Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine months since my last blog entry. I have been busy. Very busy. But something has pulled me back into the blogosphere. Or should I say, someone. And that someone is Justin Bieber.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm about to start a rant. A rant about the crap music of today. About the hollowness and shallowness of today's youth and their choice of music. You're thinking the Old Biddy is back to compare today's music with that of yesteryear's more legitimate, deeper offerings. You're thinking the Old Biddy has had enough of the likes of Justin Bieber and decided it was time to join the masses and trash the kid, take him down a peg or two.

Au contraire, mon frere. The Old Biddy has resurfaced to unleash a fury, that's for sure, but a fury with the purpose of defending, not defaming.

I'm back to say: Lay off The Biebs!

No, I do not have Bieber fever. But I'm a Bieber believer. I believe that he has the right to be the latest teen idol without relentless scorn from the forty-something year old peeps who seem to have an obsession with knocking the J-Bieb. Oh, I've seen your Tweets and your Facebook posts and your blog entries. And now it's my turn.

Dear Bieber Bashers:

Guess what? You are not Justin Bieber's target audience. You're not supposed to like him. If you are not a twelve year old girl, move along. There's nothing to see here.
And for all of you middle-age, balding males who make up the majority of Justin haters, get over it and accept that your hatred comes solely from hair envy. Buy yourselves some Rogaine and move on.
Please stop harping on about the music industry today being all disposable pop and manufactured teen idols. You might as well sit on your front porch with a cane and scream "Turn the volume down, you little whippersnappers! You call that music?" Sheesh. You sound like a bunch of grumpy old farts.
Dudes, he's sixteen. SIXTEEN! Some slack, maybe? If you were walking down the street and saw a sixteen year old boy looking like a poncy git would you punch him in the face? Of course not. But give that boy celebrity status and a head of perfectly coiffed hair and suddenly it's acceptable to punch him in the face, figuratively speaking, with constant name calling and unnecessary put-downs.
Finally, lose your air of superiority. Yup, you're cool. The music you used to listen to back in the day was way cooler. Now stop tweeting about how talentless Justin Bieber is and get back to your Loverboy CD.

I'll leave you now with something to chew on - some recent tweets from J-Bieb himself:

To all the haters out there i wish u the best. U cant bring me down. I wake up everyday grateful 4 the opportunity and grateful to the fans

It’s funny when i read things about myself that r just not true. Why would certain people take time out of their day to hate on a 16 yr old?

Why indeed.

Until next time,

Old Biddy (former Shaun Cassidy fanatic)

Dear Wii Fit,

Please stop telling me I am overweight. I’m getting a complex and am starting to hate you. No matter how many minutes of yoga I do with my virtual trainer, Bjorn Blickensderfer (I named him) I can’t helped but get filled with violent feelings upon receiving my Body Test results. The Wii Fit exercises and games I have no problem with … I think we can all agree that there’s nothing more invigorating than a spot of virtual hula hooping. My issue is with the damn Body Test … well the Body Test results to be precise. You see, when I begin a Wii fit session my confidence is at an all time high. I puff my chest out, tighten my butt muscles and stand on the Wii Fit balance board in my Lululemon look-a-likes thinking I’m all that and a bag of Baked Lays. Bring it on, Wii Fit. I think. Bring. It. On. I channel Jane Fonda and put in a valiant effort in the aerobics category. Then, with a wave of my magic wii-mote, I get all Zen and stuff with a pretty decent yoga session. After smacking some soccer balls around with my head and doing some slalom skiing , I decide it's time for the Body Test. I stand on the balance board (shoulders relaxed as instructed) and listen to a singy-songy voice: "measuring... measuring... measuring". I feel optimistic as the results are calculated. This’ll be good, I think. I’ve worked hard this week. I bend over and put my hands on my knees and wait for the results to appear on the screen. I wipe my brow and, although exhausted, I maintain a confident, almost cocky, look on my face (think professional athlete at a televised event). Then, the horror. The results are in. The little black line appears. Up, up, up it goes… I am sure I hear a snarky “as if” guffaw as it slides past the Underweight Range ... then it passes by the Normal Weight Range so quickly, so unhesitatingly that I want to puke ... and finally it glides, as smooth as silk, into the Overweight Range where it nestles smugly into a comfortable spot. Oh how I’d like to snap that little black line in half and stick one half up Shigeru Miyamoto’s arse and the other down his throat. (But kudos, Shigero, you know, for the whole Mario thing)

