Something no one knows

A few years ago my mum introduced a Christmas day ritual that we continue to adopt and even adapt for other occasions. The topics change but everyone at the table is asked to share a few bits and pieces. This year we had to talk about our personal highlight of 2012, what we're most looking forward to in 2013 and share something that nobody else at the table knew. With a big group it's a good way to include everyone in the same conversation for a little while. There are always laughs and, despite the odd protest, everyone enjoys it.

Some great unsung tidbits were revealed. I learned one of my cousins saved his friend's life using CPR, that one of my aunts had started selling cakes to her local cafes and that my great uncle had spotted his neighbour dancing in the nude just recently. Seriously. I did not make that last bit up.

Anyway. I wracked my brain for something to share that no one knew but I couldn't think of anything of note. Being the over-sharer that I am and having a blog means a great number of things about me are public knowledge. A few days later though it dawned on me that there was something to share that no one (except Mr G) knew. Naturally I rectified that immediately and will fill you in too.

When Mr G and I moved overseas I started a blog. Long before this one came to be I set up Oxford's Other Half. I wish I could tell you it is a famously successful anonymous blog with a cult following. It's not. It didn't last long enough to attract even a single reader. The fact I didn't tell a soul it existed probably sealed its fate. I wrote two posts before giving up; it obviously wasn't my time to commence an online diary. 

For a bit of fun today I thought I'd share one of those posts. Two things to note. First, Mr G was as keen to remain unnamed back then as he was when NABM was born so I called him The Student. Second, I can't share the first post because it makes me wince. I wrote, full of optimism, that I would only blog until I secured employment. That didn't happen (unless you count a few awful temping positions) and it wasn't for lack of applications. My ego remains bruised today even though I know how that part of the story panned out. It was hard. If you're smart, which we both know you are, you may deduce the reason my first blog failed to flourish might have had something to do with the thrashing my self esteem  was sustaining, one rejection letter at a time. You would be right. 
  

Bikes and associated trauma

With bags unpacked and a little home-making underway, bikes were our first stop. They're an essential in this town and we were told to get in quickly as decent second-hand bikes get snapped up at this time of year. We headed up the road and picked out two suitable-looking bikes, helmets and bike locks. It's been a good 20 years since I had ridden a bike regularly. I might not have forgotten how to do it but I had certainly lost any comfort I ever had. I was terrified the whole ride home (less than five minutes) and resigned myself to the fact I would happily walk everywhere for the next two years rather than take on cars, buses and angry pedestrians on my bike. I prefer walking anyway.

Not deterred by my terror or apprehension, The Student convinced me to get back on my bike. Literally. We were almost home after a successful hour or so of riding. My confidence was slowly building, though my knuckles remained white from gripping the handle-bars as if my life depended on it (which, funnily enough, is exactly how I felt with cars and bikes whizzing passed, ready to knock me off at any moment). Some road works meant we detoured to the pavement briefly - apparently a no-no in town but confusingly is ok on certain footpaths.

One very grumpy man was not impressed and made his disapproval vocally obvious in my direction. A few metres ahead I hopped off my bike to collect some lunch and told The Student about his tirade. Unfortunately by that stage the grumpy man on foot had caught up to us and began an even-louder, even-angrier verbal assault at the pair of us. The Student said sorry and explained that i was just learning. The grumpy man yelled "if she can't ride a f****ing bike, she shouldn't be f****ing riding". He had a very valid point. In fact, I'd made the same point to the Student earlier that day. Nevertheless, I burst into tears at the man's anger. My confidence was shattered and we walked our bikes the rest of the way home. Again, walking was looking like a pretty attractive transport option.

A few weeks on from then and I'm happy to say I'm using my bike every day and enjoying it more and more. Though I still hate helmet hair. 

PS My bike riding was almost as short lived as Oxford's Other Half.