I have a plot. I know where I'm going with this story. But now, I need to get from >>HERE<< to >>THERE<< and I have absolutely no fucking idea how to do it. None. NONE AT ALL. Did you get that? No clue whatsoever.

Writers block isn't something I'm used to. I am, and always have been, a 'get it right first time' kind of writer, both when writing fiction and doing my journalist-thing. If it doesn't make sense after the first go, it probably won't, so there are pros and cons to being like that. And at the moment, my first attempt at the next chapter is utter dross. Not only does it go against every law of canon, it is just appalling. (Please note: am not looking for contradictions to this statement. You haven't read it. It really is terrible).

I know, from internet and fellow writer friends, that everyone has moments when they think they are the worst writer there has ever been. I know that I should, at present, be focusing on all the nice things people have said over the years about my writing. But in reality, all I can think is:

YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER, ANTONIA JANE KELLY? THIS IS SHITE! GO WORK IN A CALL CENTRE, NOW! 

And the worst thing is that I've just been asked to guest write for a lovely website... right in the middle of a confidence crisis. It has been pointed out to me that this commission should be a confidence boost, but right now? Just feels like pressure.

Here endeth the "throwing toys out of pram" moment.

On the radio, re: the 'Help For Heroes' rugby game last weekend...

"Lawrence Dallaglio got a huge cheer when he came on, but nothing like the cheer that went up at Martin Johnson's appearance." 

Aw, Lawrence, sucks to be you, huh? You just know it pisses him off royally that he isn't as popular as Johnno. Lawrence, this is because you are a first class cock, and Johnno isn't. Easy.

Also, how well did my Austin do on Strictly Come Dancing? Makes me feel all proud. (And yes, our Austin the cat is named after Austin Healey. Our Austin is eight years old - have been a Healey fan for quite some time...)

My beloved girly, Darcy. I cannot believe she and Donncha are nearly three. Here she is featured tucked up in our bed, because she is spoiled beyond reason. 



Baby boy Donncha Demon. Eternal love. Eternal fool.



The handsomest cat in the history of handsome, our Austin.







Random Irish guy I can't seem to get rid of. Claims we're "married".

[Yep, I am having a clear out of all the computer files!]

I think I've crossed a line.

I think I've done something so horrible I can barely look at myself in the mirror.

I think Roger has been usurped in my affections.

Fucking Rafa. Why so adorable? And me a confirmed Roger obsessive all this time, but then... God, Rafa is just so bloody lovely.

I'm a feckless, disloyal, horrible person. But seriously, who could resist?



Bless his little cotton socks.

In other news, I am so freaking bored of being sick now. SOMEONE SEND ME DRUGS.

Am sick. Horrifically so. Miss internet, sorry am not replying to emails or anything. Will catch up when less dead-like. Full bloggy explanation over at D, SW. Do not know when will next be online, this little excursion alone has left me feeling horrific. See y'all soon! 

Yes, it is 6.30am. My sleeping pattern is royally screwed; haven't been to bed yet, and can't go to bed as have tarot customer at 11am. SUCKS.

Anyway, I'm in a mood. I was feeling very PhotoShop-friendly and, naturally, decided to do a Fedal wallpaper. But after correcting the hell out of a Rafa picture, making it from this:

to this:

I showed my darling Matt what I had been doing. And his response? "Is there a difference, Toni?"

YES THERE FREAKING IS. Picture two is smoothed, cropped, smooth blurred, colour corrected (painstakingly so, I'll have you know), lit differently and also, his eyes are TOTALLY FREAKING DIFFERENT due me (a) wanting him to look awake and (b) endless colour alterations and brightness/contrast editing. So yes, there is a difference, the corrected one is much more fitting for a wallpaper, but the minute Matt - bloody, bloody Matt, by supposed best friend - decided to play half-blind-man I've kind of lost my mojo for the wallpaper. To Matt, these corrections are a sign of my "obsessive pedanticness" (not even a word, laddo). Well excuse ME for wanting his eyes to pop and look totally awake... pffft....

Please... am I the only one who can see the difference? Can only obsessives like me who have been working at 600% for an hour see how much smoother and neater the second picture is?

Fucking Matt.

God hates me.

Why else, on the same day, would these two things happen:

1) I find a million Youtube videos of Rafa being adorable / goofy / daft in interviews / phenominally sexual...

2) The computer speakers break.

IS NO FUNNY.

Right, I'm off to church. Clearly I've pissed off someone upstairs and I need to make amends.

