Things You Notice When You’re Delayed At An Airport

There is nothing sadder than the bride at the end of a hen do. Deflated willy clutched to her burnt boobs, ‘bride to be’ tiara skewiff and knotted into her wine-swilled hair, the bride stares into the bottom of her tea cup for a sign, ANY sign, that she might be forgiven for the unspeakable things she’s done with the waiter in Benidorm.

You will have to bite your lip to stop yourself from screaming ‘Marry me!’ at a man old enough to be Santa, purely because he says, ‘you’re a really good mother,’ and smiles at your feral children – as they scream at each other and fight over who gets to ‘charge’ their (plastic) ‘phone’ in the locker first. See pic.

There are no words for the gratitude you will feel for your own children when they ACTUALLY LISTEN TO YOU as you go through customs. ‘Yes I know you love your new Lion King bag but we have to put it through the scanner now… Thank you! Oh thank you! What a good girl! Thank you! Jesse, no, mammy can’t carry you through the bleepy machine. Please walk through by yourself, PLEASE… Oh wow! Thank you! A thousand times thank you! I have the BEST children in the world.’

No one else will feel this way, however. As a mother travelling alone with two under four, your already significantly diminished self-esteem will shrivel away to…nothing. You are considered to be the absolute scum of the earth, the shit on the shoe of the airport. You and your off-spring will prompt sighs, tuts, eye rolls and mirthless laughter from your fellow travellers.

But never will you feel more like a superhero than when the departure screen declares ‘Easyjet to Newcastle: closing,’ (despite having only just announced the gate number) and you kneel down, look both your children in the eye (separately, unless you’re cross-eyed), and say, ‘you’re going to have to run as fast as your little legs can carry you if we’re to get on this plane,’ and the little one predictably falls to the floor, a badly assembled game of jenga, yet undeterred, you look around, discover a discarded buggy, throw him in it, plonk his sister on top of the handle bar, and run – for the first time since you were forced to in PE at school – arriving at Gate 12, aka THE OTHER END OF THE WORLD, with mere seconds to spare. You look around, breathless, euphoric, confused as to why no one is applauding or handing you a medal.

The airport departure lounge is weirdly sexual on a Friday night. Corporate types loosen their ties and unbutton their shirts, girls paint their faces for their long-distance lovers, couples kiss and make plans for their weekend away. And one solitary Man-Who-Couldn’t-Even-Pull-On-A-Stag-Do offers for his friend to look after your children for 15 minutes so that you may join the Mile High Club. You will be tempted to say, ‘I have literally no interest in squeezing into an aeroplane toilet with anyone, let alone you. But if your friend is serious about looking after my children for 15 minutes on the flight, I’ll meet HIM in there. He can be my Spanish Waiter and I’ll be his Desperate Hen. Just as a thank you.’

(The things a woman will do for a bit of help with her children…)

Guests you’ll find at Every Wedding

After singing at a few hundred weddings, you notice a few characters who seem to pop up at every one. Here’s a handy list. 
Guests You’ll Find At Every Wedding:
The Usher in love with The Bride. 

Often a relative of the groom. Looks like…the groom but is a good six inches shorter. Creeps around the bride all night, twirling her around the dance floor, when the groom is busy elsewhere doing cigars/coke/the chief bridesmaid.
Aerobics Instructor. 

Blond Bob, thighs of steel, leads all the dancing with lots of grapevines and shouts of ‘Come On!’ thrown in. Is quite scary. 
Failed Singer.

Dark hair. Stage makeup. Sings fiercely loud over the music. Gives the wedding singer evil looks. Is crying in the toilet by the end of the night.
The Disillusioned Husband

Late 30s. A shadow of his former fit self – balding, paunchy, but he’s tried, bless him, he’s wearing a tweed waistcoat. Pint in hand, three children hanging of his arm. His wife has taken the fourth, their youngest, to bed. They haven’t had sex since 2013. Can be found chatting up the aerobics instructor/failed singer/any of the above. Including the Usher.
The Single bridesmaid. 

She’s the one who isn’t eight months pregnant. Fusses over the bride continually. Dances manically to ‘All the Single Ladies,’ and grabs the brides bouquet so tightly, her knuckles go white. Invariably goes to bed with the broken-hearted Usher. 
The Music-loving Granddad. 

Dances, with equal enthusiasm, to Jackie Wilson’s ‘Higher and Higher’ and The Killers ‘Mr Brightside.’ Loves to chat to the band at the end of the night. 
The Almost Dead Relative

Upwards of 90, this Great Nana has no clue who she is or where she is. Will spend the entire day draped in pearls, and gravy. Approach with caution: her frontal lobe went back in the 80s so she will say horribly offensive things to you.

Why I’ll Never Be A Chick Lit Heroine

Why I’ll Never Be a Chick Lit Heroine

There are some fantastic female writers out there, @lisajewelluk and @MarianKeyes being two of my favourites. But there are also some not so fantastic female writers out there, (possibly unwittingly) lying to themselves and us, their female market, about what to expect out of life. Here’s why I would never be cast as a character in one of their novels.

