Growing old (dis)gracefully

The Silverback is still rolling on the floor laughing like a drain.  The humiliation of it all. I told you recently that no good comes from visiting the docs for a forced age related check up.  It's the one area where I honestly believe ignorance is bliss...well, as it pertains to the protection of vanity.  See the last time I did this I was told I needed diet and exercise to combat the muffin top and creeping levels of cholesterol.  What a catch! Yes, it would seem I am a catch..to the over 50s singles market!! The latest affront came in the form of a spammed email to my hotmail address.  Register! it compelled - Register!...for the chance to enter the over 50s singles dating pool.  I. Said. What?   So this is what it has come to.  This is how it all ends is it?  Well, I'm left with no option but to call in the big boys.  I'm getting the muffin top melted off using an ultra-sound technique that targets fat deposits and squeezes them until they burst.  Then you "pass" the fat in the usual way a human "passes" waste.  Delightful.  Anyone for Shepherd's Pie?

Well, I put my money where my mouth is and went for the first of 5 fat melting sessions.  There are 2 cms less of muffin top already.  Of course during the treatment you have to drink your own weight in water; alcohol is forbidden and carbs must be kept to an absolute minimum.  The Silverback resumed his rolling position.  "Erm...that's a diet" he helpfully points out.  "Of course you're going to lose weight if you drink lots of water, avoid alcohol and carbs!" He broadcasts.  Yes, thanks Einstein.  Do you think I haven't tried that little trio of activities before? Never has it ever resulted in this: (this isn't me BTW....yet!)

...However - this is uncannily similar to what I'm dealing with.  The last 10 pounds tucked away deep inside love handles that no amount of exercise and diet to date has ever managed to properly shift.  And I spin 3 times a week and do yoga the other days.  What more is a girl to do?  Well I suppose not eating my own weight in garlic bread and washing it down with Rioja like Spain's survival of the crisis depended on it might help. No, but in all seriousness, I believe I have been down this route before and it's ended...well, not well. So what if this helping hand is more or a placebo than real science?  Whatever it takes is my motto.

So I have high standards...so sue me!  

Of course, all I can think of now is alcohol and carbs.  

One knock for yes...

So this is going to sound weird...if you don't know me, otherwise, well it's par for the course with me.  I have got to tell you, I've had some...let's say paranormal activity going on and I am not at all sure what to do with the information.  The "streak" started back in mid September when work sent me to a "team building" exercise in the New Forest.  I stayed here:  Rhinefield House



Nice ennit? In an Edgar Allan Poe sense.  I had the Munroe room - a whole wing away from the 20 plus colleagues on the same "course".  In fact, I was the only person staying in that wing at that time.  A minor detail really - I mean we are grown ups afterall.  Thing is, I felt ...strange....from the moment I arrived at the place.  Determined to be "mature" and "normal"  - I ignored the sensation in full knowledge that come nightime, things would change.  And they did.  Daytime playtime over, it was time to dress for dinner.  In my room, alone, I undressed to take a shower.  I had previously unpacked and stored all my clothes in the cupboard which I'd clicked shut before padding over to the bathroom - which, I'm sorry but I just have to show you looked like this:


However....after the shower the wardrobe door, which I had painstakingly clicked shut...was open.  I would like to think it was Marilyn (Munroe) but I didn't really wait to find out as I dressed in record time and bolted to the dining room (practically slid down the bannisters) at breakneck speed all the time knowing that I would have to face the music later that evening after dinner.  But for now, I was safe.  I told no-one of this, I was afterall fairly new to the organisation and to risk being labelled a crazy so soon was, well, crazy - afterall I have the rest of my tenure there to prove this.

Oh but return I had to.  That night proved to be a battle of wills as I kept closing the cupboard door only to hear it click open again and again and again.  Sleep took me in the end but I know that I was not alone in that room.

And so to last night.  I rarely dream about my mum much as I would love to see her nightly.  It's odd but she rarely comes.  I am not sure why - I figure she must be doing ok or she must see that I am doing ok (although for a long time I wasn't and she never came then either), point is...when she does come, I take notice.  So last night she visited my dreams and she didn't look happy.  I asked her if something was wrong - she said yes.  I asked her if someone was in danger.  She said yes.  I have to admit that at this point I was scared to ask who.  What if it was The Lish? I mean, I simply will not live through another tragedy.  I won't .  Been there, done it and it SUCKS donkey balls and I simply will not do it again. No.  But I got the impression it wasn't to do with her.  I felt it was a warning of sorts - but what exactly I was supposed to be wary of was anyone's guess.  The thing is, I think someone that I know...may be in danger.  Yes, that sounds crazy and really rather unhelpful since I can't...(suspect don't want to) be more specific.  With my parents both gone, I know it's not them.  I am pretty sure it's not The Lish.  That leaves me, The Silverback or his parents. 
I had a couple of other signs on my way to picking up The Lish from her after school club.  Cars (and the c*nts driving them) not stopping at a pedestrian crossing jolted me from my usual waking dream.  I then almost got run down by a cyclist - I mean within a millimetre.  This to me is a sign..WATCH OUT... it's yet to come. 
So I told The Silverback and I've asked him to call his folks...(christ as if they need more ammunition) but hey, if it stops something bad from happening, who cares how I know. 

I still don't know what I'm meant to be holding out for...but disaster has been averted for now.  Fingers crossed I'm not misreading the signs.

In the words of The Gladiator to Juba:

Juba:  Can they hear you?


Maximus: Who?

Juba: Your family. In the afterlife.

Maximus: Oh yes.

Juba: What do you say to them?

Maximus: ...I tell him I will see him again soon.   But not too soon....(those are my words).

Hair Today...

My poor darling abandoned Blogspot.  I have truly forsaken you.  I admit, you've just not been a priority lately.  But in eternal and mystified gratitude to the universe, it's all been down to having been truly freaking happy and content of late.  Living the dream (minus the dream) sort of thing.  I'm just loving life so much.  I freaking dig the crap out of my new job - it rocks out with its cock out and I don't care who knows it.  The rule of ebbs and flows still applies.  Next week is going to be a melon twister but see it's interspersed with amazing weeks that give you the head space to really think and create.  But I can tell that this is boring and of no consequence to anyone but myself.  No-one wants to read about people doing well - so in fact you should thank me for not having updated you with these mundanities (for a change).  I mean it's like what's happened to Jerseyshore.  At first it was compelling viewing, watching these young guidos riddled with doubts about their true worth as humans and taking chunks out of eachother as a result; struggling to understand their place in the world and in the meantime gradually destroying themselves with alcohol and acts driven by the lowest of self esteems.  They got rich doing this but then the endorsement deals came through and they got healthy.  Finally they got boring.  I mean who wants to watch someone looking after themselves eh?  So you see that is where I am at the moment.  Don't worry though my life pattern is one that has a tendency to repeat and for every high there is a bone- crashing low.

So watch this space.

In the meantime, I'm in recovery of sorts after broaching the 40 mark earlier this month...for I am now 41.  I found my hair has been thinning at an alarming rate.  And the more worried I became with my barnet, the more convinced I became of the notion of a self - fulfilling prophesy but I was in the grip of paranoia. Helpless to its effects.  And no matter how much I tried to just chillax -all that did was put a spotlight on the issue to the point that I became obsessed with womens' hairlines.  I would study them on public transport, at work and in magazines until finally I was able to accept that while I was unlikely to be suffering from aloepecia (I mean, I'm so happy right?) I am sadly suffering the physical effects of what is commonly known as aging - how uncouth.  So of course I've now done a truckload of research into hair and all its follicular miracles.  I have discovered (and would like to pay this forward) an amazing hair thinning shampoo - that is to say - it reduces the process rather than promote it as the name suggests. 

It's this elegant little number and it works.

