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.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Thursday, 19 November 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
What happened after eight on Halloween
The other day, when my very checked-in daughter realized how low I was feeling about my imperfect work-life-balance, she reminded me about the time I had sent her a piñata at school. She recalled that it was the ‘coolest’ present anyone in the house had ever received. She and her friends didn't even want to break it open, as it would spoil it. Instead they found the hole I had used to stuff the papier-mâché gourde, emptying it one treat at a time. That Halloween in Oz, they sat around the house telling each other ghost stories while eating the goodies, preserving the pumpkin for the next year– so they could start a new tradition. I was apparently the best Mum.
Listening to the story made me feel a little more domestically aware, less like someone who had just stumbled into her kids' lives with a to-do list as long as her arm and a calendar that was at least a week out of date, most of the time. I started to feel a bit better about the last two weeks of runaway train-wreck work days, until Saturday night when there was a wee knock at the door.
Thinking it was the neighbour arriving earlier than expected, I opened the door, looking out for someone at least my height, but was surprised to find no one there. My eyes were drawn down to the flickering beam of a torch that was slicing its way through the blackness like a lightsaber in a bouncy castle. The source of this unexpected, one-eyed headlight was being pursued by a shivering tiger, or bear, or mouse, or something brown looking anyway.
"Trick or Treat."
The words fell onto the mat in front of me: they were uttered in some strange accent that sounded very unlike an English mouse. Those words were accompanied by three pairs of eyes, all staring up at me hopefully. I was thinking, as I bent over to peer into the gaping mouths of the nearly empty, orange plastic bags being shaken in front of me, "Oh my stars."
What about Guy Fawkes Night? Who were these people? I hadn't really considered Halloween here. I knew there was a primary school in this village, but, most of the people I’d interacted with were what I classified as the Village Elders. Alas, there were children here. They were here in front of me dressed as some unknown species, waiting to be disappointed.
In a panic, my brain tripped forward to the next thought; did I have anything in the house that I could remotely pass off as a Halloween treat? The pressure was mounting. I found my way into the kitchen where I frantically attempted to find something, anything that might resemble a sweetie- a wrapped piece of gum, a chocolate, a dog bone. I was running out of time, anything would do. No doubt, the mother of three children in a very small village might not appreciate me handing out olives, peppered crackers, a can of anchovies, a pack of cigarettes or a nip bottle of Smirnoff leftover from some plane trip- unless she had a bag too.
About that time, my son called out something from the sitting room. He was busy, holding down the dog, while trying to watch the Simpsons. He was obviously not in touch with the feeling of failure that was quickly washing over me. It crystallized the moment I understood what he said: "Give them a tomato, or an orange, or something."
Great advice, I just couldn't see them ripping open their oranges in a few hours. I turned and desperately muttered a prayer to the kitchen goddess of hope. I opened the cupboard door, nothing. Feeling very Mother Hubbard like, I pulled open a deep drawer. It was heaving with useless debris - a hammer, a screwdriver, about seven miles worth of string, some matches, a couple of stray tea-light candles, a post-it-note pad. There had to be something in there. I swirled my hand deeper into the mess, and like a lucky dip score, managed to pull out several Twix bars leftover from some forgotten time. Who cared how long they'd been there. These kids would throw the booty into the bag. You couldn't die from old chocolate, right?
So I dragged out a handful of the fossilized bars, adding sweetly, "Take as many as you like." One child, whose face was not obscured by a plastic mask, looked at me wide-eyed and exclaimed "Really?" I was suddenly elevated to hero status. Excellent, I was home free.
I attempted to close the door. But like a slow motion mother's nightmare, I looked up the path to see one, two, three speckled light trails. Bollocks, that couldn't be more of them. But it was more of them. Looking pathetically at my then empty hands, I returned to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, pushed past the rice, the pasta until my fingers found a box. I pulled it out, hoping it wasn't just tea bags. It was an ancient box of dinner mints - After Eights. Yippee. I went to the door, hoping the new lot of ferrets and rats didn't dislike this kind of chocolate as much as I did.
March on Guy Fawkes!
Listening to the story made me feel a little more domestically aware, less like someone who had just stumbled into her kids' lives with a to-do list as long as her arm and a calendar that was at least a week out of date, most of the time. I started to feel a bit better about the last two weeks of runaway train-wreck work days, until Saturday night when there was a wee knock at the door.
Thinking it was the neighbour arriving earlier than expected, I opened the door, looking out for someone at least my height, but was surprised to find no one there. My eyes were drawn down to the flickering beam of a torch that was slicing its way through the blackness like a lightsaber in a bouncy castle. The source of this unexpected, one-eyed headlight was being pursued by a shivering tiger, or bear, or mouse, or something brown looking anyway.
"Trick or Treat."
The words fell onto the mat in front of me: they were uttered in some strange accent that sounded very unlike an English mouse. Those words were accompanied by three pairs of eyes, all staring up at me hopefully. I was thinking, as I bent over to peer into the gaping mouths of the nearly empty, orange plastic bags being shaken in front of me, "Oh my stars."
What about Guy Fawkes Night? Who were these people? I hadn't really considered Halloween here. I knew there was a primary school in this village, but, most of the people I’d interacted with were what I classified as the Village Elders. Alas, there were children here. They were here in front of me dressed as some unknown species, waiting to be disappointed.
