Keeping up with the Jones!

Another glorious Sunday - and tomorrow is still a day off. I really, really wish I could win the lottery. I would absolutely quit my job and do nothing for at least 6 months!

Today, my thigh muscles hurt when I try to bend my knees. The good news means I still have muscles under the tree stumps that seem to have grown overnight on top of my knees. For the last few days I’ve been adding a power plate routine to my rather inadequate workout. In addition to using the rowing machine, swimming half a mile a day, I’ve doubled up walking old spotty doggie a couple miles a day.

I’m hopeful that there will be some sign of improvement in the upcoming weeks. So far, everything fits the same. Admittedly, the objective is to become healthy again, rather than a potential heart-attack in the making! I just haven’t fully embraced the exercise groove yet.

Honestly, if there wasn’t so much wonderfully diverse and interesting food in the world, I’d have retained my svelte figure and wouldn’t have to go to the gym! For example, last night I baked potatoes for the first time since January. It has to be said they had the perfect texture! I ate one with smoked salmon bits smashed into mascarpone, topped with cracked pepper and fresh dill - so simple, yet wonderfully carbohydrate. That little indulgence will cost me at least an additional hour on the rowing machine!

Earlier in the week, while sitting at the spa waiting for my toe nails to dry, I read that combining Bach's Flower Remedies - Cherry, Chestnut and Crab-apple - taking 2 drops of each, 4 times a day - is supposed to help quell emotional eating. I'm considering driving to Boots to buy some to see if it works!

So far I’m doing well on the ‘no coffee’ initiative. I’ve only had two coffees in the last ten days. Okay, so they were two-shot lattes, but they were skinny lattes at least! For me this is a major effort – I normally consume at least two cafetieres of espresso bean coffee a day! With a little luck, I might actually kick the coffee habit at last. So far, I haven’t quite made it over the hump of the morning sluggishness.

It still takes me a long time to feel alert – usually all day, then I perk up just before going to bed – tossing for a few insomniac hours, reading articles in the New Scientist to keep the grey matter moving, until lapsing into Good Housekeeping only to become nauseated reading about yet another 40-year old woman who just sold her organic lip balm company for £22 million pounds. Shortly afterwards, I nod off into a fitful night of dreams. For example, last night I dreamt the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were hiding in disguise– they were wearing burkas! I think my brain has been over stimulated by the constant barrage of media coverage of the Royal wedding. I can only imagine how the happy couple feel – under siege! Mind you, it was a fabulous, inspiring day. I lapped it up, right down to the grumpy bridesmaid.

Today’s big adventure consists of tackling my son’s room. This whole week I’ve been gung-ho on the ‘let’s get rid of everything that no one wears’ binge. I'm determined to clear the last remnants of this landfill we call home – right now, they happen to be the kids' rooms.

Last week I donated three bin bags of old clothes to the charity clothing box. It was difficult as my daughter kept scrutinizing everything before putting it into the dumpster. Apparently she’s not the only one that has difficulty making decisions!

On the way home, we stopped to buy a new lawn mower. It took me 20 minutes to decide between an electric model and a petrol one, then, another 10 minutes to work out which model to get – the kind for the very small postage stamp, or for the moderately sized postage stamp. Bearing in mind I had the dreaded rock-filled verge to contend with, I opted for the petrol one as it looked more robust than the orange plastic model. While standing there reading the specifications on each box, I turned to my daughter and said, ‘Be sure to marry an ugly doctor!’ She laughed, and said, ‘You mean a rich doctor.’

Despite the deliberations, and brief lapse into the bitter, cynical, single mother role, I did manage to cut the grass, plant various herb boxes, hanging baskets and flower pots and even the odd tomato plant. For a few minutes, even I was impressed with the handiwork of my rudimentary gardening skills. It was oddly satisfying until an hour later a lorry pulled up next door delivering various garden-like materials to the neighbour’s house – railway timbers, some thatch, lots of lumber, paving stones. The rest of the afternoon’s sunshine was accompanied by the sounds of buzz saws, drills, sledgehammers and hammering.

In the morning, when I peeked out the window, I was stunned when I saw a quaint thatched pergola peeping over the edge of the far-side fence. Beneath the little folly, there was a hot tub nesting modestly amidst some interesting crazy paving. Suddenly I felt inadequate all over again. It’s just not worth keeping up with the Jones.

Paris - Day One: Bon soir ou bon chance?

Who knew getting to Paris from London could take all day without driving!

