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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.
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