In a panic, my brain tripped forward to the next thought; did I have anything in the house that I could remotely pass off as a Halloween treat? The pressure was mounting. I found my way into the kitchen where I frantically attempted to find something, anything that might resemble a sweetie- a wrapped piece of gum, a chocolate, a dog bone. I was running out of time, anything would do. No doubt, the mother of three children in a very small village might not appreciate me handing out olives, peppered crackers, a can of anchovies, a pack of cigarettes or a nip bottle of Smirnoff leftover from some plane trip- unless she had a bag too.
About that time, my son called out something from the sitting room. He was busy, holding down the dog, while trying to watch the Simpsons. He was obviously not in touch with the feeling of failure that was quickly washing over me. It crystallized the moment I understood what he said: "Give them a tomato, or an orange, or something."
Great advice, I just couldn't see them ripping open their oranges in a few hours. I turned and desperately muttered a prayer to the kitchen goddess of hope. I opened the cupboard door, nothing. Feeling very Mother Hubbard like, I pulled open a deep drawer. It was heaving with useless debris - a hammer, a screwdriver, about seven miles worth of string, some matches, a couple of stray tea-light candles, a post-it-note pad. There had to be something in there. I swirled my hand deeper into the mess, and like a lucky dip score, managed to pull out several Twix bars leftover from some forgotten time. Who cared how long they'd been there. These kids would throw the booty into the bag. You couldn't die from old chocolate, right?
So I dragged out a handful of the fossilized bars, adding sweetly, "Take as many as you like." One child, whose face was not obscured by a plastic mask, looked at me wide-eyed and exclaimed "Really?" I was suddenly elevated to hero status. Excellent, I was home free.
I attempted to close the door. But like a slow motion mother's nightmare, I looked up the path to see one, two, three speckled light trails. Bollocks, that couldn't be more of them. But it was more of them. Looking pathetically at my then empty hands, I returned to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, pushed past the rice, the pasta until my fingers found a box. I pulled it out, hoping it wasn't just tea bags. It was an ancient box of dinner mints - After Eights. Yippee. I went to the door, hoping the new lot of ferrets and rats didn't dislike this kind of chocolate as much as I did.
March on Guy Fawkes!
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Your vehicle IS the new black
What is the most mobile status symbol on earth?
An automobile, like a watch or a pair of shoes, is a highly mobile status symbol that can be transported from place to place. Indeed, a car has to be the world’s fastest way of sending a message to the world. “I am… bigger, better, shinier, faster, louder, smarter, cleverer, and more instantly recognisable.”
Granted, some people probably have purchased their vehicle because the automobile of their liking represented the right means of getting from point A to point B. But, more often than not people select the cars they drive as a signal to the world. Cars are often used as a means of expressing (or compensating for) the feelings they have about themselves.
Branding and self-image
As consumers, we associate symbolic qualities or ‘human-like’ characteristics to particular brands. According to market research, there are several dimensions to the characteristics we attribute to a brand or product. These include things like: sincerity, excitement, competence, sophistication and ruggedness. (Aaker 1997)
It is clear that the automobile industry understands and caters to its customers' beliefs and attitudes about gender and image. A brand image is the joining of perceptions, attributes and benefits of a product or brand.
So when it comes to cars and personality, what does it all boil down to? Who is really in the driver’s seat making the decision about what car to own, and for what reasons? Does a person really resemble their car? Is it possible that an individual’s very essence can be understood simply by recognising the type of car they drive?
To be a car, or not to be a car, that is the question, as well as the answer.
The answer to the why question for men and woman is fundamentally rooted in genetics and evolution. At the heart of it, a woman is about nesting and practicality. Taking care of the family is a priority and responsibility. Would it surprise you to know that the majority of Peugeot drivers are women?
As far as men go, often they are impressed not so much by reliability and practically, as they are size. For men, size does matter, they think in numbers – as in rates of acceleration and engine size. Are they perpetually on the move, escaping from something or someone, quickly?
An open road with an infinite number of possibilities
There is no limit to the number of factors that influence a consumer’s decision-making process when making choices. Some brands, like Audi, for example, don’t lead with marketing messages about reliability.
With Audi, it’s all about comfort, style, simplicity, innovation. The image that is conveyed in terms of brand awareness is associated with a certain sophisticated, luxurious lifestyle. The expectation is that you will have comfort and sophistication, even when driving on a bed of nails.
A 4x4 on the other hand, tickles another set of desires – the out of bounds, new frontier, paving the way personality. As we’ve seen in recent years, a raft of luxury automobile manufacturers have now entered the SUV market, having developed 4x4 product lines – Lexus, BMW, and Porsche, for example. The 4x4 is no longer the only child of Cheverolet or Land Rover.
Let’s look at Volkswagen – the people’s car. It captures a great spectrum of driving personalities. VW is a brand that travels with us over a lifetime. Starting with the quirky retro VW Bug (my first car!), the reinvigorated VW camper van / surfer’s van, right through to VW Golf and GTI (got my first raise!), includes flavours of Cabriolet (the extrovert’s car), the VW Polo (for the aspiring who need to think more economically), the people carrier – Sharan, and, of course, the trusty VW Passat. What a journey.
For me, the Volkswagen path was a personal journey. Okay, there were some detours on roads through much loved BMW 5 series country– until they changed the shape of the car. Now, mid-forties, I’m happy with my charcoal grey Passat. In a year or two, I’ll probably trade it in for a sportier Golf or even splash out on a Cabriolet. What’s that say about me?
