She comes from Donny, sunny sunny Donny

Journeys, pitches, conferences, deadlines. As ever I’ve had too many of these running in parallel and the noise of my life reached a deafening crescendo -- well caterwauling -- yesterday when 20 small people ran around in my garden dressed as cats and tigers in a fantastic feline farrago. Oh the delicious indignations of 6 year old girls about their party themes. They crashed into one another relentlessly, smiled and crashed again. Much the same as my battling through terminals, waiting rooms, stations. I travel far, and frequently; the extrovert in me will talk to anyone, about anything – indeed my boss recently described me as a ‘tornado’ whizzing through. How true. But at heart I’m a DonnyLass, from a pit village-turned-council-estate, immeasurably proud of my origins, friends and family. All this toiling around, tho’, short passing-through episodes; experiences that shape, mould, impact and infer – at that very passing of time, the point of collision – what do we take of the person and what impression do we give? There’s a kaleidoscope of colour spinning around every individual as their journeys synch and spiral off again. I interviewed a Doctor recently who I’ve met several times over the course of 12 years. We’ve had brusque discussions, I’ve felt occasional terror that my knowledge won’t cut it, I’ve been impressed by his frankness and dedication but until this recent conversation we’ve only ever crashed and burned ... without taking a moment to see what else is happening to this person at this point in their lives. Turns out one of his first hospital jobs was treating the result of nightclub shenanigans in good ol’ Donny ... probably me, definitely some of you currently reading this blog (because we all know that clubbing in Donny begins aged 15 ... sorry Mum, no I didn’t 100% lie, I did stay at my bffs house, honest ... we just went out all night and rocked up to Mr Mullins’ chemistry A Level class still buzzing from the previous night’s ethanol experiment ). Suddenly, with common ground (some of Donny, honestly is very common) we found a natural, comedic alliance and were able to ask more and of more. And off we swirl, the cycle continues. What then do we centrifuge back to? One of the basic laws of physics (I remember this, because the nightclubs only had ‘nappy nights’ on Tuesdays and no DonnyLass would bother with that – so double physics with ‘SweatyBetty’ was, sadly, well-attended every Wednesday) is that energy can not be created, nor destroyed ... but transfers from one state to another. So I’ll continue crashing through, meeting, greeting, pitching, pushing ... from one state to another. But always a DonnyLass and perhaps I’ll slow up just a little to gaze and connect more effectively with the other person scrambling to their feet.

Happy Yorkshire Day

Oh dear. Bless me Blogging Father for I have sinned -- it has been a year since my last post! Still ... nothing like the chance to wish everyone a 'Happy Yorkshire Day' on the same day that TeamGB win their first gold medal to re-start. Infact the first medallist in London2012 was a Yorkshirewoman. So that's all (sort've) working out. I've noticed that whenever you talk to a Northerner there's always a 'first' conversation waiting to spring on you ... 'he was the first in the family to go to university / earn a million / finish his tea' for example; clearly we like to be up-front and out-front. Which is why I am surprised that it has taken so long for swanky to hit Hull. Leeds has the first Harvey Nichs outside of the capital, Manchester and Liverpool vye for top ranking on the football tables (I'm ignoring Chelsea), Edinburgh and York are No 1 tourist attractions and World Heritage sites respectively. Even my home town of Doncaster can boast of the first (I think) and certainly the oldest horse race. Why has Hull become last in the first-stakes? Well ... swanky has now hit Hull in the form of new restaurant '1884' ... which I'll be dining at tonight to raise a glass to Yorkshire folks everywhere. So enjoy the day and make today one where you do something great for the first time!

Northern NOLAs

I've had the extraordinary pleasure this past week of meeting Southerners who are just like Northerners; good people who speak their minds and and care little for what you do -- but are more impressed by personality than profligacy.

Where are these pseudo-Northerners? They are in the South of North America. Confused yet? That's New Orleans, Louisianna ... or NOLA for you afficionados of the acronym.