(Please no religious nuts - this post is tongue-in-cheek...)

Must... work...

Must.... stop... looking... for.... Fedal... images...

 Unbelievable as it may seem, I do have interests outside of sport. I'm a dedicated historian, a tarot card reader, a qualified manicurist (that summer when I was bored) and I love anything to do with politics (although I am unaffiliated to a particular party - the Tories lost me when Cameron went teh mad with his genius "social responsibility" policy *shudders at memory").

But perhaps my greatest love, my love above even sport (though not Tigers), is the Apollo space missions of the 60s and early 70s. I am, in short, an addict. I think the Apollo missions symbolised so much about what mankind can achieve, in the midst of political crisis and Cold War tensions. The astronauts that did these missions are nothing short of heroes to me; ordinary men who shot for the stars and got there.

Of them all, I worship Jim Lovell the most. His story - the best astronaut they had, who due to the technical fuck up that was Apollo 13 never got to walk on the moon - is so powerful to me. I have adored him for as long as I can really remember; his book 'Lost Moon' reduced me to tears.

Then last year, I finally plucked up the courage to send an email to 'Lovells At Lake Forest', the country retreat he now runs. In it, I wrote all I felt for him, how his story as touched me, how I thought he was a hero, an inspiration. As he approached his 80th birthday, I really needed him to know that his story still inspired, that he would never be forgotten, that people knew Armstrong wasn't the man - Lovell was.

And I got a reply.

I remember opening the email, and I saw the sign off, "With love, Captain James Lovell". And I burst into tears. This man, this extraordinary man, not only knew how much he had touched the life of a 20-something random girl from England, he had taken the time to reply and thank me. I hadn't thought it possible, but he went even further up in my estimation - from that moment on, I would defend him to the death.

Or so I thought.

Today I discovered he attended the Republican convention as a guest of honour. Which scares the shit out of me, and it shouldn't bother me as much as it does, but I can't help it. The Republicans are mental. And though I know when the shock wears off I'll be back to worshipping the ground he walks on, but right now, I'm ridiculously upset. I suppose it's proof he's only human, just a mortal man, but in my mind he never has been just a man. He is my greatest inspiration, a man who was the best of the best but never got the ultimate goal - but never moaned about it, just took it and went with it with admirable spirit.

I know this is overdramatic and everything, and no one is perfect, and the Republicans aren't that bad, but I can't help but feel like I've lost him a little bit, like he isn't the man I thought he was entirely. And that hurts.

Today, I actually did some FREAKIN' WORK ALREADY and finished the Emerald French Services website re-vamp. It's funny how it took on an entirely new mind of it's own, and I began to think it would never, ever be finished and I'd be avoiding it forever. But it is done, and it's not bad for someone self-taught in all matters HTML and PhotoShop. Say it is pretty. I will give you a cookie if you say it is pretty.

Don't get me wrong, being self-employed is wonderful. I really, really love it. But when it comes to business administration or something, I suddenly long for a standard office job I can just loathe for eight hours and then leave behind. Still, it'll be worth it if we get new clients and I can put money into the (okay, really depleted) "Wimbledon 2009" savings jar, or, as Paul calls it, "the fund I will need when we go to Wimbledon in 2009 and my wife is arrested for trying to lick Roger Federer".

Paul is 100% supportive of my Roger obsession, which I believe is the sign of a good husband. Like me, Paul's a total sports nut and he's also become quite partial to tennis, and even he likes Roger. Not like I do - unless my husband is closet homosexual - but still, he generally wants him to win.

Lately, at night, I've been asking Paul to tell me Fedal-related stories. When we're in bed, sometimes I do ask Paul for a story. It usually involves a dinosaur rebellion or an animal winning an Olympic Gold, but I've asked for Fedal stuff and I've been getting it. For example, last night's story was about Roger, Rafa, Wawrinka and Andy Murray getting drunk in a bar together and playing table tennis. I decided it wasn't slash-y enough, so I suggested Roger be playing with Stan and Rafa really not being happy about it. For some reason, the idea of possessive Rafa makes my heart melt. Paul also added in a nice bit where Novak Djokovic tries to get into the bar but is refused as he is a "nobody" and he has to stand outside, face pressed against the glass, getting wet, wanting to be inside. This amuses me.

I really do have the greatest husband in the world.

Other Fedal stories of Paul's creation:

- Roger and Rafa going on holiday, meeting Gavin Henson (shithead rugby player) at the departure lounge and Roger beating Gavin up. Just because.

