Impending Awkward Family Photos
“There’s me. And there’s daddy. There’s grandma!” the 5 year old called out, flicking through the family photos.
“And that is me! And this one. Here is me!” Joins in the 3 year old, flicking quickly past all the unimportant people, aka people that aren’t him.
Eventually, ¾ of the way down a stack of photos that stands higher than the 3 year old, I get the shout “there’s you mummy!” And then again we start with the rote of that’s me, that’s grandma, grandpa, friends, other family members etc.
And I start to feel a bit left out. Sulky even. Why am I always the one taking the photos? Why am I in so few? Okay, so actually I know the answer to that. It’s two fold:
1. I’m a control freak, plain and simple. I don’t like other people being in charge of the camera.
2. I don’t like having my photo taken. I look gormless and dull 90% of the time when other people take my photo.
Why did I not remember these things when I agreed to a family photoshoot with Jo Belfield? Why?
I’m sure that Jo is a wonderful photographer. I’m sure she is, just look at her photos. They look lovely.
She say gulping worriedly.
But, but, but…, I’ve never been to a family photo shoot before and now all I can envisage are hideous family portraits like these from Awkward Family Photos.
Dear God, help me! Have you had a family portrait before? What was it like? Do you have any tips and tricks to stop us looking like idiots? Apart from remembering to blink, not wearing head to toe denim or dressing up as Barbie for the day, that is?
Sex Toys and Bad Customer Service
Did Naughty Nights UK believe they could get away with bad customer service because I’d be too embarrassed to kick up a fuss? Are we supposed to shrug it off and slink off shame-faced when sex toy companies don’t deliver?
Sod that.
Being quite newly single and feeling rather sorry for myself in February I decided to cheer myself up the way any modern, sexually liberated woman might: by buying myself a new vibrator.
I browsed various brands and designs. I even employed one of my girl friends to browse and discuss the merits of said sex toys with me over t’internet and we came across the Oh My Bod Club Vibe. In the non-smutty way, of course. We’re not THAT close.
It looked like a winner: fun, different and a little bit naughty. It seemed to fit the bill so I cracked open my wallet and bought it, looking forward to its arrival. Which never happened.
Life, however, did. The move to the UK. The move into my mum’s house. The move in to out new house. The sorting and organising and stressing and worrying. Beaucracy, confusion and paperwork. Schools, nursery, dentists, doctors. All the shit that goes with moving happened frequently, fast and in an all consuming manner.
As the dust began to settle I realised my little freedom gift to myself never arrived. And so on the 22nd March, almost 4 weeks after ordering it, I emailed the sales team.
And heard nothing.
For four whole weeks.
But shit happens, right? Emails go missing. People forget things. Not a big deal.
So on the 18th April, I emailed them again.
A couple more weeks went by and still not a peep from Naughty Nights UK. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Not even an automated ‘we’ve received your email’ email.
Surely they weren’t trying to rip me off here? They weren’t taking the piss, were they? Did they really think I would just keep quiet if they took my £39.50 and didn’t deliver anything because they were sex toys? Was I supposed to keep quiet, all shy and embarrassed?
I started to get irrate. I sent them a terse email telling them so and I inwardly fumed for a while. And then I outwardly fumed on Twitter. I’ve never done thats before, called out a company on Twitter. I was nervous. I didn’t want to be ‘one of those people’. But fuck it, they’d ignored me, and I was angry at being taken for a ride.
After a couple of hours of chatting about it on Twitter somebody from Naughty Nights UK finally tweeted me asking me to use the new customer service center they’d recently set up – it wasn’t there when I originally started to complain to them, hence the reason I didn’t use it in the first place.
I went into my emails to look for the order number to find they had also finally replied to my email. My original email sent on 22nd March. Apparently it had taken them two and a half months to reply to my email because ‘we have been extremely busy with our new systems.’
Oh well that’s alright then.
I then got a rather terse email from their techincal team
Dear Heather Sunderland,
I am the technical registrar for NNUK.
The delay was caused by our servers not responding to the new system we have.
This ment that some e-mails were not being reached to our customer services center. -
Really? For two and a half months? And was only just fixed on the day I started to call your company out on Twitter? What a coincidence!
You see the thing is Naughty Nights UK, I don’t give a rats arse WHY you haven’t been in touch for two months. What I want is a the feeling that you actually give a flying fuck about messing up my order so spectacularly and ignoring me for so long until I had to call you out about it publicly, NOT a dressing down from your techincal team. And also, if this isn’t too much to ask, THE VIBRATOR THAT I ORDERED AND PAID FOR!
Which still hasn’t arrived, incidentily.
I think I future I shall stick to using Love Honey who I have had nothing but great customer service from and never grace Naughty Nights UK’s door again.
The curious incident of the slug in the night
It seems we have a stowaway. A non-rent-paying tenant. A squatter of the slimiest nature.
Each morning for the last weeks I’ve found a trail of slug slime on the carpet around the patio doors. A bright, fat, shiny trail of goo seeming to appear out of nowhere, circle whichever toy has been left lying in the area and then disappearing again. Leaving no clue as to where, or from whence, the offender has travelled.
