Back to where I once belonged

I had my office Christmas party on Friday at the Paramount bar in Centre Point (the heart of London)  - this is the view that greets you when you step out of the lift:



Pretty spectacular eh? The night started on a literal high and ended on an emotional one as I was singled out for an award - the first and only award I've ever been given in the whole of my working life.  That to me is the best validation I could ever ask for and proof positive that I am in good shape professionally.  What a nice feeling after a decade of floundering and 5 years of what I can only describe as career wilderness - albeit self inflicted.

The last time I really felt like I was in control was 2002.  I had just turned 31, was doing really well at work but in retrospect not so good in my head.  I made a now or never decision to go travelling.  Travelling at once released me from the career stupor I was falling into and at the same time eventually derailed me.  I checked out of conventional society and for a while had no intention of returning to it.  Then of course I met my husband and the rest is, well the rest is a tale of the unexpected.

And since then, I've never made a secret of the fact that I have found life a little bit of a struggle until quite recently if I'm perfectly honest.  I'm not sure when the 'a-ha!' moment actually happened, I just know that I reached a point where I decided to restrict making decisions for anyone other than myself and all of a sudden I found my stride again.  My mojo.  Don't get me wrong, I get bored every now and again, forget to live in the moment, forget to be deliriously grateful for everything I have, but those moments are fleeting these days.  Thank god.  And I'm sure the Silverback, if he is reading this will no doubt be catching flies in his mouth, incredulous at the hypocrisy as he recalls with complete clarity how I pretty much lost the plot over a cordial juice stain on the wooden work surface in the kitchen... people with stride and mojo can still be neat freaks no?

Don't get me wrong, I'm still occasionally crippled by the drudgery of some days - the utter monotony of the same old routine but I do fairly quickly snap out of it with thoughts of how much worse it would all be if I didn't live in the relative sanctuary of tedium. I do not want drama - that much I do know.  I still harbour many dreams and I send out cosmic orders all the time to have these fulfilled - before you go thinking I've had liposuction of the senses or something.

No so, unlike many of the past few years, as I stare at the horizon into 2012, I look forward with anticipation at how much more I will achieve next year.  It's been a long time coming.

The Month of Blah

If February was the month of BLAH in Canada - and it was - then November is definitely the UK's very own delightfully quaint version of it.  Both have one thing in common, death inducing boredom - albeit for very different reasons.

Every November in the UK, my motivation slips down the back of the settee.  Last Saturday, granted I went to see The Damned, but for a while I wasn't sure I'd make it (long story involving planes, trains and automobiles) so the day had initially started like most weekends - early, wretchedly and centred on The Lish.  Usually the most we'll manage is a trip to the park (when the park was a 6 minute walk away, you know - in 'dream area' home) but we now live in 'it will do area' home where we're not really walking distance from any nice parks...which sucks donkey balls.  Or is that the Month of Blah talking?  I mean, I should point out that the nearest nice park is Hampstead Heath, so can we have a little perspective here?  Ahem.  And I bet that when the sky finally changes colour from suicide grey to Om Shanti blue all of this will seem a little silly. 

Still, last weekend after dragging myself, knuckles and chin scraping the pavement, to our nearest high street I slept walked through the usual routine of charity, coffee and nik nak shop browsing (I hate this feeling, I know it too well), you know the type of thing.  Anyway, the point comes when you either decide to DO SOMETHING or go home and usually I'm really good at doing something but on this occasion, I couldn't move. It was like a form of  thought paralysis. Urgh.  The park was too far, Kensington High Street too twee, Oxford Circus WAY too manic and my usual mainstay - a good museum -  just too much like hard work.  Luckily I was saved by the sudden arrival of tickets to this Damned gig.

Still it beats the shit out of the Month of Blah in Canada - and we're back to my favourite subject: Canada bashing.  February is the coldest month after 3 months of cold.  It is the bell-end, no, the frozen cheese under the foreskin of the knob of winter.  It was too cold to do anything except drink and plot ways to kill yourself that didn't require you having to leave the house.

I turned to Yoga in the end which is lucky because I could very easily have fallen into alcoholism.  Very easily indeed and on occasion I did turn to Manhattans on my really low days.  But that's ancient history beside I'm way too vain to be a proper alcoholic.  All jokes aside - it was the lowest of times.