After a hellish three hour, steering-wheel gripping journey to the airport this morning, I managed to miss my flight (along with all the rest of the people stuck on the M25 this morning). Lovely, gracious Air France booked me on a later flight which arrived late afternoon at Charles de Gaul. As our plane was pulling into the gate, the pilot announced to his surprise that there was a strike action taking place and no one was around to guide the plane to the gate. Some time later, someone was scrambled to help. But then, before disembarking, he also announced any checked luggage was not able to be unloaded yet either.

Having retrieved the one bag Air France insisted I check, I waited another forty-five minutes for the Air France coach (bus) to take me into Paris. An hour and a half later, I have at last arrived in the city, just as it was getting dark. As we drove nearer to Charles de Gaul Etoile, I could see the top half of the iconic Eiffel Tower, brilliantly illuminated, framed by a dark periwinkle or lavender blue sky. I have to say so far that spectacle was definitely the highlight of the day.

When I jumped off the coach and crossed the street to the taxi rank, I spied the hotel I almost stayed at, the one I love - Hotel Splendide Etoile. It is a tiny little hotel with very few rooms, centrally located, and quite conveniently situated near the Arc de Triomphe, boasting a permanent view of the Eiffel Tower (the top of it anyway) - hmmmpph.

Jumping in a taxi, I found my way to the little bare essential hotel I am now occupying. Even though my little room is a far cry from Mr. and Mrs Smith's standards, it is clean, bright and offers all that I need in Paris – a secure place to leave my things when I’m at work or exploring; and, a giant bed with crisp white, starched linen - heaven.

After taking a few minutes to decompress and stretch my toes out, I studied the various handouts and maps that were provided as joining instructions for the meetings I am attending this week. Forty-five minutes later I have worked out that I am miles from the office, which is north of the city, outside of Paris. Tomorrow will be an early start - meeting begins at 8:30 am and I am a metro, then a train ride, then a walk away from where I need to be! It will take me about 45 minutes to an hour to get to the office. I might need more time than two hours to get to the airport when I leave. I will contemplate this new conundrum when I am out in a cafe sipping a glass of bubbly.

It has been more than 10 years since I've been to Paris. It seems enormous, even more enormous than I ever remembered. Wish I knew more about the cool places here. Paris is not a city I've spent any time in, despite its luxury, culture, style, quirkiness.

At first glance, Paris is a city with two temperments - one is sexy and classic, a timeless piece, something like Chanel. I love the buildings in the posh bits but loathe the ugly, grubbiness of the run-down bits. And that is the other side of Paris’ personality – the seedy, broken-down, crumbling carcass of the city, something like a dead animal that's been left on the side of the road. Was that the kind of squalor that all the artists for centuries have come to live in to paint their masterpieces?

Mental note: must learn to speak French in spite of the six years of lessons. Also, must purchase, use and annotate a very good map of Paris, completely blacking out all the yucky, ugly and broken bits.

I do like it though, even if I think I'd like it more being a stone lighter - and of course much more graceful walking around in high-heeled boots with a really smart bag. I can tell I can’t afford to live here, ever.

No matter. It is still sad that I'm only here for work and will be leaving before even getting a chance to roam about on my own and visit the museums. I am sensing the need to have a short holiday break in May or early June.

I am now going to venture out and sharpen my non-existent French skills in a quintessentially Parisian café – something quirky, with Lebanese food I hope! Tonight, after the events leading up to this moment, I just need some time to immerse myself in the buzz and click of this double-act city.

Oh, it is eight degrees Celsius, and not a raindrop in sight. I have at last left behind the sheets of rain which so impeded my early morning start. Tonight it is absolutely walking around town weather.

Au revoir!

P.S. So far everyone here is extremely tolerant and polite to me considering I am speaking French oh so very badly.

xx

Pencil sharpeners

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Looking back at 2010, based on the lack of entries, you might have guessed I've experienced some not so radical, but perhaps life-changing events. I'm still processing, so 2011 so far is a bit like a crap shoot. That said, I have set a plan in motion, ticked off a list of goals, you know, the usual suspects.

Amongst the action items, keeping a blog up-to-date, at least with more than one entry a year, is a good start. That is the explanation for yesterday's self-involved post - it was designed as a profile for a professor for a couple of course I've just started. I've been sharpening my pencil, practicing for these new courses in Theology and Creative Non-Fiction.

Imagine what could happen when you combine Theology and Creative Non-Fiction? The possibilities seem endless.

Don’t you love the phrase 'creative non-fiction?'

Please return to your seat. The lavatory is presently occupied.

