A month ago, I was approached by a major car company *cough* Nissan *cough* to be involved in a new campaign about electric cars.

"Little old me?  A humble blogger from Rainham?"

"Yes," they said.  "You."

"OK,"  I said, "what do you need me to do?"

"Well," they said, "we ... erm ... we just need you to stand at Speaker's Corner in London and read out a blog post about electric cars using a megaphone."

"Hello?  Kate??  HELLO?"

It was a daunting suggestion to say the least but I was definitely up for the challenge.  I knew I would be up against 9 other UK bloggers but was excited that I'd have the opportunity to represent Rainham.  

I've felt for a long time that Kent is under-represented in terms of the blogging community, a community I've been a part of for the last 18 months, and I'd been looking for some way to bring Kent to the forefront.

Here was my opportunity - as embarrassing as it would no doubt be.

A few weeks later, a film crew turned up at my house and set to work taking shots of the Nissan Leaf that had been delivered the night before. 

"By the way, we're not going to go to London now."

I was relieved but a little disappointed.  

"Instead, you're going to stand on stage at your local theatre by the Oasthouse in Rainham and do a speech there."

Oh.

To cut a long story short, I ended up talking to people as they walked past my house and answering questions they had about the car and so we stayed there all day.  

I had a challenge to carry out whilst being filmed.  My challenge was to blog using old technology and so the crew provided me with a very old typewriter, a Polaroid camera, some chalk, a chalkboard and a megaphone.  

And it certainly was a challenge - nothing worked!

If you want to see what I got up to, you can check out my video HERE - it would be really great to have Kent's support and I'd love to get Rainham and Kent on the blogging map!

The gig is this. Every time someone clicks ‘TURN KATE ON’ on the Nissan website  or Tweets about my video, or clicks the Facebook button or posts to their site, I get one point. Every time someone books a test drive (and actually does the test drive during the next month,) I get 30 points.

AND WHAT DO POINTS MAKE?

That’s right! Prizes!

Except this prize … is a biggie.

The winner gets to win a brand new Nissan Leaf!

(*faints a bit*)

You can click as often as you like!

If you're on Twitter, retweets count - my Twitter name is @iamwitwitwoo (you just need to make sure that the tweet you're retweeting has all of the relevant hashtags in it,) and Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your Aunt!

For more info, you can click HERE.

Thanks and ... wish me luck!

Growing up we only had three TV channels to choose from.  This means I remember all my favourite TV programmes vividly … from Why Don’t You? … to Blue Peter, to The Adventure Game, The Red Hand Gang and Jim’ll Fix It (RIP Jimmy.)  One of my most favourite programmes, however, was Record Breakers, hosted by the late great Roy Castle, who never failed to impress me, even as a child, with his never ending enthusiasm and smiley face.  Plus, the McQuirter twins were wonderfully weird.  And tall.  What’s not to love?

So it was very surreal to find myself boarding a train with Skig on Thursday, heading to the headquarters of the Guinness World Records in London.  I wasn’t sure what to expect but all I know is, dedication’s what you need.  (The more mature amongst us will get that joke )

We arrived at Warren Street tube station with plenty of time to spare.  Good job really as my map reading skills leave a lot to be desired and we actually ended up doing a full circle on ourselves before we reached HQ.  I would like to point out that we arrived at exactly 1.30pm, the time the event was meant to start.  I hate tardiness as much as poor grammar so feel it’s important to point out.  Right, OK, as I was saying.

The people that work at Guinness World Records were brilliant, not only welcoming to me, but particularly great with the children.  Skig was given a VIP pass on a lanyard, which made him feel very important.  There was a good spread of food and drink put on for us and Skig and I indulged in too many egg sandwiches, sausage rolls and Percy Pigs.  Perfect.

It was great to see some of my favourite fellow bloggers there.  What was even nicer was that our children got to hang out together too – the next generation of bloggers??

