Had a real long committee meeting with the Tri club earlier this week. Real real long. When I came out of the meeting my What’s App had been unusually inactive … not one message off Artist. Absolutely unheard of. I thought maybe he was feeling a tad ignored due to my being wrapped up with the Tri meeting all evening.
“Hey Baby … meeting was forever … you okay?” messaged Me.
“I’m fine” replied Artist.
“Are you feeling neglected?” inquired Me.
“I’m okay” replied Artist.
“You sure?” replied Me, thinking things sure felt pretty quiet.
“I have been looking at your photos on Facebook” admitted Artist.
“They upset you?” said Me surprised.
“A bit” replied Artist.
“Why?” asked Me feeling pretty nervous.
“I don’t know!” responded Artist.
“If you don’t know then I sure don’t” said Me impatiently.
“I think I found the wet T-shirt ones upsetting!” confessed Artist.
What? WHAT? Thirty years ago, when I was a pretty slim thing with pert breasts and nipples you could hang a duffle coat on, I entered a wet T-shirt competition in that classy, blue-coated, elegant, very British, holiday resort that is Pontins. Way back in 2007 I posted the hilarious shot, captured by the Pontins Photographer, onto Facebook. There is nothing bad about that photo, and in fact the nipples do look mighty fine. I am making the most horrendous face as the cold water is being poured down my chest. I am pretty sure I was in the Pontins club wearing just a bikini and a grass skirt for Hawaiian night and they gave me the T-shirt to put on just for the competition.
Artist had seen that photo and been upset.
OH MY GOD! Why?
“What on earth is upsetting about that photo?” asked Me totally mystified.
“Well I felt shocked … no-one would want to see their partner in a photo like that would they?” responded Artist.
“That photo was taken 30 years ago” replied Me feeling rather peeved,”I wasn’t your partner then for ducks drake.”
“I know Baby but the image upset me!” replied Artist.
“Truly if that has upset you then I am absolutely speechless” responded Me.
“I’m sorry Baby” replied Artist almost sheepishly.
With a huff and a puff I had enough of his stuff and turned my heart quickly into stone.
How can our very first tiff be about an ancient photo of a random drunken act thirty years ago?
“Jeez… I aint no vestal virgin” said Me with a sort of snort, “that photo aint nothing compared to some others I could show you!”
“I don’t want to know!” said my colourful non-conformist lover.
I spent the rest of the evening not speaking to him and feeling pretty stunned.
The next evening Artist arrived at my house.
“How’s your day been?” he asked, wrapping Me up in his colourful arms.
“It’s been evil” replied Me wearily, “lots of issues, tissues and a death to contend with!”
“Aw Baby …” soothed Artist “all that and you also have a twat of a boyfriend!”
” Yep …I really do!” laughed Me cuddling right up to him.
We put the tiff and ourselves to bed.
I love him so much … he is everything that I have always dreamt of my partner being in terms of intelligence, attentiveness, creativity, romance and emotional capacity. Therefore the way I see it is I have two choices.
1) Try and put this behind Me.
2) Try and put this behind Me and hide/destroy/bomb/set fire to … the photos of Me dressed as a dominatrix in Berlin, skinny dipping in Austria, dancing drunkenly on a table in Wales, riding pillion with a hot Italian, draped over Irish rugby fans, snuggled up to a rather plentiful selection of men, blah, blah, blah …
I have loved my three days off work … utter bliss. I have walked on the beach, ran in the woods, lunched out, drank copious amounts of wine, and spent three whole days with my gorgeous Artist … oh yeah and had a tattoo.
That morning Artist and Me were relaxing in bed talking about my pending tattoo. I had in my head a cute little daisy chain with lots of pretty little white flowers. Artist had something very different in his head. He wanted to design something unique and beautiful for Me. He told me the size of the flower he had in mind. I was shocked. I didn’t realise that daisies make up 10% of the worlds flowers and come in all sorts of shapes, colours and sizes. Artist was planning on creating for Me the mother of all daisies. I insisted he draw the design on to my body so I too could visualise his plans. He obediently used a felt pen to draw a large daisy on exact curve of my hip, and then two smaller daisies either side of it and then traced some stem curving upwards and downwards around my body. It was only a rough sketch, but laying there naked in Artist’s bed, seeing and feeling how his design caressed and curved around the shape of my body, I knew I should trust him.
