Reluctantly fabulous

Keeping up with the Jones!

2011-05-01T12:17:00.002+01:00

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?

2011-01-17T19:56:00.000Z

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

2011-01-12T12:54:00.003Z

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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.

2011-01-11T19:06:00.015Z

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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

2010-04-05T12:01:00.014+01:00

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

2009-12-01T07:04:00.007Z

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

2009-11-19T07:31:00.007Z

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.

What happened after eight on Halloween

2009-11-03T17:01:00.004Z

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!

Your vehicle IS the new black

2009-09-23T22:32:00.012+01:00

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

Love and turbulence

2009-08-26T21:24:00.009+01:00

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.

Laughter is the best antidote

2009-08-21T16:35:00.014+01:00

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:

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.

Number 202

2009-08-20T08:22:00.008+01:00

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

May every tear be washed away...

2009-06-09T22:00:00.009+01:00

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....

Entice, enticing, enticed, enticable?

2009-06-01T22:23:00.015+01:00

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.

Crumbs.

2009-05-08T07:00:00.017+01:00

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.

Early morning yawn

2009-01-07T05:55:00.003Z

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.

Walking along the beach looking for sea glass

2008-12-17T08:05:00.021Z

The sea is for thrill seekers

I've spent many cold mornings walking along abandoned beaches, searching for the remains of sand dollars and sea urchins, sea glass and skimming stones.

Over the years I've noticed the appearance of sand dollars and sea urchins becoming more infrequent. As a child I'd collect dozens of bleached sand dollars in an hour's walk. But as the years went by, there were fewer and fewer. Sometimes it would be days before I found the whitened husk of a sand dollar or urchin. Other years, I'd walk and every twenty metres I'd find one. I wonder if there are fewer remaining colonies, or is it the tides and waves that have become tougher adversaries?

So today I collect sea glass, pebbles and shells to nurture the child-like delight I feel each time I spot a frosty green mermaid's tear resting amidst pebbles. I find the cool smoothness of skimming stones satisfying, so easily slipped into pockets to be caressed throughout the day -- worry stones to carry around. And collected shells, well they become trumpets of the sea-- cupped over ears to revive me when weather or work conditions keep me far from gull-filled shores.

When I was little, I was quite mischievous(or so I thought!). I'd carry my discovered artefacts from one beach to another place - some undulating meadow or pine grove -- and deposit them there, hoping my actions would confuse future archaeologists who found piles of shells in forests miles and miles from any nearby ocean.

There were other times when I became a true eco-warrior. I remember one lavender morning, as my feet touched down on dry sand, I looked towards the water's edge and to my horror saw hundreds of stranded starfish - barely covered with sand and water. I spent the whole morning moving the starfish into waist deep water, hoping they'd be sheltered from the retreating tide and oscillating waves.

Life is so much like the sea - the vastness, the unpredictability, the beauty. We are all children (or starfish) in its midst. Each day brings some new adventure, dilemma or drama.

The bigness of the sea (or life) reminds us we are small; and in our smallness we throw ourselves at it, thrilled by chance and risk - of becoming drowned, of washing up somewhere exotic, of drifting aimlessly, of navigating with purpose, of doing it all at once.

I think we must all be thrill seekers- whether we choose to admire life in paintings or to be in amongst the waves, to collect its treasures or just simply watch it from a distance-- we are captivated.

That is why boys try to conquer it by throwing stones. And girls, well of course there is a duality in how we perceive it - one minute we are frightened by its power, and the next we are enthralled by its danger.

In the end, we become those small stones and bits of glass scattered on the beach, weathered by the water and wind that just keep coming, day after day, minute after minute. We are shaped by the ocean's path, the current, the storms and especially the surges.

It is a mystery where we will end up, what we will look like after the erosion. Hopefully somewhere beautiful, even if when we get there we're a bit smaller and worn down, less proud but more humble.

Remembrance Day, 11th November 2008 - words for the day

2008-11-11T08:27:00.015Z

Remembrance Day, 11th November 2008 - words for the day

Elysium Fields
(Remembrance Valley Unwrapped)

Perfumed, purple-spired orchids beneath feet,
A thistle blanket scratching a chest, a chin.
Badgered-hills border a fine grass-textured sea.
You swim through silver birches,
Are swallowed in waves of ultra-violet bluebells, dog's mercury.
At night this moon-stained valley sleeps in ribbons of green.
Each Dawn awakens to find you scattered amongst untidy wrappings
As world-worn eyes gently reveal what lies within.

Can I lighten a crinkled, fret-strained brow,
Offer some well-deserved reprieve
To you who fumble to retrieve twice-lost spectacles,
Now forgotten atop a rain-spotted windowsill?

Stretched before you, a verdant path marks the way
Into an Elysian heaven
Where poppies fall from walls of a private gallery,
Absorbed by the belated softness of whimpering Fathers
Who press cherry-blossom kisses into gloved hands,
Held together in tribute to all who passed before you.

Look closely for the remains of sable-hair brush left behind.
Remember the thorn-ridden walk through Mother's hall of fame.
Hear this whispered plea:
Wait. Return Darwinian-scarred warrior.
Walk in this eternal bliss.
Follow the other laughing brook.
Most beloved friend, truant child,
heart of my heart, how can it be that time already?
Please, please let me usher you home again.