We were treated to visits from current world record holders which were introduced by Craig Glenday, the Editor.  Craig was such an entertaining bloke who pitched to the audience of parents and kids perfectly.   Craig very kindly even produced his very own Powerpoint presentation for us (when it finally loaded up – the first Powerpoint presentation I’ve ever watched that wasn’t boring,) and he explained the history of GWR, how it works, what is and isn’t acceptable and finally, we saw some photos of some great record holders.  The world’s ugliest dog my particular favourite.

First up was Darius.  Great bloke.  Huge.  Bit hairy.  Slept a lot.  Also happens to be the biggest rabbit in the world.

Then there was John Farnborough, a talented young man who holds five world records for football tricks.  I’d be hard pushed to do two kick-ups but John was amazing.

Next up was Sean, all the way from Canada, who’s the fastest talker in the world.  Think I might put Skig up for this challenge though – reckon he’d give Sean a run for his money.  Sean recited Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody … in 47 seconds.  Pretty impressive stuff.  (Although give me a couple of vodkas and I reckon I could beat that.)

Finally, we met Sam Sam The Bubbleman.  That’s his real name.  The clue’s in the title – a man who has spent the last twenty years playing with bubbles.  Suffice to say, he was all kinds of awesome, great with the kids and even encased Skig in his very own bubble!

We got to tour the offices, met the staff (who were the happiest staff I’ve ever met – why could I never have worked in an office like that!?) and came across a fascinating cabinet of interesting artifacts.  A copy of the first ever GWR book, a Converse trainer the size of my car (well, not quite, but a size 30,) and the childrens’ favourite, ancient dinosaur puke.  Brilliant.

Now you may be wondering just how did it come about that I ended up coming home a world record breaker myself?  I’ll explain.

At the end of the afternoon, the GWR team put on three challenges for us all to take part in.  Whoever completed each particular task in the fastest time would have the opportunity of officially competing, with full official adjudication, and if they beat the record, would appear in the actual Guinnes World Book of Records next year!  All to play for.

I’ll preface this by just saying, I’m pretty competitive.  Not in a ‘pushing little kids out of the way’ type way .. but I like winning.  Oh yeah, and taking part.  That too.

The three challenges were:

Who could put back together Mr Potato Head the fastest

Who could stack the most dice on top of each other in 30 seconds

Who could stack the most dominoes on top of each other in 30 seconds.

I ended up stacking the most dominoes in the warm up round and so got to take part in the official challenge.  The video can be viewed on my blog post - to be found at www.witwitwoo.com.

So that’s how I became a world record breaker!  How cool is that?!

And just when I didn’t think the day could get any better, we got to ride back to Euston train station on the world’s fastest sofa.  No, seriously.  We did.  Look!

Big thanks to everyone involved at Guinness World Records.  Skig and I had the best day EVER!

I’m aware that lately I may be coming across as a bit of a bore, banging on about my newfound love for running.  But I don’t care.  So there.

As I was saying … I love running I do (see pic above of a sweaty me after my fastest 4k run!)  There’s five words (yes, I had to count) that I never thought I’d find myself saying.  For those of you who personally know me, it’s pretty obvious why I have always found running difficult and I talk about that here.  For those of you who don’t know me, suffice to say me ‘& the girls,’ aka my Widdecombe Boob Shelf, have just always hated running.  Which is why I’m finding this whole running thing surreal.

I was always the ‘tall girl with the big boobs and big hair’ at school.  The one who always got put in for the shotput on Sports Day.  I was the Goal Shooter in Netball because that meant just standing under the net and occasionally putting the ball in.  A lifetime of feeling like running was never going to be possible left me, at 40, having never run further than to the local sweet shop/Off Licence.

This week, I forewent (what?  it’s a word!) watching My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding to plan out a new running route for tonight’s run.  I know!  Instead of reading a magazine in the bath from my magazine rack (aka the broken bidet,) I went onto Google and calculated the distance for said new run.  When I went to Bluewater at the weekend, I drooled over sports bras (ick – that doesn’t sound right … I just mean, well, you know .. my priorities have changed.)

And I suddenly realised this whole running malarkey had the potential to become my new obsession.