Honestly? If people really paid more attention to their motives when making choices about cars, they’d probably skip years of psycho-therapy and land instead with a solid understanding of their own strengths or shortcomings, and maybe enough money to upgrade their engine size. That way, they could gain another five seconds on their quest (or escape) to achieve 0 – 60 much faster than their neighbour.
But, if we admitted any of this out loud, would Top Gear really be so much fun? Long live The Stig!
Links:
Audi
BMW
Cheverolet
Land Rover
Lexus
Peugeot
Porsche
Volkswagen
Web sites:
Top Gear
Blogs:
Top Gear
Twitter:
Top Gear Blogs on Twitter
An automobile, like a watch or a pair of shoes, is a highly mobile status symbol that can be transported from place to place. Indeed, a car has to be the world’s fastest way of sending a message to the world. “I am… bigger, better, shinier, faster, louder, smarter, cleverer, and more instantly recognisable.”
Granted, some people probably have purchased their vehicle because the automobile of their liking represented the right means of getting from point A to point B. But, more often than not people select the cars they drive as a signal to the world. Cars are often used as a means of expressing (or compensating for) the feelings they have about themselves.
Branding and self-image
As consumers, we associate symbolic qualities or ‘human-like’ characteristics to particular brands. According to market research, there are several dimensions to the characteristics we attribute to a brand or product. These include things like: sincerity, excitement, competence, sophistication and ruggedness. (Aaker 1997)
It is clear that the automobile industry understands and caters to its customers' beliefs and attitudes about gender and image. A brand image is the joining of perceptions, attributes and benefits of a product or brand.
So when it comes to cars and personality, what does it all boil down to? Who is really in the driver’s seat making the decision about what car to own, and for what reasons? Does a person really resemble their car? Is it possible that an individual’s very essence can be understood simply by recognising the type of car they drive?
To be a car, or not to be a car, that is the question, as well as the answer.
The answer to the why question for men and woman is fundamentally rooted in genetics and evolution. At the heart of it, a woman is about nesting and practicality. Taking care of the family is a priority and responsibility. Would it surprise you to know that the majority of Peugeot drivers are women?
As far as men go, often they are impressed not so much by reliability and practically, as they are size. For men, size does matter, they think in numbers – as in rates of acceleration and engine size. Are they perpetually on the move, escaping from something or someone, quickly?
An open road with an infinite number of possibilities
There is no limit to the number of factors that influence a consumer’s decision-making process when making choices. Some brands, like Audi, for example, don’t lead with marketing messages about reliability.
With Audi, it’s all about comfort, style, simplicity, innovation. The image that is conveyed in terms of brand awareness is associated with a certain sophisticated, luxurious lifestyle. The expectation is that you will have comfort and sophistication, even when driving on a bed of nails.
A 4x4 on the other hand, tickles another set of desires – the out of bounds, new frontier, paving the way personality. As we’ve seen in recent years, a raft of luxury automobile manufacturers have now entered the SUV market, having developed 4x4 product lines – Lexus, BMW, and Porsche, for example. The 4x4 is no longer the only child of Cheverolet or Land Rover.
Let’s look at Volkswagen – the people’s car. It captures a great spectrum of driving personalities. VW is a brand that travels with us over a lifetime. Starting with the quirky retro VW Bug (my first car!), the reinvigorated VW camper van / surfer’s van, right through to VW Golf and GTI (got my first raise!), includes flavours of Cabriolet (the extrovert’s car), the VW Polo (for the aspiring who need to think more economically), the people carrier – Sharan, and, of course, the trusty VW Passat. What a journey.
For me, the Volkswagen path was a personal journey. Okay, there were some detours on roads through much loved BMW 5 series country– until they changed the shape of the car. Now, mid-forties, I’m happy with my charcoal grey Passat. In a year or two, I’ll probably trade it in for a sportier Golf or even splash out on a Cabriolet. What’s that say about me?
Honestly? If people really paid more attention to their motives when making choices about cars, they’d probably skip years of psycho-therapy and land instead with a solid understanding of their own strengths or shortcomings, and maybe enough money to upgrade their engine size. That way, they could gain another five seconds on their quest (or escape) to achieve 0 – 60 much faster than their neighbour.
But, if we admitted any of this out loud, would Top Gear really be so much fun? Long live The Stig!
Links:
Audi
BMW
Cheverolet
Land Rover
Lexus
Peugeot
Porsche
Volkswagen
Web sites:
Top Gear
Blogs:
Top Gear
Twitter:
Top Gear Blogs on Twitter
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
Love and turbulence
Love and turbulence
I’m standing in line on a plane waiting as passengers board. I sit down in my window seat. There is an empty seat in the middle and a man seated at the aisle.
Later into the flight, the drinks' trolley arrives. The man next to me orders two gin and tonics. He puts his earphones in. We sit in silence.
About two hours into the flight, the seat belt sign blinks and the captain speaks over the intercom requesting that everyone be seated.
A few rows behind me I hear a woman speaking to the airline steward in a panicky, high-pitched voice. Suddenly, the woman jumps up insisting she has to go to the toilet immediately.
Against the protestations of the airline steward, the woman pushes past and locks herself in the toilet. Shortly afterwards, as predicted, the plane experiences turbulence.
A few minutes later, I hear a crashing noise as the toilet door opens and smashes into the bulkhead wall.
Within seconds, I see a woman rolling down the aisle, head-over-heels, stockings trailing behind her. She comes to a sprawling halt just opposite where we are sitting.
