So I was sitting discussing with my colleague (JS) various different topics when we stumbled across old films we used to watch as children. There is not a significant age gap between us, only 5 years, but our choices in favourite films does differ quite considerably.

Once we had finished listing our favourite films, JS touched on the main actor in one of her films (The Indian in the Cupboard) and how she used to have a crush on him when she was 3 years old! I was more shocked at the age of her first crush then the fact she had a crush on Henri from the film.

After controlling my laughter, JS added fuel to the fire by declaring two further crushes: the first, Neville Longbottom from Harry Potter & the Philosopher’s Stone and the second, Buzz McCallister from Home Alone. This send me into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, some of the others joined me. JS literally smiled and joined in with us.

The dreaded question fell on me when on of the girls asked me who I had a crush on when I was younger? I could honestly say I went blank and could not think of a single crush at such a young age.

So now I've had time to think about it, I think it only fair I declare my crushes from childhood films:

1. Allie from The Karate Kid Part I (She also appeared in Back to the Future)

2. Andy from The Goonies

3. Jessica from The Karate Kid Part III

So there you have it, my three choice.

Keep reading and I'll keep you posted on my life as The Odd One Out.

It was every event organiser’s worst nightmare - writ large.

The Kent County Show posed a classic challenge in disaster management. And to be fair to the Kent County Agricultural Society, organisers didn’t do too badly in that area. Communications combined with action is key.

You have to hand it to George Jessel, the doughty chairman and former military officer who communicated to the media as quickly and frankly as he could. He had some tough decisions to take amid conflicting advice from police, highway chiefs and weather pundits.

He came in for a media grilling but bravely fessed up in a stressful situation.

But there’s no doubt he was let down by poor signage - the show was not closed as stated by the road signs, but most of the car parks were. Many probably stayed away when they might well have got in. Many people were so keen to get into the show that they parked their cars outside the ground. Bad publicity is bizarrely often good publicity, giving the show a profile it’s not enjoyed for years.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and it’s easy to blame organisers for not putting down bark chippings, sawdust and taking a host of precautions ahead of Thursday night’s deluge. But not all the fields are controlled by the society.

Many traders had a bad show, with disappointing takings and understandably vowing never to return. Many came a long way.

But they should remember that other shows like the Great Yorkshire were abandoned or cut short. Jessel and his team were determined to keep the show on the road in the face of daunting odds. We cannot change the British weather. The Kent County Show went on regardless of the mud, slipping and sliding - and most visitors showed dogged British grit to enjoy themselves despite the squelch.

And the numbers were surprisingly good, confirmed by the official attendance figure of 50,000, not bad for a virtual washout. If the figures are to be believed, the figure was not too far short of last year’s 67,000.

But that’s a far cry from the 100,000-plus that used to regard the show as an annual must and a marvellous shop window for the high-quality output of the Garden of England.

KCAS faces a whopping loss - probably at least £300,000 - but the show loses money in most years. It’s sensible of the society to invest in conference facilities that spread the risk and bring in substantial year-round revenues.

As for George Jessel, he is due to step down in February after six years as chairman. The 2012 show would be a sad way for him to go. He has shown leadership and charisma at the KCAS helm, taking it into the 21st century and steering it away from reliance on the show. He will be a hard act to follow and, if he can stand more flak, deserves the chance to stay on a little longer. One commentator described his response to trying circumstances as heroic.

It may be against the rules but in this case and in the interests of the society, they could be broken. He should be remembered for far more than the Detling quagmire - and allowed to step down after a thumping success rather than a damp disappointment.

I may have mentioned, once or twice, that my parents have a penchant for rescuing waifs and strays. This week I have received a constant stream of hysterical text messages from my mother. You see, she decided, this time, to rescue a dog from a group of ex pats out in Spain who have been lovingly rescuing and nurturing some very sad cases of animal cruelty and neglect. This dog hadn’t been neutered and, despite only being a baby herself, had gotten caught out and ended up with a litter of mouths to feed. My Mum took pity on this little being and decided she should come and live with us.

Bonita – means “pretty little one” in Spanish.

Text message received after Bonita’s first night in her new home:

She’s following me everywhere like a lamb. Poppy [my dog] hates her. She has chased the cats out of the house and won’t let them back in the garden. She won’t listen when I tell her to stop

Text message returned:

She doesn’t speak English, what do you expect?

Text message to Mum the next day:

How are you today, much sleep? Still hysterical and a silly English woman getting between a dog and her toys?

Reply:

No. Yes. She’s been on the roof.