As you well know, Nintendo, it is quite normal for one’s body weight to fluctuate daily. So if I happen to go up one pound since my last session please don’t barrage me with questions like “Why do you think you are gaining weight?” and then present me with a list from which I must choose one answer like - too many snacks or not enough exercise – and then when I pick "I don’t know" please don’t act as if I am lying by saying “Are you sure you don’t know?” Haven’t I been humiliated enough?????? Okay, so maybe the giant Toblerone in the cupboard called my name a few times that week. Must I have to explain everything to you? You are not my keeper.

Ring ring. Hello? Nintendo? It's Guantanamo Bay. Can you send us a couple of Wii Fit video games? To hell with water board torture. Wii balance board torture would be a way more effective way of humiliating and degrading our remaining detainees.

Oh, and one more thing. Every time I stand on that dumb balance board and hear the little automated voice say “oh!” as if it is surprised at the amount of weight that just stood upon it, I die a little inside. Couldn’t you have just programmed it to groan or let out a pained scream ‘cause that condescending little “oh!” is killing me with its oozing of fake innocence. It’s like “Oh! Goodness gracious me, did someone have a little bit too much Haagen Dazs this week?” Well let me tell you something Wii Fit people, I’ll be emitting my own “oh!” soon enough when I smash the balance board with a hammer. “Oh! Goodness gracious me. Someone’s got an itty bitty boo-boo”.


Sincerely

Heather Smith

PS I have attached some photos to illustrate my plight.

Starting out positive with some hula hooping.



The Jane Fonda within - getting hot and sweaty with aerobics.



OHM! Attempting Tree Pose while the automated Wii Fit voice keeps saying "Your legs are a little shaky."



What a workout!


Hopeful for great results!

And the results are in... will my weight be "Normal" today?

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Damn you, Wii Fit.

I recently decided to step away from my young adult novel, Ballycatters and Bugs, and write a fictional piece about life in the Yorkshire Dales. Here is an excerpt:

She told me this place would be good. She had escaped to this place once before and had told me that the air was fresh, that it smelled healthy... and I believed her ... she was known for her incredible olfactory system. Even now, as she stands at the top of the hill, it's her nose that takes in the beauty of what surrounds her and when I see that familiar wrinkle form on the bridge of her nose my heart skips a beat.

She catches me looking at her. My instinct is to look away in embarrassment but I can't - she is so beautiful. She looks at me cheekily. I am momentarily confused as to why but when she smirks and runs away I get it - a race! As we run through the grass I feel so much happiness that I can't help but give little jumps of joy no matter how dumb it looks.

We reach our destination. It's perfect. A rustic, cosy cottage. It's been a long journey. We curl up together in a quilt close to the fire. I try to rest but in these new surroundings I find myself alert, edgy almost. A knock on the door and I almost hit the ceiling. We look at each other and freeze. Only when the footsteps fade do we exhale.

She tells me she is hungry. No fancy dinner will be served to us here. How will we cope on our own? Perhaps we should have stayed where we were ... perhaps we shouldn't have bit the hand that fed us.

She becomes increasingly more vocal about her hunger. I must go find food. But the footsteps are back followed by a high-pitched voice at the door ...

"Chet? Is that you? Nutmeg? Are you there?"

It's the mad woman.

"Mama misses you, my itty-bitty babies. Come back to Mama. C'mon my iddle-widdle piggie-wiggies."