Reluctantly Fabulous, 2008

Sacrifice: the losing or surrender of something for the sake of a greater; to give up or lose something for the sake of an ideal or end.

Hero: a person admired for special courage, nobility or great achievements.

Honour: to regard with deep respect.

Remembrance: an act of recalling to mind.

Parental guidance

2008-11-02T11:11:00.005Z

Families really do make strange dancing partners

As our kids struggle to become adults, we struggle to remain youthful. The closer they get to adulthood, the keener we are on slowing down the clock, refusing to admit we are heading towards our mid-life stages. Together we become an incongruent dancing team, each moving in different directions, each trying to throw down our individual mantle of responsibility (or inevitability). You can relax now - this post is not going to become a long list bemoaning assorted parental failings. It's more about observations.

First I'd like to add a bit of a disclaimer about the making of Reluctantly Fabulous. Let us start with the premise that not everything in this blog is personal. The ramblings scribed here are more of a collective consciousness representing the discovered kinship between assorted people. Maybe we can think of ourselves as a secret society of challenged parents, bemused friends, speckled teenagers and their siblings, a few work colleagues, various people I meet randomly at the gym, in the post office, and even in the check out queue at Waitrose, as well as a spattering of partners in various stages of attachment-- lovers, exes, comrades in arms, etc.

In this house, parental guidance is a loose term applied around here. No doubt I should be more strict, or is it less severe; perhaps we need more structure, or maybe less rigidity? Whatever it is, rest assured that at any given moment, what is needed at that point in time will not be what I am.

That said, as I sit here writing this blog entry, my daughter is looking at me and saying something like: 'Aren't you slumming it down a bit too much for the day. Your t-shirt is too long. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't let me leave the house wearing that."

Suddenly the conveyer belt of time has reversed itself and I find myself standing in front of my Mum as a teenager wearing a short denim skirt, striped tights and combat boots. My hair is not dyed black, I've no make-up on, but I am pulling a leather jacket on over a torn t-shirt.... There she stands with a wrinkled look on her brow, her lips are pursed, she is poised to pass judgement on my attire - ‘Are you really going out looking like that?' (Or some other censoring comment.) That's why I am sliding nearer to the door, preparing to escape.

Fast forward: 2008....

I'm sure we all have some such memory. For me, it is this kind of interaction which brought me to where I am today (LOL - it is indeed all my parents' fault!). Realistically, I never wanted the chasm between my children and me to be as wide as it was between my parents and me. I wanted to be their friend. I wanted to be a cool Mum.

That is why I am somewhat of a reluctant, incidental Mother. As the parent of two teenagers, of course I have to pull the parent card - we all do. And, yes, it often leaves me white-lipped and trembling. My role preference has always been to be the fun Aunt, the playful friend, even the co-conspirator. Even now I have a second niece who is threatening to visit us here in England for a year: she needs a break, wants to get away. And I am willing to give her the opportunity, provided it is done responsibly and she becomes an active, productive participant in our little tribe.

As this new drama is unfolding across broadband lines and continents, my kids want to know why they don't have a cool aunt like me! Humph - somehow they are missing the point. I skip over the obvious comment, however, and instead remind them that they do have a cool uncle - and he lives in NY (how much cooler could you get than the opportunity to spend months within 10 miles of NYC)!

Wrestling the reigns of control from our intentional loose-grip

Admittedly, the cool aunt, reluctant mother role only works to a certain point. Despite the constant speeches about independence, these teenagers (like us) want to be coddled. Teens, like their weary parents, really just want and need to be nurtured. They want to be loved when they are good and bad (don't we all?). Maybe that is why when they feel they are not being nurtured enough they find some fantastically dramatic way of telling us.

No, talking is not as easy at it looks. Communicating any need to any one else implies vulnerability. Who wants to wear their soft spot on their jacket? Why be a soft-shelled crab when you can be a barracuda? That is why discussions become prickly accusations, comments are construed as criticism, conversations change direction like the weather. It is all about protection, smoke and mirrors, or some similar ploy to make us appear tough when all we want to be is wobbly jelly.

I found my armour in a leather jacket and combat boots. Our sons are hiding behind fringe which is just too long. Our daughters are smoking, staying out much too late and don't call home as much. Our kids are pitching up with bulimia, anorexia, binge-drinking, promiscuity, and a raft of other things.

If you've ever felt like the reigns of your household are up for grabs, ask yourself these questions: Who is the parent in your family? Are you the Mum or Dad, or the child? How often? And with what attitude? Who nurture's who? When you or your kids walk through the door, who offers to make the other one a cup of tea? How long does the 'how was your day' conversation last? Is there even a conversation?

Whether we are the parent or the child (physically and mentally), maybe it is good to be a bit more tolerant of bad behaviour, to embrace our immaturity, to look forward to our mistakes. Maybe these things happen because we need the opportunity to discover ourselves, our children and our humanity.

The Meaning of Happiness

2008-10-30T08:01:00.005Z

THE GOOD LIFE—THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS

Over the course of the last week there's been a lot of discussion amongst various friends and family about happiness- what defines it, how does it define you, what is it exactly, why for some does it seem to be illusive, and for others everpresent? A few months ago, I found one of the Yahoo Question / Answer forums - and someone posted the question - Can anyone explain happiness?