Yep, I just need to snap out of it and I will soon enough.  I know how much more I have today then when I was stuck shaking up cocktails in The Tundra.  I also have yoga which I continue to do every day and is I might add my secret weapon because as I write this, I already feel that heavy cloak of sad lifting - and I've also just remembered I have a box of After Eight Mints in the fridge.

Punk not dead...but it ain't about to run a marathon either

Fresh from having been to see The Specials playing at Alexander Palace a couple of weeks ago, I barely caught my breath before it was time for another trip down memory lane with a gig at The Roundhouse to see The Damned.  From the rude boys of ska to the bad boys of punk/goth in almost seemless fashion - except that punks have not appeared to have aged quite as well (and I make this comparison with many MANY caveats) as the fattie bum bums who now make up the legions of ska fans that attended The Specials gig.

Vanian and Sensible with the godfather of punk - Joey Ramone

A couple of things struck me about the aged Punk/goth crowd too that I had not ever noticed before (t's not my first punk gig but it was the weirdest thing).  It appears Punk of this gothic ilk is apparently a man's domain.  How do I know this?  Well, I saw something I've never in my whole life seen before - a queue for the man's toilets.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  It's not myth or legend - it simply is not part of the real world we live in...unless you are at a Damned gig.  I have to say, this was THE highlight of the gig for me.  A queue for the men's, NO queue for the women's - I said WHAT?  And at a punk gig - HA! the irony of it all. Actually, when you think about it, Punk is totally made for women.  I can't think of a better scenario at a gig than to not have to queue for the loos. YA HOO!

Dave Vanian (lead singer of The Damned) - the original Twilight

As for The Damned...well, Captain Sensible lived up to his name probably for the first time too.  The only thing missing from the stage was an armchair. And Dave Vanian? Well, he still has the big voice but playing an album of obscure B sides was possibly the biggest mis-step of the night.  Apart from Eloise - which is less Punk than it is New Romantics, I didn't know any of the songs.  They didn't even play Smash it Up... I mean what is the world coming to? Or maybe I just need to listen to more music.

Captain Sensible - his royal punkness

Old punks not dead..but about to win medals at the Olympics

Hey listen - that's not bad for 35 years in the business - that's a lot of hairdye.

Not so simple pleasures

The TV is finally here and I got to say, there is no better way to mong out than to wedge oneself into a nice firm corner of the sofa and zonk out to some bollocks or other at a 90 degree angle. I'm talking TOWIE, Jerseyshore and any cookery programme going. Let me put a little context around this.  We moved house, as you know and in anticipation of all the cage style fights that would otherwise happen without a TV for distraction, we ambled to John Lewis well in advance of vacating "dream area" home to place an order for a TV so that it would arrive BEFORE we moved in to "it will do area" home.  Clever eh? And it worked.  The TV and sofa were both ordered at the same time with this genius strategy in mind and they arrived just in time.  Happy happy, joy joy.


The TV broke within an hour of connection.  It broke.  Inexplicably and in the most heartless manner, halfway through one of The Silverback's most favourite mong out programmes, Mantracker.  This is a programme where real people are dropped in the middle of the harshest terrain in Canada with nothing but a compass, a granola bar and the kind of directions you get in India - no, not racist, anyone who has spent any time in India will have a truck load of logic defying stories - so nothing personal unless you are India itself and then yes, I mean YOU - but I digress. 

So this programme -  a couple of imbeciles are left to fend for themselves in the wilderness of The Tundra with the aim of getting from point A to point B whilst being hunted by a man on a horse - - The Mantracker.  There is no prize for winning by the way - I did warn you it was utterly pointless viewing and that's the way we like it around here.

So the Silverback lives for the programme.  And after the ball-ache of moving and the 6 hours of hanging around for Mr. Cableman, Mr. Dump Truck and the one and only Mr TV and Sofa (we worship the very poop that curls out of your noble bottom) he settles in the firm corner I was telling you about only to have the TV malfunction in the unluckiest turn of events ever.  It just stopped working.  Just like that, no explanation, no calls, no goodbyes.  Then it just sat there...watching us.  Laughing.  And there it remained,  taking the piss for a whole 10 days before John Lewis was able to bring a replacement by which time The Silverback and I could not be in the same room for more than 3 minutes without wanting to smash each other's faces in.  So whoever said TV is bad for you lives alone.

