I'm a child of the army. I struggle to feel that I belong anywhere. I don't have a hometown - a place where I, my family and childhood friends are from - where I can lay my hat and seek solace in familiarity. In the absence of this, I always seek asylum in Scarborough. 

I feel complete when in Scarborough. Perhaps it's the reassuring clinch of the morning sea frets or the crispness of the medicinal sea air. (Though these didn't do much good for poor Anne Bronte, who was sent to Scarborough to recover her health and dropped dead on the site of the Grand Hotel.)

More likely it's part Yorkshire DNA, a pinch of acquired nostalgia and a whole lot of love for this magnificent and, somewhat faded, regency town.  

I didn't spend much time in Scarborough as a child, but I listened for hours to my mother's tales of knickerbocker glories, the donkey bridge and being buried up to the neck by her two boisterous brothers.

I've flicked through the family albums so often that their memories are mine. I blink and I feel my teenage gran's hand happily in mine, as she sashays her smart nipped-in waist down the prom, holding her hat on with daintily gloved hand; I smell the bristly tweed and tobacco of my great-granddad's three piece suit, as I nestle my face on his shoulder to protect it from the harsh North Sea breeze; I hear the squabbling and laughter of four children in matching, home-knit, itchy jumpers, as they drop crab lines off the harbour wall. Scarborough is my inheritance and it is the heirloom that I ritually share with my child. 

Scarborough gives in spades. You don't believe me, do you? Here's what you're missing:

1) The Sea. The Sea. 

You may think it's a given that you see the sea at the seaside. Well you'd be wrong. I live within spitting distance of many of the North-west's seaside resorts (Blackpool, Southport, Morecombe). "I bet I see the sea first" is a game of inevitable failure, as you all ugly squint and confusedly point at the distant horizon, hoping that the murky grey line, covered with cloud is water. To prove it's the sea, you set off determinedly, walking two miles with bucket in hand, to drearily dangle your toes in the jelly-fished water. (Don't even get me started on Grange over Sands/GRASS).

The sea in Yorkshire is proper sea. When the tide is out you can still touch it, feel it, smell it. It's noisy and wild, forcing you and your possessions to dance the slow, seaside shuffle, as it steals the beach from beneath you. 

In Scarborough it's worth spending the day building elaborate sand castles, because you know the sea will come in and satisfyingly fill your zig-zag maze of moats and tunnels. (In Southport you would be too exhausted from the hike to the shore or to daunted by the prospect of digging a stream for a mile to even begin.)

Scarborough gives good sea. 

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I've been tagged by Sally (here) in a memorable firsts confessional. It's taken me a while to take up this gauntlet, mainly because Sally has kept me busy with her horrifying requests to video myself (here) and partly as my memory is absolutely shocking. (I blame the gin.)

I love any opportunity to talk about myself and would confess to everything and anything for added attention. Due to extensive grey matter abuse, I've had to adjust Sally's list slightly. Sorry Sally, I'm a consummate cheat and frankly I just can't remember everything. Thank the Lord.

First record:

The first tape I ever bought myself was Five Star Silk and Steel. I am one of Tracy Barlow's contemporaries, I am the lost tape generation. (And yes, I used to go upstairs to play them.) What I can't believe is my daughter will never, ever get the joy of rewinding a tape using a pen or her finger. Poor thing.

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A couple of weeks ago I was asked to pick my favourite post from my blog. A post that hit the nail on the Elsie Anderton head, if you will. 

Predictably I exploded this simple task into full crisis of confidence, accompanied by characteristic indecision and death grip overthinking.

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This month I will completely absorbed by the cumulation of nearly eight years work. We are hurtling towards the finish line, which is both depressing and enthralling. The volume of work required of me is ludicrous and because it is something I know as well as my daughter's face, it is more than a little soul sapping in its repetition and lack of excitement. The work is a rehash of work I have done before, but I needs to be at the top of my game. There is no time for error or sloppy half-thoughts. 

The upshot is the blog will be quiet and when it's not it may be distracted, despairing and even distressed. 

I am going to leave you with some Dr Seuss, because we've been reading it and it brings a nostalgic smile to my face. 

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I've been tagged in the Guardian Q&A meme by Him up North and Hello It's Gemma. The meme originated over at the Mrs Lister Writes blog, go here to read more.

The idea is that once you have read my answers you'll a) think I'm nice b) think I'm a nob c) want to go for a pint with me. Looking at the title will save you the bother of reading further.

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I'm just sitting. 

Sitting doing nothing, thinking about the things I should be doing.

The things I should be doing are forming waves of fear in my head. They keep crashing against the hollow darkness that has overwhelmed me all day.

My head is simultaneously empty and full. I can't explain any of it. 

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/babylonlanetales/5490393446/

There is something both depressing and uplifting about this journey. 

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My slatternly ways are legend. I use decorations to hide the dust, allow the chickens to clean my kitchen floor (remember the choover? no? go here ), have created a floor wardrobe filing system at the non-door side of my bed and hide my paperwork in the, otherwise redundant, oven.

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This post was originally written in December. I'm cheating and reposting again so that I can brazenly show off as part of Lizzie's Magpie Monday. Lizzie has magnanimously permitted this cheat because recycling is entirely in the spirit of Magpie Monday. Ahem, little does she know that she's just enabling my lazy ways. Go here for more.

Not only am I a clutter-slut, I am also a sparkle junkie. A magpie. Come the winter, come the Joan Rivers wannabe.  I have no shame, I'll wear sparkles during the day and not just one discrete piece, oh no, no, no I wear lots. Lots.  Less is definitely bore. Why wear one brooch or necklace when five or six will truly do?

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This week is a good week. A big, rubbery smile week.

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