Now, historically, the folks 'down there' don't like the English much. A big argument that goes back three hundred years and comes from the city being built by French and Spanish settlers who were sold a property scam by an Irishman and were determined to keep this swampy bit of The Americas all to themselves. Fair enough. There's even a spot on the Mississippi called 'Turning Point' where the French Captain told the Captain of an English Vessel looking to drop anchor not to bother ... so the English turned away. I have several such turning points around Yorkshire but usually because I can't be bothered to keep searching for chocolate so not quite so politically significant! Anyway, fair enough and well-played. But they do like much that the English like -- including noise, revelry, alcohol and fried food ... the latter two are oft-ascribed to Northerners.

Similiarly, these NOLA-Northerners are used to their counterparts in the opposite part of the country taking pleasure in pinning labels on them of slow, dumb or poor on account of their accents. I have empathy with this. On countless occasions I have had people feel inspired to adopt a 'thick Northerner' accent when they learn where I live and to be surprised that I don't spend my days scrubbing front steps or the mucky faces of my progeny -- but infact am reasonably well-read, well-travelled and well-rounded. And no, that's not me circling back to the fastfood again.

I am always somewhat bemused by the way that people draw conclusions about you based on where you're from ... isn't where you're heading the more interesting part of the story? Furthermore, impersonating someone and expecting less of them based on their accent is surely a form of bullying and while not racism it is regional-ism. I get told I am 'chippy' about this ... but if you saw someone being picked on for the colour of their skin you'd step in; what about the colour of their communication?

I struggled this week with the pace of the chat ... I loved the drawl and respect of the 'yes ma'am' and learned a lot about just taking a little longer to show courtesy and not be so reactive. Partly the strong Louisianna sun, partly the desire to slow down and enjoy life a little more contributed to this. And it was all marinated in a lot of alcohol (with even a 'to-go' cup to ensure you didn't even have to walk between establishments without booze-in-hand). But as a charming Southern Belle explained to me at a chichi Charles Avenue lawn party, "these folks start off being all about what they do and are constantly on their smart phones in the middle of the Superbowl ... we just let them know that we don't care about all that stuff ... who dat?".

Which just serves to remind me how good it is to come home; to put feet on soil where you're known for you - not for what you do. And it doesn't matter what accent you hear 'Welcome Home' in ... just that you hear it.

Hair today -- gone tomorrow

Contrary to popular belief that we are uncouth, obese, benefit-dependent ladies -- procreating to literally 'bump' our way up the council house list (and unashamedly using several sires to do so), I want to make something very plain about being pretty.

Northern women are very glamorous.

And that's glamorous with a big-tousled capital G.

I have found my relocation from the 'moneybelt' SouthEast to be quite intimidating in this regard. Let me take you through a typical day in my seemingly unprepossessing coastal town which has far more in common with my-my mademoiselles than you might think ...

0845: The Schoolgate Senoras
All the latest fashions, full make-up before the caffiene has kicked-in.
A bounty of beauties.


1000: The Arrival of the Domestic Goddess
Here comes the housekeeper -- all 5ft 8 dynamism-in-a-d-cup! With stories of drama and dances in her wake she uses a body that Giselle would die-for to power around the house sorting out the family's detritus and various unrepeatable doggy disasters without a blink of a false-eyelashed eye. (Clearly 'Pam' deserves an extra-long paragraph here for commitment to the cause, because next to GrannyNanny she is the most important person in my life to keep onside as without her the entire setup would unravel.)
A cacophony of capability.


1400: The Car-Park Countess
Bump into pal while parking at the local garden centre, deluding myself that Hunters and no-mascarra is perfectly acceptable when collecting compost. No. Even regaling torrid tales of house-moving ... one of the most lamentable of life's occasions ... she is perfectly turned-out. Not a hair out of place, no sign of raised blood pressure from the situational stress is affecting her silky skin.
A pulchritudinous perfection.


1600: The Super Singer
Emailed by friend about organising a Spring Ball. I know that on the other end of the keypad-cyberspace-relationship there taps a perfectly manicured hand, owned by a charismatic, ever-calm Supermum who is artful dealing with any situation and always appropriately-accessorized to boot.
A diplomatic diva.


2000: The Literary Lovelies
Surrounded by women who are super-fit, funky and funny. And every single one of them has fantastic hair. Just not fair.
The heavenly hirsutes.