In other news, I got a request for a rugby article today. A year after I stopped writing about rugby professionally. Funny times.

Well.

Thank fuck for that, eh?

Nice as it is for Andy Murray to be in a Grand Slam final, I want him to lose, and preferably heavily. Roger, my darling Roger, needs this to shut people up. I mean, the guy makes three GS finals in a season and he still has to put up with talk about how he's "losing it" and all that gaff. Roger is Roger, and I want him to win this and get back to number one soon. He needs this, Murray doesn't. Roger deserves it, Murray... doesn't deserve it as much. So...

COME ON ROGER! 

Thoughts on the match as it progresses over on my Twitter.

Roger Roger ROGER.

"And we'll be joining the match for the start, right after the news..."

DO YOU THINK I FREAKING CARE ABOUT THE NEWS? THIS IS RAFA, A POSSIBLE FEDAL FINAL IS AT STAKE. NO ONE CARES ABOUT THE FECKING NEWS.

Oh, and Tigers won away at Gloucester today in our first game of the season, which is just incredible. Very proud. I still feel dead inside when I think of what we did to Loffreda last season, but... a win is a win.

*resists the urge to do another 'VAMOS RAFA'*

Life would not be worth living without sport. Fact.

VAMOS RAFA! 

I know as a Brit I should be cheering for Andy Murray, but the prospect of a Fedal final is just too much. Especially a Fedal final I believe Roger will win...

Oh, did I mention that ROGER IS IN THE FINAL OF THE US OPEN? I has a happy! 

 

So... went on YouTube... typed in 'Roger Federer' (when you go to a search box on this computer and press 'r' it automatically brings up 'roger federer'... isn't that worrying?) and found the below video of Novak Djokovic impersonating Roger, Rafa, Roddick and more. It really made me laugh and then worried me... do we have another contender to Roger's place in my heart?!

If you don't find this funny, you either:

a) Need to watch more tennis to understand how absolutely SPOT ON this stuff is
b) are dead.

Dear Mr. Nadal,

Now, I'm not entirely sure who the hell you think you are. You may now be the number one tennis player in the world, but frankly, even such a title does not make me feel any warmer toward you.

Because, Rafael, you are not being fair. You see, I am a confirmed Roger Federer fan. I love everything about him. Everything. I love his tennis, his style, his charisma, his utter dorkiness and how unerringly beautiful he can look. I adore the man. And, by rights, that should mean I can hate you, his biggest rival.

I mean, you stole Wimbledon, you know? That was his, you git, and you beat him. Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. You're all talented, too, and now you're number one in the world. And while these career statistics are impressive, it is not for these I have questioned the tenacity of your being.

You see, if I can hate you, it's fine. And up until a couple of weeks ago, I did hate you. You kept beating Roger - that's not cool. And you looked really grumpy on court, and I managed to convince myself you were an arrogant bastard who wasn't even fit to tie Roger's shoelaces. I certainly didn't find you remotely attractive. Hating you was easy, so I did it with zeal.

And now... now, look what you've done. You've gone and been all likeable. Not a grumpy bastard, but a genuinely lovely, enthusiastic bloke. You keep saying really nice things about Roger. In everything I see you in or read about you, you seem absolutely adorable, like a hyped up puppy. And then I saw the photos of you looking sadly at Roger after you beat him at the French, where you really seemed to care about how he was feeling. And despite myself, I warmed to you. And that pissed me off.

Then today, I get online, I got to my beloved tennis communities. And I see the recent photos you've done, where you look absolutely blind stoppingly unbelievably sexual. Look at the picture above - I think that is a perfecf definition of the term "piercing eyes". And suddenly, I really fancied you, and added on to how I've come to like you as a bloke, that means... you're a bastard.

It was so much easier when I hated you. So, please, Rafael, please, please be moody, arrogant, sweaty and rather ugly. Because as dedicated as I am to Mr. Federer, pictures like the one above and lovely interviews like the many I have read... well, they'd test even the most dedicated Roger fans.

Love, Antonia Kelly.

PS. I would quite like to lick you.

I've discovered the joy of making icons. I always thought they'd just be too finicky but now I've realised it's a way of having a pretty without the work involved in wallpapers.