And then coincidently, another article appeared about the impact of happiness
on longevity—based on the findings of a soon to be published study on
the subject. Here are some excerpts from the article: Happiness itself, according to the specialists, is generally accepted as "the overall appreciation of one's life as a whole", in other words a state of mind best defined by the person questioned. "Happiness does not heal, but happiness protects against falling ill," says Ruut Veenhoven of Rotterdam's Erasmus University in a study soon to be published. After reviewing 30 studies carried out worldwide over periods ranging from one to 60 years, the Dutch professor said the effects of happiness on longevity were "comparable to that of smoking or not".

ACHIEVING GOALS VERSUS APPRECIATING THE PROCESS

Let's face it, from the very early stages of our youth we are taught to be goal-oriented. As babies, our parents make note of all the firsts - first smile, first laugh, first time we sleep through the night, first steps, first words, first kiss, first job, first everything.

In school we are expected to get good grades - grades are what are used to gauge our progress, track our success, measure our value. We are compared to others. In sport, we are picked for teams based on performance- who can stop the most goals, who can run the furthest, who can swim the fastest, who can serve the toughest ball. If lucky you are picked first; but if you were like me, you were picked last, or over a coin toss because neither team captain wanted you on their bench.

Somewhere in all this quest to be the best, or to have the best, both parent and child lost sight of the bigger picture. And even if a parent, friend or teacher said, 'It doesn't matter what you get as long as you try your best,' did we really think that was any consolation? How many of us have actually enjoyed being slapped on the back and congratulated for just enjoying ourselves while being mediocre (or even failing)?

When you finally grow up and get a job, you are rewarded for excellence and productivity. You are promoted. You receive pay increases. You find a partner, you get a dog or cat, have a child, and repeat the cycle, over and over again- accumulate more stuff, drive a faster car, buy a bigger house. Did you lose yourself along the way? Are you floundering in the overwhelming tide of things to do? Are we just content to be hamsters, running on our treadmill, waiting for someone to throw us a treat for good behaviour (as defined by some external source that sits on the other side of our glass enclosure)? If we're lucky, maybe through some stroke of luck (usually bad luck), we are given a chance to wake up, to wonder out loud if we might have missed the point.

PROCESS VERSUS PRODUCT

We've all read a book or two in our lifetime. Sometimes our favourite books become films. We've devoured this book with zeal, and eagerly anticipate the premier. But surprisingly, when we walk out of the cinema, we're left with the feeling that perhaps the film missed the mark. As we wind our way home, we start comparing scenes from the movie with chapters we've read. Was the book better than the film, or, was what we imagined better? Somewhere in our minds, we built up the story, depicted the characters, filled in the blanks - and we did a great job of it - created an award winning script. Then this film comes along, and let's us down - what we imagined the heroine looked like was so much better, etc.

I think we have the capacity to do this in everything we experience. For whatever reason, we weave a story and become so enamoured with that story that it takes on a life of its own. (Ok - I'm not talking delusional, just embellishment.) And before we know it, we've created a whole script that we really prefer, especially the ending.

DESIRE BREEDS DISCONTENT

If being goal-oriented is all we know, then in our nature I think we are prone to being discontent. If we attach ourselves to the story, rather than the reality, and we carry on down that road in anticipation of an end where everything works out just as we imagined, then we become disappointed when the script changes unexpectedly. Sometimes life turns out ok, sometimes there's a hairpin curve we didn't anticipate. Focusing on the outcome paves the way to disappointment. It is not the story we've invented or the end we envisioned which is important. What matters is how things unfold.

If we shifted our focus to the 'now' and enjoyed the process, no matter what it represents in the middle, I think the opportunity to achieve sustainable happiness is significantly higher. For example, if I decide I'd like to lose weight, there are things I will need to do to achieve this goal which could include any combination of dieting, exercise, lifestyle changes, etc. If I focus on losing the weight, rather than the process of losing the weight, then I am operating in the future, rather than focusing on today. By shifting my focus to the process- exploring different foods, choosing sport or walking activities that provide exercise, but also emotional nurturing, walking to the shop rather than driving, etc., then I probably will forget that the goal is to lose weight, and will enjoy the processes I have adopted as a result. So what started as the goal becomes a byproduct of a process, simply by shifting my focus from the outcome to the means.

SO WHAT IS THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS

That's why I try to focus on the process. If we think about the process, rather than the outcome, isn't that better? If we desire anything - to be the headboy, or a director, or a home-owner, we strive to achieve this goal. What happens when we attain it? Are we satisfied when we get it, or do we then look for the next big thing? I can't answer this definitively. But I can say this makes it harder than necessary to be good or happy. In the absence of any empirical evidence, I defer to a far deeper thinker - our good Greek friend Aristotle.

Aristotle defined the function of being human (i.e., human purpose) when he stated, "if we declare that the function of man is a certain form of life, and define that form of life as the exercise of the soul's faculties and activities in association with rational principle, and say that the function of a good man is to perform these activities well and rightly, and if a function is well performed when it is performed in accordance with its own proper excellence--from these premises it follows that the Good of man is the active exercise of his soul’s faculties in conformity with excellence or virtue, or if there be several human excellences or virtues, in conformity with the best and most perfect among them"- (Book I, Ch. 7 PP Nic+Eth.1098a 14-15).

In other words, the overall human function is the soul's activity which expresses or requires reason. The activity of reasoning is what makes you human. The essence of being human is having the ability to reason: all humans possess the essence, but not all function according to it (some have the ability, but do not use it). Furthermore, all human actions taken together comprise the good. Everything we do throughout our lives contributes to the overall function with its own individual quality. If we live well, i.e., according to the proper virtues, this will allow us to achieve what the Greeks called 'eudaimonia'.