My response:

HAHAHAHAHA. You mean the house roof don’t you? How did she get there?

Reply:

Yes. Landing window was open.

Text message back:

Senorita Bonita thinks she can fly. Nuhnuhnuhnunnuh BAT DOG!

That evening, to calm my Mum’s hysterics about having this loony puppy that doesn’t speak English climbing on the roof, we went out for a walk. Surprisingly, the expected arch enemy, Poppy, actually rather likes bat dog now and they walk along side by side like the best of friends.

 However, our nice, peaceful walk was interrupted when they both tried to give chase to a pair of wild bunnies lolloping merrily across the golf course. And then.

SQUIRREL

SQUIRREL.SQUIRREL.SQUIRREL.

Turns out our little Spanish one is quite fond of a squirrel. Sees them everywhere in fact. If you have ever seen the film UP you will understand what I mean when I say that she is every inch Dug the Dog.

 I have also been obliged to point out that it’s very much a “dogs and their owners” thing as she displays “squirrel” tendencies on occasion: breaking off midway through a conversation and interjecting with an entirely unrelated topic. Anyone who has read my post “My Boyfriend Has Renamed Me Jim” will understand exactly what I’m talking about here.

SQUIRREL

There, undoubtedly, will be more to follow on the adventures of the dog that doesn’t speak English so stay tuned, lovely readers :)

The nature of the English Language is such that it is very easy to interpret multiple meanings in something that has been said. There is a broad generalisation applied to women that they always choose the most offensive meaning to a gentleman’s words. In order to prolong the existence of the human race I have compiled a list of things men say that prove no value for their own lives.

1.       “You shouldn’t eat cake for breakfast, you know” she will inevitably jump to the immediate conclusion that you are inferring that she is, in fact, a little more than “festively plump”. You will also be asked if you are in fact the CAKE POLICE. Gents, don’t attempt to be a wise guy here, step away from the bomb and tell her no, you are not the cake police and you have no place attempting to perform such a role. Following this scenario you may also find on your way around the supermarket that she is inclined to, VERY LOUDLY, point out all of the products labelled breakfast cake bar or breakfast biscuit. SHAME ON YOU.

Other variants of this you’re secretly saying I’m fat are:

“Should you be eating that at this time of day?”

“Do you know what’s in that?”

“Oh...You’re hungry today aren’t you?”

2.       “You look like you’ve had a bit of a lazy day” as any comment about a woman’s appearance that doesn’t sound something along the lines of her being the most beautiful and radiant creature that you will ever see (note: don’t say have ever seen, this may also lead to conflict as she may presume you are hoping to find out if she is actually the most beautiful creature that ever walked the earth) is likely to lead to a very miserable and painful death by ear bleeding.  A lady may presume that you are saying she may frighten children and old people with her appearance: what’s wrong with going out bare faced and in lounge wear? HMMMM? HHMMMMMMM!!??? DANGER ALERT

3.       The inevitably disastrous: “Oh, is it that time of the month then?” Erm, Uh oh, BIG TROUBLE – she may be bleeding without any say in the matter – when you start bleeding she’ll have had plenty of say in the matter. Do. Not. Ever. EVER. Mention a ladies menstrual cycle. Not unless you really and truly have.a.death.wish.

Best Possible outcomes of these scenarios:

1.       Death :

 She kills you quickly and pretty much painlessly in a fit of pure rage.

2.       Serious sleep deprivation and ear bleeding:

She asks you EVERY single time she leaves the house if you think what she is wearing is acceptable enough to you – she is especially keen to hear your expert opinion when you are asleep.

3.       Malnourishment:

You manage to fend off starvation when she goes on strike by living on the food she puts down for the cats/dogs/birds.

Ladies and Gents please do feel free to add any faux pas' or apt punishments in the comment box below; that's what it's there for!

Once again, thanks for reading :)

You know that feeling, you’ve been back living under your parent’s roof for longer than you all would like to admit and you parents are starting to give you the oh so subtle nudge towards the door. If you’re having difficulty picking up on their signals I have kindly listed below the signs that your parent s think you should fly the coop:

1.       Your Mum asks you repeatedly when you will be moving in with your BF/GF

2.       Your Dad persistently complains about how your red hair dye (insert other rage inducing messes caused by you here if this is not applicable) staining the tiles in the bathroom. You say you won’t stop dyeing your hair...there’s a significant pause while he waits for you to catch the drift...

