My car is not well.

My car is not well.

I first got my diesel Ford Galaxy the year that Gareth Gates and Will Young battled it out to see who would be the victorious Pop Idol in the predecessor to X Factor. I remember this because the lorry that delivered my shiny new car had WILL YOUNG IS GAY written in the dirt on its side.

It was no surprise to me that Will Young was gay. Wasn't it obvious? But it was a surprise that enough people were bothered by this fact for it to make headlines in certain newspapers the day after the final and for at least someone to make the announcement on the side of a lorry in desperate need of a good clean. I digress. Back to my car.

My Galaxy has been good to me. It has provided me with relatively trouble free and comfortable motoring and I was proud to use it as my wedding car after it was given a "pimp my ride" makeover with bows and ribbons and flowers.

However, 11 years and well over 100,000 miles later, the problems of mechanical old age are surfacing.

We have done a lot of driving this weekend. Once the car had been running for a while, accelerating would cause the car to judder in the speed range of 50 - 60 mph. If the road  surface was less than smooth or there was any sort of uphill gradient, the juddering would be exaggerated. It was like a washing machine on its spin cycle.

I have to admit that the sensation was quite pleasant. A full body vibro-massage. I especially liked the way the vibrations transmitted through the less toned fleshy parts of my middle aged body. What I didn't like was the thought that the car could shake into pieces at any moment in the manner of vehicles usually reserved for circus clowns.

The car did make it home in one piece and as an unexpected bonus I found that I wasn't suffering with any of the usual aches and pains and stiffness associated with long journeys. Putting all benefits and sentimental attachment aside, it has made me think seriously about the need for a new car.

SANTA?!  I have been really good this year!

My beardy man

There was a man that lived down the same country lane where my old house was. I would see him sometimes walking by. He was tall and thin and had a long shaggy beard. He reminded me very much of a boy I once knew at University and hadn't seen for some 20 years - so much so that the first time I saw him I believed it could be him.  Most people who know me in real life or through my blog will be aware that that boy, 20 years a stranger, would come back into my life to sweep me off my feet and marry me.

The neighbour who would walk past my house had no idea of the feelings he would awaken in me. I never even said hello to him. Whenever I saw him, I would think about my tall, thin, bearded friend from long ago and wonder what became of him.

I would find out soon enough.

Through Friends Reunited he kept an old, almost forgotten promise to contact me. We arranged to meet up.

It was the oddest thing when he turned up on my doorstep. Firstly, he was no longer a boy. He was a man. Secondly, he could never have been described as thin. And thirdly, he was clean shaven. He was so unfamiliar in so many ways yet completely familiar in the one way that made me as comfortable with him then as I'd always been. It didn't take me long to adjust to his 'filled out' physique or the fact that time had matured him. However, I really struggled with that smooth face.

Preparing Tete de Moine for the prettiest lunch ever (Switzerland)

It wasn't long before he grew back the beard. There was grey in it now and I loved it. That was over 7 years ago.

Last week, he was challenged to shave off his beard for Movember. He is never one to shy away from any challenge so he accepted and raised £200 for the cause.

He did actually look younger without it and I admit that when he kissed me it was reminiscent of those early smooth faced kisses so charged with passion and hope. I liked it.

He bought shaving foam and razors and kept himself clean shaven until I made the decision for him to stay or grow.

The novelty began to wear off quickly. I missed my beardy man. I wanted him back.

My husband is a hirsute individual. By about 9 o'clock tonight, my wish will probably have been granted!

A thirty year old box

My 18 year old self had a friend at University. She painted a cardboard box from the supermarket for her friend to keep his LP record collection in.

My 48 year old self is now married to that friend and amazingly, he still has the cardboard box.

It makes me smile to see that thirty years ago I had the same penchant for black and cream zebra-esque design as I do now. It also makes me smile to see my initials carefully painted in the bottom right corner of one side.

The girl who made those marks with her paintbrush three decades ago seems so remote from the person I am today but that old box, once used to transport litre bottles of Fairy Liquid, connects me in a way that I think little else could. It is a very strange feeling.