WHAT IS EUDAIMONIA?

Most things are desired for the sake of something else (e.g., we desire food because we want to be healthy), but Aristotle argued that there must be something desired only for its own sake. This he identified as happiness, well-being or flourishing (Greek eudaimonia literally "having a good guardian spirit"). When asked "Why do you desire this?" and then "Well, why do you desire that?" in response to each answer, many people will eventually stop at "in order to be happy." Eudaimonia is not a means to an end, but an end in itself—in fact, Aristotle argued that it was commonly recognized as the ultimate goal of life (Book I, Ch. 4). Happiness thus understood is not a mood or temporary state, but a state achieved through a lifetime of virtuous action, accompanied by some measure of good fortune.

INTELLECTUAL AND MORAL VIRTUES

Aristotle divides the virtues into intellectual and moral virtues. Each of these virtues can be acquired through practice over time. A person becomes more courageous by continually choosing courageous acts over cowardly or foolhardy ones, for example.

THE HAPPY MEDIAN

Each virtue falls between two vices. Virtue is like the mean because it is the intermediate between two vices. On this model a triad is formed with one vice on either end (excess or deficiency) and the virtue as the intermediate. If one’s character is too near either vice, then the person will incur blame but if one’s character is near the intermediate, the person deserves praise. Proper participation in each of these three pillars is necessary for a person to lead a virtuous and therefore happy life.

UNDERSTANING VIRTUES

See if you can understand what the excess and the deficiency are for each virtue, and, whether the excess or the deficiency is the more "attractive" vice, and why.

Aritstotle’s Nichomachean Ethics
http://pages.interlog.com/~girbe/virtuesvices.html

WHAT IF THIS IS AS GOOD AS IT GETS?

Let me end this too-long entry with a few words from the movie 'As Good as it Gets.' In the film, Jack Nicholson's character 'Melvin Udall' – a cantankerous, acidic individual-- suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder. You couldn't find a more repulsive character to remind us of our own humanity.

As the film develops, through increased interaction between the different characters (even the dog), it becomes clear that it is harder to take the time to look at people and appreciate life as it is handed to us than to descend into our own fantasies, or obsessions. And that even though it might be easier to overlook (or indeed nearly impossible to see) the good side in people, in most cases, it really is there, if only we would stop to notice and explore it. In one compelling scene, Melvin walks out of his analyst's office into a waiting-room full of patients and says – "What if this is as good as it gets?"

In the last few months I have been so blown away by the quality of people with whom I've been interacting? Each day this sphere of brilliant people expands. In truth, everyday it seems as if some other amazing person comes across my path. And when I say amazing, I don't mean Einstein-like, or Nobel-prize winning types of people. I mean regular people, with their own dilemmas and quirks and strengths. Real people who have their own ways of coping with life using humour, patience, wit, work, exercise, sex, prayer, people, school, travel, money, shopping... you name it, in any and all combinations. And while not all coping mechanisms are created equal, it is interesting to see how and when individuals apply them.

In all, I think we see what we want to see– through our own lens, which is only a reflection of what we ourselves are thinking. So what if this is as good as it gets. I'm OK with that. How does it make you feel? I am grateful because most days I want to walk out the door and say thank you all the time. Does that mean I am happy? I'm not sure, but whatever it is, I wish I had a way of bottling it up like some Bach's Flower Remedy. Whatever it is I am feeling, I'd really like to share it. :-)

Moving day bloopers

2008-10-20T11:30:00.003+01:00

Round 2 - Moving day bloopers

Hello - I thought I'd send this out to you while I still had some connectivity....and sanity, and a marginal sense of humour....

First, a special thanks to all of you who came to my aid, sending jokes via text message and email. All greatly appreciated.

Special mentions to my brother who responded to my email saying - "I'd send a joke, but if I just put my name on this email and send it back to you, you'll have a good laugh."

Another friend sent me Dharma comics and a very appropriate quote about the ability to laugh at one's own foolishness... very funny, ha, ha!

Conversely, I rec'd one with assorted pictures of when it is OK to use the F word (highly appropriate); a vomiting pumpkin; a couple of text jokes that I cannot repeat (but will admit that I laughed at them); some corrections to my grammar; response to what a parky is (some very British word used as an adjective meaning COLD); and various other things.

The volume joke prize has to go to Sarah, who sent me 14 jokes via email, as well as her own account of carpet cleaning adventures 101 - highly amusing. Made me feel much better actually.

So, yes, the movers are finally here today and tomorrow. Bizarrely, one of the movers is deathly allergic to all animals - he might be in the wrong business.... So he's in the truck - much to the chagrin of the other two movers who are doing all the heavy lifting. Subsequently, this means I need to stay in one end of the house with the dogs, while the movers are picking everything up - I might never find anything again in the new house!

Status:
Found: mobile phone charger, as well as daughter's lost mobile; digital camera charger and digital camera.

Exhumed: one whole case of champagne!!! Ex's spare BMW key (lost since 2004!) - however, that might get lost again - I'll try to keep track of it though and when you're back from Indonesia, please remember to ask me for it!

Lost: spare VW key.... um, also misplaced the address of garage where VW is actually being repaired (it is somewhere in the paperwork boxes, I hope).

