.

Not a shred.

Yes his performances at Simon's house were a little OTT - he did too much performing and we didn't get to hear his voice. But he was just trying to prove he was worth the quote that sealed his fate as the 'most hated contestant of all time' (does no one remember Journey South?)

Why did you do it Danyl?

Why did you provide us with, and I quote, "single handedly the best first audition...' Simon Cowell has ever heard?

What were you thinking?

Send him to the gallows.

In saying that, in being, let's be fair, honest about how amazing that audition really was, Simon set Danyl up for a rather enormous fall. And the GBP rubbed their hands in glee that they could orchestrate their part in it.

So what if he doesn't have a dead dad.

So what if he doesn't wimper like a wounded Puppy with gratitude at the end of every performance?

Danyl could go where so many others have before and milk his 'heroic' status as a teacher - as seen with the fat dinner lady a few years ago (her name escapes me), and the horrendous 'Mrs Trotman' (Beverly) who had her bloody Primary School Class in the audience every week whimpering 'WE LOVE YOU MISS TROTMAN' through the winter of 2007.

But he hasn't done that. In fact it's like we have all forgotten he's a teacher.

Good.

Why didn't they let us forget Andy was a binman all those series ago?

The perception of him as arrogant is fed by the f-ing Daily Star, stoked by a few fly-away comments in episodes past by his own mentor at judges houses, which the other judges latched on to like a starving new born baby at its exhausted mothers breast - suckling with all their might.

It's also kept alive by the fact that, well, he hasn't really said much at all.

Probably because he's afraid of what the reaction will be if he does.

People say that there is a fine line between arrogance and confidence.

I don't agree.

It all depends on the intent of the individual...

And who it is doing the labelling. And if that is the GBP - you better hope your story is right. That is fits the plot they've carved out in their head. The story of an X Factor Winner.

"If You’re Trying to Be an Ass, You’re Probably Succeeding"

But Danyl never tried to be an ass - just a good singer. A good performer.

The fact he succeeded in that makes him the most vulnerable contestant of all.

Some people thrive on their own arrogance.

The funny thing about these kinds of people is that they’re:

Often wrong,

Actually don’t know what they’re talking about,

And use arrogance to mask their lack of confidence.

Danyl Johnson does not fall in to this category.

In fact - on Saturday - he used nothing, nothing at all to mask his new found lack of confidence.

He just stayed silent. Sang slightly off-key. Looked broken. And it wasn't acting.

Everyone saw that.

So - hurray - we've beaten the confidence out of him.

That characteristic contestants past (Leona Lewis springs to mind) have been heralded for gaining throughout the shows.

Danyl just doesn't fit in to the plot line, that's all.

And we, the GBP, don't like that.

So we're reversing his story. The story of an X Factor Winner - in reverse.

The guy who could have won at his first audition, beaten down to a whimpering, teary guy 'not ready for this yet' - heck - maybe a family member will die from the hideousness of it all on the night of the final.

And maybe then the GBP will give him some credit.

A lot of people don't like confidence.

But I do. I admire it.

And I really hope he gets it back.

He's got my vote.

The original and the best - 251 days on Sara Sizzle is back...

2009-10-31T12:14:00.031Z

Hello

Long time no blog.

I'm not gunna apologise....

Not really.

I've been busy. Busy...

Busy doing all sorts of things.

Getting so stressed with work I handed in my notice and now work from home.

Dealing with a little Popstar going through those terrible twos.

Writing.

Taking photos. Of course, taking photos.

But I am back. Sizzling. And ready to take you on a whistle-stop tour of the past 251 days...

So. Ready?

The rest of February

My older sis - Katie - had her hen-weekend which involved a stay in the lovely MaMasion in Birmingham's Mailbox.

Randy Mandy (my little sis) and I shared a room - - sneaking out at 3.00am to buy chips when everyone else had already passed out from the vast amounts of cocktails, wine, wine and, well, wine...

Bringing the tone down in the hotel foyer...

The posh lunch with the oldies...

The shopping...

The preperation... (Randy's hair extensions...)

The 'look'...

The challenges...

My favourite pic of the weekend...

The girls - JenJen, Katie the Hen, Randy Mandy and Sara Sizzle...

The (soon-to-be) Bridesmaids...

The L Plate Fairy Wings... (why, of course...)

That was pretty much right at the end of February.

It was also the time I went back to work full-time.

Big. Big. Mistake.

March

March - I took a lot of photos. My photography obsession really reached new heights in March.

Feet, of course...

The view from Blackfriars Bridge... taken on a day Chicken and I took a day off to relax on the Southbank...

My mother turned 50 and dad booked a lovely private section of Hotel du Vin in Birmingham for Champagne and an awesome meal...

We spent a lot of time in the park. The park has featured heavily this year. It's a tonic Brockwell Park. One of my favourite places on the planet.

Stop chasing me Daddy... no don't... no stop...

Uncles James and Col my lovely lovely friends come over all protective...

Poppy's private bodyguards.

My second mother's day...

Spring. Spring sprung and nobody really noticed.

April

Well, the undoubted highlight of April was my big sister getting married to my lovely new brother-in-law Ste.

Me and Randy Mandy were bridesmaids...

Pops was a flower girl...

Mum and Dad were very proud...

And Katie looked beautiful...

My personal highlight of the service was Poppy shouting 'I WANT SOME CAKE, NOW' at the top of her voice...

Isn't my dad a lucky man, having such beautiful children ;)

As well as being a bridesmaid I volunteered myself to say grace at the reception...

The Sizzle Sisters (And brother)...

The groom and his angels...

Love this photo of me and the boys...

Mr and Mrs Gray...