So content that the Syrup (syrup and fig - wig - for the canucks reading this) will not be required anytime soon, I have now moved onto the issue of the gunt.  Remember the gunt?  Well it's still there but getting smaller as I continue to shed those troublesome middle age pounds through the physical/mental torture of spinning ( I know this because The Silverback complimented me last night and that NEVER happens).

My next recommendation is this next place (you will appreciate the irony I'm sure that I should switch from talking about weight loss to recommending a pizza place);



The place is in the heart of my old manor - Portobello Road - a mere cock-eyed stroll from my old Spanish School where I spent 10 years cowering from the wrath of nuns.  This is no ordinary Pizza place - if it were it would not serve a pizza with crispy pork belly now would it?  This is Pizza East and there is no mozzarella anywhere - it's Burrata or nothing here which I can attest is THE creamist mofoing mozarella type cheese I've ever tasted and the proscuitto isn't proscuitto it's San Daniele.  Mouthwateringly delish losh. And the clientele?  I advise one polishes up ones diction before entertaining the thought of booking a table...ah yes, also there is that - if you're name's not down you ain't coming in.  Delightful, don't you think?  The best part I think though (get the vomit bucket out) wasn't really the menu but the company of old friends and comrades.

And so on this Hollywood ending I leave you until the next time.  So, yeah don't call me - I'll call you.

Arise Lady MILF

So the NHS (gawd bless it in all its Olympic beauty) decrees that once a person hits 40, it is time for an MOT.  This is the age where one effectively has 'franchis le Rubicon' in wellness terms.  The point at which the body becomes a rebel without a cause.  A life-long student at the school of 'ignorance is bliss' I fell for the moody mystique of this state, lulled as it were, by the unfathomable nihilism, riding without a helmet - if you will.

I blame vanity.  See had I not gone to see the doc about my gunt - a sort of belly bingo wing - in the hope that it was a straight-forward hernia, I would still be galavanting about hand in rock-steady hand with the delusion that nothing is my fault and that I still look good on the dancefloor.

The doctor could barely hide his disdain that a loosely educated person would waste precious doctoring time with a matter of such frippery when there were so many other people with self-inflicted chronic conditions to patronise (and so little time).  He promptly informed that it was not surgery I required but a sturdy regime of diet and exercise. 

"But I do yoga every day,"  I protested.  "And I deprive myself of just about anything that's truly worth eating."  I concluded with the conviction of someone who is obviously lying.  So there it was.  The truth about me and my gunt. Inwardly irritated (but somewhat appeased that the diet would have to wait until after the Pearl Jam concert I was going to that evening) I beat a path for the door.  But before I could defiantly  flounce out, Doc reached for the salt (to rub into the wound)..."Miss? I notice you are 40 (choke) and we do recommend you get some bloodwork done, just to make sure everything else is ok.  It's free." (GAHHhhh).\

So now not only am I fat, I'm also old...and apparently a cheapskate.  You. Go. Too. Far. Sir.

However, I had heard that giving blood often led to weight loss.  I was in.  And well, it was free (ok so he got that bit right about me). 

Two weeks later...turns out I have cholesterol.  See - nothing.  NOTHING good ever comes of visiting the doctor's surgery. Now I have it confirmed and on record that I am old, fat and officially on my way out.  I believe this is what is known as a "wake-up" call.

As much as I love yoga - I am now forced to do something more "aerobic".  Not one to do things by halves (unless it's eating Bounty bars, Twixs, Twirls or anything that comes in two pieces) I have started spinning classes which I can tell you is not for the faint-hearted and may well speed up "the end" faster than any bacon sandwich, pint and fag ever could.

I have however made it to 4 classes in the last two weeks and while the gunt remains, I'm not getting younger (strangely - how can that be?) I do nonetheless reckon I'm back in the running for  a MILFhood.

Dingle Dongle

Week one at the new place in the new role with the new boss and the new routine.  All I can say is...I made it. 

Let me rewind a little by way of contextualising what comes next by telling you what happened before.  By some "rainman" like miracle calculation, I managed to coincide my last day at the old place with the office summer party.  The repercussions of a most re-donku-lous performance at said party left me incapacitated and unable to do anything more than watch TV at a 90 degree angle the whole weekend that followed.  Not the best way to prepare for Day 1 at a new job.  In my defence the booze was free and actually it took a lot less to get this way than it once did.  A small underestimation of what the body at 40 really thinks of binge drinking.  I have not touched a drop since and I intend for this to be the status quo going forward.

So come last Monday, I was not really in any condition to endure an hour and a half commute into Slough where this job is based.  To top it all off, and of course by way of renal revenge - I woke up with not one but two cold sores.   My hair was all wrong, my belly distended from all the alcohol sugar and motivation was on the floor.  Way to set the tone for the week.  Let's see, I spent that first day f-ing up all the IT systems.  The second getting them fixed and the third wondering if I'd made the right decision.  But by the fourth day, I had an epiphany because despite feeling and looking like a cow had pooped me out and the fact the tubes and trains had all got together to orchestrate delays and cancellations every single day last week  (my hair was noticeably thinner by Thursday) I noticed that all had been forgotten by mid-morning.  I came to the conclusion that the job rocks out with its BLEEP out.  And that's because not only is it one juicy brief - it's a 21st century work environment.

Each day whether I arrive at 9 or 10 no-one bats an eyelid.  The boss puts it another way - work is something you do not somewhere you go. We are equipped to work from the public toilets at Paddington if we so wish.  I have secure ID, an i-phone, laptop, free wi-fi and when I can't get wi-fi I have a Dongle. Double edge sword?  I mean if you're 'always-on' could you fall into the habit of never switching off?  I'll let you know. 

For now...I've had 2 emails all weekend...I think that's pretty good going.  Remind me to re-read this when the going gets a little tough!

A lot to answer for...

I took this picture a few weeks ago on holiday with The Silverback and The Lish; First family get-away since last summer.

Beautiful no? Awesome in fact.  Where could this be? The Amalfi Coast?  One of the Ionian Islands? Or perhaps Sardinia? This is in fact a shot from the hotel room balcony of the bay in Magalluf, Mallorca - better known as Shagalluf. A well deserved eponym.
Believe it or not and I wouldn't blame you for thinking I'd finally gone out of my beautiful (in the Russell Crowe sense) mind - delusional from all the London rain - I'm really telling you the truth - this picture was taken in Magalluf.  All the sadder then to know that greed allowed the Mallorcan to let this happen to his island...



...which in turn has done this to the beaches along the south - and I don't mean these particular girls have anything directly to do with it - but when you let your home become a party island and take no real action against those who will go just that step too far, you are also saying it's ok to do this....


And so they do.  Swimming in the sea in Magalluf, at least when we were there, was not a real option well not if you value your skin.  I may as well have jumped into a water treatment centre before the filtering stage.  When every underwater brush of the calf is caused by a plastic bag or god only knows what (I really don't want to) it was enough to send gagging back to the towel .

I had to curb The Lish and The Silverback from going in too often for fear they'd develop some nasty-assed stomach condition. Although I did try not to think about the state of the sea and beaches as I meditated to this beautiful view every morning - it was impossible almost impossible, certainly heartbreaking.

Were it not for this, Magalluf could easily stand shoulder to shoulder with the natural delights offered by Kefalonia and Capri.  Instead, I think The Silverback said it best after the first night out when we were naive enough to attempt a quiet evening stroll: "Yep. I don't think I'll be leaving the hotel after 6pm for the rest of the week".  Hear Hear.

But let's end on a note of gratitude that I was able to spend some quality R&R time with my little sea cucumber and The CFO.

Days to Remember

Yesterday is the day that will be remembered (by me) as the day on which I finally did a handstand - a yoga one that is - which doesn't allow any kicking up.  I should admit that it wasn't unassisted but it was still the scariest thing I've done since labour - another day to remember...