We had a stressful hour dealing with some family stuff and so we headed to a lovely waterside pub for some lunch first. I gave myself some courage by way of an extremely large glass of Pinot Grigio which combined with the sun of the afternoon made me feel rather woozy.
We headed over to Artist’s studio. I love his studio. It is such an extension of his quirky, eccentric, multi faceted personality. Walls adorned with his portraits, pencil drawing and acrylics, quirky handmade arty farty items, crazy wall murals, half-finished paintings and drawings scattered everywhere, all things bright, colourful and beautiful. I removed my clothes and lay down on the couch, which he spun around, making my already woozy head spin deliciously. I languished there whilst he kissed and caressed my body with his lips, his hands and his needles. First the gentleness of his latex gloved touch, then the sensation of the vibrating gun as it neared my skin, followed by the hot pain of the needles searing my skin, and then back to the gentle touch and kisses again. Johnny Cash playing on the iPod. Artist singing. Me a boozy, woozy, swirly, whirly girly. It was a completely surreal but surprisingly erotic experience.
Three hours later my very first daisy was complete. It is absolutely beautiful. Far more beautiful than anything I had visualised in my head. Artist told Me I am now a ‘work in progress’ and shared how this first daisy is the centrepiece of the work and from there will grow an entwinement of colourful daisies, stem and leaves. I am delighted. I am now officially a work of art.
I started panicking about telling Daughter. I decided I just wouldn’t mention it. I was picking her up from home, to take her down to a beach near Artist for some surfing.
“Before you get back down here Daughter will know about the tattoo!” said Artist confidently.
“Never!” said Me assertively, “I shall take the secret of this daisy to my grave!”
A few hours later I was travelling with Daughter, Dog and surfboard, along the motorway. We were, as often is the case, talking about romance and men.
“I know you are really happy with Artist Mammy but please don’t get a tattoo!” implored Daughter.
There was a long silence.
Daughter looked at me quizzically.
“It’s too late!” said Me hesitantly.
“NOOOOOOOOOOO! You haven’t? I told you not to. I am really upset with you now!” scolded Daughter.
We arrived at Artist’s house a short while later. He opened the door.
“I thought I made it clear that you were not to tattoo my mother” said Daughter sternly wagging her finger at him.
My beautiful, clever, creative, talented Artist with a stroke of genius cleared himself of all blame.
“She made me do it!” he said triumphantly.
I am off work for a few days which is wonderful. I have lots of nice things planned. Walks on the beach, a trip to the cinema, some arty farty creative stuff, some gentle runs, a bike ride and a new tattoo.
I am very excited about having a new tattoo. I just love a nice bit of body art. I have decided to start a daisy chain … with one daisy for every month I am with Artist. So that is 4 daisies to be tattooed for now. Technically it is 4.5 but I think half a daisy would look pretty rubbish so will wait until the 8th March for daisy number 5.
Daughter has told Me in no uncertain terms that she is going to disown Me if I have a tattoo. She is absolutely adamant that I am not to have one. We were out at the shops and talking about tattoos. She suddenly got really suspicious and started yanking at the neck of my T-shirt and peering down it to look at my shoulders.
“You have had one already haven’t you!” she said fiercely, lifting up my top to check my back too.
“I haven’t had one silly” said Me, “but if I want one I will have one … I am 50 years of age and am not going to be told what I can and can’t do by my child!”
“Well so long as you know that if you do have one then I wont have anything more to do with you!” said Daughter super seriously.
Mother has said pretty much the same thing.
Honestly … what is it with being parented from above and below at my age?
My normally super cool BestFriendForLife is also worried about Me having a tattoo.
“Don’t do it!” she said, “It’s for life you know!”
The thing is I respect everyone’s opinion on tattoos. It is individual choice. They are not for everyone. I know this. However, I do think that I am old enough to make an informed choice about my body. I have always held back on having tattoos before as Husband2 hated them with a vengeance. Also, as when I did my Ironman I was single, I didn’t cave to the tradition of tattooing the Mdot symbol on my body. I didn’t want the fact that I had tattoos mean that the man of my dreams might overlook Me in his search for the perfect woman. I now find it pretty ironic that the man of my dreams is tattooed from head to foot.
I think that family and friends think that I am having tattoos to be more like Artist, but I think I am having tattoos to be more like myself. Having a boyfriend who is a little out of the ordinary and rather non-conformist has almost given Me the permission I needed to be that woman I used to be before Husband2 squashed my spirit and battered down my individuality.