The man next to me has his hand on his forehead; he is shaking his head slowly, shading his eyes, ignoring the shoeless woman laying there in the aisle with her dress around her waist and panties at her ankles.
Two airline stewards approach quickly to help hoist the woman to her feet. The now wild-haired woman stands upright, adjusts her clothing and places her hands on the row of seats on either side of the aisle.
As she steadies herself, she glares at the man next to me. Finally, he turns his head towards the woman. Their eyes meet. They each look furious. Suddenly I realise they are together.
After the woman is returned to her seat, I am too embarrassed to make eye contact with the man next to me. In an effort to ease my discomfort, he offers me a simple explanation:
Due to an unfortunate incident several years ago, my wife panics whenever we experience turbulence. For that reason we do not sit together on airplanes. It is the only thing I can do.
A true story.
I’m standing in line on a plane waiting as passengers board. I sit down in my window seat. There is an empty seat in the middle and a man seated at the aisle.
Later into the flight, the drinks' trolley arrives. The man next to me orders two gin and tonics. He puts his earphones in. We sit in silence.
About two hours into the flight, the seat belt sign blinks and the captain speaks over the intercom requesting that everyone be seated.
A few rows behind me I hear a woman speaking to the airline steward in a panicky, high-pitched voice. Suddenly, the woman jumps up insisting she has to go to the toilet immediately.
Against the protestations of the airline steward, the woman pushes past and locks herself in the toilet. Shortly afterwards, as predicted, the plane experiences turbulence.
A few minutes later, I hear a crashing noise as the toilet door opens and smashes into the bulkhead wall.
Within seconds, I see a woman rolling down the aisle, head-over-heels, stockings trailing behind her. She comes to a sprawling halt just opposite where we are sitting.
The man next to me has his hand on his forehead; he is shaking his head slowly, shading his eyes, ignoring the shoeless woman laying there in the aisle with her dress around her waist and panties at her ankles.
Two airline stewards approach quickly to help hoist the woman to her feet. The now wild-haired woman stands upright, adjusts her clothing and places her hands on the row of seats on either side of the aisle.
As she steadies herself, she glares at the man next to me. Finally, he turns his head towards the woman. Their eyes meet. They each look furious. Suddenly I realise they are together.
After the woman is returned to her seat, I am too embarrassed to make eye contact with the man next to me. In an effort to ease my discomfort, he offers me a simple explanation:
Due to an unfortunate incident several years ago, my wife panics whenever we experience turbulence. For that reason we do not sit together on airplanes. It is the only thing I can do.
A true story.
Friday, 21 August 2009
Laughter is the best antidote
Sometimes it really is OK to just laugh
I love laughing right out loud until my eyes water and my stomach hurts. I love it when I wake up in the morning and my cheeks still ache.
But sometimes I wonder if it’s OK to laugh.
Of course there is always a time and place for humour. There are times when you just want to be giddy and silly; and times that you turn on the seriousness. There are also those ambiguous moments when you've no control over whether you laugh, become conciliatory or mimic everyone else's behaviour.
Like after returning from holiday, having gotten used to baking in 40 degrees of sun, faced with the sudden onslaught of autumnal briskness. It is the first day back on the job. You join a conference call, still rolling inside from a week of sun, fun and rum. Everyone else is so sombre. But you're still bursting with jubilance.
The usual roll call is taken. The obligatory questions are asked, "How are you? How was the holiday?" It is times like that when you just can't resist responding with something along these lines: "Well, I’m wearing clothes for the first time in 10 days."
Of course, you don't at that point know there is a new member of the team on the call that morning, or a guest speaker - some executive, someone perhaps not so familiar with your style of professional etiquette. Well they get brought up to speed pretty quickly, don't they!
Then there are other times when you receive the pleading, bolster-me-up-I'm-drowning email from a frazzled mum (kindred spirit really). These beseeching emails often read something like this:
Or the time when another friend is recounting the long list of whack-a-mole like challenges from her week that sound like this:
That’s when you awaken from your stupor to hear yourself filling in the blanks with similar catastrophes.
Comparatively speaking, the lists are remarkably similar, usually including choice embarrassing items like these:
At some point during the roster, inevitably you fixate on something that you have to giggle at because it has happened to you before (or it is just so ridiculous, you cannot help it).
For example:
How can we not laugh at this kind of misery? Doesn't it somehow make us feel better about all the stupid things that happen to us daily?
Really, it is a wonder any of us have friends.
You just can’t take life, or each other, too seriously.
I love laughing right out loud until my eyes water and my stomach hurts. I love it when I wake up in the morning and my cheeks still ache.
But sometimes I wonder if it’s OK to laugh.
Of course there is always a time and place for humour. There are times when you just want to be giddy and silly; and times that you turn on the seriousness. There are also those ambiguous moments when you've no control over whether you laugh, become conciliatory or mimic everyone else's behaviour.
Like after returning from holiday, having gotten used to baking in 40 degrees of sun, faced with the sudden onslaught of autumnal briskness. It is the first day back on the job. You join a conference call, still rolling inside from a week of sun, fun and rum. Everyone else is so sombre. But you're still bursting with jubilance.
The usual roll call is taken. The obligatory questions are asked, "How are you? How was the holiday?" It is times like that when you just can't resist responding with something along these lines: "Well, I’m wearing clothes for the first time in 10 days."
