What's your definition of Epic?

Let's talk about bleeding. Chhaupaudi: (from Wikipedia)  is a tradition in Nepal for Hindu women which prohibits a woman from participating in normal family activities during menstruation because they are considered impure. The women are kept out of the house and have to live in a shed. During this time, women are forbidden to touch men or even to enter the courtyard of their own homes. They are barred from consuming milk, yogurt, butter, meat, and other nutritious foods, for fear they will forever mar those goods. The women must survive on a diet of dry foods, salt, and rice. They cannot use warm blankets, and are allowed only a small rug. This system comes from the superstition of impurity during the menstruation period. In this superstitious logic, if a menstruating woman touches a tree it will never again bear fruit; if she consumes milk the cow will not give any more milk;  if she touches a man, he will be ill.

I'm opening this post with this thought because, whilst I don't want to live in a shed for 7 days or be banned from eating KiwiYo (perish the thought), I definitely think there is something to be said for keeping those women On The Blob separate from the rest of society. It would benefit everyone. Speaking for myself, I could get all my crying and thoughts of suicide done in peace. I wouldn't feel homicidal when my colleague crunches their apple too loudly. For everyone else, they would be spared an angry little raincloud who spends the first 48 hours of menstruation scowling and wishing that everyone, including herself, would hurry up and die.

Just a thought. (Happy Easter).

In other non-menstrual news, I'm a bit concerned that I have propelled myself from early-30s straight into what could be classed as 'pre-death'. This discovery is based on the last 48 hours: instead of playing 'Shag/ Marry/ Kill', Deepthi and I spent a quiet Tuesday afternoon playing Soduko and discussing the merits of the apostrophe; my evening companion of choice is BBC Radio 4 ('Book of the Week'); I opted to buy Time magazine over NW at the airport. Most damning is this - on the plane to Queenstown, I happened to glance over at the magazine being read by the white-haired gentleman beside me. The first article I saw was all about the new headquarters of the BBC and how they are very similar to the Gates of Hell. "Ooooh" I thought, "fascinating" craning to see what the magazine was called. It was only when he was reading a different article on the history of Spitting Image (another article I would decidedly like to have read) that I managed to see the title of the magazine. Down on the left-hand bottom of the page - Oldies.

That's right. Whilst I may appear for all purposes to be in the mid-morning of my life - let's call it elevenses - I am, in fact, in the twilight/ evening/ very-close-to-pub-lock-in-hour.

I think this crisis of age has been aggravated by my 23 year old flatmate's recent pre-parties at our flat. I came home last Saturday to find, at 5pm, she was already passed out in bed. Her friends, meanwhile, were playing drinking games in the lounge - 2 girls and a boy. The girls ignored me, the boy (very generously) invited me to join in. Then he asked me if I had enjoyed my run. "I've not been for a run". "But you're going, right?" No, no. I just like wearing short shorts, thanks. Meanwhile one of the girls started shrieking, berating the boy "WHY AREN'T YOU GETTING WASTED? I FEEL LIKE YOU JUST DON'T WANT TO GET WASTED!!! COME ON!! DRINK SOME MORE!!!!"

I made my chamomile tea and trotted downstairs, trying to remind myself that, at 23, my friends and I were drinking Snakebite and Black and vomiting down ourselves in Bar Risa. Ah, come back 2004, all is forgiven.

In other news, I visited 'Spookers' a few weeks ago, have you heard of it? I was invited for a friend's birthday and thought, oooh yes, I've always enjoyed the Haunted House at Alton Towers, that sounds like a lark. Well. It was only on the way there, in Queer as Folk in a car, that I was informed that the venue used to be an actual mental asylum that had been converted into a tourist attraction, and that actors were playing the parts of 'Scary People'. I still didn't quite get it until we started walking round said mental asylum and actual people were coming up, touching us, screaming in our faces, and following us from room to room. We had been given the instruction that, if you didn't want to be touched, you simply had to hold up your hand and say "stop". Clearly, I forgot this as soon as we got in, and thus spent a very freaked out 2 hours being chased around the haunted house and pitch-black cornfield by adrenaline-pumped actors wielding prop chainsaws. I managed the first 2 attractions. Then we got to Disturbia. Full of Clowns. I took one look at the darkened entrance and said "THAT'S IT! I've had it. I'm going to get a pizza by myself". And thus missed out on both Disturbia and Clautrophobia.

Which I'm totally alright with.

Overheard at The Mill

CHOREOGRAPHER: If I told you to teach a track 3 like a track 8 how would you teach it?
ME: Er, like a blow-out?
CHOREOGRAPHER: You'd teach it like a journey, right?
ME: OK...
CHOREOGRAPHER: And how do you think it'd make the rest of the class feel?
ME: Really flat cause you'd peaked in track 3.
CHOREOGRAPHER: I think it'd make the rest of the class EPIC!!

