Bridget Stan Laurel Jones

Last week my fairy godmother fluttered in my direction, preened her wings and winked before tapping my typing fingers with the wand brought out especially for Dream Jobs. Would I like my own double page spread of book reviews? Now, we’re not talking a glossy national here, more a regional bi-monthly, but it’s already very professional and is undergoing a re-vamp so who says we can’t persuade it to punch above its weight?

Would I like a double page spread?

Reviews ready to go, I set about writing the requested 300 word biography. I looked through a couple of previous ‘About Me’ pieces with a squint and a squirm.

I needed to start from scratch and when the page still remained blank after ten minutes I did what any dedicated home-worker does, I put on my trainers and went for a run. It was cold. Excellent! It meant I could choose the ‘boggy route’ and trot over the peaks of frozen mud. Not so. The whole of Yorkshire was in the grip of ice and thick frost, it would appear, except for this particular path which I can only assume was in its own ozone-destroyed, micro-climate. I slid from edge to edge, sometimes gliding like a cross country skier, three times falling flat on my face. But I was quite happy, doubly so because I was also thinking about my piece: just what am I like?

Splattered in mud by this point, I came across a five-barred gate wedged into a bank of sludge and, rather than try to prise the gate open, decided it would be easier to go over the top.  My foot slipped on a rung, however, and sent me somersaulting over the highest bar. Thankfully the other foot got caught on the way over and stopped me nose-diving into the bog below. Hanging vertically from the top, staring down at the mud, I knew that whatever happened, I was not falling into that. Knowing me, the mud would probably be masking a six foot bunker and I’d die a most embarrassing death, with the added disappointment of never being able to recount my story.

Eventually extricated from the gate, having winched myself hand by hand back up to the top, much to the bemusement of a seemingly enormous herd of cows, I dusted myself down and thanked my fairy godmother for staying around long enough to ensure I emerged from another little scrape relatively unscathed.

That’s when I had my answer. What am I like? I am cross between Bridget Jones and Stan Laurel (the little half who was away with the fairies). Other people seem to manage to leave the house and come back looking remarkably similar to when they left. Not me! If I’m not sporting blood or mud, it’s an embarrassed hue.

Only a few days previously, there was the parking ticket incident. I saw the yellow sticker in disbelief and peered through the windscreen to find my parking disk lying in the footwell, the victim of an over-zealous door slamming.

‘Hello,’ I cried, ‘please can you help?’ The parking inspector wandered over, a small man with an engaging smile wearing a black uniform which was slightly more relaxed than I’d have expected, but still with the familiar peaked cap. I told him I was aware that everyone must say this kind of thing but asked if I could just point out the parking disk on the floor and demonstrate that the door was still locked. I showed him my key by way of authentication.

 ‘That’s most unfortunate,’ the man concurred with an Eastern European lilt to his accent, ‘I wish I could help you ma’am,’ he added, notably pointing his electronic gismo in the direction of the parking ticket, and staring intently at the orange package affixed to my windscreen as if he was trying to read it.

‘But I’m just the delivery man’.

So there you have it. That’s me. Bridget Stan Laurel Jones, happy to be alive and grateful to fairy godmothers for all sorts of reasons.

Have a great week – be careful out there…