Of course, you don't at that point know there is a new member of the team on the call that morning, or a guest speaker - some executive, someone perhaps not so familiar with your style of professional etiquette. Well they get brought up to speed pretty quickly, don't they!
Then there are other times when you receive the pleading, bolster-me-up-I'm-drowning email from a frazzled mum (kindred spirit really). These beseeching emails often read something like this:
I took my daughter to the dentist today. When I went to the toilet, dropped car keys down the loo! After washing them in the sink, they inevitably failed to open the car using the central locking control fob. When I used the key to manually unlock the car, the alarm went off and wouldn't stop. I tried to call boyfriend, but he wasn't available so I had to drive home with the alarm blaring and the hazard lights flashing. Fortunately, got hold of boyfriend just as I arrived home and he was able to talk me through deactivating the siren, so I won't have any neighbours banging at my door at least.
Or the time when another friend is recounting the long list of whack-a-mole like challenges from her week that sound like this:
- no privacy from kids, they’re driving me crazy
- exam results in… enough said
- dog sat on bee, got stung
- daughter announces on FB how much her day sucked (due to altercation with mother)
- boyfriends, or other friends, inundating house at all hours
- supplies of milk, sugar, tea, hot cocoa depleted – and no one says anything
- laundry piled so high downstairs loo is impassable
- where have all the tea cups gone?
- working from home, dogs barking at non-stop visiting kids’ friends, postman, community newsletter, religious prophets, and anyone else that stops by
- surprise mid-year review (due to misreading invitation while on different call)
- lack of sleep or interrupted sleep due to role as midnight doorman for kids’ who’ve misplaced keys
That’s when you awaken from your stupor to hear yourself filling in the blanks with similar catastrophes.
Comparatively speaking, the lists are remarkably similar, usually including choice embarrassing items like these:
- finally get long deserved bath, serenade myself with new songs on ipod
- while singing away in tub, do not realise several people have arrived to visit daughter
- exiting bathroom, nearly naked, walk by bedroom which thought was empty (it is not)
- while getting dressed, remember leaving essential item of clothing downstairs near the iron (probably left on)
At some point during the roster, inevitably you fixate on something that you have to giggle at because it has happened to you before (or it is just so ridiculous, you cannot help it).
For example:
- bravely venture out of bedroom to check if runway is clear
- suddenly pyjama trousers, pulled on too quickly without tying draw string, fall down
- runway not clear, son’s friend or daughter’s boyfriend is at very moment walking down hallway with two cups of tea
- wearing very little underneath pyjamas
How can we not laugh at this kind of misery? Doesn't it somehow make us feel better about all the stupid things that happen to us daily?
Really, it is a wonder any of us have friends.
You just can’t take life, or each other, too seriously.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Number 202
Number 202
There is nothing noble about war
When it clutches the hand of a son
Or some other loved one
After spending all those years
Ironing shirts and folding pants
You got shipped to Afghanistan
Too old to worry about packed lunches
Though you ate ham sandwiches
Just like all the rest of us.
Did we do our best with you
Before you slipped away in the night
Are you still alright
Does your heart still pound
To the offbeat whop, whop, whop
Of Chinook blades beating up the dust
Blowing up too many scratchy grains of sand
That become part of your skin and cloth
Until poured from boots and socks
Into sandy mounds, your hour glass.
Did you think you’d ever miss rain
Get homesick for England's dull grey
You wrapped in that camouflage
Baking in fifty degrees of sun
Squinting over freckles brown
Are you doing what you want now?
I remember your laughing blues
Can almost feel your touch
The smell of you I miss so much
Can you hear me calling out
Darling I’ve left the light on for you
Because I know you’ll be home soon
No weight to drag you down
No headset, no rucksack,
No gun, no rations now.
Fast asleep in a soft whiteness
Having faced all that frightens
Lying there looking safe tonight
Staring into a million starry lights
So pale against the rising moon
Yes, I know it's true
You're coming home soon
Welcome home number two-hundred and two.
Reluctantly Fabulous, 2009
British Casualty Monitor
Crowds gather to honour soldiers
MOD Factsheets
There is nothing noble about war
When it clutches the hand of a son
Or some other loved one
After spending all those years
Ironing shirts and folding pants
You got shipped to Afghanistan
Too old to worry about packed lunches
Though you ate ham sandwiches
Just like all the rest of us.
Did we do our best with you
Before you slipped away in the night
Are you still alright
Does your heart still pound
To the offbeat whop, whop, whop
Of Chinook blades beating up the dust
Blowing up too many scratchy grains of sand
That become part of your skin and cloth
Until poured from boots and socks
Into sandy mounds, your hour glass.
Did you think you’d ever miss rain
Get homesick for England's dull grey
You wrapped in that camouflage
Baking in fifty degrees of sun
Squinting over freckles brown
Are you doing what you want now?
I remember your laughing blues
Can almost feel your touch
The smell of you I miss so much
Can you hear me calling out
Darling I’ve left the light on for you
Because I know you’ll be home soon
No weight to drag you down
No headset, no rucksack,
No gun, no rations now.
Fast asleep in a soft whiteness
Having faced all that frightens
Lying there looking safe tonight
Staring into a million starry lights
So pale against the rising moon
Yes, I know it's true
You're coming home soon
Welcome home number two-hundred and two.
Reluctantly Fabulous, 2009
British Casualty Monitor
Crowds gather to honour soldiers
MOD Factsheets
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
May every tear be washed away...
For Marcy and River Beau
This is a message for everyone that loved and still loves someone that has passed away, for those that are still here as well as those that are unwell, and contemplating their last sleep.