I’ve checked the curtains, corners of the room and under and behind furniture, gingerly moving chairs and cupboards away from walls ready to squeal at the mere sight of a our oozing interloper. Crawling on my hands and knees and peering tentatively underneath things. I even got a torch out at one point. Whether it was to help me find or as defence against the slug I’m not really sure, but no sign of the slithering insect is to be found.
It is clearly a master of hide and seek, or disguise, or something.
And randy as hell.
Each morning the slime trails are fatter and juicier around the odd toy left lying near the doors. God only knows what horrific fate this poor hexbug had to endure throughout the night.
And the mess around my daughter’s Cinderella figurine was too disturbing to even photograph (okay, so I may have accidentally deleted that photo) but needless to say, it doesn’t look good for the slug, or Cinderella. Poor girl. I doubt she’ll ever be the same again.
What to do?
How does one dispose of a slug one can not find? How does one protect the innocent toys of the household from its clearly sexual-predator-like behaviour?
And would one of you please come and sort it out for me cause I don’t know what I hate most: the slimy, squishy slitherer sneaking around my house during the night or the horrible, high pitched squeal the threat of its presence brings out of me.
Even the picture of the hexbug above makes me shudder.
Honestly, I haven’t felt this much like a stereotype since I hung fluffy pink dice in my silver Fiesta for a week for a dare.
The one where I tell you about moving to England
I am a great big liar. My pants are indeed on fire. And yes, my nose is longer than a telephone wire.
Not only did I never live in Lapland (I lived about 20kms from the border but Note From Nearly Lapland didn’t have quite the same ring to it), but I now no longer even live in Finland. And yet I still have the shocking audacity to use the L word in the title to my blog.
I know, right? How very dare I? It’s not like I’ve had anything else much on my mind these last few months. The very least I could have done is find myself a new blog name. Sheesh.
Upon hearing about my move to the UK*, the first thing most bloggers ask is ‘Well now what are you going to call your blog?’**
The earth shattering, terrible, hideous truth?
I have no idea. I’ll come up with something. Probably. But for the time being you shall just have to put up with the evil lie that is Note From Lapland. Suck it up and deal with it. Or piss off. Either way.
*Shrugs*
Does this mean no more snow porn?
Sorry, yes, it kinda does. Unless we get a butt load of snow in Bury.
Does this mean no more whining about the weather?
Ha. No. Never. I am British, after all.
And finally – are we all settling into the UK okay?
Yes, yes we are. We have a nice house, the girl has started school and is loving it. The boy is starting nursery. I have cracked the secret code and managed to find us an NHS dentist and children’s swimming lessons and am loving living so close to friends and family.
And, just in case you thought everything was all rosy and irritatingly nice in the world of Heather, I came home from an after school play date and dinner out two nights ago to find my son had left a lovely little surprising for me in the bottom of his wardrobe.
And all the way up the walls of his wardrobe.
Over the carpet.
Up the sides of his toy box.
And in a little trail of footprints all the way down the stairs.
A nice big poo, at least 4 hours old.
Not to be outdone, my daughter opened up the same wardrobe this morning, took hold of everything hanging up and wiped her snotty nose across every single clean and ironed item of clothing my son possesses.
*sigh*
Yup, everything is pretty much the same in chez Lapland***.
*About 3 weeks ago myself and the children moved from Finland to the UK. We are now living near Bury in Manchester. Yes, it is a permanent move. Yes, their father is still in Finland. Yes, I am fine thank you, as are the children. And, whilst I appreciate your concern etc., I really don’t want to talk about the reasons behind it on here, thanks.
**seriously, I’ve been asked this question roughly 398573098457 times. People get their pants in a knot about the stupidest of things.
***Ha. There I go again. Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Northern Lights Pictures
This winter has seen some of the brightest and most incredible displays of northern lights in over 20 years. And typically, I missed it all when I was back in England. Not to worry, as last night they came out again and I got another chance to wonder at the awe inspiring lights meandering and twirling across the night sky.
They come out so silently and without any fanfare that it’s not unusual to miss them completely. So thank you to Michelle for sounding the Northern Lights Klaxon for SondanKylä on Facebook last night and promting me to take a look at our Kuusamo sky and see if we were as fortunate.
Boy were we. They swirled and danced over the sky, vibrant and alive. Filling me with a sense of awe and giddy glee as I turned around in a circles, head pointed towards the sky, mouth open in a wide, enchanted grin attempting to take them all in at once. To absorb the scale and beauty of them. Imprint the silent wonder on my mind.
For such a dull sounding thing – dust particles from the sun hitting the Earth’s atmosphere – the colour, movement and grand scale of the aurora is enough to lift any heart and bring a skip to the step of even most downtrodden of soul. A real antidote to life.
Sadly, the pictures go nowhere near to doing them justice – I really will have to buy myself a decent camera one day – but nevertheless I felt I ought to share with you what little I did manage to capture.
I'm Heather, an ex expat, now back in blighty and living in Lancashire. Which is just like Lapland only less snowy...and stuff.