As you may have read here I even spent two hours choosing a new pair of trainers, embarrassing myself in the middle of a shop by getting my running technique (I use the term ‘technique’ loosely) analysed by the staff.  And that was only when I was power walking!  Imagine if I was let loose in Nike Town now!  Lord have mercy!

My obsessions have usually revolved around food.  My last phase was eating Star Bars and I ate one every day for approximately three months.  Usually in bed.  Or whilst watching The Biggest Loser.  Ironic eh.  For me to be so enthusiastic about something that’s actually good for me, has me a little nervous.

What if I can’t do this new long run?  What if (God forbid) I have to walk part of the way?  I’m in my groove and I hate the thought of not succeeding. Fear of failure has always been one of my many isms.

As you can guess, I’m a tiny bit competitive.  And as Monica from Friends would say, the best competition is the one against yourself!  Every time I run, I have to beat my last time.  Runkeeper Pro’s coach is egging me on!  I blame her.

I have to remember that the fear of doing nothing is worse than the fear of failure and so I am going to try this run out tonight.

If I don’t make it round in one go … there’s always tomorrow.  Or the day after.

Anyone got a Star Bar?  Purely for energy of course ...  

So … it’s New Year.  Stating the obvious I know, but some of you may still be in a Advocat fugued state.  I’m only slightly more ‘with it’ because I was sick over Christmas and couldn’t partake in any alcohol rel ated shenanigans.  Not that I’m bitter.  (*hooks IV drip up to the Crème de Menthe.*)

I’m not the sort of person who makes New Year’s Resolutions.  I realised quite early on in life that I had the willpower and attention span of a toddler and so there became no point in making resolutions I’d only break the following week.  If I lasted that long.  Therefore, big props go to anyone who can be bothered.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have goals.  Oh no!  For example, I’ve been vodka-free for seven days now (see above) … I just choose to set goals during the year when I’ve run out of bigger dress sizes or when I’m ill.  See … I can be really focused when I want.

What I like to do in the New Year though (overdosing on Quality Street aside,) is try new things out.  My degree was so time consuming, I’ve spent the last four years pouring any spare time and energy I had into studying – so now that chapter is closed I find myself in an enviable position – choice!  Very dangerous …

Here are the three new things I’m going to at least try this year:

1. Write a Book

I had to chuckle to myself when I read that one back.  Yeah Kate, write a book!  No problem!  You’ve got a spare 25 minutes free next Thursday – do it then. So, let me qualify this one slightly.  Part of my degree was Creative Writing and we were encouraged to try our hand at writing different genres (who knew I could write such rude stories!)   Another project I worked on was writing the beginning to a children’s book and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it.  So, three years on, I’m revisiting it.  The main theme is there, the characters are basic, but created.  Oh, and I even have a bit of a plot going on.  It needs a whole lot of work.  A whole lot.  But I’m up for the challenge.  It's based on a place I spent a lot of my childhood in in Rainham, and it's now somewhere I take my son to - I wanted to bring this place to life and what better way!

2. Go Dancing Again

I haven’t danced properly in years (I don’t think doing Salsa feet under the café table counts,) but I did take Salsa lessons eight years ago (tis how I met ‘Im Indoors,) and I’ve taken many a streetdance class (that reminds me, I still need to blog about my Pineapple experience!) so I’ve been on the lookout for something new to try.  Poledancing is out – don’t think I could lift my bodyweight 2″ off the ground if I’m honest – so, cue Zumba!  Not sure what it is really – and quite frankly, don’t care – it looks fun!  I’ve been to Notting Hill Carnival plenty of times and every year I try to look like I fit in, and end up doing some hyrbrid Samba/Bogle/Salsa move.  People usually think I’m having a fit and back away slowly.  All the same, the energy and enthusiasm is there – just need a little technique to go with it. I've done my research and there are Zumba classes popping up all over Medway so watch out - I'm on my way!