The link between them all -- it's the hair. No doubt about it. This truly is a county of crowning glory -- which makes my frizzle-drizzle apology of a mop seek out a decent hat. I noticed it quite early on. The women UpNorth have seriously smashing styles, fabulous follicles, and ne'er a bad hair day in sight. And they make no apologies for keeping up appearances. There are 13 hairdressers in just 4 streets in this town and during my (pathetic) annual trip to the salon I ask the owner how they have the time and the money to always be perfectly coiffured? The answer -- "women here would rather get up at 6am and go without food before they go without getting their hair done!".

I shuffle out, head held low in shame.

I read somewhere that hair is the only thing that you wear everyday so it be the item you spend the most on. Note to self: if I don't want to be hair-today, cast-out tomorrow then the just-dried, colour-gone, kooky look just won't cut it up here!

Spectacular vernacular

I'm sure you know that 'vernacular' is the noun used to describe the standard native language of a place, locality or even a profession. What you probably don't know is how spectacular the vernacular is at the top of the country. Yorkshire in particular is frequently the subject of comedy around our 'ey oops', 'ahl see thees' and 'nowts' -- we've even got a song that celebrates the delicacies of the dialect (and to answer an oft-posed question from my friends at the bottom of the country ... no, 'Ilkley Moor ba tat' does not refer to a field of potatoes).

You may wonder why it has taken me 6 months to start this blog proper? The answer -- I've been immersing myself back in all things Northern and in particular the language. Frankly (and we use that term a lot around here) it has taken some getting used too and I can certainly detect a word-slurring and flattening of the vowels already. I'm almost re-acclimatised.

So the time has come to list my top spectacular vernaculars thus far and explain why they make me chuckle every time I hear them. As a woman-of-words and avid collector of motivational (some might say cheesy) quotes I thought I'd try to align them with some more classical words-of-wisdom. See what you think:

1. "Oh don't bother about him -- he's a comfort!"

Comfort?

As in -- 'come for the day'; a highly-dismissive term (especially pertinent in a seaside town) for the seasonal peoples who like to journey to the coast, park badly, litter up the area with discarded fish-and-chip wrappers from their annual beach perambulation and tell the locals how they could do things better. The phrase was explained to me to calm my consternation after said 'comfort' chided me while I was walking my dog on the beach. Not an insult so much as a term-of-ignoring the ignorant.

'NiceUpNorth' equivalent of -- "No-one can make you feel inferior without your consent". (Eleanor Roosevelt.)

2. "I shit the bed!"

Bad curry?

As in -- 'in a state of anxiety about an impending situation, I got out of bed really early' ... because (as the builder on a deadline for me and seeking his on-time bonus explained so eloquently) if you actually do defecate on the duvet, well, there's no way you'll lie in it a second longer will you? As a writer frequently facing deadlines, I do wonder what my Managing Editor would make of me using that one to bag an extension? Watch this space.

'NiceUpNorth' equivalent of -- "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing noise they make as they fly by." (Douglas Adams.)

3. "Well, as far as I've heard he's a gunner..."

Gunner?

As in -- gonna do this, gonna do that. actually does nothing. I was told this about someone who beat me to a role I wanted by just two votes (!). Not sure it actually helped me get over being a sore-loser to learn that the Victor would do little with the authority he was granted.

'NiceUpNorth' equivalent of -- "All mouth and no trousers". Actually, I don't know who said that. But you know what I mean.

Next time -- the terms-of-endearment.

Inspired by idiotic comments

Let's get a couple of things out of the way shall we?

I am Northern.

I am a Council-House, Yorkshire-Lass, Grandaughter-of-a-Miner made (quite) good.

Really I should be walking my whippet right now, while foisting a ferret down a hole as the pigeons coo behind me and I eat my 'tea' of fried mars bar while saying things like "tha's summat nice ba tat". Obviously I am impoverished, uncouth, dishevelled, parsimonious and intellectually retarded.

At least that's the regional-ist rubbish regularly chucked at Notherners -- nay at Yorkshire Northerners. Certainly the frequency of such nonsense has increased towards me since I chose to return to living life Up North.

Yes, you did read that correctly. I chose to return.

Because -- and here's the point of this blog -- Life in a Northern Town is really rather nice. Not grim. Not chavvy. Not stuck in the days of Bronte's Wuthering about.

So I'd like to tell you what is so Nice up North -- or at least what makes me smile. I hope it will make you smile too.

Watch this space -- Northern-ness is coming your way.