Anyway, I forget where I was going with this.  Oh yeah - so the new TV is here and it rocks out with its cock out.  Harmony has return to Silverback Gables.  Ahhhhhhh.

Now all we need is another sofa cos frankly we don't like each other enough to perch this close together when we're trying to unwind.

Welcome to my new abode

I apologise for this appalling dereliction of duty...a whole month without so much as a fleeting look in on this here poor little blogspot.  However, in my defence a shed load of stuff involving cardboard has been taking place and it ain't over yet but I have now cleared a space on the floor of OUR NEW FLAT! to spend a little time updating all 4 of you on the recent tedium that makes up my day-to-day.  The time will come when I will turn this blog into a resource, a positive repository of really useful information - but until that day comes you are going to have to settle for this monotonous crap.  Count yourselves lucky you don't have to live it.

So let me start by saying - saving money and being able to invest (such as in a home) is over-rated.  Everything feels too far, too small, too dirty or too crowded...by comparison.  Warwick Avenue has become the idealised ex-boyfriend that you find yourself measuring every new boyfriend against - even though there must have been a good reason you broke up in the first place.

See I was very spoiled in Warwick Avenue and I never for one single second took it for granted.  I one hundred per cent appreciated that I was living in one of London's most prestigious areas, that I was a mere stumble from the tube and that it took me 18 minutes door to door to get to work.  So, with this all front of mind, I knew there would have to ensue some sort of psychological concession; an emotional resignation that I was not going to be in Kansas anymore once I moved to West Hampstead. 

It's crazy.  We own - finally (again), we are paying ourselves rent essentially, we no longer pay storage and we're generally better off all round - and yet...and yet. 

Maybe it's the dark nights drawing in that are causing this immaturity.  I'm in the best place mentally, emotionally and professionally I've been...well since I can remember.  I can remember actually but the point is, it's been a long time. Sheesh.  And I'm sure when the cardboard is gone and all the lights function properly and I have figured out how to work the shower - which currently only has two settings - hypothermic or broiled in your own skin - things will seems very different. 

Christ on a cracker, with cheese -  what is wrong with me? It's everything I've wanted since I got back to London and by the way might I remind myself that two years ago I was living in a freaking hotel near Paddington.  A little perspective here.  So, I take it back. It's all good.  I'm just a big tool.

But not so big a tool as to bore you with the dreariness of the unpackingdetail .  Let's say it was a royal ground-to-air ball ache and leave it at that. 

And now, leave me please to fantasize about my old place for just a little longer.

Theatre as therapy

I went to see Ruby Wax's show - Losing it - which is a very candid and very funny confessional cabaret about the conditions that led to her mental illness. After the interval the women (she is accompanied on piano by Mrs Hank Azaria - Judith Owen) engage in a dialogue with the audience. Only then did I feel we began to get close to the reality of the subject.  And also realised depression is a far wider reaching condition than you might imagine - such is the stigma.  So much depression in the world!  So many articulate people in the audience whose lives are or have been blighted by this crippling brain disease.  And it is a disease.  And like any disease it doesn't discriminate.

One woman in the audience who had suffered from depression pretty much all of her adult life and who was also a cancer sufferer said she preferred the cancer to the depression.  If that doesn't give you a clue as to just how incredibly paralysing the condition is - well, then you are just a very lucky person - don't waste that luck.

The whole event felt a little like what I imagine an AA meeting might.  I doubt anyone was there just for the fuck of it and while Ruby Wax is a very talented comedienne, she has long had her comic day - so that can only mean that every single person in that theatre (full house, I might add) had some interest in or connection to the topic of depression.  I say! What a lot of sad people.  Me included.

The show was like nothing I'd ever experienced.  Stephen flipping Fry was there - himself very well known for a very public case of bi-polar.  Our very own Britney. 

In poignant contrast, it did take a comedienne to demonstrate that depression is no laughing matter.  It can literally destroy your life and any potential you might have if you leave the condition unchecked.   I certainly will never try to battle through another episode without professional help though my aim is to avoid. avoid, avoid!!!  That's possibly where all the eastern spirituality comes in. 