So … I am donating my body as a blank canvas for some beautiful art work which will take Me into my old age with a big smile. Maybe the art work won’t look as wonderful when my skin has aged some more, but then my aged skin probably aint gonna look that beautiful anyway … with or without tattoos. Also I think a nice colourful masterpiece will brighten up the greyness of my old age.
So … how am I going to feel about having tattoos in twenty years time? Pretty damn fabulous I would say!
I received a letter today from university telling Me I had passed a Masters level module of my NLP and Coaching programme with a distinction. I was pretty damn happy with that. I have loads of qualifications. However, I shouldn’t really boast because, quite seriously, I am as thick as an elephants dick.
Monday night I remembered I had an early dentist appointment the next morning. I got up extra early, brushed my teeth extra fiercely, made sure to put my indestructible lippy on, and was waiting outside the dentist at 8am when it opened. The receptionist arrived to let Me in. I took a seat.
“Errr …. Ms BeeBee” said the receptionist hesitantly, “we have you down as next Tuesday for your appointment.”
“No ….its today I’m sure ” said Me assertively, and scrabbling frantically in my oversized work bag for my Blackberry.
“I’m sorry but your appointment is the 25th” said the receptionist equally assertively.
“It is the 25th isn’t it?” said Me with a wobble in my voice.
“No … it’s the 18th today” responded the receptionist with a small but annoying smirk.
I flounced out of the dentist with as much dignity as I could manage.
My utter thickness doesn’t end there.
Artist and Me were having a cuppa over at his mate’s house. My journey to visit Artist takes Me past their house. The mate was complaining that at certain times of day, because they live near a school, if they drive to the post office they can’t park upon their return.
“Why do you drive to the post office when there is a post office right next door?” asked Me confused.
“There isn’t a post office next door!” replied the mate looking at Me with equal confusion.
“Yes there is …” replied Me knowledgeably, “I see the sign every time I drive past your house.”
“There really isn’t a post office next door!” stated the mate firmly.
“Then why is there a post office sign on the building then?” asked Me.
“Errrr … there really isn’t a post office sign there” said the mate looking at me quite strangely.
“Yes there is” responded Me, “come and see”.
So Artist, his mate and his mate’s wife all dutifully troop outside to look at the post office sign.
It was a satellite dish.
In my defence I usually drive past in the dark, and it is a low placed satellite dish which is sort of in the shape of a post office sign, plus there is a big red post box right outside. (Okay I’ll stop now)
My thickness doesn’t stop there.
Artist was telling Me about a magical place for wildlife which is well known for puffins.
“Are puffins sort of like penguins?” asked Me in all seriousness.
Artist scrutinised my face for (non-existent) signs that I was teasing him before falling about laughing. Well….how was I to know penguins live in Antarctica and not West Wales?
My thickness really doesn’t stop there either.
Son3′s favourite story is about the gorgeous Sunday lunch I had cooked for the family.
“This gravy tastes odd Mammy” said Son3.
“It’s just a bit watery” responded Me, “somehow I couldn’t get it to thicken!”
“But Mammy it tastes like COFFEE” moaned Son3 almost gagging.
“It’s definitely Bisto” asserted Me, marching to the cupboard and triumphantly pulling out the jar of instant COFFEE I had just made the ‘gravy’ with.
Well … what stupid manufacturer would put their coffee product in a jar almost exactly the same size and colouring as a jar of Bisto?
So there we have it. I may have a shed load of advanced professional qualifications, a Bachelor’s degree, and a Master’s degree with Distinction, but in all honesty the only letters I should put after my name are BSC … BLOODY STUPID COW!
I arrived at Artist’s house on Valentines Day very excited. I knew he had painted something for Me. A few weeks ago he had let it slip that he was doing a ‘pop art’ type painting for my Valentine present. It was meant to be a surprise for Me but after a few glasses of wine it burst forth from Artist. I couldn’t wait to see it.
The painting turned out to be a glorious and very original abstract of Me and Artist. I am smiling blissfully and he is kissing my cheek. I recognised myself easily in the painting. It is an excellent representation. In the centre of the painting, exactly between us, is a big yellow heart. I absolutely love love LOVE my Valentine present. There was also a shop bought Valentine Card which had been customised especially for Me. The front of the card was a cartoon couple having a romantic dinner together. Artist had added some extra bits onto the cartoon to make it represent us both. The girl character had bright red lips and tattoos on her foot, and the boy character had Artist’s signature face tattoo. I was truly touched by these sweet additions, but an even sweeter addition to all of this wonderfulness was an icy cold bottle of Moet. Valentine bliss or what?