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I used to think I was a natural romantic, star-gazing, sort of person. Colleagues described me as passionate, youthful and energetic, oh, and maybe a wee bit competitive too (cards, Scrabble, extreme croquet...). I still adore walking in the woods and swimming in the sea. I love films but always cry during soppy scenes. And no, I am not averse to laughing out loud in public places, though I often get reproaching looks from boot-clad, skinny-jean thin mothers pushing SUV-like prams through jam-packed cafes.

Basically, I’m just a smart-arsed country-girl who loves Florence, Venice and London. I cannot imagine a life without Maria Callas, Elgar, Neil Young, The Weepies or, the crunch of leaves beneath large-limbed trees. I’m just as comfortable hanging out in galleries and historic houses as I am lobbing snowballs at ancient elm or oak trees. I am, however, still searching for the perfect wardrobe that can adequately house the last 15 years of jeans, Wellington boots, smart Chanel suits, maxi sundresses, flip-flops, as well the infinite number of vintage evening dresses and strappy shoes. So please do message me if you have a recommendation.

For creative inspiration I look to nature, reading famous speeches, exploring old places in new ways, the occasional shot of rum or tequila, but mainly a proper glass of Crozes Hermitage. I’ve lived and worked in many countries and so come dangerously equipped with an array of experiences and perspective. I value open-mindedness and diversity and remain hopeful that one day my feverish email and letter writing will render me immortal in a positive way.

Sadly, I devote too much time to earning a living and therefore have to rein things in on a regular basis in order to ensure work fits around life, rather than allowing work to define life. Hectic and eclectic habits are staples, and so guilty am I of reading too many books at once.

For all these reasons art and music are must haves for stimulation and respite, indeed, they are the warm springs that feed my soul. The radio is a constant companion; Radio 4, the BBC World Service and Classic FM are good friends, taking a back seat only to the wonderful collection of loyal and loving comrades (friends, relations and dogs) who over the years have endured my ever-curious and nomadic way of trespassing through life’s peaks and valleys.

Whether in spirit or in person, my lifelong companions have remained true blue as I’ve transformed myself into the person I am while roaming around the earth, tracking elephants in rain forests, having the blood sucked from my limbs by leeches (real and metaphorical). Hand in hand, we have walked together through cloud-engulfed villages, plunged courageously into the odd dark hole of despair or disgust. Volition aside, there were even several strong swimmers who joined me on a quest to traverse the cold and grey waters of the English Channel, though I’m sure at least some of them would have preferred sipping espressos or Pernod in busy city cafes, or onboard smoother sailing boats. In spite of our successful crossing, I could not ask for a finer set of friends to have tossing around the caverns of my heart, patiently enduring the bruising.

With four continents under my belt, I’ve found great pleasure in sleeping in spectacular 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th and 18th century houses and apartments. I still love sleeping under the stars, in the odd tree house, car and tent too. There was also that time when the wicked twin named Skipper might have spent a night sleeping beneath the course wool blanket. Although the details are fuzzy, it was definitely a wrong place, wrong time incident with no further consequences. For now and the foreseeable future, I’ve traded stumbling into pubs, clubs and parties for conference rooms and indiscrete and uncomfortably embarrassing moments.

All in all, I feel I’ve had a good crack at the scrapes and lucky escapes wheel. It is true: I have nearly wrecked a Lear jet; I was threatened by a wild-eyed, knife-wielding drug-addict while campaigning for "I can’t remember what" causes. There was that incident when I counted my blessings while smoothly "out-walking" (very, very quickly) a pair of rather menacing, automatic weapon-toting, cigarette-smoking undesirables. Please note, said events were no fault of my own.

Despite all of these memorable, riveting experiences, I’m always happiest when returning home to my Ithaca, the place where I will always be greeted by a pot of hot tea brewing and someone who has a side-splitting or hackle-raising tale to tell.


Post script: Lately, besides work and writing courses, I’ve been exploring my interest in stained glass, so truthfully, if today I won the lottery, I’d retire (after making several generous donations to a set list of charities that sits on my desk at the ready) to some artistic compound tucked into a wooded glen, where I’d ensconce myself contentedly creating or restoring stained glass, writing cryptic poetry and unabashedly embellished personal essays or possibly the odd memoir, occasionally escaping to both Italy for inspiration and the Jurassic coast for a cold swim. Indeed, spontaneous journeys will always be a mainstay because as green as I think I am, there is no denying how much I love the smell of jet-fuel.