And that's when it hit me - I can't remember the last time I felt myself sliding into a dark phase.  I used to get that horrible sinking feeling every couple of weeks but now that I think about it - and more to the point - ever since I started doing yoga every day, I haven't felt down.  I get stressed, yes - who the fuck doesn't? but that awful slide into oblivion?  Not for a while!! Oh JOY!!

If yoga can help me with my depressions, perhaps it can help others.  There's a thought.   I might be onto something here.  No-one understands a depressive better than a depressive - I could do some real good here.  And that's why I'm now seriously determined to get out of the office and into the studio fulltime.    I know I've said it before and I even have a logo!  But you know I fell at the first hurdle maybe because of my own problems with the flipping disease.

That was then.  I've never felt so driven.  Thank you Ruby. I'm thinking yoga therapy through the national health service.  I'm thinking working with schools.  I'm thinking working with young people.

It's going to take a while, but I'll get there.  Always do.  You better believe it. 

London Calling

221 2704 - this was my telephone number growing up.  No area code, well not unless you were calling from outside London when you were required to dial 01 in advance.  I remember the ad campaign's strapline was "don't forget the 1".   That was bad enough but then they introduced  the 07/08 area codes and with it came a certain smugness if you happen to fall within the 07 catchment area since this was considered central London whereas 08 was for the provincial backwaters of zone 3 and beyond (for the long suffering Canuck readers of this drivel, I advise you look at the London Underground map for the meaning of zone 3).

And if all that malarkey wasn't enough to twist your melon, the authorities decided to mount a scaremongering campaign warning Londoners that unless more numbers were added to landlines, well, we'd simply run out of lines.  And like the playground bully that was British Telecom at the time - in glorious monopoly, in came the 0207 and 0208 codes.  Of course since then they've also added the 0203 to this mish mash of numbers (the latter popular with businesses in central London).  Of course by then no-one really had landlines anymore.  Oh the irony. 

You're probably thinking what this is all about?  Frankly, I'm not sure.  I just happen to have the day off and am currently doing what I enjoy most in life - daydream - and I found myself thinking about my old telephone number and about 10 others that I still know off by heart, though I haven't dialled them in 19 years.  And then I got to thinking about how I don't know anyone's number off by heart any more and whether this is a reflection of the state of society or whether it's just a sign of progress but most of all I wondered what would happen if I dialled that number, my old number today.  Would my mum pick up?  Wouldn't that be lovely.  Yes, I'd like to think my mum would pick up and say "Ay mi chicha!" (rough translation - Oh my little sausage).  Of course I know it would never happen - she died in 1993 - but for today, let me have this one concession, let me have this one indulgence.

I have a few hours to kill before I indulge my other passion - picking The Lish up from school and all I really want to do is to check out the biography section of the local library.  I guess that is what working fulltime does (to me at least) reminds me of life's simple pleasures.  Is that boring? 

Ok so maybe it is.  But this isn't.  On my other day off I went to the crown court in Snaresbrook (Zone 4 - definitely not an 0207 area code) where one of my Wum (working mum) chums works as a barrister.  She's currently  prosecuting an attempted murder trial...how's that for boring?  I can tell you I've NEVER been so overwhelmed by the venerability (this is a word - I checked.  It's a noun.  So shut up) of it all and to see my friend donning a barristers wig, was almost too much. I actually went to the toilet so I could squeal with excitement.  Then the judge spoke.  I would have admitted guilt there and then, except I've done nothing wrong - but that is the effect this austere man's voice had on me.  I was less than 2 metres from a person who held the future of the defendant's life in his hands and I was less than a metre from the witness box. 

I noticed the defendant looking over at the public gallery where I was sitting and my blood froze.  What if he thinks I'm there to gloat?  What if his family and friends decide to teach me a lesson later?  I tried to look all studious - my cover would be that I was merely a lowly law student - nothing more.  Yes, that would be my ruse, just as soon as I've managed to pick my chin up off the floor.  Formidable.  No other way to describe this or my barrister friend.  

But let's not get carried away here this is still a girl who couldn't handle her drink the other night.  In that department, I rule. 

And that's why she's the barrister and I'm not.