In the bag.

It may well be presumptuous and a case of tempting fate but if I haven't passed these exams my name's not Bambi Ford........ oh wait a minute, it actually isn't.  Crap.

For those of you who don't know me well enough to have heard the story a thousand times before, you may well be wondering then where the name Bambi originates.  Would you like me to enlighten you?  Well I shall, even at the expense of my parents' reputations and their potential refusal to speak to me ever more (see disclaimer below).

It all began on a summer's night back in July 1973.  I was being born, at home it would seem.  Just present were my mother (this is fairly obvious) and the midwife Rhoda.  Apparently my mother and father had decided upon the name "Charlotte"  but at the last minute, and by last minute I mean literally at the moment my poor mother is pushing for dear life, it transpired that Charlotte was suggested by my father on account of his latest girlfriend.  For those of you not fluent in the language of love and relationships, this is an absolute no no.  Obviously at this revelation the name Charlotte is thrown out of the window, much as I'm certain my father would have been had my mum not been otherwise occupied.

The labour was apparently excruciating and lengthy (aren't they all?!) and by the time I managed to surface in to this world both Rhoda and my mother were convinced my appearance would be short lived.  I believe this was primarily on account of the fact I was incredibly ugly.   Experience tells me however that ugliness in itself rarely proves fatal.........you only have to cast your eyes over the average customers of a LIDL store to understand this fact.

Anyway her being a devout Catholic (though not devout enough to be married!!) and fearing an early departure would lead to my permanent residence in purgatory, my mum, together with the midwife, baptised me in the only available font...the sink....and gave me the name of Rhoda.  Which is short for Bambi. 

I joke of course. 

No rather, on realising that I was not in fact about to leave this miserable world, the name Rhoda appears to have been dropped, only to be replaced by 'the baby'.  Truly a term of the deepest endearment.  My maternal Grandfather, being Irish, took it upon himself to name me Bambino (Italian for baby boy.....) and within a few weeks the title 'Bambi' appears to have become mine. 

Naturally however, no self respecting mother would legally name her daughter after a Walt Disney character (although admittedly my older sister is named Corrinna COCAINE on hers) and therefore it was decided to name me Abigail.......Hebrew meaning "father rejoiced" because apparently he didn't....this, I believe, was supposed to be a touch of irony.

And therein lies the story of my name. 

So my exams.  They went well.  Typically the subject which should have been the easiest ended up the most difficult and vice versa, which could be attributed to the Sod and his law but in actual fact I'm thinking there is probably a more legitimate psychological explanation behind it.  Just as when Leicester City start a game in front they inevitably lose.  Maybe when you expect a thing it becomes harder to obtain???  And perhaps therein lies the key to happiness.  Expect very little in life and you should get a few pleasant surprises.

Relationship wise, this weekend has been a veritable roller coaster.  Last Thursday Chris and I concluded that fifteen years is longer than most people serve for murder with cannibalism, and therefore it's well and truly been long enough.  I moved in to the spare room, which isn't so much spare as inhabited by Euan, the borderline teenanderthol, who was not at all impressed.    By Sunday we decided to give it another try (hell after eight hundred previous attempts, one more can't do any harm) and so far it is going swimmingly, although I did go away on Monday morning and only came back three hours ago....then Chris has gone out for the evening.  Maybe this is the secret to longevity.  Absence. 

We need a war.

Diet wise all I can say is Oh My Gosh.  Some types of stress (like my husband nearly dying or having a mad crush) will make me lose my appetite.  Unfortunately pressurised stress does the exact opposite.  I have done nothing but eat all for the past four days.  Not helped by the fact that it was the Birmingham Food Fare.  The whole High Street is crowded with vendors supplying every food type imaginable.  Indian, Chinese, Mexican, French, German, Italian, Ostrich, Crocodile, Shark, Wild Boar.....you name it, they had it.  Well it would have been plain rude not to oblige.

So I am pounds heavier, but hopefully far wiser and more qualified than before.

Life is all about compromise after all.

(DISCLAIMER: contains poetic licence and possibly enough revelation to make my mum wish she'd held me under the water a little longer).