New beginnings

Easter Sunday - calm and serenity

We had a calm, family only kind of Easter Sunday - I layed out a three tier cake plate of assorted Lindt chocolates, and prepared the ‘kids’ hot chocolate in a lovely Wedgewood coffee pot picked up for a couple of pounds a few years ago. I arranged a dozen hard boiled duck eggs (because they are white) for dying with natural dyes - tea, beet root juice, Jamaican tea, blueberry, etc. All the arrangements were left on the dining room table accompanied by little bird ornaments so the ‘kids’ could colour and paint them when they woke up. When they at last emerged from their beds at 11 am, they feasted on chocolates and hot cocoa, while I stuffed myself with Marks & Spencer’s Luxury Hot Cross buns and coffee.

Later I took Sirius out for a very long walk in the Easter sunshine (Sirius’ big Easter egg!). The walk was a far cry from the previous three days of trudging through faucet-like rain! We walked along a pine ridge at the edge of a famous wood, through a wood choking with overgrown Rhododendron, into sodden but green fields. All along the forest there are logs piled high in the National Trust’s attempt to manage growth. They are also culling the Rhododendron in places as it grows like mint, and I suppose starves the forest floor of sun and nutrients. As I walked along I passed by stacks of cut logs in various stages of seasoning. The air smells of cut wood, the spiciness of rotting leaves and rain. The sky, which was at last quite blue for the first time in days, was packed full of gliding turkey vultures and hawks. It was windy but dry, so Sirius had a great adventure. Later in the day, we ventured out again, taking the older dog, Scooby, out for a shorter jaunt along the same dirt road. Little Scooby gets so breathless, but he wants to keep up anyway. He can't handle the long walks any more so I double up the daily outings, offering him the ‘light’ version after Sirius expends some of his energy during a solo trek that's about twice as long.

On Sunday afternoon we watched all five hours of the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice (with Colin Firth, sign), followed later by the movie, The Young Victoria. After the marathon of period drama, my son insisted we watch something modern, choosing the Charlie's Angel's movie! God bless boys, eh? That's when I made the move to the kitchen to organise dinner which consisted of chicken breasts sautéed in herbs, butter, garlic, with a splash of Vermouth and Pernod (I didn't have any tarragon). I served the perfectly browned breasts with steamed French beans and whole grain brown rice accompanied by sweet gravy made from the chicken drippings, a cup of Riesling wine and crème fraiche.

I know we should have had lamb, but the fields around here are so full of the little nippers. Frequently when driving home, I stop the car to watch them play in one of the nearby fields. All the lambs and ewes are numbered so the farmer knows which lamb is from which ewe. As a result, as the babies play in groups you can easily identify them individually, witness first hand how social they are-- which ones are bolder, which ones are friends, how the alliances grow and contract with each new adventure. Over the course of the last couple of weeks with each individual lamb clearly marked in big spray painted numbers, you can see, for example, that lambs numbered 115, 56, 43 and 27 are a gang, and there are several gangs within each field. I've seen them grow up like children in a village or neighbourhood, darting about with their mates, exploring the ducks feeding in the flooded part of their fields, jumping in the air with their little half twists, running back to make contact with the flanks of their mothers, then racing back into little groups to pile on top of each other in a king of the hill sort of way. Sometimes you can see them sprawled out across their mums, or curled into each other, huddled against the wind. They're so social -it's quite amazing to watch. As a result, I just cannot seem to bring myself to eat them anymore! I do love lamb, but somehow knowing that they have this whole lovely, innocent childhood, chock full of experiences, loyalties and adventures, makes me feel like I shouldn't eat lamb anymore.

Easter Monday - the awakening

At some point early this morning around 3am, I woke up to a bright moon spilling through the open curtain. There was a smoky layer of cloud speeding past the illuminated semi-circle. As my eyes adjusted to the fluctuating light, it almost seemed like the moon and shadowy clouds had seeped through the glass and were drifting into the room. I lay awake watching this spectacle of night until sleep pulled me back again. The next time I opened my eyes I could hear the birds singing, and sadly, the magical early morning sky with its layers of smoky cloud had vanished into the flatness of a dull, white, overcast morning. I took solace in the memory of the beautiful night sky, so different from what I was now being offered. Despite the dullness of the morning, I dragged myself from beneath the covers and headed for the kitchen to put away last night's dishes and drink coffee in an attempt to conjure up enough initiative to venture out with the dog.

A few hours later, after having consumed several cups of java, sliced up the half side of salmon, now ready to cook for lunch, you find me here writing this post – a cleaned up, rehash of an earlier email jotted off and quickly sent to my brother who, like or unlike you, suffers in silence as he puts up with early drafts of meandering correspondence littered with more typos than hot cross buns have sultanas.