Oh right. Yeah. Epic.

The Secret Farmer

So let's talk about farming. Or, to be more precise, let's talk about how it's turned out that all New Zealanders are, in fact, secret farmers. It's been very confusing, living in Auckland, getting to know so-called 'Aucklanders'. It's a bit like London i.e. nobody is really from here. They TELL you they're from Auckland, they fox you into thinking they're City Mice, and then one day, in the middle of a convo about Paleo muffins, they casually say, "yeah, well, growing up on the farm blah blah blah..." and completely throw you with their knowledge of lanolin. You know how in England it's safe to assume that everyone has, at one stage or another, fallen asleep in the kebab shop? Well, same goes for New Zealanders. They've all, at some point in childhood, branded a cow. This to the point that, during a recent GRIT class, the instructor told everyone to pump their arms "like you're milking a cow". And apparently this wasn't a weird cue to use - everyone duly worked harder. Can you imagine saying that to a class at Fitness4Less in Smethwick?

Mmmmm hmmmm. I didn't think so.

I have a smart phone, yay.... Or (more accurately) I have a fuck-I-now-have-to-figure-out-what-the-hell-it-does phone... I am a sneaking suspicion that said smart phone is, in fact, considerably smarter than its owner, and could, if it put its evil little smart brain to it, take over the world. It could definitely find the missing Malaysia Airwaves flight 370. In fact it's probably behind its disappearance. It's a Samsung Galaxy 4S which Seth in Vodafone assured me is "awesome". (Of course he did, he's a phone salesman working in New Zealand). I actually felt reasonably knowledgeable and empowered at the point of sale. I nodded with confidence when he talked to me about WHATSAPP and Spotify. We shared banter over iPhone keyboards and text alerts. I felt strong, I felt powerful, I felt 21st century: yes, YES LITTLE SMART PHONE! TOGETHER WE CAN DO THIS!

Then I realised that the user guide is 147 pages. Or, more accurately, Deepthi found it for me and told me, "do you know you have a user guide on here? It's all online". Of course it is. I feel like the book reader who is being forced to use a Kindle against her will. In fairness I like the bigger screen. And the fact that I can now phone someone for more than 2 minutes without my credit running out. But, let's be honest. Now that I have SEVEN ways that people can communicate with me (Whatsapp, Facebook messenger, Facebook, Viber, texting, Gmail, Hotmail) are more people contacting me? Of course they're not. As far as I can see, the main advantage so far is that I can send people stickers of excitable looking cats. Or a grumpy teenager called Violet. And it's such a waste of time to be constantly checking them all (and NO, I don't really understand how to turn on my notifications. That should be self-evident). Do you remember that scene in 'He's Just Not that into You' when Drew Barrymore's character bewails her many channels of communication?

"I had this guy leave me a voice mail at work, and so I called him at home, and he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies. It's exhausting."

Yep. Pretty much. And Smart Phone has also turned me into one of those awful people whose phones go off in the middle of a very quiet theatre monologue because I don't understand how to turn it off. And I kicked the feet of a disabled man in a wheelchair as I was racing to get out of the theatre because I was so mortified by its magical rainbow sounding text alerts. I really hope God is sympathetic to Android-owner-morons.

So I was going to conclude with a little piece on missing home and watching Coro (yes, I now call it Coro) when I'm feeling nostalgic for the UK but then I opened Ovarian Gossip (you know what I mean) and read the following, incredible, stop-press news:

In an exciting twist to The Big Reunion 2014, we introduce the super group 5th Story.

The new band, formed of solo artists Dane Bowers, Kenzie, Kavana, Gareth Gates and Adam Rickitt will see the members bring unique insights into the fickle world of fame.

Will this be the start of something special, or will rivalries destroy them before they begin?

Is anyone else really REALLY excited about this? The last time I saw Dane Bowers he was duetting with Victoria Beckham and True Steppers on the classic 'Out of Your Mind' - I remember this because I emulated her outfit at the time: black PVC handkerchief top, pink sunglasses. (We were practically twins, except, of course, mine was from Topshop). And Adam Rickitt has had quite the enviable career - Nick Tilsley on the tiles; naked in a perspex box; some bloke on Shortland Street; a cover on our local magazine Edgbaston News circa 2012, talking about saving the animals; and now he's in the hopefully dubbed 'super group' 5th Story.

Never let it be said that ITV writers don't have a sense of humour.

Overheard on the Gym Floor

Me: You'll be pleased to hear I got my period.

Gay PT: I've had my period 24/7 for the last 32 years. I've been an uninhabitable womb my entire life.

Aw.....