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.

I don't need to win, I just need to place

In stark contrast with the last couple of years where I have seemingly had nothing better to do than update my blog over Chrimbo and New Year's Eve, this year, I guess I had something better to do (either that or I'm clearly handling having nothing better to do ...better).  Which is good. Really good.  And another sign that I've been making good decisions lately.  Can that be true?  Time will tell I suppose.

And so we wave goodbye (or more likely give the finger to) 2011.  Personally I did very well last year- all things considered.  I managed to stay employed the whole year, I even won an award for it and if the dire forecasts about 2012 are to be believed - and they are truly vile - going by the past year's formula, I could be looking at my best year ever.  So roll on 2012.

This is the year I make director and if not, then I'll take the fork in the road and cut down to less time in the orifice and more time 'on the mat' and with The Lish.  All or nothing.  Make or break year. No (more) time to waste - think I achieved that goal in my 30s.  Anyhow, these are my professional goals for what they are worth.

In the meantime, life goes on. As it always does whether you like it or not.

On a personal level, I'm setting a very straightforward goal.  Aside from love and world peace I'll be laying groundwork for a future that does not involve weekly trips to the headmistress.  Let me explain.  It has become evident that I have a very headstrong daughter who will avoid anything that requires anything but the most minimal effort and even then, it's a struggle.  So this year will deliver a little motivational injection of self-drive (even if I have to administer it with a taser gun).  The Lish will shortly start weekly swimming , gymnastics and ice skating lessons in a bid to reverse the effects of 5 years of Nickleodeon.

By the same token, I'm also hoping to nurture a creative gene in The Silverback.  I got him a Ukelele for Christmas - cruel I know for someone with such large sausage fingers and so little natural rhythm.  Still, if Sid Vicious could do it.....you have to start somewhere.  Unbelievably he does seem to have fallen under its plinky plonky spell though that could be down to sheer post Christmas boredom.

Ok, enough cogitation for now - I have places to force people to go.

Happy New Year Y'all!