Nearly lost: Two dogs, as they disappeared round the corner, heading for the park, flying past the allergic moving man. I can't tell who was moving faster, him or the dogs.

Charitable contributions: The charity swear box is filling up slowly today (how cool is that). Although it hit the jackpot last week,- the VW incident was particularly lucrative. That said, I can't afford to say the F word anymore - OK, I know that's the goal, but sometimes nothing else will really cover it quite the same.

Like when I dropped the 18th-century painting by John Wilson - in its original, nearly pristine frame. The painting survived, but the frame is a bit smaller now. As I was outside the new house, I managed to contain myself, and didn't even swear - all I said was - 'What an idiot' - (it was me that dropped it). My son stared at me in disbelief as I attempted to pick up all the fragments from the street. It's very hard to distinguish smashed gilded frame bits from autumnal leaves - but I did manage to collect most of the bits. Anyone know a good restoration person?

Oh - and the highlight this morning was the invitation I received to one Halloween party by neighbor: was in the middle of attempt to extract the last box from my truck (which I had left overnight, as I was just too knackered last night to move it after the 3rd trip). Of course, my rear-end was well exposed as I dragged the box out. That's when a man, who I think is my neighbor, jogs passed me, stops, introduces himself, and then invites me to a party.

I did thank him, said yes, saying 'Great, that's when I'll be in my natural state.'- He just looked at me and said, in a very British polite way - 'Well, yes, I'll just drop an invite through your door to remind you then, shall I?' -- Do you think he'll do it?

CORRECTION: Lastly, I think I hit the send button too soon the other day.... apparently BT's core business is changing.... that's all I can figure as there's really no other explanation for how they managed to so completely mess up a transfer and cancellation in terms of telephone lines and broadband service.

Now that I have another new number, it won't be active till tomorrow, even though the main house line has now been disconnected. That's why I have a back up.... but really.

Please continue to send jokes by text and email (though email might prove difficult from tonight onward!)

Previous plea for aid...

In dire need of humour ....

The movers are scheduled to be here on Monday and Tuesday. Next week my daughter has French Orals, her Extended Essay, and her Personal statement due. My son also has school he cannot miss. This weekend I am packing everything in boxes as the movers are not packing-- just lifting, driving, and lifting again.

Every room in the departure house is in upheaval: there are boxes and paper and bin bags throughout. Have now lost mobile phone charger, a mobile phone, I've run out of packing paper, the laundry soap has fallen out of the cupboard on the kitchen floor and the vacuum parts are scattered. I can no longer locate the iron (not that I've ever known how to use one anyway).

One teenager has spent the entire day trying to sift through the mountains of paper and magazines in his room. I asked him to put all the clothes he never wore into bin bags for the charity shop. When I went upstairs he had three bags in the hallway. I was amazed and said - 'Is all this for Oxfam?' He looked at me and said 'No, you told me to put all my clothes in bin bags.' So my son has selective hearing and the new old dog is as deaf as a door post.

Scooby (new old dog) thinks he's a tank. Yesterday he tried to walk through the rose garden. He hooked his ears on the thorns of one particularly prickly specimen, and carried on walking until he could walk no further, completely entangled in the rose bushes. After I managed to extract him from the thorns, Sirius felt so bad for him that he licked Scooby's ears. But then, Sirius threw up in the corner of the front hall.

Several nights ago the VW was towed to some garage in Yeovil (a town I've never been to in my life, and I'm sure it's not near either house) - something about a very expensive sump thing needing to be replaced. No, I didn't hug the RAC man when he finally put me into a cab (but I wanted to). On the way home, the cab driver felt so bad for me (because I had a little cry in the back of his car) that he pointed out the yoga healing centre in Queen Camel, suggesting that I book myself in!!!

What's worse (could it get worse?), not only is my head on fire from work, but I also managed to set my hair alight with a candle. An emergency appointment with my hair dresser fixed the damage, but my hair feels a lot shorter....

Please send me something funny in an email - so if I ever get the BT connection up and running in the new house, I'll be able to read my emails and at least have a laugh.

Gurkha Justice Campaign update from Joanna

2008-10-09T08:47:00.002+01:00

From: Joanna Lumley <joanna@gurkhajustice.org.uk>
Date: 9 Oct 2008 00:46
Subject: Gurkha Justice Campaign update from Joanna

Thank you so much for signing the Gurkha Justice petition, and joining ourcampaign.

Already, over 33,000 people have signed: an extraordinary response insupport of an extraordinary group of people.

We've had great coveragefor the campaign in the media across the world, and with excellent support from our UK papers.

We must be clear. We're not looking for a Government "review" of cases ofex-Gurkhas. We're not looking at a slight amendment in the law, a way of getting around the High Court's terrific judgement last week. We demand the full, fundamental change in law that will allow all retired Gurkhas the right to live here.

In November, I plan to go to Downing Street and present the GurkhaJustice petition to the Government on your behalf. I want the petition to be so big, so huge, that they simply can't fail to listen.

To make the biggest possible impact, we really need more people tosign: lots more. I want this to be one of the biggest petitions everhanded to theGovernment, to show our support for the Gurkha cause.

Your support for the campaign is a fantastic boost: thank you so much. But, if possible, I need to ask you to help in two other ways, toencourage others to sign.