I look into Nutmeg's eyes. I'll let her decide. I'd follow her anywhere. The eyes say nothing but the nose goes into overdrive. The mad woman has stuck a piece of curly parsley through a crack in the door. Nutmeg's favourite.

I guess this is it. Bye bye Yorkshire Dales, hello life behind bars. And I didn't even get a chance to look dapper in my miniature Barbour Wax Jacket. Pish.

So I had a long conversation with the new guinea pigs, Chet and Nutmeg, last night. It went like this:

Here's the skinny, guineas, I'm gonna tell ya three things - listen carefully, learn well, and we'll get along just fine:

1. The Youngsters aren't going to wait forever for you to come out of your hiding spots and become the cuddly creatures that we promised them you would be. So get over yourselves. The coy thing is getting a bit old.

2. I promise to feed, clean, and cuddle you critters but in return I expect happy noises and "popcorning". I want entertainment, damn it!

3. I hope you are adventurous little piggies for in your future is a trip is to the Yorkshire Dales. Sitting in the pockets of my Barbour Wax Jacket you can enjoy the countryside, protected from the birds of prey that circle above. Perhaps you can even wear mini Barbour Wax Jackets of you own - how cute - rugged, yet dapper.

Basically, piggies, your cute faces and adorable furry bodies will only get you so far. It's time to start acting like you like us.

Chet and Nutmeg listened quietly during my entire speech, nodding with interest at the first two points, and tilting their heads quizzically at the third. When I was done I stuck a finger through the cage bars and said "Deal?". There was a slight lifting of each of their paws. I took that as "shaking on it".

Not yet used to guinea pig noises and their meanings I heard what sounded like a chuckle as I walked away. Perhaps it was the happy noise I had asked for in point two. Yes, that's it. They really listened to what I had to say. What obedient little furballs!

But as I walked up the stairs I heard it again and couldn't help but shake the feeling that perhaps I was being mocked...

I really am an old biddy. Forty years old with the aches and pains of an eighty year old, and, I tell ya, this damp spring weather is killing me.

My doctor understands. He's ancient. We're like that (my arthritic index finger is wrapped lovingly around my arthritic pointer finger, protecting it from the chill).

"Go on holiday," Doctor Oldie says. "Go to Mexico."

Mexico. Let's see. Aches and pains or Swine Flu? Swine Flu or aches and pains? Hmmmm. In Canada, with my best friend the heating pad, I shall remain.

Got me thinking though. Maybe I should consider a trip south. But where? The only place I've ever really fancied is the Yorkshire Dales ...THE YORKSHIRE DALES??? Holy Swine Poop! What was I thinking? Here was me with visions of sitting in my thatched cottage, drinking tea in front of the fire, listening happily to the sound of the wind and the rain hammer the windows ... I didn't consider how my poor old hips would feel about it ... I never gave a second thought to my wrists or to my knees! No, I was just going to drag them along with me on my adventure - unwilling participants as I frolicked through the dales and performed strenuous veterinary procedures as I joined the local vet on his rounds. How would my shoulders feel about pulling lambs from their mothers in drafty barns? How would my knees feel about standing in a field giving vaccinations to a herd of cattle in the driving rain?

I have been selfish. Perhaps I should reconsider this wild and crazy dream. Perhaps I should pick a new place to obsess about. Do they have thatched cottages in Morocco? Could I wear a Barbour jacket and khaki wellies in Egypt and go fly-fishing in the Nile? No, of course not. I need to face facts. My Yorkshire dream is all the more appealing because of the occasional rainy and damp day. My thatched cottage and open fire is all the more charming when the out of doors is soggy and drenched.

So screw the joints. Damp weather? I'll cope. And anyway, on days when my hips act up, old Mrs. Thompson from Happydale Farm will drop by with a hearty stew to warm my soul. And the local veterinary doctor won't mind if I'm not up to following him on his rounds, in fact, he might even be relieved.

There's only one place where I can frolic ... I know that now ... and that's the Yorkshire Dales.