Notes from a small island

Today in the gym a man fell over on the running machine. Then, grappling with the handles, he managed to haul himself back onto it. I would have just let go and fled to the floor, but he seemed insistant that would have been a knock to his manhood. So his knees came away drenched in blood and looking very burnt indeed. But he soldiered on. He didn’t even look down.

That didn’t happen to me on the Isle of Wight, but I had to tell the world it did happen. Not that I have actually told anyone about this website yet, but I guess if this is the closest I am going to come to writing a diary of sorts, then first on my list of things to write today is that a man fell over. Because I’m always watching the runners at the gym, watching and waiting, for one to fall off. And he did.

But back track I will, to the isle of wonder. Oh how I love that magical isle. It has a reputation as the arse of England, full of scum, but it most certainly is not. Well, not all of it.

I’ve never had a bad time there. Except once, when I broke my back. That was pretty rubbish. This time, though, was splendid. I suppose I should be writing about things that my reader can think ‘oh yes, it is funny when that happens… oh, life, you are funny,’ but I’m not going to. Maybe later.

My new boyfriend and I went to the Isle for some R and R. (and some B and G. haha. Bumping and grinding, that stands for.) Probably shouldn’t put that somewhere where I’d like prospective employers to survey, but oh well. I’m a long way off looking for a new employer so I’ll write what I like.

Where was I. Ah yes, so off we set for the Isle of Wight. Wightlink was doing it’s usual millions in profit to get us there. But did we buy tea for £5? Did we hell. We won.

We watched the stars from the top deck and discussed in which direction we’d swim – towards the mainland or the isle – should we be unlucky enough to fall in. Can’t put a price on working out the maths for that, Wightlink.

Did you know it’s warmer in the Isle of Wight than mainland England? It’s warmer because it has less clouds forming on account of it being a little island. I think. Something like that. But it was very warm and sunny all weekend, so I must be right.

We took my Grandma out for Sunday lunch – Mothering Sunday lunch, no less. She is very old. 95 years old. That’s pretty old.

But she is amazing. She’s still got her wits about her and even had us genuinely laughing. My favourite was when she said to Gareth, ‘look after Kim. One day she’ll get raped.’ Say it like it is, Grandma.

She always beats me at Scrabble and can finish the Telegraph crossword. A doddle, for her. And while I’m bragging, she only flew spitfires in the 2nd World War. The most heroic thing I did that weekend was get a spider out of the caravan (Gareth was too scared to).

In my job, humble as it is, I have to trudge my way through dozens of local papers in order to find the stories I then regurgitate for vast somes of money.

Every day I read countless stories that never reach the big papers. (I think they’re called nationals) Teenagers killing old women, teenagers killing their sisters, fathers killing their children, husbands beating up their wives, wives cheating on their husbands, kids accidentally killing their brothers and sisters, dogs who have got their heads stuck in watercans, children who get their hands stuck in drains, (it’s not all doom and gloom) kids who have overcome cancer, kids who haven’t… I could go on.

You do, one does, I did, quickly, become desensitised to it all. But I still go home at the end of every day somewhat bewildered by how very intense life is.

But life is pretty idealic in the Secret Garden, Somewhere in the Isle of Wight, postcode unknown.

There are a lot of trees and daffodils and tranquility. I saw two red suirrels having a scrap in a tree – that was the extent of the confrontations I had to think about for a solid 60 hours. I went back to work on Monday morning and felt very dazed and out of place. I missed the dafodils.

I think that’s enough for my first official blog. I don’t want to go setting myself high standards.

Plus, I’m told there’s a documentary about Stephen Hawkinds on and he needs me. As does a red poker dot dress I am about to buy. It needs to be with me.

Regards,

Kim Bauer.