Remember who you loved, whether they are here or not, they are still part of all of us, especially you. You will always love them. They will continue to live deeply embedded in your heart— an extension of you, so intimately linked— never to be spiritually separated. Love, after all, is stronger than death.
Despite whatever has taken place, or will take place, we will all be reunited— someday. For in that final state, we are told that 'every tear will be washed away' and every hurt healed. And while the physical elements may melt away, what we are promised is that everything worth wanting will be restored.
And so when any of us must die, and after our souls have disappeared, they will nevertheless be re-made in some final place— which is more beautiful than even the most beautiful thing or place we can imagine now. After all, God, in any religion, makes all things new.
It is this sense of newness, and of finding again what one had lost, and of being reunited with old friends after a great purification that is the profound and moving theme of C.S. Lewis's 'The Last Battle'.
I hope and believe that when we see our friends again, whoever they are, or whatever role they may have played in our lives, that they will be glorified in such a way that is almost too beautiful to be comprehended by us.
If all of this is true, it may be that in loving anyone, or anything, we perceive the angelic personality that lies hidden within them, no matter what species— human or animal. Surely this essence lives in all of us.
Perhaps that is why in all of us there is a creative spirit which is somehow our way of interpreting or understanding a language that is not of this world.
May all your tears be washed away....
Monday, 1 June 2009
Entice, enticing, enticed, enticable?
Today someone asked me if I was 'enticable?'
After getting over the fact that I don't actually believe 'enticable' is a real word, I had to think about the question a little. What does that mean? Am I capable of being enticed? Do I even want to be enticed?
As I watched the last remnants of the once again 'hottest' day of the year disappear behind the hedge, I rather self-indulgently contemplated the question (instead of all the other extremely heavy news items - lost planes, cold and deep quarries, river-swept children, battered mistresses, etc., etc., etc.). Yes, my mind needed to drift a bit, somewhere far away from news and work and planes, like clouds.
After bidding good evening to June 1st, I sat down in front of my laptop, feeling inspired to write, capturing a little memory fragment leftover from another June day in the not too distant past. Here it is...
Mad Dogs and English Summers
One early summer day some years ago when we were all a few years younger, my children were playing with a kite in the garden with some friends.
The garden was on a slight hill, so as you looked up towards the end of the garden, all you saw was an endless sky stuffed full with soaring birds and cotton-wool clouds. On this particular day, a spoiled wind would not be satisfied with just the tumbling children, a silly dog, the whistling companion, and the soaring birds. I could hear its silver-fronded whisper beckoning me to come and play.
But I remained steadfast. Standing in the kitchen, sipping Lapsang from a chipped cup, I only watched from the window as the children unwound the string from the stick, saw them look towards the sun and the birds and the sky, wishing their kite would launch itself into the blueness rather than spiral headfirst into the grass. Time after time they tossed their unwilling playmate into the clutches of the wind, hoping the wind would grab hold of the little kite's hand and run through the air with him. Alas, after too many flightless attempts, a deflated kite once again fell to the earth. As it did, one very disappointed child threw down the stick - was it in disgust or as a challenge to his friend, or sibling, or the wind?
What a chance thought the wind. Now my little playmate can roam free, run with me, kiss the clouds, and dance across the tips of hills and fences. And so, grabbing hold of the kite's smallness, off they flew. As the kite rose gracefully, its thin string unravelled until it stopped abruptly, tugging at the last remnants of captivity - the stick. A tug-of-war ensued, but to no avail, the knot was tied well. As such, the wind and the kite agreed they would just take the stick with them.
Off they flitted: whipping through the lupins, picking up speed, preparing to leap the hawthorn and holly hedge, and then into the wild paddocks below. Then, all at once, the kite was jerked backwards caught in the thorns of a rose bush. The wind, so surprised by the suddenness (not to mention the strength of the pink petticoated plant), stopped for a moment to catch his breath. As he did, the mad dog, who only lives to chase slobbery tennis balls and chew firewood, grabbed the stick in his mouth. Springing forward like a wound up pony, such joy was uncontainable, it knew no bounds. And so the smiling dog leapt with both paws in the air, triumphant.
As it turns out, in the centre of the garden was a large flower bed, the ideal track. And so it was around the large blossoming flower bed that the smiling, boundlessly joyful dog raced. As he picked up speed, the squealing children joined in. They looked like flying ducks running madly round a racetrack: all of them in a streaming line - the kite whipping through the air, the wind wrestling his way through the grasses, the children with arms flailing, reaching as far forward as they could, all following the one mad dog with his stick.
At last I joined them in the garden. The mischievous wind got his way, having successfully enticed me to join his noisy crew. Who could resist such an invitation to come and play -- how could one refuse such laughter, the sheer silliness of the sun, the blueness of the sky? And there we remained, all of us, spending one of the most memorable afternoons chasing an obsessive dog round the garden, trying our best not to stop him, the kite, or the wind from having so much fun.
Enticable?
Now thinking back to the original question, the one that started the memory ball rolling in the first place - am I enticable?
Well, given all the right circumstances (and if 'enticable' is really a word), I guess I would say the answer is yes.
After getting over the fact that I don't actually believe 'enticable' is a real word, I had to think about the question a little. What does that mean? Am I capable of being enticed? Do I even want to be enticed?