Oh, and yes, of course I managed to generate enough energy to run through a few miles of woods with the dog. Admittedly, it was intended to be an invigorating walk through the forest, however, mid-walk I spotted a pack of ten or twelve dogs further up the road. Fortunately for us the pack was nearly a quarter of a mile away, while Sirius was singularly focused on the remnants of a musty badger trail. Rather than facing possible carnage, I made the decision to hastily forge a new path in another direction, quickly putting much needed distance between us. Seriously, who walks ten or twelve dogs in the woods without leads on Easter Monday? I can barely manage two dogs at a time!

Poor Sirius: He’s lying prostrate on the sheepskin rug – no blogging for him today.

This year's Winter arrived with much splendour

Yesterday marked the last hurrah for Autumn. Our old friend Winter arrived this morning. Did you notice while zipping passed berry-laden hedges on the way to schools and work and shops? What a craftsman. If only such magic could be poured into pencil and paper, or paint and canvas.

Through Time’s rear-view mirror, I watched as Autumn grew fainter in the distance, sadly waving goodbye to the few remaining oak leaves— always the last to leave the stage. On the horizon I admired two swans gliding gracefully above the solitary heron patiently fishing for breakfast on his flooded plain.

The hush of the newly whitened winter garden was disturbed only by the chooking of bemused rooks poking their way through fields shared by dairy cows whose hides glistened in the early morning frost. It was Old Jack that egged the bovine soldiers on, whispering raspy puns in an icy voice, his white breath leading them wearily along a mud-encrusted towpath— hearts pumping.

As I witnessed the drama, I felt transported to another place, thought I heard our good man Frost chuckle in time to the laboured huff and puff belonging to an imagined pair of bell-strewn warm-bloods. I could almost see their dark chocolate heads bobbing through the knee-high frozen grasses, manes flapping; felt myself jostling from side to side as I followed in a gold-trimmed sledge piled high with blankets and laughing children.

Clapping gloved hands together to warm chilled fingers, I applauded as Winter emerged centre stage. Tightening my scarf and jacket, I sighed just a little while admiring the fine uncluttered views of silver trees lit up amidst a sky awash with neon contrails.

Farewell Autumn, your performance was exquisite. Bravo Winter, today you have at last awakened.

Time, technology and taxes

Yesterday was the kind of day that when it ended I was extremely grateful.

You'd think with several laptops and a computer hanging around the place that printing would be an assumed activity. Think again.

Hewlett Packard printers... well, I can honestly say I have always owned one. But, after yesterday, I departed from the brand, perhaps forever.

After numerous attempts to download drivers (why does a printer need 350MB of space?) on two laptops, I was unsuccessful in making the machine work. I then copied the document onto a memory stick, and tried to print on someone else's machine and printer (also HP). Unsuccessful.

In frustration, I braved rain and wind to drive to the local technology-television-digital radio-iron-mobile phone-hoover selling store.

When the sales agent came to ask me if he could help, I looked at him with a desperate eye. Pulling the memory stick out from my jeans' pocket, I waved it at him and said: "I need to print a letter to the tax office, or I'm in danger of tax evasion." He must have thought he had won the lottery.

That was it. I had all the documents for the tax man ready. All I needed to do was print a document - a letter of explanation, one that itemized my request, explained the errors, included the appropriate identification information, was suitably contrite, and, most importantly, would display an original signature on the bottom of the letter.

Yes, yes, yes, I suppose I could have hand written it- and, in fact, several attempts had been made, by me, as well as someone else to carefully recreate the letter by hand. After repeated mistakes (dictation is just not what it used to be), the printing option became the only option.

The lucky sales man led me to the Hewlett Packard models. I said, "I'd much rather try something different this time." So, £110 pounds later, I am the owner of printer cartridges, a 3 year warranty, and an Epson printer/scanner/photocopier. Why does no printer come with the cable? And why do printer cartridges cost almost as much as the printer? Rhetorical questions, but I needed to ask them if only just to vent!

The drive home was quicker than the set up. After an hour of fiddling about with plastic bits, cartridges and software, I ran out of time before having to pick up daughter at station- so anti-climatic.

Another forty-five minutes later, with daughter and a take-away in hand, I arrived back at my desk, ready to try once more to cross the finish line of the printing expedition. Software loaded - check. Cables connected - check. Now where to load the paper in this new model? Paper finally loaded - check. Locate document. Locate printer. Print.

I never thought the click and swoosh of a printer could be so satisfying. It was a bottle of water on a hot beach. An RAC man in the rain. Heaven.

And so here on the desk my letter sits, printed on cream paper, both pages signed, all ready to be posted to the expectant tax man.

Now off to the post office.