Credit goes to the instructor Claire Missingham - whose yoga workshop I attended yesterday - where she broke the pose down to its individual components.  Easy when you know how?  Well not really - it's still flipping hard, but the illusion has been demystified.  In short, I made the impossible possible yesterday and I take away the lesson that if I (or anyone for that matter) wish to make changes or progress in some way it's imperative to step outside of the comfort zone.

No more treading water for this girl in any respect - NONE.

Talking of comfort zones and eschewing them for a more life affirming zone - I took the train to Manchester last week to see Pearl Jam.  In typical fashion this is a band I got into some 15 years after the rest of its fanbase.  But what a fanbase.  I thought I'd travelled a long(ish) way until I started talking to an Australian in the "beer queue" who'd not only come all the way from Brisbane to see them in the UK, he was also following the band on tour.  That's a lot of time, money and dedication but hey - beats sitting on your arse at work wondering why you hate Mondays so much.

They played a song that I have to say is sort of new to me though it's from (I'm told by an incensed Silverback) their first album - 1992 - ahem....It's called Release and now that I know the lyrics, it has taken on a whole new meaning for me.  I think you should just listen to it for yourself.

I suppose I should thank The Silverback for lending me "his" band.  I'm listening right now to the song. Yep, I'm "doing the face".  It brings a lump to my throat.  It's like a line in a book that you relate to so much, well it's like someone has just reached out from the pages and taken you by the hand. 

I'm off now to take no prisoners in life.  JAI!

Om Nama Shivaya.

The Cat That Got the Cream

Naughty, naughty!  Officially the longest gap between posts and I have absolutely no valid excuse for it.  Well, I sort of have in that I couldn't talk about the only real piece of news I wanted to talk about. And while there are other things, musings...drivel I could have bored you with I just couldn't focus for long enough on any other topic but this one. But now, finally, the gag is off.  I'm leaving my job!  I'm leaving!  I'm offski to join the other side. I'm leaving agency side PR to go in-house.  I am off to be the Media Relations Manager for 02.  YIHHHHHAAAAAA!  In the words of The Godfather: "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse" and I just could not be happier. No. More. Clients.  Gawd bless them.

It's the career equivalent of taking off a really really tight corset; like undoing the top button or two of your jeans after an "all you can eat buffet"; like putting on the comfy pants of an evening! Let the creative juices flow!  So it looks like patience and acceptance have paid off as hoped and ultimately planned.   The step back provided the run up needed to make up for ground lost in Canada.
I also get to work with one of the funniest and most talented wordsmiths I know.  Super Cool.
But before you all start feeling like I'm getting a little bit too smug, let me end this little update by telling you that last week The Homers spent a week in Magalluf....erm....that is what happens when you trust a Canuck with the booking of the family break.

For those of you who don't know anything about Magalluf - let's just say you are the lucky ones.

MEEEAOWW

Not so much giving, but taking part

Suffering from congenital cynicism, I'm always a little wary of giving to charity. I should preface this by saving that I have been known to give to charity in the past but with the exception of a homeless charity called Shelter that I use to make monthly donations to (when I was young, single and free of real financial obligations) and a donation I made to a friend's fund-raising page only this week for a cancer charity walk, I never feel very good about it. Yes, I know "feeling good" isn't the point - bear with me.

For a start being a member of what the Government calls the "squeezed middle" a.k.a - the sods that pay for everything and get nothing back -  I really resent being asked for donations for say things like local hospitals.  Again, I realise - very important and worthy cause.  But I already donate - it's called tax.

I also have a ranking order for charities - if you're collecting to buy sports equipment for your school, I'm going to suggest you get a Saturday job.  And never ever ask me for "spare" change because I'm of the opinion that I won't have any until I die and then by all means feel free to go through my pockets.

Recent events however have made me look at charity in a different way.  Money is obviously the goal of charity but I realised this weekend when attending a fundraising BBQ at my daughter's adventure playground that charity is also about community.  We're keen to keep the playground open as it offers an invaluable after school service which allows me and The Silverback to work fulltime.  The Lish loves it too and has blossomed there.

Recently we were led to believe that the playground was in danger of losing its funding from the local council.  I can tell you the thought of it had me in a real panic so much so I actually wrote to my local MP - which amazingly turned out to be multi-award winning English actress - Glenda Jackson. She wrote me back too!.  Luckily, it turned out we'd been misinformed, but when we heard about the BBQ - there was no question we would support the activity.  I'm not sure what I was expecting on Saturday but when we turned up and saw the swelling crowds all buying raffle tickets, buying crap up from the nik-nak stalls and paying good money to throw wet sponges at the playground staff - I have to admit that my heart swelled too.  I put my hand deeply in my pocket and bought way too many books and a bunch of raffle tickets for the chance to win crap I didn't need.  The Silverback too dug around time and again for change to throw countless balls at coconuts and sponges at the face of willing playground supervisors. 

But it didn't stop there.  I met the parents of all of The Lish's friends and all of this in the company of my own family - all united for one single cause.  I felt the warmth of giving that you rarely get from dropping a pound in a collection box. 

So I see why people get involved in charity.  It doesn't change the fact that I still won't be giving to every mofo shaking a box at me,  but I won't be knocking them for trying.

In which NOTHING goes my way

I'm in a purging mood. It is afterall my brand promise as well as my prerogative.  I can't stand weeks like these where nothing works out.  Let's see where shall I begin?  I know.  How about I tell you about my retarded bank and  a true story of incompetence.  I lost my debit card.  I hold up my hands, I let it slip out of my bag into the back of a cab in the less than 5 minutes between me using it at a cashpoint and the last few hundred metres to get home.  I noticed it immediately the following morning and had the card cancelled.  What can I say shit happens and I'm only human.  The bank said:  you will receive a new card in 3 working days.  That was March 30th.  It's now April 15 and still no card.  The bank in question lost it.  LOST it.  So, the card has had to be re-ordered and isn't expected for another 3 (to 5 - they built in a little leeway) working days. In total, and this is assuming it will be there  as promised, I will have been without easy access to my money for 20 days.  And to make matters worse - the onus is on me to call them to check the card is in before schlepping down to the branch to pick it up.  I promise all customers there on that day, a very very good show should the card not be there.

Moving on.  I received a parcel from Canada containing a gift for The Lish who was 6 on April 8th.  I was not home when they tried to deliver it and since I would put money on me not being home again, I went online to use their amazingly clever and thoughtful redirection service.  I asked for the parcel to be sent to my local Post Office.  It spat out a confirmation number.  The following Saturday I took The Lish, who by this point was excited to the point of nervous collapse, to collect said package.  No such package had been delivered. 

Now, it is true that this week, I'm especially short of oestrogen and were that not the case, I may have been irritated but would have been able to avoid the red mist - as it was - it being that time when women will kill if looked at the wrong way, and along with the recent memory of the fuckwits at the bank, I was in no mood for another failure at my expense.  In short - the CCTV inside that Post Office will corroborate: I. Lost. It. 

My last words to the subpostmaster were:  YOU SHOULD NOT BE RUNNING A POST OFFICE!  So another wasted journey but I still had enough energy left for one more rant which I reserved for this particularly incompetent shipping company's contact centre.

It is admittedly not my proudest moment.
My parcel is still at the depot, not having been "actioned" for 7 days since having requested the redirect.  Had I not called, I dare say that parcel would have remained there until the end of time.

And lastly, my ever patient friends, I asked my TV service provider to come and fit another cable box to end forever the squabbling over the TV remote.  From now on I get to watch whatever the hell I feel like and so does The Silverback - and THAT I believe will be the secret to our success.  But TV companies do not feel our time is as precious as theirs which is why they feel they can justify giving five hour time slots.  The audacity of it!  The utility companies know better then to mess with the consumer like this but it seems TV service providers have other prorities.  On Saturday, after my delightful experience at the Post Office I had to stay at home between the hours of 1 and 6 pm just for the cable guys who, of course, turned up in the last hour.  Then proceeded to destroy the bedroom, (for which I had requested the second cable box).  Disappointing all round.  Perhaps it's punishment for allowing a passion killer like a TV into this sacred room.