3.       Your Dad starts referring to your beau’s place as your home e.g. “You can take that with you when you go home”...time to go then I think

4.       Your dog is getting cranky living with two other blind dogs; you comment that she would prefer to be an only dog, your parents cannot agree more. Pause. Silence. Penny drops.

5.       They tell you repeatedly how they can’t get over just how quiet the house is when you’re not in it. And how they are really enjoying the peace and quiet.

6.       The dog starts trying to tell you something Lassie style: “What’s that girl? What are you trying to tell me? Go...Home?” Oh.

7.       Your Mum has forgotten about your dietary requirements since you last ate with them. She poisons you. Hint. Hint.

8.       A whispered conversation between your parents ceases when you enter the room. You have caught snippets of a “swatches” and “paint charts” debate. They already decorated every other room of the house. Just yours then.

9.       Leaflets suggesting you engage the services of “first class” local removal services keep mysteriously appearing under your bedroom door.

10.   Your stuff starts migrating out of your bedroom. Into boxes. Into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door. MOVING DAY.

And if you are more of a visual learner I have included below a video of a current advert that illustrates many of the above points nicely.

[youtube=f7qMGVH8]

Q. So, how did you get started in writing?

A. My Dad was passionate about both reading and writing. My Dad was writing and trying to get published while I was growing up. I was working at Thames Television on The Bill as a production assistant. I went and enquired as to what I would need to do to be able to become a producer and the answer I received was “you need to write”. It wasn’t instant success as my first book was never published. I wrote a children’s book that went horribly wrong when it came to being published but was a fantastic learning experience: it was all part of the process of becoming a writer. Sometimes I feel that my best writing almost happens in spite of me rather than because of me. Eventually an agent asked if I would like to meet: so I went and bought myself a hat. I met the agent and then – I took my hat off – and started to write. I usually start with an idea of what the story is going to be and see where it takes me: I like the characters to tell me where they would like to go. I realise I speak about them as if they have their own life which comes across a bit odd.

Q. So what does Susan Lewis like to read?

A. Jodi Picoult, Susan Harwich. I’ll happily purchase a book by what I’ve read in the blurb. My thoughts about the kindle is that you don’t get that same experience: you can’t see a cover or who the author is so I have been known to read something and not know who it is I’ve been reading!  I’ve taken inspiration from the Poisonwood Bible and Sweet Francais. The latter was actually the inspiration for my novel The French Affair.

Q. So how did your family react to your memoirs?

A.  Well, the two main characters – my Mum and Dad- had already passed by then but my brother has chosen not read it at all. I think he would really feel the loss at the end of Just One More Day.

Q. In the second of your memoirs you have written from the male perspective – how hard was this for you?

A. I was fortunate that I got to know my Dad for a lot longer. As Dad wrote so much, an awful lot of what is in the book he really wrote himself: I just adapted it to fit into my writing. Dad did his best to keep us all together at a time when men would have fielded children out to aunts and grandparents. Writing from his perspective made me relive everything that I had put my dad through after Mum died: He really didn’t know what to do with such a hellish teenage girl. In fact, when I asked Steph to read it I actually said “I hope you still like me after reading it”. I am now a supporter of Winston’s Wish as they help support in times of child bereavement: who knows how things would have turned out if they had been around when I lost Mum.

When a member of the audience introduces themselves as a member of Sevenoaks writing group Susan very affably offers to “come along to your writers group sometime, for a chat, if you would like?” She then goes on to display how down to earth she is by saying that as she had gotten older she doesn’t hold ideas and details in her head like she used to. She tells us how she ran a competition on Face book for the winner to get their name used as a character’s name in one of her texts. Susan tells us how she had completely forgotten about this until the winner contacted her: there had been a vital component of the novel missing until this woman got in touch and then her character led the novel along. Susan explains how writing, for her, is much like being a sort of medium as she is taken over by the characters. When Susan wrote in her mother’s “voice” she felt as though her mother had taken hold of her fingers and had written those parts herself.

Steph then gave Susan a much earned break by announcing the start of the raffle and auction. There were some truly outstanding prizes on offer including a Jimmy Choo handbag donated by the author herself, a Chamilia bracelet with a B.C.C charm, a basket of goodies from Maisy K, A photo shoot with Catherine Hill Photography, a set of GHD straighteners and a voucher for a cut and blow dry with Matthew Cross, a one hour full body massage in the comfort of the winner’s own home, a mini car donated by Mini, a Pink Pandora Bracelet and an Amber Necklace. Overall this event raised approximately £3000 for Breast Cancer Care: a hugely successful event – congratulations to all involved!

Susan’s 28th novel No Child of Mine will be released on July 5th.