Beautiful. Ah, love, huh?

Later in April, Chicken went to Australia to visit Ellie and I invited my good pals Trace and Rach down from Liverpool and Wolves to keep me and Pops company...

Singstar insanity...

I found some beer called 'Sara'... awesome.

Poppy developed an obsession with rabbits. It didn't last long. It's cats now...

What a beauty...

We celebrated Chicken's return with a trip to a City Farm...

May

May May. May is the month that means one thing. Poppy May. Poppy May's second birthday. A fab day indeed.

Homemade Peppa Pig cake (thanks Mum...)

The Birthday girl...

We held her party in the park. Everyone giving Pops attention meant I got a chance to catch some rays...

Pops wasn't so keen on the sunshine to begin with...

We felt an intense rivalry with a neighbouring toddler party and so James and Ste spent long periods of time trying to tie balloons to trees to make our party look more Sizzling...

The Birthday girl. Some of my favourite Poppy pics of the year so far...

I would eat her if I could... she's lovely.

And cool...

So very cool (well, she's her mother's daughter...)

The party...

June

Father's day. Poppy spent the whole month on her new 'bike' (her trike that we got for her birthday).

A sunny sunny month.

It's father's day... smile!

A trip to Wolves... the day I found out Katie is PREGNANT! Yay. The most exciting news of the year...

Poppy building 'Katie Castles' (what she called sand castles when building them with Auntie Katie)...

Me and my dad took Poppy to a toddler fun-fair.

It was hell.

But I think Poppy enjoyed it.

So did my dad...

July

July wasn't a good month.

I found a Poppy field...

Then I totally lost it with stress.

Went totally off the radar for a while.

Came out of it all ok though.

Mark let me do a photoshoot with him...

Poppy took to drinking tap water...

Then Mark and I took a trip to Bristol to spend some time trying to decide what I should do with my life...

Bristol... where people walk around topless, apparently...

That tends to be me, not chicken...

Vain...

We went to that dam thing... it rained. SO much.

We went out, we drank and smoked too much. . . losing control on a Poppy-less weekend...

August

What direction to go in?

I started work as a copywriter again. Abandoning management for solitary (heavenly) work...

And more time with Pops.

Awesome.

My mum visited.

And we went up to Wolves again...

Lots of Sunny weather. Parks. Parks. Parks.

September

The last day of Summer - we went to the park (again... with James and Col)...

We had a hideous trip to the Natural History Museum. My god that was hellish... tourist stuffed, sweaty, annoying... awful...

Poppy did lots of posing...

And (I'm sorry, I'm sorry) I started a new blog and site. SaraSizzle mark 2. It's very different to this blog though... and a better URL.

We went to visit my very best friend Karis in Oxford and went punting...

Spent long periods of time in the playground...

The leaves fell...

October

I dyed my hair red again... after going blonder and blonder for months...
Another hen-do, this time my lovely friend Rach - who got married this month in Vegas.

This hen-do featured Champagne, Karaoke, Chinese Food and Willy Straws.

Me and the hen...

Chicken, Pops and I went to Center Parcs in Suffolk.

It was awesome.

We love ducks.

Poppy loves swings.

And Chicken loves swinging her...

I love Pops...

I'm spending 12 hours a day minimum staring at a screen and so have had to start wearing my specs to try and get rid of a constant left-eye twitch...

I baked...

X Factor themed cakes.

X Factor baby! Loving it this year... more of that soon.

Poppy went sailing.

Well, we went on a pedalo.

I put too many bubbles in the bath...

We swam a lot...

And then - this week.

I went even REDDER.

And that's it.

You are up to speed.

I know I couldn't be my normal hilarious and insightful self in this photo-fest of a post. But.

I am back.

And in time to see out 2009 in true Sizzling style.

Phew, I suddenly feel like my old self again.

Peace out Sizzlers.

SS xxx

MagMyPic

2009-05-01T18:45:00.001Z

Create Fake Magazine Covers with your own picture at MagMyPic.com

Another week of feet, including Prague feet

2009-02-22T12:52:00.005Z

Valentine's Day

2009-02-15T09:13:00.005Z

Things that I want, part 9

2009-02-08T09:09:00.004Z

Behold, the Little Island Custom Robot Dolls.

Some may find these slightly (a lot) disturbing, but, personally, I would quite like one made of at least 16 of my nearest and dearest.

All you do is send off a photo to this Japanese company, and wham... 6 weeks and $2215 later you have your own mini-me or mini-someone-you-want-a-mini-version-of.

So. I don't just want one. I want one of everyone I am close to. We could have parties and watch TV together. But no one would nag me about being online too much and no one would make any mess.

Imagine.

The dolls: 80gb, 40cm high, 500mHz computer, run Windows XP, have a built in webcam, touch sensors, a speaker, and can read you RSS feeds.

Imagine.

Imagine my own Mark doll sitting in the corner of the room reading me out an icanhascheezburger feed.

Haha.

I really do want one of these.

Photo catch-up

2009-02-08T08:43:00.005Z

In summary.

We packed.

We moved.

It snowed!

2009-01-30T14:38:00.001Z

...does pirouetting around the flat to 90s Britpop count as packing? Thought so.

Another week of feet

2009-01-25T07:27:00.005Z

Things my boyfriend and I have argued about, part 2

2009-01-24T19:53:00.005Z

The other day I was having a lovely lovely soak in our not so lovely bath, feeling relaxed for the first time in a day and a half as it was helping to ease the pain of a trapped nerve in my back (long story).

Mark walks in to the bathroom, looks at me. Looks at his own girlfriend. Naked. Looks at me and says:

'I wish I was blind'.