All I can say is with this much bad luck in one week - something good has got to be just around the corner.  No?  One lives in hope.

" I see dead vegetables"

I made it to phase 2 of the Dukan diet, also known as, the "cruise" phase.  This is the phase that follows the "attack"one which consists of cutting out everything but protein rich foods.  It's not too hard to do as long as you never ever run out of chicken.  What this phase does is shock the body into shedding excess water (long story but it has something to do with body chemistry) and pulling energy directly from a food that not only takes calories to digest but provides energy more directly to the cells than other food groups.  Let's see if I can explain this.  There are essentially 3 types of food groups: proteins, carbs and lipids.  For every 100 calories of proteins, the body uses 30 to turn the protein into energy which means if you ate 1500 calories in a day you're only actually ingesting 1050 calories as the remaining 450 have been used in digestion.  The numbers aren't quite as appealing for carbs and lipids which sucks of course.  If only it took the body as much of an effort to digest chocolate.

It's very clever really.  I should add that there is a rationale other than simple weight-loss here.  Dr. Dukan was looking for a diet that had almost immediate results enough to keep a clinically obese patient engaged.  After this initial phase he then ensured the diet became more balanced (you alternate protein only days with ones where veggies are allowed).  At this stage - your body still gets that shock to the system but you're no longer having imaginary conversations with broccoli.

This second phase basically goes on for as long as it takes you to lose the desired amount of weight.  Or of course until you lose the will to live.  For me, I've estimated a week to 9 days before this happens  - hell I made it almost 3 years in Canada - I CAN DO THIS!

I'll tell you about how you're supposed to keep the weight off later.  Of course the irony of this all is that I forgot to weigh myself at the start of this crazy trip - mainly because like most things I do - I was motivated more by a sense of adventure than planning.

Vegetable Porn

You can Dukan!

So, I'm giving the Dukan diet a whirl.  I'm not overweight, not really. I'm just you know, 40 and going through a mid-life crisis.

All my life up until I had my Lish Losh, the scales never tipped over 48/50 kilos and for the longest time I maintained a steady 45 kilos or 7 and a half stone despite being well, a bit of a lush in my 20s and a slave to carbs since being weened onto solids.  In this sense, I've really done ok.  One could say I've been lucky with my metabolism.  I would be doing myself a great injustice if I didn't also admit to being fairly sporty - or is that vain?  And I went through a phase of vegetarianism too. 

Today, I weigh in the region of 55 - 58 kilos which on a frame as small as mine shows.  And it simply will not do.  After a week at the Ashram on 2 meals a day, it was no surprise to find that I'd lost over 5 kilos and was almost back to the "worse case" old self.  However I will say this - age (and no doubt that thing that stretches your body into shapes you last saw a clown make with long balloons - what's it called? ) Oh, yes. Pregnancy -  does things to your body which means even at my "worse case" old self weight, I still don't cut the same old figure. 

Still, I cut a much nicer figure than at 58 kilos.  And I mean, not to sound conceited (though of course I am, very) I do yoga almost every day - so I'm far from being "out of shape".  So yeah.  Age. 

Anyway dieting was the furthest thing from my mind.  While I do have a very unhealthy obsession with macadamia nuts, I'm certainly not a glutton so really, I'm not your obvious diet candidate.  But during a mind-numbing sleep-walk through my trusty row of charity shops in West End Lane on poopy weathered Bank Holiday Monday, I found The Dukan Diet book for a couple of quid.  It was a lazy purchase motivated by boredom and disappointment with "The British Weather" but goddamit! Dr. Dukan talks a good game.  He had me after just 2 pages.  Before I knew it I was making a shopping list of "allowed" foods. 

Today is day 2 of the DD and I have to say, it's totally sustainable.  I'm not in the slightest bit hungry, though I will admit to finding the first "attack" phase a little prescriptive.  This is the phase where you are only allowed lean protein, which the clever Dr. D describes as "72 protein -rich foods".  In reality it means you'll be eating fish, chicken or beef and nothing else for the next week.  So you see, while it's all really very filling and for the most part quite satisfying, by day 6 you will start to hallucinate broccoli. After this phase which the Doc recommends you keep up for 5 days, you are allowed veggies - 28 different kinds of the little darlings but not potatoes, rice or corn and avocado is punishable by 100 lashes in the town square.

The downside and of course there always is one when it comes to diets, is that it takes the spontaneity (and fun) out of lunchtimes and when you work in Soho, that is a problem.  There is temptation on every corner and I'm not talking about the type that trot about in mini skirts and fishnets.

So tomorrow I can start adding a selection of 28 veggies to my 72 protein-rich foods which basically means I can have carrots with me chicken.  I shall look forward to that.

Nothing but goodness on a day like today

Today is the spring solstice - a day when we wholeheartedly give up an hour in exchange for lighter, warmer and greener days.  A very fair swap indeed and a pleasure doing business with you, nature.  There is only one place to go in London on days as deliciously fresh and sunny as today.  The park. Any park.  And there are plenty to choose from here.  We chose Primrose Hill along with hundreds of other sun thirsty Londoners.  What a joy to see people literally drinking down gulps of sunshine and park life.  Smiling, relaxed attitudes everywhere.  Happy.  Content.  All it took was a little mild weather.

I don't usually do well on playground duty.  I find it duller than church.  Watching kids play is about as entertaining as watching the laundry go round and round in a washing machine.  Most parents feel the same way.  I would put money on it.  Show me a parent who lives for taking their kids to the playground and I'll show you a very unstable personality.  A delusional liar, in fact.  After years of spending Saturday afternoons standing around a steel and plastic obstacle course, you can't help feeling a little resentful.  It's inevitable.  It's human nature.  But not today.  Parents were kicking off their shoes, peeling their socks off and rubbing their toes in the soft sand of the sandpit.  This never happens.   I promise you.  The sandpit is usually as inviting as a cold bath.  But today, parents were building forts with working draw bridges and actual size moats. 

Open arms at the end of a slide replaced vacuous stares broken only by the most serious of playground injuries and only then to enable the rolling of eyes.    There were standing ovations in appreciation of rope climbing prowess and those lucky enough to get time on a swing were over-joyed to the point of rapture.  Not even the ridiculously dressed person selling balloons at equally ridiculous prices could elicit even a modest measure of cynicism.  Balloons for everyone!

This was codeine strength leisure; parents were wiping saliva off their own chins.  Two whole hours passed before I even thought about making a move.  And even then it took everything I had. 

Life was invented for days like today.  And all it took was a little bit of sunshine.

Over The Edge sent me Over The Rainbow

Last night I went to the British Film Institute with my friend "the film fanatic".  I do not exaggerate when I say he has seen EVERY release London has shown in the last 25 years - worth watching and even some that weren't.  I kid you not.  This is a boy who would stay up into the wee small hours to watch the Oscar's live in the days before cable TV when you had to wait for Channel 4 to air it.  He is of course a BFI member, has attended creative writing courses, has turned his hand to writing screenplays and bought (or begged or borrowed) a Hi-Eight camera with the serious intent of "making a film" and you know what I say? Good on him.  Fair play to the fella.  I wish him well. 

He works in market research.

Anyhoo.  He never fails me on a night out at the flicks so I don't usually pay too close attention to what the film is called or about, even though the last time round he did take me to see a 70s cult horror movie called "The Corpse Grinders".  Less said the better.  Last night was no exception.  I had no real idea what I was off to see.