One of the hazards of writing a purely comedy inspired blog is that sometimes the funny all dries up. I realise, given the content of my previous posts and my ability to attract slapstick like a moth to a flame, that seems impossible but I really am currently sitting here wailing “somebody do something funny!” How is it that I haven’t done anything absurdly stupid in a while? Have I learnt caution? Doubtful. Something is wrong in the universe Watson and I’m determined to sniff out the “fishy” by Jove! Perhaps what I should do whilst I await my next calamity is go out and make funny happen to myself or others. Which of the following would generate the most comedy value:

1)      Whilst driving my Dad to a Dr’s appointment I do my best rally car driver impression: driving at high velocity round precarious bends yelling “Yee HAW” whilst Dad’s knuckles turn white with the vice like grip of the dash board. Dad does his best impression of “The Scream” – he’s hoarse from, well, all the screaming – then faints in pure terror.

2)      I decide to take my dear little bumper car through the car wash: sounds innocuous enough but, you forget, dear readers I am due a little mishap. Things that could go wrong/comedy gold on offer at the car wash (and the reason I have always been too scared to go through one) are as follows –

a.       My recently “Auto Glass-ed” window pops again causing me to weep and wail like a banshee and make me incapable of  moving my car: the nice boys in the petrol garage have to come and move it for me muttering “I thought women liked fairy sounds” and proclaiming that this would never happen to a male driver

b.      My roof is torn away from the body of the car exposing my head to the big washer thingies. My hair gets tangled up in said washy thingies and is torn from my head. Or: my head won’t give up my hair and my head is pulled from my body. The end.

c.       The car wash fills with limitless water and then breaks down. I have to live in said car wash for all eternity. I evolve to an amphibious life: I now have webbed feet and scales.

3)      I go for a smaller, noisier target: I throw large sticks so accurately that they get wedged in the spokes of the bikes that small children are riding up and down the street on. They are pretending to be motorbikes. Broom, Broom indeed children.

4)      I get arrested for what the police term “manslaughter” when one of the kiddies is killed. I then:

a.       Plead diminished responsibility – “my blog followers made me do it, your honour”– they believe that I am psychologically disturbed and lead me to my padded cell in a straight jacket

b.      Am sentenced to a life living in a car wash (see point 2. A)

c.       Am sent to prison where I acquire a questionable room mate…

d.      Am found not guilty: clearly children pretending to be a motorcycle is a fraudulent act therefore I was simply doing my civic duty. I will then get a magazine deal to sell my story “I just did what anyone would have done” and rise to stardom overnight

Vote now!

I have created a Lego Monster, dear readers. This is only made worse by the realisation that my blog category “Lego” and “Addictions” is only getting bigger by the day. As those of you who have read “My Boyfriend is Addicted to Lego Shopping” will know, his new found obsession with Lego started off as a well meaning attempt to put some of the child like sparkle back into Christmas for him. Unfortunately I didn’t really foresee the long term effects of this: not only have I caused my twenty six year old boyfriend to regress back to playing with Lego, but I’ve caused his twenty three and twenty one year old brothers to go the same way. Now I wish to make it clear that I never intended for the two of them to be similarly affected.

Last night, following the incident of the Altercation with the Dustbin, the boyfriend kindly picked me up from work and presented me with a carrier bag full of lovely posh chocolate. My immediate response was to proclaim this to be a reward for being ridiculous and I should continue driving my car as if it were a bumper car at the funfair. Shortly after this I surmised it was in fact a (very well aimed) ruse. A deflection if you will, from what the three had been up to all day. I knew there had been some talk about going shopping while I was at work and visiting the Lego Shop (a.k.a Mecca – not to be confused with Meccano which, apparently, is “TOTALLY different from Legos, duh”).

The three, grown men, had gone and whiled away the hours at the Lego shop. They managed to frighten away any child that so much as glanced at their coveted treasures and, after maiming several children, left the shop with six different Lego sets between them. Yes, SIX. My boyfriend had desired one of these sets for quite some time (having researched all the other possible sets he could add to his ever expanding Lego Collection: “But I am just getting next month’s Lego allowance early”?!?!) and had chosen the biggest one they had in the store: “NO, there are other bigger ones….”

My Dad pointed out to me earlier that it would actually be fairly easy to maintain order in a relationship where my partner had regressed so far as all I needed to do was threaten to take his toys away if he didn’t do as he was told. This was especially appropriate as I had already done this the previous evening when the conversation steered back towards the incident of the Altercation with the Dustbin and I threatened to take away and hide a vital component of his new Lego if he persisted. His response: “Oh no! Don’t take away the battery pack!” Sorry did you just say “battery pack”? Apparently his amazing super duper wow new Lego has a battery pack included: “It doesn’t drive or anything but the windows and doors open”.