To be honest, I'm loving doing fanart. For so long, I've used PhotoShop for business purposes, and I'd forgotten how much fun it can actually be just making things pretty for the sake of making things pretty. At present I'm in the midst of a big Fedal wallpaper of photographs of Rafa looking upset to have beaten Roger in a match (one of which photos is also in the icons, it's the 'I Want You', the blue thing in the corner is Roger's shirt... Rafa's face is adorable. "I beats you. I is sorry.") and although all the blending, masking, colourisation and everything is done, I just can't think of way to finish it off. It's missing... something... but I'm not sure what.

Anyway, icons below. (NB: The yellow one of Rafa is meant to be "He's gold because he won gold" but I fear it looks more like "look! Rafa has jaundice!").





That aside, I'm knackered, all the time. Just gone through 'Super Tuesday' when we have lots of work on and tomorrow, it's 'Super Wednesday' with a corporate client and a domestic. Great... I just love sitting in the car outside (am too lazy to drive home, so shouldn't whinge really). Still, we have money. I like money. Saving up for Wimbledon, when I plan to ruin my London-based family's lives for a fortnight and hopefully attend the entire thing.

On a final sporting note: Nastia was robbed. I've always hated South Africans.

Paula Radcliffe finished the Olympic marathon, then. I've got to say I was pleased. I knew she wouldn't win it, and I like to think I was slightly kinda than Paul (who LiveJournal-ed at the time of the race with "Fuck's sake Paula, run you lazy bitch") and I mostly just wanted her to finish. Which she did. Okay, so it was in 23rd, but she finished, which I hope goes some way to healing the wounds of Athens. She's from Leicestershire, ya know...

Then, lovely Rafa won Olympic Gold. I got to see the last couple of matches, after basically passing out with sheer exhaustion when we got back from Paul's Sunday class (at 10.30am. On SUNDAY. It's just cruel, but it's what the clients want, so we are just little monkeys...) and missing pretty much the entire match. Still, both boys got gold, which works very nicely as I had a gold-themed song lyric in mind for a wallpaper/fanart I'm going to do!

Other Olympics happy included Louis Smith winning bronze on the pommel horse (totally didn't see that coming, good lad) and now I'm awaiting the replay of the girls' apparatus finals so I can see my girl crush, Nastia Liukin, in action.

We have tomorrow off, which is an absolute miracle, and I shall be sleeping and watching the Olympics. Don't tell me hubby and I don't know how to par-tay...

The photos of Roger and Stan after their gold medal win are absolutely lovely. And also? Total gift for us tennis-slashers.

They're the new Fedal, you know...

(NB: Whenever, wherever that song is on, on the 'gold!' lyric, Paul punches the air. He did it in Asda once. But still, who doesn't love a bit of Spandau Ballet?)

Anyway, yes, Roger is now an Olympic champion, with help from Wawrinka (but I think we all know who was the real class act of that pairing). I was knackered after listening to the swimming until the wee hours (congrats Becky Adlington!) and although I managed to make it through the Djokovic game without as much as a yawn, I actually fell asleep in the late third set of Roger's game.

I fell asleep. Watching Roger play tennis. I can only assume I've recently developed severe narcolepsy, because that never happens to me. I mean, is Roger. Like Roger. Roger lickable. Watch Roger play tennis = happy. Very strange. Anyway, I came round in time for the fourth and got to see him win. Very odd celebrations (and he got whacked in the cheek when Wawrinka was trying to bounce him up and down, bless!) and then there was the absolutely adorable "Roger doesn't know how to stand on a podium" moment, so all in all, I'm happy, and jonesing for the US Open. And obviously, good luck to Rafa.

That aside, life is busy. Too busy. Business is booming and I'm just exhausted, seemingly all the time. Still, I'm planning to make enough money and get enough time to go to Wimbledon next year, because I really have taken tennis to my heart recently. I've always enjoyed it, always watched, but recently (and probably due in no small part to it being the rugby off season; a girl needs her sporting fix) I've really started to love it.

It is so nice, because whenever I think of how Tigers (my beloved rugby team) treated our most recent coach, I feel quite shamed. I've supported this team my entire life, have been seriously ill and still made it to games to cheer on the boys, and I've always been so fiercely proud of our reputation, honour and ethos. But what we did to Loffreda was just horrid... the guy didn't even get a season in charge and we threw him out because we had some dodgy results. I mean, yes, we are TIGERS, we expect to win, but he only had eight months for Christ's sake... so yes, I'm enjoying tennis because it doesn't make me feel slightly dead inside when I think about my favourite players.

I really hope the shame about Tigers' recently behaviour changes when the season starts, because I hate feeling like this about a team I have given my life to.

But still... ROGER IS AN OLYMPIC CHAMPION! Happy day.