Turns out the BFI is running a series of what it calls: Screen Epiphanies where a different famous writer, producer or film maker of some description is invited along each week to share the film that most inspired their life and career.  Well on the night I went, it was the turn of director Joe Cornish (Attack the Block, The Adam & Joe Show) and his screen epiphany? Over the Edge. Matt Dillon's first film.

Described in the blurb (and I really couldn't have put it more succinctly) as a modern youth classic, it is a film I had for a long time thought didn't exist.  I'd convinced myself this vague memory I had of a film with Matt Dillon as a young boy, set in a youth centre in the middle of a sort of desert town was merely a composite of myriad early 80s teen angst films.  The reason being that I had never been able to find it again after that one time I watched it at the age of 14, in my bedroom going through the similar nihilistic affectations.  It resonated and titillated.  And then it just disappear.  Over the years I tried to remember what it was called to see if I could find it somewhere but with no luck.  Then the t'internet came along and with it came a renewed fervour to try again.  I would go through bouts of Googling but nothing would ever come of my efforts.  In the end - I figured it just didn't exist.

That there should be such a place as New Grenada (the fictional town where the film is set) where bored cool as crap kids had created such a Bohemian environment entranced me.  The location -  an eye-wateringly boring modern suburban shithole is echoed in such films as The Breakfast Club etc.. and they owe it to Over the Edge.

The IMDb site gives the following synopsis- why reinvent the wheel?  So here goes:

 "New Grenada is a planned community set in the desert where there is nothing for the kids to do, save for a rec center - which closes at 6 PM. The parents, in their zeal to attract industry to their town, have all but neglected their children. As a result, the kids begin to create their own entertainment, which involves vandalism, theft, and general hooliganism. During an incident when one of the kids brandishes an unloaded gun at town cop Ed Doberman, he is shot and killed. When the parents gather the next night to discuss the killing and the level of lawlessness among the youth, they soon find out that their kids have had all they can take." 

A full blown riot ensues where the disenfranchised pre-teens trash their junior high school and carpark - a 15 minute sequence during which the terrified adults are locking inside the school.

But the film boasts more subtle accomplishments: a brilliant integration of rock music mirrors not just the "punk" mood but turns viewers to listeners drawing mind, body and soul  into a specific era completely.

Joe Cornish's reasons for liking this film so much are uncannily similar to mine  - 'cept he had the whaddya call it?...vision and talent to go onto become a film director.  Me? Well, I just went onto watch loads of films.  And where would the film industry be without people like me and my film fanatic friend eh?  I ask ya?  eh?

But there is more.  Turns out this is also Kurt Cobain's favourite film.  Credited in fact with inspiring the "grunge" look - particularly the blond fella second from left in the image (plays the character of Claude).  So there you have it.   Ground breaking.

But look don't take it from me - watch it for yourself.  Then tell me the 14 year old in you doesn't relate.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ereen__ld8g

I discover Karma yoga and the warm familiarity of routine

Ok, so I've been back in London (and work) for almost 2 weeks now, but let's for a moment just pretend that I'm still in paradise - join me in this folly for just one more blogpost on this incredible journey.  I mean look at the place!

After half a week the routine at the Ashram was soo familiar, time passed very slowly indeed.  Add to this the fact that I'd also made friends - the best sort too - independent but engaged - the type of friends that didn't feel that obligation to stick together all the live long day but knew we could if we wanted to.

With the exception of the last couple of afternoons where the immediacy of "the end" brought me and these friends closer in the clinging hope that we could make "the end" simply go away, I would otherwise go lie on the beach.  I'd invariably find some ridiculously excluded spotand put in a solid four to five hours of dedicated adoration of surya (The sun). I read 3 books on that eye-wateringly beautiful beach all told. That's unheard of these days.  What is more, it was starting to feel normal.  Like my life should feel.  That has NEVER happened on a holiday.  I've always been quite ready to come home.

But you see here I had "the schedule".  At around 3 o'clock I'd go have a shower to wash the sea, salt and sand off in preparation for late afternoon yoga which was immediately followed by dinner (vegan and not indulgent in any way shape or form - I lost 5 pounds). 

Then:  Enter the official witching hour. 

By 7pm the sun would have just set leaving that deep magenta, light lilac tint in the sky.  At this point, I would do one of two things - clamber onto my bunk to read some more or huddle outside the ashram's little boutique with other like minded socialites and watch the exclusive world of the Sivananda cult go by.  Usually this was the point when I'd actively seek out my friends and squeeze into that free hour all the words I hadn't spoken all day.

At 8pm we'd file into the temple for evening satsung.  There is something very comfortable and comforting about a routine as set as this.  I can see why some personalities are inclined never to leave; why some people once immersed in the safety of this sacred schedule are left unable to leave it after any significant amount of time.  Hell, I was only there for one week and I felt like I was being pulled from the cosiness of a mother's (ok a nice aunt's) bosom when the dreaded "eviction" notice came.  I'd seen that note 3-4 times in the week I was there - never addressed to me until Friday. 

There is was flapping like a dog's wet tongue.  A note on my door reminding me of my check out time   Urghh. 

So the following morning I broke with routine. After breakfast, the time when I would change into sun mode and pad off down the beach, I instead offered to help the kitchen staff with the mountain of dishes left by the other guests.  Perhaps the sheer drudgery of it would help reprogramme my mind into accepting it was really time to leave and go back to the "real world" where you have to do dishes.  I discovered doing the dishes at the ashram is considered Karma yoga. Jesus Christ - how can you feel bad about that?  I wished I offered to do them more often and now it was too late.  I knew then I would simply have to return.

I walked with the pitiliess steps of a Greek tragedy to my room.  It was time to go.  I looked at the yogis doing other forms of karma yoga, briefly watched those in yoga teacher training sitting on a wooden platform studying anatomy or some such module.  I visited the temple one last time and bumped into "Jesus" not literally, an English fella with long hair and a beard that looked just like what we are led to think he looks like and it struck me: I really don't want to leave.  I know these people!  These are my people!!

Then the biggest blow of all.  Time to say goodbye to my friends.  The only consolation being that they too were leaving.  I choked.  I cried.

Unspoken, unheard and unseen was the heart-dwelling promise that we would meet again.

Day 3 at the Ashram - in which I make friends

Against all the odds I make friends today.  Not just any friends but people that I have a distinct feeling of having met before...you know in a past lifetime (in true ashram fashion, one lifetime is simply not enough).  I have no other explanation.  We each live the reality of a different decade; one of us is in our 60s, one in the 40s and another one in the 20s and I'll wager that while, yes you will guess which is which from the picture below, it may well take a couple of minutes.  And that is the power of yoga my friends. 

You know, I may well live a 100 lifetimes (may already have) and I will never be able to understand or fully explain what it is that draws certain people together.  I mean why these two girls?  Out of tens and tens of others.  And at a time when I was only really planning a week of sun, sea, yoga, mediation and reading.  No other ambitions outside of those.  As a group, everyone there seemingly has very little in common with each other outside of yoga and by no means is it a common denominator.  Believe it or not there are degrees of devotion to the activity.  It's a delicate balance.  One day I absolutely cannot live without doing asanas while another I willingly give it all up for a cup of coffee or glass of wine but mostly I'll take yoga over anything else.  It's all relative in the end. 

So here I am, in Nassau - The Bahamas, an island I always thought would be at the very limits of my financial means.  It's day 3 and I know I will be back next year and the year after that and one year I will bring The Lish with me.  I realise at that point that nothing is really ever out of reach in life, nothing.  It's all about how much you want it and how dedicated you are willing to be to achieve it.  Sometimes all it takes is a leap of faith. I spent weeks deliberating, calculating and pondering the sense of this trip.  Last year I went to Spain for a very different type of  yoga retreat  (a yoga holiday if you like, of the sort you take when you're too scared to try an Ashram) and it served it's purpose well.  That trip triggered what became a daily yoga routine that has endured to present day.  It's because of that experience (and a niggling sense that I was missing a trick somewhere)  that I'd felt the need to find something much more hardcore.  In the Sivananda Ashram - I found this.