3. Get Fit

This isn’t a ‘New Year/New You’ kinda thing.  This has been a work in progress for a looooooong time.  For the last few months especially, I’ve made slow but steady progress – my main intention, to remain uninjured.  I don’t ask for much.  I’ve progressed from walking (I know – check me out!) to jogging and interval training around the streets of Rainham.  I’m back to boxing, which I love, and I do believe there is slightly less wobble to my bingo wings these days.

I’m only mentioning three new challenges here – more chance of fulfilling at least one of them – but that’s not to say more won’t be added to the list.  There is also this scary idea that keeps popping into my head about doing a Triathlon.  Yes, yes, I know … stop LOL’ing you lot – I’m being serious!  Oh and who knows what colour my hair will end up come Springtime!  

So this time next year Rodney, I doubt I’m going to be a millionaire, or a thin, best-selling author/Zumba Queen!  But I will be richer for at least trying new things.

Happy New Year!

I haven’t exercised for a week.  OK, two weeks.  Alright, alright!  Three!  Jeez!  But, you see, it wasn’t my fault.  No really, it wasn’t.

I’ve had a chest infection for a fortnight and then the black hole that is Half Term happened, when life transfers to a parallel universe – one of parks, baking, lego, day trips to the beach and episode after episode of Phineas & Ferb.   And, and, and … and I could continue to make excuses.  Fact is, I really need to get my arse into gear.

Anyway, the good news is that I have done just that and I went for a power walk around my local park in Rainham at the weekend to ease myself back into the whole keep fit thing.

I deliberately got there early.  Nothing worse than a crowd of Sunday League footballers watching you march around the park like some crazy lady, shouting ‘encouragement’ from the sidelines (normally boob related.)  For three laps of the park, I was on my own.  When wearing tight leggings and trainers, this is just the way I like it.

And then …. some woman had the audacity, the AUDACITY, to come and run in my park!  Had she not got the memo that no-one was allowed to use the park between the hours of 8am and 9am?

Of course, she was twenty years old.  I say, twenty, she probably wasn’t, but nowadays, I reckon everyone looks twenty.  And thin.  I hated her immediately.

She ran past me, both of us had our headphones on, and at the crucial moment when our paths crossed, I was suddenly faced with the reality that I’m a 40 year old woman, panting heavily just from a brisk walk, and she’s a young, fit thing who probably runs everywhere, too much energy to merely bother with walking – a bit like my six year old son.

Exercise in the park etiquette has got me foxed.  To smile, or not to smile?

We decided we would.  For three laps.  An awkward, sweaty, half grimace/grin at each other.  By the fourth lap, however, nothing.  She decided to blank me.  Fine!  Ooh look at her with her skinny legs and matching outfit.  See if I care!

My super fast, power walking technique had obviously put her to shame so much so that she felt the need to keep her head down. Yeah, jog on lady!

In all seriousness, coming across fit women is rather annoying in my own personal struggle to keep fit.  Even more so when they’re young.  And thin.  And pretty.

Bitter?  Me?  Never.

Sunday morning arrived and the clocks had gone back.  I toyed with the idea of spending the extra hour in bed.  It was a great idea if I say so myself.  I could have watched The Wire again, nibbled on last night’s bedtime crappy sweets.  I could have got my spoon on!  The thought of traipsing around the park in the drizzle on the otherhand, was the worst idea I’d had all week.

I didn’t want anyone to see me.  I was a little embarrassed.  My old self-doubt had begun to creep into my head.

For all of two seconds, until I jumped (OK, flopped) out of bed, found some horrendous red cropped tracksuit bottoms (why oh why?!), a tight vest to strap the girls down and a baggy t-shirt to hide it all.  Trainers on and I was off.

I felt much better when I got back home, even more so after I baked some chocolate and hazelnut cookies.

I haven’t quite figured out this keep fit thing yet.  But I’m getting there.

Slowly.

Just when I thought I’d seen it all … today, I saw two mothers wearing pyjama bottoms in the school playground.  As I write this, I am slowly butting my head against my laptop.

Now call me a snob, but really?  Is it too much to ask that one just gets dressed in the morning?  Are some people that lazy that putting trousers on is too much of an effort?