As I watched the last remnants of the once again 'hottest' day of the year disappear behind the hedge, I rather self-indulgently contemplated the question (instead of all the other extremely heavy news items - lost planes, cold and deep quarries, river-swept children, battered mistresses, etc., etc., etc.). Yes, my mind needed to drift a bit, somewhere far away from news and work and planes, like clouds.
After bidding good evening to June 1st, I sat down in front of my laptop, feeling inspired to write, capturing a little memory fragment leftover from another June day in the not too distant past. Here it is...
Mad Dogs and English Summers
One early summer day some years ago when we were all a few years younger, my children were playing with a kite in the garden with some friends.
The garden was on a slight hill, so as you looked up towards the end of the garden, all you saw was an endless sky stuffed full with soaring birds and cotton-wool clouds. On this particular day, a spoiled wind would not be satisfied with just the tumbling children, a silly dog, the whistling companion, and the soaring birds. I could hear its silver-fronded whisper beckoning me to come and play.
But I remained steadfast. Standing in the kitchen, sipping Lapsang from a chipped cup, I only watched from the window as the children unwound the string from the stick, saw them look towards the sun and the birds and the sky, wishing their kite would launch itself into the blueness rather than spiral headfirst into the grass. Time after time they tossed their unwilling playmate into the clutches of the wind, hoping the wind would grab hold of the little kite's hand and run through the air with him. Alas, after too many flightless attempts, a deflated kite once again fell to the earth. As it did, one very disappointed child threw down the stick - was it in disgust or as a challenge to his friend, or sibling, or the wind?
What a chance thought the wind. Now my little playmate can roam free, run with me, kiss the clouds, and dance across the tips of hills and fences. And so, grabbing hold of the kite's smallness, off they flew. As the kite rose gracefully, its thin string unravelled until it stopped abruptly, tugging at the last remnants of captivity - the stick. A tug-of-war ensued, but to no avail, the knot was tied well. As such, the wind and the kite agreed they would just take the stick with them.
Off they flitted: whipping through the lupins, picking up speed, preparing to leap the hawthorn and holly hedge, and then into the wild paddocks below. Then, all at once, the kite was jerked backwards caught in the thorns of a rose bush. The wind, so surprised by the suddenness (not to mention the strength of the pink petticoated plant), stopped for a moment to catch his breath. As he did, the mad dog, who only lives to chase slobbery tennis balls and chew firewood, grabbed the stick in his mouth. Springing forward like a wound up pony, such joy was uncontainable, it knew no bounds. And so the smiling dog leapt with both paws in the air, triumphant.
As it turns out, in the centre of the garden was a large flower bed, the ideal track. And so it was around the large blossoming flower bed that the smiling, boundlessly joyful dog raced. As he picked up speed, the squealing children joined in. They looked like flying ducks running madly round a racetrack: all of them in a streaming line - the kite whipping through the air, the wind wrestling his way through the grasses, the children with arms flailing, reaching as far forward as they could, all following the one mad dog with his stick.
At last I joined them in the garden. The mischievous wind got his way, having successfully enticed me to join his noisy crew. Who could resist such an invitation to come and play -- how could one refuse such laughter, the sheer silliness of the sun, the blueness of the sky? And there we remained, all of us, spending one of the most memorable afternoons chasing an obsessive dog round the garden, trying our best not to stop him, the kite, or the wind from having so much fun.
Enticable?
Now thinking back to the original question, the one that started the memory ball rolling in the first place - am I enticable?
Well, given all the right circumstances (and if 'enticable' is really a word), I guess I would say the answer is yes.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Crumbs.
First - thanks to those of you who have sent me emails asking me what's going on, why no blog.
The answer, it seems, is that I am working through some sort of communication crisis. Is this writer's block?
It is not because there haven't been lots of fun and interesting things happening - there was Edinburgh and Tarifa for changes of scenery; crazy madness at work, 18th birthdays, 17th birthdays (phew, home stretch!), exams. Even found time for some fabulous reads (Homecoming, The Reader, Pride and Prejudice - really only just read it, loved it too). Lots of films - The Young Victoria- so romantic, Wolverine - plotless (but then there's just Hugh!), State of Play, etc.
Van at Albert Hall was 'brill'. He was in good form. OK so what if we were late (who knew the trains were running 1.5 hours behind schedule due to track maintenance). Even though the usher couldn't find our seats, and the grumpy man's middle-aged wife fell asleep next to me - it was a very fun night out!
And Groove Brothers at Green's - girls' night out, with smuggled in Chinese, too much wine and just enough dancing - yes, a good night to remember! Note to Lesley: you must fix that outside light - as the key to the front door is so small, and mad giggling at 1:00 am is sure to upset the neighbours - LOL.
But how much of this is a distraction from things that shouldn't be thought about. Well, you know, sometimes it is just inappropriate to share what's going on: not everything should be said out loud (even if John Mayer says so!). Sometimes it is better to be silent while you let life wash over you like a tidal surge, pushing the boundaries of the sand and rocks that much further away.
Yes, I think quietness is especially essential when part of the entourage is an integral piece of the story, is indeed the reason for the silence, the answer to the 'why' of the self-inflicted exile.
Shockingly, to round off the bizarre, I've discovered gardening. The last month of sunshine have compelled me to tackle the wilds of my heart through the garden. With the help of my very competent horticultural neighbour, together we've exhumed stone-laid paths and meandering stepping stones, liberated the bluebells. There are new borders appearing, flowering cherries being planted, the apple tree is in full bloom, the mock orange is fragrant. At last, some of the former garden's glory is being restored.