So let me tell you a little story about hardcore.  It starts at 5am. This is the time the cowbell clangs apologetically signalling the start of a new yogic day.  I anticipated physical pain and a mental refusal to comply.  And who is to say this wouldn't have been the case had I not been suffering from jetlag.  Instead I'm irritatingly sprightly.  The half hour meditation is easier today. For one, I know what to expect and thankfully jet lag has a way of raising you up high before plunging you into nauseating fatigue without notice.  So while I arrive at the temple with a spring in my step - it isn't long before tiredness takes every drop of juice from me and all I have the energy to do is sit quietly, eyes closed thinking of nothing - which is lucky since that is what is required of you.  Then chanting.  Then yoga.  And only then are you given the simplest of meals.

I'm titillated by the insanity of it all.  It's 10:30 am, I have been up for 5 hours and the day is only really beginning (I've done so much already) and I've still got so much to do.  Not least the serious business of sun-bathing before it's time for afternoon yoga and satsung comes around again.

All in, I figure I'm rampaging through an 18 hour day like it's nothing.  And I can't wait to do it all again tomorrow.

The Ashram Extravaganza Begins Immediately

Having arrived  and checked -in latish in the day, I had been given a key to what would become my home for the week.  I am in Om 9 of the Om huts. As I wheele my luggage over rambling paths that weave in and out of the thick vegetation towards where the map says these huts are located, I wonder what my roommates are like.  Om 9 accommodates 4 people in two sets of bunkbeds.  The last time I stayed in a dorm was back in 2002/3 during my backpacking trip around Oz and New Zealand. I loved it then and I have a feeling I'll love it now.  There is no better way to my mind of avoiding the "lonelies" than to share a room when you are travelling solo even if it does feel like summer camp in secondary school.

No-one is in when I get there but I can see the bottom two bunks are already taken. I'll have to wait a little longer to meet my roomies.  I chose the top right bunk.  I would have gone for a top bunk regardless.  I love the top bunk. It's so much more cosy up there, plus you're well away from any floor dwelling critters...even if you are "destination fart smell".

I set about making myself at home but all I really want is a shower.  I peel off my jeans (slightly warmer in The Bahamas than in West Hampstead and the sweat has made them stick to my skin) and push my trainers off one foot at a time.  I am immediately hit by a decidedly cheesy whiff (well I have just come off a 9 hour flight) and am very glad at that point the room's other occupants are not around to witness it.   First impressions and all that and oh! the shame of it.  I high-tail it to the shower.  Best shower ever.  The first one after a long flight always is.

I have a look at the schedule - will I have time to check the place out before evening Satsung?  (No, I don't know what satsung is either).  Whatever it is, it happens twice a day at 6am (yes, AM) and 8pm daily - and it is mandatory.  In any event I have a little spare time and head straight for the small convenience store.  I'm sure Lord Vishnu won't mind me having a little browse for trinkets before the serious business of whatever satsung is.

En route, I cross paths with yogis of all shapes and sizes and ages.  Also lots of up-tight New Yorkers.   I'll have to be careful of the yanks.   Perhaps I will just keep myself to myself. Good job I have a great book.  I've started reading Timothy Leary's biography and in retrospect, I couldn't have chosen a more apt book for the setting.

Still not entirely sure what satsung is, the cowbell clangs signalling the start of it.    I make my way to the temple, obediently and find a free cushion to sit on.  Everyone is sitting crossed legged, straight-backed with their hands in chin mudra as if meditating.  I am not sure what to do so I sit quitely checking out the weird and wonderful pretending to do the same but obviously nowhere near able to concentrate.

Then the big swami dude floats by dressed in the traditional bright orange swami uniform and takes his seat at the front of the temple.  He starts Omming.  The lights fade and the place falls silent...for half an hour.  No one moves.  I am so tired I find it quite easy - though I can't say I am exactly meditating.  And I am not sure I'll find it this easy again.  Then the lights flicker back on and we are told to refer to page 10 of the Kirtan.  WTF is Kirtan?  I take my lead from those around me. Turns out Kirtans are like hymns in a church and p10 is the page to turn to in the "hymn" book. 

So turns out Satsung is a hindu ritual that involves meditation followed by chanting (or to put it the christian way - singing).  And I love it.  I feel strangely rejuvenated and yet I've done nothing.  Literally.  I wonder if I will feel the same enthusiasm at 5:45 am the following morning.

So that all done and dusted I wonder what is next - probably a slow shuffle to the room and a spot of reading before lights out.  But to my utter astonishment one of the leaders of the ashram gets up and begins to run through the evening's entertainment.  Am I hearing this right.?.. "entertainment" at an ashram? 

Ok - I'll give this a go...wonder what passes for "entertainment" at a place like this?  Well, my friends - turns out these Swamis know where it's at because for the next hour we are treated to a show by the famous sitar player known in the west for his work with George Harrison and Eric Clapton - not Ravi Shankar I hasten to add...another one who arrives with his tabla player.  Jesus Christ it is astounding.


Well, now I was intrigued.  I can't wait for tomorrow's satsung. 

But first sleep.  I am a little concerned about the 5:30 wake-up and I suddently realise how freaking hungry I still am but with food only served 2 times a day, I have a long time to wait.  A teeny tiny frisson of panic runs through me.  How am I ever going to get through this week? Nevertheless with the hypnotic sounds of the sitar still floating in my mind, I find my way home. 

I finally  meet my roomies - large friendly Americans (only slightly uptight) who snore and think I'm Australian.

My Week at the Ashram: Day 1

For me, any trip begins with the turbulent night before a flight especially if I need to be up early.  Tortuous ceiling gazing where minutes feel like hours; Incoherent mind chatter broken only by thoughts of danger and disaster.  Will the taxi arrive on time?  And when it does, will the driver take me to a quiet country lane to rob, rape and murder me?  Even if I survive the taxi ride, chances are the plane will crash on take off.  My funeral plays out to music by The Pixies and I'm especially troubled by my daughter's pain and confusion.  Jesus Christ!  I need to lighten up.  What is wrong with me? 

The alarm goes off.  It hardly needs to.  I've been awake all night.  My bags are by the door, my clothes laid out in "rainman" fashion, so much so, I am dressed in one flowing movement which is just as well since my eyes aren't working properly.  I then go say my last goodbyes to The Silverback and The Lish because of course, I'm probably going to be murdered on the way to the train station.  I take a mental picture of my lisherlish's angelic sleeping face.  I'll need something to focus on when I'm being slowly tortured to death.

Enough already. I'm out the door.  The cab is waiting for me. It takes10 minutes to get to Paddington within half an hour I'm at the airport.  10 minutes later I'm through security.  And now I have to kill TWO WHOLE HOURS.  Christ - I missed out on 8 hours sleep for this?  I'm so preoccupied at how smoothly this is all going I kind of forget that I'm actually on my way to Nassau, The Bahamas Dog!!!!  I'm off to Paradise Suckas!!!!  And before I know it I'm on the plane.  I get to my seat and I see a man with hair like this.....

...and the mothafucka is sitting next to me.   

So I'm about to take off for a 9 hours flight.  Stuck with the German Phil Spector farting away next to me and I realise I haven't given a second thought to The Silverback or The Lish in over 2 hours. How quickly we forget.  I also realise I haven't brought any snacks with me.  Well done.  Still, I figure since I am on my way to an ashram where indulgence is not de rigeur - fasting for the next 9 hours will be good practice. 

Four hours later I'm ravenous - ready to eat the arsehole out of a donkey.  I'm so hungry I can't even concentrate on the films.  I can't read and I'm in no mood to write.  And I most definitely don't want to speak to the Herr Spector sitting next to me.   I mean - look at him.

