So, it’s been a while since I last blogged, and when I say a while, I mean an unforgivable, insanely rude amount that by rights WordPress should have probably deleted me…
Thankfully though, my racy adventures are still here, just waiting for the latest instalment from my life in the fast lane. That said, I haven’t really thought of anything interesting to write about in a while. I didn’t want to come across as some pretentious bird, bleating on about working weekends and how fantastic it is.
I’ve been stuck. I couldn’t think of a suitable topic to reignite the flame of blogging, but I knew I wanted to. So, to revisit the origins of this blog, it was to talk about life at a race track. Predominantly being a female at a race track, trying to gain acceptance in a ‘man’s world’.
Before a plethora of females get their Emily Pankhurst knickers in a twist, I’m not advocating the idea of men ‘ruling’ the race track, just merely pointing out the obvious.
If we were talking dating terms, the women would have around 10 men for every one of them – not that many of us would have much luck, with the lycra clad size 8’s bumping up the number of female workers at a race track. Frankly, no matter how long I stay on Slimming World, I’m never going to look acceptable in a skin tight catsuit, so will stick to what I know and put pen to paper, or rather, finger to keyboard.
I think it’s safe to say that with four years of Ginetta PR-ing under my belt, I’ve established myself as a credible entity, although some people may still question that fact. Whilst I don’t need to justify my existence, there’s still plenty of fun stories to tell, so that’s where we’re going with this….
Already this season I’ve witnessed the design, build and debut of the mega Ginetta Prototype, tried (and failed) to stay up during a 24 hour race, toasted marshmallows on a screwdriver in front of a space heater, missed the Ginetta Minibus to circuit twice, had shampoo and conditioner spill over all my clothes inside my suitcase on the way to a circuit, laughed at folk saying ‘Welcome to the paddock’ to a lovely lady who has been around motorsport all her life, before adding further salt to the wounds with ‘I am sure we can find you a nice racing driver boyfriend’.
You may wonder why anyone would want to work Monday to Friday, then spend their weekend’s getting up even earlier to work longer hours and then travel around five hours to get back home at 1am on a Monday morning, just to do it all again. But it’s infectious.
The people you work with in house, those crazy nutcases in the media room – including those who only turn up to take photos of the aforementioned girls in lycra – and your drivers (and their dads!) make it the best job in the world – if you like cars, obviously.
Here we go again….