Firstly, ask all of your friends and colleagues to sign up to the GurkhaJustice Campaign at http://www.gurkhajustice.org.uk - please doforward them this email, or email or contact them directly yourself.

And secondly, you can now download a petition form for signing from http://www.gurkhajustice.org.uk/gurkha_campaign_petition_form.pdf.

Please download and print some copies, and ask friends and colleagueswho have not signed on line to sign up. Please do pass it round (somefriends of mine have run street stalls asking people for theirsignatures - I'm not asking you to go that far!) and return completed sheets to me at the address on the form by the end of October.

Finally - thank you again for your support. Together, we can finally rightthis wrong.

With warmest good wishes,

oanna Lumleyfor the Gurkha Justice Campaign

This message has been sent to people who have signed up to the GurkhaJustice Campaign at http://www.gurkhajustice.org.uk.

You can opt-out of further correspondence from the campaign at anytime by email to optout@gurkhajustice.org.uk.

Learn more:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7644649.stm

Making lists & counting out loud

2008-07-29T22:01:00.008+01:00

Ok, so it’s been a while since I’ve gotten it together enough to post something here. I feel I should apologise for having been ‘away’ so long – after all, the promise of a blog is that it will not only be updated frequently, but that it will entertain, offer a bit of inspiration and perhaps even be poignant. Only you can decide once you’ve finished reading this entry if I’ve measured up to expectations (yours and mine).

So here goes…

Have you ever had one of those deeply meaningful conversations with someone you know really well, a kind of quiet discussion, one where you don’t even have to speak out loud? Well, that’s exactly the sort of ‘last’ conversation I had with my sister just over a year ago.

It happened after I thanked her for waiting for me, right after I told her how sorry I was for taking so long to come home. It was then that she looked right at me, put her hand in mine and gave me a knowing squeeze. In that moment it seemed like a lifetime of wisdom passed between us. In my heart, I knew she understood how sorry I was for having missed out on the last fifteen years of Christmas lunches, graduations, bon-fires, walks on beaches, weddings, birthdays… the list goes on and on: I was busy- caught up in the drama of my own life. But she understood.

You see, to help put things in perspective, this last weekend marked the one year anniversary of my sister’s death. I have been keenly aware of this date for months now. In fact, I’ve been counting down the days in the diary even though there was nothing there formally ticked.

That’s why I needed a bit of space to retreat. For those of you who were depending on me for various social or sport engagements, I’m sorry if I let you down. I just wasn’t feeling up to group anything. I needed the time off to rewind to those last few moments I spent with what was left of my sister because that was when I started my list, when I really began to count out loud.

Here it is – 26th July 2007 – 26th July 2008:

Worked 117 late nights (a significant improvement)
Got 100% on my Britishness test (honest)
Became a permanent resident in the best country in the world (the UK)
Slept under the stars 9 ½ times (far too few I know)
Got lost in the clouds and admired at least one sunrise or sunset 365 times
Purchased 6 new paintings
Wrote 26 new poems
Attended 4 operas, 3 ballets, 7 theatre productions, one panto, 2 concerts & one fancy dress party
Learned a lot about helicopters and snipers (both extremely interesting)
Started training to swim the English Channel (Sep 2008)
Swam at least 264,000 metres to date (and still counting)
Rode my bike approximately 437 miles and walked about 163 miles
Lost 1.5 stone (21 pounds)
Broke a toe (mermaids have trouble walking on real feet)
Purchased 1,682 new songs from iTunes (and still counting)
Lost 3 friends (verdict is still out on one of them, I remain optimistic)
Re-established ties with 6 old friends
Became friends with 17 new people (not virtual friends, real ones)
Bought 7 iPod shuffles (it is remarkably easy to run them over when they unwittingly fall out of the car door)
Made 6 wishes (so far I have a 50% success rate)
Recited 14,640 Hail Marys (old habits)
Navigated kids through another school year (2 different schools)
Danced all night long once (not enough)
Got very drunk 3 times (maybe enough)
Read 37 new books (room for improvement)
Raised almost £600 for AsthmaUK (a marginal performance, maybe you can help)
Volunteered 253 hours of time to charitable activities (my dream job – to become a professional volunteer – see next bullet)
Helped 8 people to realize a dream (it’s a feel good thing)
Told someone I loved them at least once a day, every day
Rescued one lamb (so cute, I might never eat lamb chops again)

All in all, I’d say I had a pretty good year. I think my sister would agree it was well worth it.

Kxxx

NC: November-Charlie

2008-07-15T06:45:00.019+01:00

In the last few days, I've been researching a set of survival courses for my son. An outward bound experience that removes him from the artificial and virtual stimuli so prevalent in our lives today.

The 'survival' courses consist of a short stint in a 100-acre wood with a few ex-military survival experts who can teach you how to build a shelter, start a fire, read maps, use a compass and even track a man. Admittedly, my sixteen year old son is less than thrilled at the prospect of building anything in the woods. In fact, when I first broached the subject he said - 'Can I bring 500 metres of electrical cable into the woods so I can use the Playstation?' I'm sure he was joking...

Suddenly my son took this discussion to the next level of enthusiasm - first identifying in no uncertain terms exactly what his requirements were for such a would-be 'trek' into the woods. The list read something like: sausage rolls, Coke, a DVD player, electricity, the PlayStation and a few games, mints (I think to mix with the Coke in order to amuse oneself in the middle of the night with a Vesuvius-like eruption of carbonated beverage), the dog (that was a surprise), and a few other items of creature comfort. (When I suggested things like a sleeping bag or tent, he nodded in a 'well- duh, of course' way.)