Clothes have always been an issue for me.  Whether it’s because I’m too old or too big, I have always struggled to find anything decent to wear.   But even I haven’t had to resort to wearing my nightie to school.

Yet.

I like to make an effort in the morning, even if it means just putting on a clean pair of jeans, because, for me, even though I don’t work in an office anymore, wearing a saggy bottomed tracksuit every day is just one step away from becoming Vicky Pollard.  But for some women in the playground, this is clearly just too much effort.

If we, as women, are at the point now where we can’t even be bothered to put proper clothes on, maybe the Jeremy Vile/Kyle brigade really are about to take over the world!

I don’t wear much make-up during the day (that makes me sound like I dress up as a Drag Queen at night – for the record, I don’t (well not very often,) and, as my youngest son so eloquently put it, “You’re beautiful without make-up Mum.”  He will go far.  Lipgloss and mascara is my limit.  And yet one woman felt it necessary to tell me she thought, before she even knew me I hasten to add, that I looked ‘intimidating.’  Because I put a nice frock on.  Because I deign to brush my hair.  Talk about judging!

Of course, there are plenty of stylish mums in the playground who, like me, feel it’s important to at least clean their teeth and ensure their jumpers are stain-free, and in no way am I underestimating how hard it is to get the kids out of the door on time (I have two of my own after all.)  I just feel that it’s another sign that society is degenerating to the point where some people just don’t give a damn.

Is it laziness or depression?  Low self esteem or low funds?  Yes, some of us lead lives that are now inexorably busier than they’ve ever been but what impression does not caring about our appearance give to our children?  That we aren’t even worth five minutes to look presentable?

Maybe I’m worrying too much about what can be construed by many as the superficial.  Perhaps there is no correlation whatsoever between taking care of your appearance and one’s self esteem.  But as much as I shan’t be going to school this afternoon in one of my plethora of sequinned ballgowns(!), you’ll be glad to know nor will I resort to wearing my blue checked fleece pajamas with the button missing on the fly.

They are strictly for my eyes only.

Do Manners still Maketh Man?  Apparently not, if my experiences lately are anything to go by.

Something strange is going on.  People seem to have lost their manners (did they leave them at their Nana’s?) and I have to say, one is not impressed.  I was raised by parents who thought it important that children were polite, courteous and respectful – and it’s something my partner and I continue to teach our children.  That they should be respectful of everyone, not just their elders.  It seems, however, we may be in the minority.

One of my Mum’s favourite stories of me as a very young child that she would tell anyone willing to listen, primarily me, was of how the women at the corner shop in Motney Hill, Rainham, would always say to her, “Your Kate speaks so beautifully Jackie, she’s just so polite.”  She would beam proudly as she regaled this story, as if, at 5 years old, I had reached the pinnacle of my life.  She would go on to spoil it somewhat, by saying how everything changed when I started school.  Dropping my ‘t’s’ was akin to dropping my trousers in public – not the done thing.

I digress.  An incident in a café yesterday prompted me to ask myself, where have everyone’s manners gone?  Before I explain, I must point something out.  On the whole, I like the older generation.  There are pensioners I talk to every day who are interesting, thoughtful and nothing but sweet and kind.  They would probably keep schtum if they were in crippling pain.  The ‘never moan’ brigade who are at the other end of the spectrum.  I just need to point out that I’m not bashing all old people – metaphorically speaking, that is.  Just so we’re straight.

So, I’m sat waiting for my friend, and an old man approached and asked if he could have my spare chair.  He’d already begun to take it before I stopped him and said, politely, “Oh I’m sorry, I need that chair today.”   Medusa herself would have been proud of the dirty look he gave me.

Before I’d had a chance to explain I was waiting for a friend, he snatched the chair on the table next to me, banging into everyone on his way back to his wife, muttering obscenities under his breath as he went.  When he got back to her, he told her I was the spawn of the Devil and she joined in the evil staring competition until they forgot why they didn’t like me and went back to their teacakes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, in the scheme of things, this was petty.  It was a chair.  He was old and a bit doddery, but his sense of entitlement and ensuing arsey attitude really got to me and I thought, here I am, teaching my children to respect their elders and there they were, acting like three year olds themselves.