The Moet didn’t last too long and was swiftly followed by a bottle and a half of Rose wine. Artist cooked some pasta but I think I was already pretty drunk by then. It turned out to be one of those crazy, drunken evenings, full of love, laughter and lust.
So, Artist likes arty farty things and his house has lots of quirky items. He has this really chunky, wooden, carved bed. It is a beautiful bed and obviously we have spent a lot of time in it over the last four months. Anyways, we were having a rocking good Valentine encounter, when all of a sudden there was this really loud crack and the damn bed just collapsed beneath us. I was completely stunned. It was one of those moments of complete disbelief. We actually broke our bed on Valentines Day.
I have never broken a bed before, although there have been two occasions where I thought I had broken it. The first time was on the night of my Cyprus marriage to Husband2. We were in bed and there was a really loud noise. I looked under the bed to see if something had broken underneath and then the bed started trembling. It turned to be a minor earthquake. So you see the earth really did move for me on my wedding night.
The second time was when I was having treatment for sciatica. I was laid on the physio’s bed and he was massaging my hip. After some time he placed me on my side, and manipulated my body into a certain position. There was this really loud cracking sound so loud that I thought the treatment bed had broken. As it transpired the loud crack was actually my back clicking back into alignment. Ouchy!
So, after two false alarms, this Valentine’s Day we did actually break the bed. I spent the rest of that night reeling with the feeling I was rolling off the edge of a cliff. It was very weird and disconcerting, and didn’t really promote sleep.
So, the morning after the night before I found myself with a wonky bed, a pounding head and some vague plans to wed. Enough said huh?
So I am finally feeling better. Its been a long couple of weeks and has taken 3 lots of antibiotics to sort me out. I am still not completely well but definitely heading towards it. Almighty nightmare or what!
I haven’t hardly been outside the door and we had a big night out planned to see one of Artist’s favourite bands last night. The band members are his personal friends so it was an important night for him. Now, right up until the last minute I wasn’t sure I was well enough to attend, but Artist has been excited about taking Me to this gig for ages. It was our first gig together so I really wanted to go if my weak, skinny, pathetic body could manage it.
Artist arrived at my house with his two good mates, all three very excited for the gig. I was still having a dilemma about what to do and then had a ‘sod it’ moment. I slung on a denim mini skirt, added a cute Tshirt, red high boots, donned some smokey eyes and red lippy and off we went.
We were walking along the main street of the capital city when Artist was greeted loudly by one of his mates from the band. A big reunion back at the dressing room followed, which was actually a teeny tiny little room, a fridge full of beer, a table top full of bread and ham which were yet to be made into sandwiches, and a pipe full of weed.
Artist was in his element talking to his punk mates. I sat quietly whilst he caught up with all the gossip and did some man hugging. Then it was time for the gig.
Now I like live music and I like to dance to live music. Truly I do. However, I believe that if I had attempted to dance at the front of the stage last night then I would have been battered, bruised and broken. In all honesty I am not sure that what I witnessed was actually dancing. About two dozen guys, in various punk and non punk ensembles, were just crazily careering around, bumping into each other and the rest of the audience. The people directly behind the dance area just sort of kept pushing the careering dancers back towards the stage. It all felt a little dangerous to Me. Sometimes the crazy dancers leapt onto the stage and joined in the ‘singing’ with the band, which no one seemed to mind at all. Some Mohican haired, tartan skirted, chunky male punk kept diving off the stage and body surfing the mental dancers. How they held him up I’m not sure – his boots must have weighted a couple of stone at least.
“Are you enjoying” said my happy, drunken Artist, quite obviously having the time of his life.
“Erm … its interesting!” replied Me diplomatically.
The band played the same song over and over for about 90 minutes (well that’s what it felt like) and then finally my very first punk gig was over. We got back to mine and Artist was so damn happy. He had caught up with his old friends, had loads of beer and enjoyed his favourite music by his favourite band. Who am I to begrudge an old punk some happy moments huh?
Me? Hmmmm, I don’t think I’m much of a punk to be honest. It was a great people watching opportunity and I quite liked canoodling with Artist amongst the bedlam of the gig and the music. However, I think I shall stay quite firmly in the middle of the musical road where I belong.
I also think it’s fair that I get to pick our next gig. I wonder when Barry Manilow is playing next?