Once that line of thinking was completed, my daughter joined in, moving into new heights of curiousity: when was this going to happen, and how much time do I have to find all the answers about how to do it. It wasn't as if this was some sort of exam with an accompanying preparatory study guide. Well actually, I thought, that's not a bad idea - might be useful to learn a few things before the shroud of darkness took over, or torrential rain, or whatever else could happen in the woods in Cornwall.

Having been showered with such youthful perspective, I dutifully sent off an explanatory email to the owner of the survival school explaining the issues at hand-- the stroppy teenagers, the need to build confidence and skills, immersion in an environment that offered challenges, the constant need to be artificially stimulated by electronic games, the nocturnal schedules, the discrupted sleep patterns of the mother who is awakened at strange hours by the animated discussions occuring outside her door, the restlessness of the dog, the 24 x 7 nature of the house, the competitiveness, the lack of assistance in the chore department, blah, blah, blah. I'm sure you get the picture.

After firing off the missile, I waited expectantly for a response. Several days passed. Hmmm. Maybe the picture I painted was a bit too clear? Maybe they wouldn't be able to suggest anything. What if they too were going to pass on the challenge? That couldn't be possible, they came highly recommended to me. Wasn't this exactly the sort of thing they did, and did well. Couldn't they help me? I am not afterall a man - never was one, never will be, and don't want to be one. Weren't they supposed to be the experts at survival skills and ciphers?

OK, thinking it through rationally, I made excuses. Clearly, there are no 500-metre cables for electricity and these guys really don't bring a laptop into the woods, and even if they did, I'm sure there is no wireless signal that far out. Hmm, now I am wondering if mobile phones and Blackberries would work either? And then came the email from the owner of the survival technique company.

"Having looked at your situation (Holidays 7 -28 August, Channel swim, etc), I think your best bet is to go for the Families Course the first weekend of September. This would be run by the other director in the Company as I am out of the country. This would be ideal for you and your kids. Failing that, then with notice we may be able to lay on a bespoke event for you and your friends in October early November. Many thanks"

I am now wondering what I was initially thinking. Did I really need someone hiking into the woods with me and the kids, leaving us there for 3 days, and expecting someone to come out alive? And really, let's face it, I am not a natural camper. My idea of a holiday has always been somewhere pampering, or in the very least, several feet (if not storeys) from the ground.

Ok, I did camp for an extended period of time - but only twice. The first camping excursion (if you could call it that) was when I returned to the UK after living in Dubai. While waiting for the arrival of the shipping crate containing what was left of my first marriage (it took about 6 weeks for the shipment to arrive and clear customs), I 'camped' in a four bed townhouse in Kew. Pretty wimpy I know, but there was NO furniture, no blankets, no sleeping bags, no beds, no pots and pans, no plates, no cutlery, no napkins, not even towels. It was just me, two small children, a Nanny and about eight suit cases. With limited funds, I had to economise where I could - there were only so many things I was willing to buy... again.

That summer I learned that parquet floors can be very hard and cold; that suitcases can double as small beds; that you can really cook a three course meal with one pot; that it is OK to use paper napkins; that no matter what, I had to drink tea out of a tea cup, and coffee from a mug; that curtains can double as a blanket provided they are hung up again during the day to remove all the wrinkles; that a good Nanny is really worth her weight in gold; that small children are remarkably resilient; and that you can make a game out of just about anything in order to get your kids to regard adverse conditions as a holiday.... Despite the life-lessons, for us bigger campers, working a 12 hour a day after kipping night after night on a wooden floor with a curtain for a blanket became old pretty quickly.

The next real camping expedition occured in Maine. This time, however, I wasn't waiting for the furniture to be shipped. I was in between houses - as in, the lease on the house I was renting had expired, and the closing on the house I was hoping to purchase was taking longer than expected. It was summer afterall, in Maine - two miles from the sea- how bad could it be? In hindsight, the kids tell the story as if it was a six-month tenancy at the campsite, even though it really was only 6 weeks. To be fair, it was fun, despite the skunks and the fact that it was the wettest summer on record for more than 25 years..... Really, the worst bit of it was the $1000 dollar mobile phone bill I had to pay at the end of it. Yes, telecommuting to the Cambridge office proved to be quite a personal expense that summer. The absence of a land-line meant an overdependence on the mobile; it was shortly after that summer that I stopped using a mobile telephone for more than six years. I was certain I had given any potential brain tumour a head start and therefore wasn't going to take any chances!

Oh, and yes, there was one other near-miss third time camping opportunity- just in the last 6 months - when I was almost invited on a 'family' camping holiday. Had it materialised, I would have gone along gleefully, but it didn't, so this is one camping story which will never be recounted.

Let's rewind a bit - and return to the concept of survival tuition for my son. What went wrong here. Was I unclear in my email to the survival instructor? Had I miscommunicated my plight? What was so unclear? How did this end up as a family survival of the fittest exercise?

And now we finally get to the heart of the matter. To something I believe everyone should know, something that should be taught in school instead of French - universal distress signals.

Wouldn't it be great if everyone had the same internationally-recognised, universal communications system - like maritime flags, or morse code, or the lettering signals - something that no matter what the circumstances were, there could be no ambiguitiy in the meaning?

