From frustrated stay-at-home mum... to entre-preneur!

I'm back!

2011-08-21T08:42:00.000-07:00

...with a soon-to-be-published book and a pending internet start-up...who said it couldn't be done? Back soon with more details...off on a well-earned break for a week and leaving you with my favourite blogger on How to Be a Human...

An inspired queen

2010-02-16T03:01:00.000-08:00

What would you do if you were young, elegant and extremely beautiful - with a handsome husband in a position of power and great wealth; a huge residence; the opportunity to travel the world; four beautiful healthy children: 2 boys and 2 girls; and the ready-made adulation of many?

Most of us aren't in this position. But what does your instinct tell you? That you'd sit back and enjoy your charmed life of leisure and family? That you'd relax and enjoy life without a care? That you'd take on a few charity engagements just to justify it all? That you'd never have to work again?

How about choosing tirelessly through every medium, to improve the lives of those around you?

How about working so hard you become... UNICEF's first Eminent Advocate for Children; Co-Founder and Global Co-Chair of 1GOAL;Honorary Chairperson for the UN Girls’ Education Initiative; Chairperson for the Global Campaign for Education; Board Director of the International Youth Foundation; Board member of the World Economic Forum; Foundation Board member of the Forum of Young Global Leaders; Board director of United Nations Foundation; member of the Every Child Council for the GAVI Alliance; Honorary Member of the International Advisory Council for the International Center for Research on Women; Co-Chair of the Arab Open University; Honorary Chairperson of the Jordanian Chapter of Operation Smile.

And, you were thinking it was an effort to even read that list???!

Who are we talking about? Queen Rania of Jordan, in her own words "a mother, a wife, a boss, an advocate, and a humanitarian."

But having titles means little if you don't ACT. Queen Rania has launched a public-private initiative aimed at refurbishing Jordan’s public schools; awards for excellence in education and teachging; an interactive children's museum; a public Health Awareness Society; a Healthy Schools Project; a Scholarship Program in partnership with several leading universities from around the world; Community Empowerment Programs and Children Programs including income-generating projects;a community champion award (Ahel Al Himmeh)to highlight the accomplishments of groups and individuals who have helped their local communities.

Her Child Safety Program addresses the immediate needs of children at risk from abuse and initiated a long-term campaign to increase public awareness about violence against children. “Dar Al-Aman”, the Child Safety Center, was the first of its kind in the Arab region, offering protection and rehabilitation to abused and neglected children, as well as counselling to their families; while the Queen Rania Family and Child Center promotes positive, practical training for parents, and provides facilities to encourage constructive and educational activities for children. She initiated the Al Aman Fund for the Future of Orphans in 2003 and has also partnered with a various number of international universities providing scholarships for Jordanian students to study abroad; and at the 2008 World Economic Forum in Davos, she launched the "Empowering One Million Arab Youth by 2018" campaign.

Think Public Health and Education, Educational promotion and reform, Children's and Youth initiatives (and writing children's books) are enough to keep anyone busy?! Launched by Queen Rania in May 2008, The Arab Sustainability Leadership Group (ASLG) encourages businesses to show that profit does not have to be sacrificed for the sake of environmental protection and equal opportunity. The regional network brings together the Arab World’s most progressive business, government, NGO and civil society leaders, and is the first of its kind from the region to commit to sustainability and global reporting standards.

It doesn't matter if Rania Al Abdullah has access to wealth and contacts. She still has the same 24 hours a day we have, and this is how she chooses to spend it. You see, it matters little what we have and where we come from, because we can always choose to enrich our lives and those of those around us, more and more each day. If we have much (as she has), we can always give more. If we have little, we however have our capacity to give and to contribute to someone, somewhere.

"No matter where we come from… what we look like… how we dress… or to whom we pray… when it comes to what makes us laugh or cry… when it comes to what we dream of for ourselves and for our children… when it comes to how hard we work each day… we are usually more alike than we are different."
(An extract from a keynote address given to Harvard University by Queen Rania Al Abdullah, May 3, 2007).

Oh... and... she's on facebook and twitter and youtube!

Want to leave your mark on the world? Take Rania as a role model and never rest on your laurels! Oh, and by the way, on Twitter Rania calls herself: "A mum and a wife with a really cool day job..."

The road leads over the mountain...