So I drink.  It's the only thing that British Airways doesn't charge for.  What a great idea.  I'm off to an ashram where coffee, tea, dairy, meat, fish, garlic, onion (yeah, I don't get those last two either) and ...what's the last thing?...oh yeah, ALCOHOL is strictly forbidden.  But I clearly don't appreciate this fully at the time.

We land in The Bahamas.  At. Long. Last.    I'm deliriously tired; ferociously hungry and absolutely mangled by alchohol.  And it's baking.  But it's all too easy.  My bag is one of the first off the conveyer belt.  I ask someone for change to call the ashram and I'm shown to a table where there is a freephone.  I must be dreaming.  I have in fact overslept and the plane has left without me.  I'm still in West Hampstead - must be.  But no.  It appears I am actually in Nassau airport making a free call. 

This bodes well.

I'm left alone to make my own way to a taxi rank.  No one bothers me.  No one tries to sell me rum.  The cab is clearly licensed and one fabulous ride later that takes me right across the middle of this beautiful island I arrive at the "new dock on Elizabeth and Bay".  I memorised that in advance to look like I knew where I was going.  I'm a white honkey with an Anthropologie bag worth hundreds of pounds slung over my shoulder. I smell of insect repellent and I'm convinced that simply by confidently stating the destination I'll will surely slip by unnoticed, just like a local.

But it's all perfect.  I get to the dock where someone who looks decidedly yogi-like is already there waiting for me.  I mean this is just incredible.  I'm swept into a boat and this is where I end up.

Little did I know but this would be the beginning of the very best solo holiday since my round -the-world trip in 2002.  And this little hut below would be my home for the next 6 days.

And this my back yard:

London and all the stresses that slowly chip away at me day in day out felt very far away indeed. 

And while I didn't know it then, this would mark the start of a life changing experience.

The Apple

When faced with a bowl of fruit, I never choose the apple.  It's not that I don't like them, I actually love them especially when paired with cheese.  The thing is I have porcelain veneers on my four front teeth so biting into a crunchy apple is simply out of the question- too risky.  I have lost count of the number of times one of those pearly beauties has flicked off after an ill-judged nibble on a piece of french bread,  And each time it has resulted in an excrutiatingly expensive visit to the dentist.  An apple is absolutely the forbitten fruit. Unless I am absolutely desperate can  I justify the rigmarole of having to core it and chop it up into slices like some little Lord Fauntleroy.

But the other night, hunger pangs had me rooting through the kitchen cupboards and as luck would have it, I was down to a choice between a leathery piece of chicken or an apple.  I opted for the apple.  I had resigned myself to the fact I'd have to take a plate out, go to the cutlery draw and hope to god there was a clean sharp knife in there (there wasn't - there is no greater annoyance) and finally fish out the chopping board.  Using a butter knife I set about hacking the apple up (I was past washing the sharp knife at this point).  I threw in a few slices of cheese - well I'd gone to this much trouble, I might as well go the full monty, and I sat down to enjoy the delicious creamy tartiness of this perfect food match.

And as I sat munching through the slices I was suddenly put in mind of an apple I once gave my mum. It's a memory that has lain undisturbed for many, many years.  My mum had been taking to hospital after hemorrhaging for an operation to put it right.  I must have been about 10 or 11.  I went to see her post-op after school and was very relieved to see her looking well.  I pulled out an apple - these were in the days when all my teeth my mine, so apples were an easy fruit.  Immediately my mother's face lit up with Jack Nicholson mischief.  She asked if she could have the apple but told me to carefully just slip in into the top draw of the little side table by her bed.  I didn't realise it at the time, but she was still "Nil by Mouth". I was happy to give her something for her troubles.

The following day I went to see her again and this time the lady in the bed next to my mum's piped up:  "You're not smuggling more apples in today are you?  Your mum certainly enjoyed it last night." Then she turned to my mum and said with a wink" Did you think I didn't hear you?"

My mum had waited for the still and darkness of the early hours to enjoy the apple under the bed covers.  The jig was up.  My mum let out a raucous cackle - a cackle she was famous for.  It was infectious.  I was happy to have been of service.

It's an odd memory.  One I haven't thought about in years and now of course, every time I see an apple I find myself thinking of her.  It is a sweet memory which inevitably ends in sadness as I think about all the things I didn't get a chance to give her.  And then I think about the feeling of confused displacement at realising my mum was mortal - that she might not be around one day - that in fact it had been a close call. 

I spend those few nights my mum was hospitalised at a neighbour's house.  Don't get me wrong, she wasn't just any old neighbour, she was my mother's best friend and a person I have sadly fallen out with for reasons too stupid to try to justify here.  And I can't help thinking this memory is in some way a sign that it's time to get back in touch.  Afterall, she took me in without question and cared for me as if I were her own and let's face it, she's the closest thing to a mother figure I have left.

So if you were to ask me how I like them apples?  I'd have to say: I like them apples fine.

For those of you watching in black and white, the brown ball is next to the pink



I've long been a fan of snooker.  Don't ask me what the rules are because I don't know - it's the serenity of the game; the toc-toc of the white ball on coloured; the silent awe of the crowds and the true personality of the players - something lacking in many other sports.  Well that and the fact that it's usually on late at night which helps lull me into a blissfull state of slumber. 

It all began when I was a little girl.  I was always a bad sleeper (I have the eyebags to prove it) and I suppose I used to wake up at 10:30pm or later and go bother my mum in the living room who would be watching a movie or some such thing.  She would put the snooker on (or in the summer it was baseball - which I also like for the same reason and know as little about) in the hope that it would bore me to sleep.  In fact it had the opposite effect. 

So anyway, snooker has this warm childhood thing about it that stayed with me over the years and with which I have become slightly obsessed.  I used to love the personalities like Hurricane Higgins or count dracula klone, Ray Reardon.  Today the latest icon has to be Ronnie O'Sullivan.  The Liam Gallagher of the game and he plays like a bastard.    When I heard his father was in jail for murder, I needed to know more.

Count Dracula

So the Silverback got me his autobiography.  And I was not disappointed.  Turns out there are a lot of spooky coincidences - not so much between Ronnie and me, more circumstantial.  For example, Ronnie and his dad run a lot of the sex shops in Soho.  I work in Soho and spend every lunchtime picking my way past these very shops to get to Berwick Street for lunch.  I work on the road where one of Ronnie's shop is - I've been in and bought a coaster - nothing too saucy.  And no he wasn't there.

Ronnie also suffers from depression and is, as anyone who has watched him in the past, very open about it.  Put it this way, you don't want to be playing him when he is in this mindframe (or rather you do since he tends not to play well at these times).  But he seems to have tamed that side of himself.  He is fiercely honest about his upbringing and his internal battles.  It's inspirational.

Plus he's a bit of alright which always helps.

Maverick

Ignorance is bliss, even if it is a cop out

Let me preface how I'm about to describe myself by saying, I have slayed the demons.  Truly I have.  I mean it took a lot of self delusion and other mind tricks but I haven't had a slump in well over a year and that to me means progress.  However that doesn't mean I don't have depressive tendencies, it's just that they are no longer dangerously despondent, which is nice.  What a lovely way to start a Saturday morning blog post. Bet you can't wait to read on.  I mean if it's this uplifting at the outset, goodness only knows how much higher it could possibly take you.

It's just that lately I've been making the mistake of reading the newspapers and boy are they ever filled with despair and suffering. I stopped reading them a while back and now I remember why.  Stories of child abuse, animal abuse and human suffering of unimaginable depths.  I do sit there after reading these awful stories and think about how it makes me feel - how alien it all seems and try to look at the flipside of this.  The fact that it's alien means it's really not part of my day to day existence and I'm grateful for this.  We really do live in a sort of paradise in the developed world for the most part. Don't get me wrong, many of these awful stories are perpetrated by people who live in the luxury of the West.  That just pisses me off.  But for the most part, we don't know we're born.