Think about it - you're on your way home from your own brutal day at the office: Knackered, beat, slighted, overworked, exploited, unappreciated, hungry. You pull up to the curb, in front of your house, and there are two GIANT letters on the pavement. It could be anything - something to let you know you're walking into a questionable situation.

US4: Nothing can be done until weather moderates.

Something that alerts you to the fact that you need to quickly drive off and get an Indian take-away and a bottle of wine. Or, take refuge at the gym, or something, anything.

Here are some examples of real distress signals.

AC: I am abandoning my vessel.
AD: I am abandoning my vessel which has suffered a nuclear accident and is a possible source of radiation danger.
AN: I need a doctor.
AN 1: I need a doctor; I have severe burns.
AN 2: I need a doctor; I have radiation casualties.
EL: Repeat the distress position.
EL 1: What is the position of vessel in distress?
GM: I cannot save my vessel.
GN: You should take off persons.
GN 1: I wish some persons taken off. Skeleton crew will remain on board.
GN 2: I will take off persons.
GN 3: Can you take off persons?
IT: I am on fire.
MAA: I request urgent medical advice.
MAB: I request you to make rendezvous in position indicated.
MAC: I request you to arrange hospital admission.
MAD: I am . . . (indicate number) hours from the nearest port.
VG: The coverage of low clouds is… (number of octants or eighths of sky covered).
US 4: Nothing can be done until weather moderates.

Personally, I like AC, AD, GN, AN, IT and US4.

Imagine how different parenting a teenager would be if your kids were equipped with such distress signals. If you had some indication - before the shot across the bow - that there was something amiss in your child's life. Why couldn't they leave notes like this:

Dear Mummy,

AN: I need a doctor.
EL: Repeat the distress position.
GM: I cannot save my vessel.

I know we're supposed to see the signs. But we're busy - especially if we're a single-parent - there's never anyone else around for back up and therefore sometimes you just nod off on your watch. Or you're not paying attention because you're up to your elbows in laundry and dirty glasses.

That's when you get a phone call out of the blue, and of course, it's on your voicemail because you were on four hours of conference calls - couldn't answer the incessent ring of the mobile.... and when you pick the message up, your knees go weak and floppy because you suddenly realize that somehow, somewhere the signals didn't make it through to you. And you fall, metophorically, about twenty storeys into the whys and hows. And then you realize that anyone that is in any position to help you at all is already on holiday....

That's when you want to hang the flag upside down. When you have to say, "This country I call motherhood is in distress."

NC*: (November-Charlie)... Is anyone out there?

*NC is an international maritime distress signal depicted by two signal flags.

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Waking up at 5 am...

2008-07-14T05:41:00.001+01:00

It has to be said, I used to enjoy getting up at 5 am. But that was when it wasn't a requirement. Today, after waking up at 5 am every week since September 4, 2007, well, let's just say the novelty has worn off. I know that because it took three snooze button attempts before I actually climbed out of the bed to wake up my daughter - who is also ready for a long 6 weeks of NOT waking up at 5 am.

The routine continues to be the same.

I wake up, find the coffee pot - still dirty from the day before. After emptying the sink of the dishes which have procreated mysteriously overnight, I wash it, trying not to drop it in my pre-coffee state.

The dog gets let out the back door. The coffee is ready by the time I let him back in to feed him his long awaited breakfast. By the time the dog licks the last bastion of Baker's chicken-flavoured nugget smell from the bowl, I am sitting in front of my laptop, trying not to burn my tongue. I check the emails that have flowed in from around the world at odd times.

My brother has arrived home safely from his drive up the eastern seaboard of America. Someone is looking for a lift from London to Dover. I'm being looked at by someone on Meet New People. Another ex-Loti has accepted my friendship on FaceBook.

I read my horoscope - LOL - today it says I am a great communicator. I quote -

"Be more expressive about your emotions than you typically are, today. Be vulnerable. You're a natural when it comes to communication and today brings the chance to put those skills to work. The people in your life are all waiting for information -- or permission -- before they can get to work."

I can't bear for it to be wrong - and therefore, I have decided to start this blog. Consider yourself on my waiting list - it did say you were all waiting....

By the time I am on my second cup of coffee, I can hear the shower door open and close. My daughter is now on her horse, getting ready for school. I relax into my work emails - scanning for any crisis that might have erupted on Friday evening after I logged out. A surprisingly slow weekend for the stateside workaholics. Brilliant. Delete, delete, delete (just the spammy bits, not the work emails!).

Hmm. My heart leaps into my throat. I read the name in the 'From' field again. I haven't imagined it. I look to the subject - FWD:... - Ok - so it's not personal, it is safe. I can open this email and still have a good day.

After reading the joke, sent to me by BCC - I reread his name - about 10 times actually. It is then that I realize how much I miss the 'good morning' kisses received around this time- in an email, or a few hours earlier- in person. I miss the text messages sent to me while he drove home at 5:30 am.

So once again, I really dread when my horoscope is eerily accurate. I admit it - I am VERY vulnerable. I hope the astrologist is extremely happy that this weakness is now exposed.

So, having just finished my second cup of coffee, I can now think a bit more deeply. And that is when I start to wonder - How long does it take to forget? Apparently - for me, it takes more than 3192 hours, which equals approximately 133 days.

I really should stop reading my horoscope.