Chick Lit Lie: The main woman always puts on a slick of lip gloss and some mascara and she’s good to go.
Kelly Truth: If I go out with just mascara and a slick of lipgloss on, I spend the entire day being asked if I have the flu.

Chick Lit Lie: She has no idea that she’s beautiful but at least two men fancy her.
Kelly Truth: I could count on one hand the amount of men that have really, truly fancied me (as opposed to the ‘I might, if she begged’ fancying kind). And they never come along in twos.

Chick Lit Lie: She’s hardly ever in work but somehow manages to afford a Burberry bag, Manolo Blahnik heels and a cashmere jumper.
Kelly Truth: I spend my life in work and I couldn’t tell you the last time I bought something that was over £10.

Chick Lit Lie: When she is in work she spends the entire time flirting with her sexy, stubbly male boss or exchanging hilarious emails with her best friend.
Kelly Truth: All of my bosses are female (hooray!). And there ain’t no time for emailing when you’ve got 28 teenagers waiting for you to teach them, or a 150 drunk wedding guests waiting to be entertained…

Chick Lit Lie: She gets depressed for a chapter and loses weight WITHOUT NOTICING (no actual human woman ever loses weight without noticing). And it’s always just in time for the conference/ball/wedding/ bumping into her ex moment.
Kelly Truth: Last time I had a Bumping Into an Ex Moment – I was hungover, wearing no make up, had leaked a bottle of water all over my crotch, had a spot that had just pussed all over my chin, and was crying after an argument with a friend. Bet he was dying to ask me back though…

Chick Lit Lie: She has an amazing best friend who is funny, quirky, supportive and available 24 hours a day.
Kelly Truth: Actually I do have some pretty amazing friends but I’m lucky if I get to spend 24 hours a YEAR with them.

Chick Lit Lie: She also has an amazing gay best friend who is funny, quirky, good with make up and available 24 hours a day.
Kelly Truth: Actually this is the one point on which I beat Protagonist girl. I am an actor so I have LOADS of gay friends. Both in and out of the closet. So there.

Chick Lit Lie: The sheer amount of TIME she has. Always meeting friends for coffees, having hours of sex with handsome strangers, having long, languid morning afters with handsome strangers, visiting department stores, going to gigs and after-show parties, beauty salons and cocktail bars, writing articles and taking mini breaks in Paris.
Kelly Truth: I have 3 jobs and a band. I’m lucky if I manage to fit sleep in, let alone anything else.

Chick Lit Lie: The leading man is always a foot taller than her and she loves it.
Kelly Truth: As someone whose 5ft 2 I’ve been out with plenty of men who are a foot taller than me. It’s fine – as long as you’re content with a permanent crick in your neck.

Chick Lit Lie: The leading man always has a perfectly toned body but never goes to the gym.
Kelly Truth: If you actually want a man with a perfectly muscly, inverted triangle of a torso, be prepared to spend LOTS of time on your own whilst he’s at the gym, and the rest of the time being bored out of your brain while he talks about the gym.

Chick Lit Lie: The leading man is invariably the Head of the Corporation in the city of London, but still has his regional accent.
Kelly Truth: There has NEVER been a successful Head of a Corporation in London who still has an Irish/Northern/Welsh accent. They’ve all had it battered out of them by the Old Boy’s Network (I could have said something a lot worse here…) .

Chick Lit Lie: Even though he’s a millionaire Head of Corporation type, he always has time for the girl: meeting her for lunch, whisking her away on mini breaks. To Paris.
Kelly Truth: Hugely successful men have reached such a status by making work their priority. You will never be top of this man’s list. Besides, his commute alone takes him two hours-the poor little soul will be sleeping in your lap before you’ve even had a chance to get the Paris brochure out.

Chick Lit Lie: He’s amazing at ‘dirty talk.’
Kelly Truth: It is impossible for a man to be good at talking dirty, until we re-write the names for female body parts. Boobs: Too Page 3. Breasts: something that lies frozen and dismembered at the bottom of your freezer. T/ts: Too full of consonants and sweary. And don’t get me started on the plethora of names for the other bit.

Chick Lit Lie: And as for the sex, well… The man never wears a condom but she remains totally STD-free and never falls pregnant. There’s no mention of how she takes care of her lady garden but its always, miraculously, a perfect landing strip (even though the sex was completely unexpected). He’s a Derren Brown in the bedroom, hypnotising her with his hips, making her come and go like the ebbing and flowing of the sea: he’s a veritable sex magician. And the acrobatic prowess she and he display together! He can lift her up against a wall whilst also managing to have both hands in her hair.
Kelly Truth: if a man managed to hold me up against a wall with just his hips, I’d ruin the moment by slipping down the wall in shock and telling him he should go on Britain’s Got Talent.

And that is why I shall never be a chick lit heroine. Sigh.

(As always, don’t take anything I say too seriously. I never do.)

Kelly Rickard xxx
Copyright April 2013.