2010-01-27T11:16:00.000-08:00

The following poem was sent to me a while back by a really great entrepreneur and spiritually-rich guy, Dr. Javaid Kiyani.I hope you don't mind me sharing it with you. It speaks for itself!

"When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill.
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh!
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit!

Life is unique with its twists and turns,
As every one of us eventually learns.
And many a fellow turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out!
Don't give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow!

Often the goal is nearer than it seems
To the faint and faltering man.
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor's cup.
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar.
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit,
It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit!"

Believe/ HELP HAITI/ Will Smith on Life

2010-01-26T02:13:00.000-08:00

For those who search for life beneath destruction,
For those who know there's hope beyond despair,
For those who seek another option
When someone says "You can't go there"

For anyone who ever dreamt a dream
And knows they'll bring it to reality
For anyone who knows that greatness
Is simply creating destiny

Make each day brighter than its former
Build each a link upon life's chain
Know you're getting a little warmer
Each time you try again, again..

Bend vocation to a holier vision
Give and take in equal share
Watch the birds circle round heaven
Feel the wind surge through your hair...

Never give up, my son, my daughter
And what you seek will follow after.

Folks, don't forget to take a moment out of your everyday lives and give to those less fortunate. I was browsing the pages of "Paris Match" this morning, a report on Haiti. That 8-yr old bundle... with concrete-dusted legs and oozing eyes, crooked arm and fly-covered... being thrown over a wall into a makeshift mortuary: that was and is someone's son, brother, cousin, grandchild...and could have been yours if you'd had the tragic misfortune to be born into the world of this dead child instead of where you are now. Please don't turn away: turn towards this cry for help and HELP A GOOD CAUSE (UNICEF) to help the children of HAITI: those who were luckier to escape with their lives (and to enable dignified burial for those who didn't, like this nameless boy). HELP by donating HERE

Opportunity Cost and our Breathing Earth

2010-01-10T04:58:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Breathing Earth.: A real-time simulation you MUST visit!

As for an answer to why I am spending less time writing on my blog, here's a story about judicious use of time (acknowledgements to Christopher Howard for the text below):

Warren Buffet was asked:

“What do you attribute your success to?”
Buffett responded with a story.

He said that when Bobby Fisher the American chess player, was playing chess against a Russian player, a big debate ensued about whether a human being could beat a computer at chess. All the articles coming out on the question were saying that a human being would never be able to beat a computer because a computer could think through every infinitesimal possibillity and choose the best move to win the game.

But what they found was just the opposite – a human being could not only tie the computer, but could sometimes even beat it through a process of what Buffett called “selective grouping.” Selective grouping is the internal process by which humans can automatically discount 90 percent of possibilities without ever having to consider them fully, so that they can focus their attention on the remaining 10 percent of possible moves that would make the greatest strategic impact.

“If you want to know what makes our overwhelming success,” Buffett responded, “It’s been selective grouping. It’s what we FOCUS on. And equally important, it’s what we choose not to focus on.” The process of choosing what to focus on is occurring in your brain every second of every day. And it is determing what you experience in life and what you don’t experience. It’s a great lesson to apply to time management. It also speaks volumes about focus as one of the most important factors in producing results, since you cannot experience that which you don’t put your attention on. To Buffett’s second point, you must always seriously consider the “opportunity cost” of choosing to focus on things that take your focus away from building (what) you truly deserve...

You must carefully evaluate every investment decision of time and resources, and never be afraid to re-assess situations and ask yourself the question “Knowing what I now know, would I still get involved in what I’m doing?” If the answer is a resounding “NO.” Have the courage and intelligence to step away from these wastes of time, energy, and resourcess and use your time in the highest and most effective way possible, in relation to your ultimate goals."

Couldn't we also apply this principle to climate change, to the Breathing Earth simulation you've just clicked on above? What's the OPPORTUNITY COST of NOT acting now to limit the damage our carbon emissions - and our economically progressive, but environmentally regressive - policies cause? Food for thought...

In the meantime, I will get on with building my business and furthering my eduction, folks, but promise to write personally next post. Until then: be aware of the opportunity cost of YOUR time and your actions...

In or out of the cupboard?

2009-12-24T03:22:00.000-08:00

My empirical research suggests that it is better to pen personalised blog posts from behind the cover of an alias. Discuss?