This lack of politeness has even spread to the roads.  Unless I’m late for the school run (again), I’ll generally give way to other drivers on the road and all I ask for is a little raise of the hand to say thank you.  Hell, I’ll even accept a nod of the head.  But nowadays I’m lucky if I get the finger.

As some people get older, how is it that they feel that they have earnt the right to dismiss politeness?  Like they have said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ enough in their lifetime to warrant belligerence in later life?

It’s so hypocritical to expect politeness from the younger generation if they are not prepared to be polite themselves.

My friend turned up ten minutes later and as she sat her very pregnant self down, I looked over at the old couple to see their reaction.  To be fair, at least they had the decency to look embarrassed and shortly after, got up and left, making sure they walked in the opposite direction.

I know that as I get older, my patience can wear a little thin on occasion.  I can get a little cranky in the mornings (OK, a lot) and I’m not always bouncing around like Tigger on acid. But is it really too much to ask for us all just to be a little nicer to each other? Young and old.

With life being so tough these days, a smile, a thank-you or a wave of the hand (not the finger) means so much more.

There’s a lady in the café (aka my office) who goes there as often as I do. She’s in her 60’s, talks to everyone and is going through a bit of a rough time at the moment. We got talking today, as you do, about my writing, her sister, my kids, my cold, her grandson and her dog.
As soon as she began talking about her dog Rory, however, her face lit up and all her problems were momentarily forgotten.

As she did an impression of Rory’s sad face if strangers don’t talk to him, you could see just how much of a true dog lover she was.

She reminded me of my Dad. He trained greyhounds throughout our childhood and therefore, by default, greyhound racing was a big part of our childhood. The dogs were originally kept at a kennels called Dinky Luckhursts (brilliant name right?!) before Dad built a kennel in the back garden and we kept them there.

The training facility he took them to in Westerham, Kent, consisted of a straight track in a field. Suffice to say, a little on the basic side.

To set the scene for those whose childhood didn’t consist of going dog racing every week, six dogs are put into the traps (imagine a smaller, dog sized version of the start of a horse race,) and an artificial hare is whizzed around on a motorised track.

At our dogs’ training ground, however, the track had no motor and was therefore powered by a man on a bike. Seriously. Picture a man on a bicycle frantically peddling to keep the hare ahead of the dogs. I swear I’m not making this up!

Our dogs were brother and sister – the dog was brilliant, the bitch was terrible – but she would always run her little heart out so Dad carried on racing her in the vain hope that one day, she would surprise us all. And one day, she did. Never won again mind you.

They had very exotic names. The dog was called Big Boy because he was, well, big, and his sister was called Patch, because, well, you can guess why. Their racing names, however, were a little higher brow. Big Boy was Monalee Champion and Patch was Abdey Lady but to us kids they were always Big Boy and Patch. Their special treat if they had run well? A saveloy from the chip shop on the way home from Maidstone dog track which, bearing in mind there was me, my brother and two dogs in the bag of a small van, wasn’t always a good idea.

The smell after their continuous farting was suffocating and by the time we got home to Mum, our eyes were bloodshot and watering.

The dogs were a huge part of my Dad’s life and when they passed away at the age of 12, it was like losing a member of the family, for him especially. It was the first time I remember ever seeing him visibly upset – a shock for a 13 year old girl. He went on to try training another two dogs but it was never the same – they were rubbish for a start. Whenever the traps opened, instead of chasing the hare, they would do a U-turn and chase after Dad.

Duke and Daisy had big paws to fill.

I’m too busy to get a dog now. It would be like having a baby again – all that crap to clear up, but there is a greyhound that lives next door and he is so whiny it just reminds me I really don’t have the patience.

Growing up with dogs was brilliant fun for us kids and I have great memories of Maidstone dog track, until some bugger burnt it down, so I can totally understand the look on the lady’s face in the cafe today.