But alas, outside the front door the ivy grows out of control. It is indeed taking over the front steps. Next to the creeping ivy and spiky rosemary you would think the smiling pansies struggle for a fair share of light. Both plants are formidable contenders, with their unchecked growth bursting out over the edges of the one terra cotta pot they share with the more delicate viola tricolours.
Surprisingly, despite the overcrowded conditions, my little field pansies have not been dulled one bit. They are in fact quite beautiful, sitting boldly amidst the greenery.
I feel like that sometimes: Entangled in ivy, overwhelmed by the height of the rosemary, yet quietly thriving, undaunted by the wilderness that has become my heart.
Crumbs.
The answer, it seems, is that I am working through some sort of communication crisis. Is this writer's block?
It is not because there haven't been lots of fun and interesting things happening - there was Edinburgh and Tarifa for changes of scenery; crazy madness at work, 18th birthdays, 17th birthdays (phew, home stretch!), exams. Even found time for some fabulous reads (Homecoming, The Reader, Pride and Prejudice - really only just read it, loved it too). Lots of films - The Young Victoria- so romantic, Wolverine - plotless (but then there's just Hugh!), State of Play, etc.
Van at Albert Hall was 'brill'. He was in good form. OK so what if we were late (who knew the trains were running 1.5 hours behind schedule due to track maintenance). Even though the usher couldn't find our seats, and the grumpy man's middle-aged wife fell asleep next to me - it was a very fun night out!
And Groove Brothers at Green's - girls' night out, with smuggled in Chinese, too much wine and just enough dancing - yes, a good night to remember! Note to Lesley: you must fix that outside light - as the key to the front door is so small, and mad giggling at 1:00 am is sure to upset the neighbours - LOL.
But how much of this is a distraction from things that shouldn't be thought about. Well, you know, sometimes it is just inappropriate to share what's going on: not everything should be said out loud (even if John Mayer says so!). Sometimes it is better to be silent while you let life wash over you like a tidal surge, pushing the boundaries of the sand and rocks that much further away.
Yes, I think quietness is especially essential when part of the entourage is an integral piece of the story, is indeed the reason for the silence, the answer to the 'why' of the self-inflicted exile.
Shockingly, to round off the bizarre, I've discovered gardening. The last month of sunshine have compelled me to tackle the wilds of my heart through the garden. With the help of my very competent horticultural neighbour, together we've exhumed stone-laid paths and meandering stepping stones, liberated the bluebells. There are new borders appearing, flowering cherries being planted, the apple tree is in full bloom, the mock orange is fragrant. At last, some of the former garden's glory is being restored.
But alas, outside the front door the ivy grows out of control. It is indeed taking over the front steps. Next to the creeping ivy and spiky rosemary you would think the smiling pansies struggle for a fair share of light. Both plants are formidable contenders, with their unchecked growth bursting out over the edges of the one terra cotta pot they share with the more delicate viola tricolours.
Surprisingly, despite the overcrowded conditions, my little field pansies have not been dulled one bit. They are in fact quite beautiful, sitting boldly amidst the greenery.
I feel like that sometimes: Entangled in ivy, overwhelmed by the height of the rosemary, yet quietly thriving, undaunted by the wilderness that has become my heart.
Crumbs.
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Early morning yawn
Early morning yawn
When the sky turns into a replica of your son's primary school theatre stage-- its cardboard cut out clouds speeding their way across graduated shades of lavender and blue. When you barely hear the wind like the breathe of a sleeping animal as it whispers through bare branches. When the air flutters past your window, pushing feathery snowflakes in all directions. When you are tossed between dreams and sleep, awash in a cloud of fried bacon and toast. When the air hangs with a sweetness of rain and earth, sodden leaves crushed into the soil like crumbled chocolate being folded into butter and sugar. When your eyes are half-closed and you watch yourself fumble around in the dark silence.
That is when you bury your cheek deeper into scarf-like blankets; when you know you've reached the early pre-dawn moment you hope will last longer. It is just before the clock chimes; just before the last few seconds of a star-cast blue sky melt away; just before the click and screech of gates begins; right around the time you can almost feel heels on stones accompanied by the muted sound of electronic car-key blips. It is exactly when you almost feel the clinking milk bottles being placed on steps.
That is the precise moment your eyes open and you silently bid goodnight to the last twinkling of faraway, fading stars.
When the sky turns into a replica of your son's primary school theatre stage-- its cardboard cut out clouds speeding their way across graduated shades of lavender and blue. When you barely hear the wind like the breathe of a sleeping animal as it whispers through bare branches. When the air flutters past your window, pushing feathery snowflakes in all directions. When you are tossed between dreams and sleep, awash in a cloud of fried bacon and toast. When the air hangs with a sweetness of rain and earth, sodden leaves crushed into the soil like crumbled chocolate being folded into butter and sugar. When your eyes are half-closed and you watch yourself fumble around in the dark silence.
That is when you bury your cheek deeper into scarf-like blankets; when you know you've reached the early pre-dawn moment you hope will last longer. It is just before the clock chimes; just before the last few seconds of a star-cast blue sky melt away; just before the click and screech of gates begins; right around the time you can almost feel heels on stones accompanied by the muted sound of electronic car-key blips. It is exactly when you almost feel the clinking milk bottles being placed on steps.
That is the precise moment your eyes open and you silently bid goodnight to the last twinkling of faraway, fading stars.
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