The 12-year old who silenced the Powers that Be for 5 minutes...

2009-12-23T05:02:00.000-08:00

This could be the most important, amazing and moving message at Christmas you've ever seen. Trust me. Please do pass it on, the link is below. I have no other words nor would ever attempt to add any, as I bow before the words of a child mature beyond her years and wise beyond her age.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQmz6Rbpnu0

A season of giving more than receiving

2009-12-21T05:59:00.000-08:00

As I sit in my car and turn the radio up to volume 9 to kill those stray draggles of guilty emotion after my husband brought home a broken Christmas tree and I over-reacted - I am reminded that this is the season of thinking of others (!) Please look at the video above and join in the Annual Basket Brigade to remind ourselves that helping someone else can transform a life, especially the lives of those who have gotten into the rut of feeling that they deserve nothing (and thus have nothing to give). Being on the receiving end of unconditional generosity or love is inspiring and enabling. Hmmm. Must remember to apply that to my marriage...

Head up

2009-12-14T01:46:00.000-08:00

I knew I'd hit a wall when I woke up this Monday morning with stomach cramps. Stomach cramps are what happen when all is not well. And they only serve to make things worse: it's hard to be bursting with remedial energy when your abdomen hurts. Or to hit the gym and kick in the adrenalin and feel-good hormones.

As I suspected, when I sat down at my laptop at 6am to continue with the (tight) schedule to complete my book - where every day counts - I felt that familiar sag. Disintegration of the will. Motivational droop. That stretched-across-the-ground-feeling I used to get when teachers at school burdened us with a particularly tiresome and timeconsuming assignment - you yawn to yourself inside, and wish you were elsewhere.

After regular 5am wakeups eagerly brushing the sleep from my eyes in front of a sparkling computer, the weedling thought that I'd prefer to be back under the covers in oblivion only jabbed to smart my annoyance further. The screen glowered. I shut it almost with a snap.

To be honest, my Sony Vaio's got a big part in this. My husband and I had been competing to work on the machine for the whole weekend (early wake-ups and late nights, that is.) Needless to say, it's the wrong type of marital stimulation. He lugged home a castoff CPU from work on Friday (victim of financial layoffs - the box, not he thank God), all excited to assemble it privately upstairs - only to find it was still password locked and inaccessible. Then we had a row. After which, we grudgingly had to communicate to try and schedule who would work on "my" laptop, and when (it had been a birthday present, but becomes "ours" when things swing that way). The rest of the weekend was spent in grunts. Actually the argument was all about perception: how I perceive him to be unfriendly and moody, when he is sure that he's not. Considering he's not friendly or fun or light-hearted at these times, I'm not sure where perception ends and reality begins.

I'd hoped that driving my son to a birthday party might ring a change: empty road, invigoratingly loud music, whoosh of freedom and all that...but the spanking Jaguar in front with the personalised number-plate "P E 5 I M S T" didn't help. Considering those cost at least 20,000 pounds (on top of the car, of course!) I wondered if the guy was taking the proverbial, if you know what I mean. Normally I would have chuckled and saved up the gem to tell my husband. Instead I predicted his grunt - and wrote on Twitter instead.

On the way back, I fixed the damp shine on the roads with moroseness as the evening shrouded the air, winter's 5pm. The tyres spluttered through the dirt-laden London rain, the dull leftover dribbles of Sunday and a stray Tesco bag wretched and ragged on a naked branch at the corner of my vision as I waited with resigned frustration at a red light that seemed to be fixed at red forever. Christ. Not even my favourite musical porn, Enrique Iglesias, lifted my sodden mood. The ballad surges irritated me and I clicked to off.

However the way to force through the blockages (mental, physical, you name it) is to create a surge. I've got to fall in love with my book again, with the process of tapping it into existence even when words don't come easy. And fall in love with my husband again even when words don't come easy. And fall in love with life again even if I don't have a Jag with a personalised number plate telling the world to fuck off (sorry!) - or maybe fall in love with life specifically because I don't.

Then again, at least I'm not Tiger Woods. Or anyone else: things could be worse.

No, head up! Forge on. Credit crunch, marital crunch, lack of inspiration, you name it. It's the ability to break through the barriers of pain, fear, uncertainty or even plain boredom that is the mark of success. Maybe I'll have a Jag one day. It'll have a plate stating: O P 7 I M S T.