As I sighed and looked around for a sane person in the room I found that all had gone silent. It was, in fact, the quietest the house had ever been when they were all in before which seemed eerie. Then I realised that the silence was that perfect silence of concentration. The boys were all sat on the floor with little piles of different coloured Lego all around them trying to construct theirs the fastest.

What have I done?

That’s correct, I live in Ghetto Ville. Apparently. This is according to the 17 year old boy in our household who discourses with his friends in the “hood” style. Because they is well 'ard innit yeah, you get me? No, it’s alright, I don’t expect you to “get me” because “you don’t even know me bruv”, oh how I wish this were so. If you haven’t heard any of this ghetto speak and wish me to decode it for you I am afraid I cannot: I am no more able to speak “ghetto” (aka R.I.D.I.C.U.L.O.U.S) than you are.

Perhaps I should paint a picture for you of the Ghetto in which the “Village Massive” live. Our Village and the surrounding villages are much like any other countryside village really, everyone says good morning and good afternoon, walks their dogs on a Sunday morning, they all trade their garden produce and there is a “healing” retreat up the road. The closest high street is three miles up the road and holds a tiny police station that’s only open limited hours for lost cats and such. There are a handful of shops including an antiques shop, several hairdressers, a handful of country gentleman type pubs, a clock shop, a florist and a jeweller. Of course there is also the Ghetto Ville Mecca: Tesco. “I’m a bad man, you get me?” Indeed, bad at spelling, bad at grammar and BAAAAD  attitude but don’t worry you all get to spend Mummy and Daddy’s hard earned cash on Tesco sandwiches, kebabs and taxis to the high street because walking there is just “long man, innit”.  And no, I don’t get you, because, unlike you of course, I haven’t been raised in the “hood”.

The Ghetto kids were mostly raised in a suburban bubble surrounded by rolling countryside and farm land. They went to the little village schools and spent Sundays at Farmers markets with their parents. Now they have identical matching missing eyebrows, pants on display (that’s not just the boys) and somehow manage to have shiny new trainers every few weeks, despite having had a “deprived” childhood that we don’t understand and have got issues, yeah?

Our Christmas entertainment this year was the board game “CHAV” as a tongue in cheek poke at the attempt to “Ghetto – up” our village. We figured it would be interesting to see who would actually come out as king or queen of the chavs in our house: surely it would be the actual “gangsta” in our midst?  There was considerable mirth around the table as we battled to keep hold of Ayia Napa, Alco pops, a belly bar and a box of Super kings.  Much to his own irritation Ghetto Boy was the first to be eliminated and he stomped out of the house to go and “hang” with his “homeboys” in the bus shelter up the high street (no, I have no idea what this actually entails either).

So, who eventually won the chav crown? Well, if you hadn’t already guessed, me of course.

1.    1.  Your Mum can tell you what all your friends’ statuses have been updated to today.

2.    2.  Your Dad starts up a debate on what colour your hair should be using a picture you have been tagged in as a reference.

3.    3.   That burning smell coming from the kitchen. That’s dinner.

4.    4.    Your Dad sits through you talking to him without offering a single response to what you’ve said but merrily chuckles away to himself whilst tapping the screen on his phone. That’ll cost you Royal Bank of Dad.

5.   5.   Your Mum starts talking about old photos on your boyfriend’s profile page. The walls start to feel like they are closing in around this stage.

6.   6.    The teenager in the household deletes his Facebook account and switches to Twitter in the hope that it will take them years to catch up. And Facebook is his LIFELINE.

7.   7.   Your friends start a conversation with “Erm, this is awkward, but I’ve had a friend request from your Mum…”

8.   8.    Or (and I am yet to decide which is worse), your friend starts a conversation with “Oh yeah I was talking to your Mum about that earlier”….??!?!

9.   9.   Your Dad attempts an “I have more Facebook friends than you” type of competition. Sigh.

10.10.  Your “Newsfeed” no longer shows any news except that your Mother “likes” 50 odd things on Facebook and your Dad has continued his debate over your hair colour…for 50 pages.

11 11. You end up having to give y

our parents a “Facebook for Dummies” tutorial in order to stop them disgracing themselves (you).

12.12.  Your parents start attempting

to censor your posts in case you start disgrac

ing yourself (them).