For example, I was rumaging around my favourite vintage shop in Soho when I overheard the salesgirl (I say overheard, she was broadcasting it) telling her colleague how her mother was bi-polar and her father had abused her as a child - in lurid detail.  I looked at her to see what an abused child grows up into.  She was the size and shape of someone who has "issues".  I felt terrible for her but I also knew she was lost to the part.  She was enjoying telling the story.  This is what you need to do to make the whole sordid thing palatable to yourself and those around you.  I'm sure her guilty parents too had their fair share of childhood abuse - it's a well understood vicious circle and it takes a lot of courage to break the cycle because it means facing up to your reality.  When it's that ugly, who really wants to?

So what can the rest of us do?  The ones who have really done OK.  Well, we can live our lives in an attitude of gratitude is what we can do and never miss the opportunity to be kind to someone.  And I personally need to stop reading the news. 

As I like to joke with  my PR colleagues, I don't read the news, I MAKE THE NEWS...if you read the more niche publications of the technology trade press...sort of....ahem.

Operation Greenhouse

I'm having a retro moment - it's all in my head of course - where I might add, the best sensations live. It's Saturday night, I've come in from the cold which has come to whoop our asses from the east; The Beast from the East to be exact and it ain't in a partying mood.   Bitterly cold winds from Siberia are menacingly whistling around the damp streets of West Hamstead; We're lucky to have made it home at all.   Hair still wettish from the swimming pool - where The Lish has turned a watery corner and is now able to jump into the pool without aid (Hooray!) -  we open the door to a roasty toasty home.  I stop to check I am actually at the right address.  Then I hear it: a supremely self-pitying sound of a sniffle.  The Silverback is unwell everybody.  Call an ambulance!  Call the BBC!  Get the editor of The Times to hold the front page!  And when he isn't well he turns into the polar opposite of his usual Tundra temperature-loving self.  No, tonight you can happily sit in a G-string and vest in any room of the house such is the average current inside temperature.  Under no other circumstances would I ever be allowed to have a house warm enough to grow pineapples in.  But hey, I am not complaining.  I'm in heaven.  It's shitty, dark and damp outside and I'm sitting tapping this drivel out in my shorts.

Adding to the lusciousness of it all is The Lish herself, come to join us in the humid tropics. Not one to waste the hot occasion, The Silverback has put on a load of washing which is now steaming in the heat. Since he isn't well - did I say? The Silverback is ill, he is too weak to fight his TV corner so Lish Losh gets to watch old school cartoons (Frosty The Snowman....how ironic!) while Sausage Fingers languishes on the couch as if just having awoken from a coma.  And all of a sudden, I'm transported to my own childhood when Saturdays were all about sitting around together each sort of doing our own thing but united in silent comfort and familiarity.

Many a weekend I have sat in my jim jams watching Tom & Jerry while mum ironed in the glow of the lights shooting out of the TV.  I didn't know it then but those evenings, it turns out, are some of the happiest days of my life!!  And tonight for 5 minutes - I'm transported back there. It feels nice.

I guess, in the simplest way, the best things in life really are (almost) free (electricity and gas bill aside).

Make January stop please!

My god January is dragging isn't it?  I don't remember it being quite as drab last year but then I don't remember what I did this morning.  I think everyone is aware of how utterly loathesome this month has been so far with its shitty sideways rain and pus coloured sky.  What is the point of this month? I ask you?  Mind you, people are trying their best. Just today the management (of the place where I work) sent an email round announcing lunch would be on them until payday - that's 3 days away and it may not seem like much but it is better than a kick in the teeth no?.  We are to collect a five pound voucher from HR for each day whenever the fancy takes us.  I guess watching staff slowly wither away on a diet of toast and baked beans was too much.  This is in a company that provides free bread...so actually it would appear people are down to a budget of 23p per day; the price of a single portion sized tin.  Jesus!  Could it BE any more depressing? 

Well yes it could.  People continue to starve in Africa, others are being blown up in the Middle East and Asia and the number of homeless in Piccadilly alone has very visibly risen since last year.  Christ only knows what other suffering is going on.  So you know, it's worth still being aware of all the things we do have on our half of the hemisphere.  And be grateful.

I do have to keep going back to the value of the simple pleasure.  This evening for example I managed to get just the right measure of olive oil and lemon juice for a vinaigrette that I found so delicious I didn't bother with the salad - just simply mopped it up with a metre of bread (so the diet is coming along gloriously).  I also managed to hold a crow position (nightly yoga practice) for the longest time to date and higher than ever before.  The aim being to eventually be able to push up into a hand stand...sure...For those of you who don't know what a crow pose looks like - well it's looks like this:

And when you get really good, it can transition to this:

Until eventually you can get really cocky and do stuff like this:

 

Me?  I'm about here:

which is still better that sitting around eating pizza right?

On the subject of doing ok - I've managed to keep the weekly swimming ritual going since announcing I would be stepping the parenting up.   I am proud to say that The Lish has come a long way since that first Saturday where she practically severed my arms with her vice-like grip.  Now she doesn't want me anywhere near her (as long as she has her noodle and two floats) but this is progress indeed.  This week I'll be teaching her to put her head under water.  Wish me luck. 

Another wonderful side benefit of the whole swimming - active thing is - well actually two things are: 1. This whole thing of conquering fears etc...has caused a massive step change in Lish's overall levels of confidence which was at a cripplingly low level (hereditary I'm told...her father, yes The Silverback - if you can believe it - was the same) and 2. I'm just having so much fun with her and creating lasting memories. Even if I do have to consciously avoid thinking about the amount of child piss I'm wading through. 

See, I really don't think I ever did anything with my poor over worked mum (outside of watching telly) but to be fair she was always too tired to do anything at the weekend and I do totally understand.  Besides I can't miss what I never had and so I don't.  She gave me so much more in other ways.

So now, Lishy looks forward to our Saturday swimming mornings at Swiss Cottage and it's great too for me to know that I am relied on to make this happen.  It's nice to be wanted so obviously.

Even if it does involve other children's urine.

Push to activate

So this is what responsible parenting feels like.  I took the Lish swimming today - well I say swimming, it was more flapping on a foam float.  See she doesn't know how to swim and isn't too keen on water generally (my fault entirely for relying on DVDs and TV too much).  But I decided that 2012 was the year to undo the damage of infant sloth.  I've been selfish.  In my pursuit of a "quiet" or "easy" life I shamefully allowed Lish Losh to notch up hours and hours of TV.  But it occurred to me recently, especially when school called to say she could do with extra coaching to get her reading up to scratch that I was in fact raising a "hoodie".  It's ironic because reading and writing are the other two passions of my life (after yoga) and actually truth be told reading and creative writing were my first loves and my best friends growing up an only child in a single parent family.  I'm making myself sound so cool right now it hurts to be me.  Her dad too (not the only child weirdo thing).  He's more of a book geek.

In the same way Jimi Hendrix's son is tone deaf I guess kids don't always inherit the bits you like about yourself.

Luckily punk music came along and saved me from myself and a life of total exclusion though I will admit to absolutely loving my own company still.  Lishy I doubt will be that lucky.  First off "music" and its related "scenes" have been replaced by reality TV and the cult of "celebrity". I can't allow Lishy to fall into that "something for nothing" culture. 

So it was swimming today and there will be skating next week.  I'll make an upright citizen of her yet.  That's two things, the very thought of which used to send her into a catatonic rage but now she can't get enough of.

This has also mobilised my mind too.  I get up with a purpose on a Saturday - none of this faffing around in a towelling robe until midday followed by aimless high street commercialism (the sales don't count; Sales are sensible).

As for Sunday - well now that's a different matter.