Talent will be Rewarded!

2009-12-11T10:37:00.000-08:00

I can't resist this - talking of talent and reward, just take a look at this amazing 6-YEAR OLD boy...and the outcome is a real treat at the end. Enjoy!

Out 2010

2009-12-10T13:05:00.000-08:00

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This is the book I am going to be marketing on behalf of my guru and in-house motivational psychologist, Natasha Reddy. She says it's probably not the final version of colours - but you get the drift.

Put a penny in the pot

2009-12-09T09:24:00.000-08:00

A fellow Mum at school - a muslim lady - was telling me how her children have 3 jars at home between which to divide pocket money - one for buying, one for saving and one for giving to charity (the muslim concept of 'Zakat'). Which reminded me how important it is in life not to forget others. After all, people are just people all around the world.

Incidentally, to let a thread of higher purpose permeate all that we do is also the direct route to success and wealth (so take the tip: become less materialistic and more spiritual if you are seeking out the pot of gold!) Why am I sure of this? I seem to be meeting a lot of incredibly successful people recently. And all of them have the spark of ambition to create some lasting good in the world. Wow - how far I'm drifting down the river from my position as "reluctantly frustrated stay-at-home mum!" And... is the frustration and feeling of inertia gone? You bet! Believe it!

So, on the subject of thinking of others, let me introduce you to Arvind Devalia: born in Kenya, living in London, Indian heritage, citizen of the world. Arvind says: "I am committed to a life of contribution, connection and celebration. And I am convinced that ultimately we all want to do the same".

Before anyone starts to scoff, sit up and listen, and ask yourself if you can measure up:- whereas others might hesitate, Arvind makes things happen: raising thousands of dollars for a charity school in South India (Nirvana School); writing and publishing a book in just 4 weeks; being part of an internet startup which raised millions of pounds of funding; taking part in the London Marathon, where he walked the entire route in over 7 hours rather than letting down his chosen charity.

Arvind feels he has a charge to help alleviate world poverty by raising money for micro-finance website Kiva. You can read more about Arvind’s bold aim to alleviate world poverty and how to join the “Blog with Heart Challenge” here.

Arvind has specially created some resources for any blogger who wants to join in:-

1. A resource page for bloggers with lots of ready made posts you can use in any way you like

2. A videos page with a heap of videos about Kiva and their download links.

In addition a team as been created on Kiva for the London Bloggers Meetup group called, unsurprisingly LBM. If you would like to join this team and see the difference the LBM community as a whole can make, please let me know in a comment together with your email, and I’ll organise an invitation for you to join.

Alternatively, please support this campaign by joining Kiva directly, by creating your own team and of course by publishing Arvind’s campaign on your blogs or webpages. Thank you.

So, if I adopt my fellow school mum's principle of jars, well perhaps today I've put a little penny in one by penning this posting. And sometimes a little coin can spread a lot of happiness.

Product placement and our children

2009-12-02T02:54:00.000-08:00

Today I'm going to proselytise a bit. Who wants their children not to be encouraged to eat junk food? Hands up!...Then, please read on: the following is an email sent by myself (and others) to our government. And I attach the reply: if you share my opinion, I suggest you might copy the body of the letter and send it to Mr.Green's email address as below (let's hope his name augurs well!) - with fingers crossed as to the power of public opinion. Do exercise your duty as a parent in this regard.

I suppose the alternative is not letting children watch television: already seriously curtailed in our house! (But still. At some point we have to reach outside our own little worlds to take greater responsibility.) And don't log out, U.S. readers, thinking that this is only relevant to my side of the pond - you might be interested in some of the information below...

Dear Sir,
Please do not allow product placement in British made television programmes. The proposals to allow product placement in UK-made television programmes will lead to children being exposed to more marketing for unhealthy food products. While I welcome commitments that product placement will not be allowed in children's programming, research by consumer group Which? in 2008 showed that 16 of the 20 programmes on the commercial channels most popular with children were not classified as "children's programming" and therefore, under your proposals, would be able to contain product placement of unhealthy foods.

In the US, where product placement is permitted, Coca-Cola is the brand paying for the most product placement. Yet research from the US has suggested that sugary drinks such as Coca-Cola may be the biggest driver of the obesity epidemic. Product placement on UK-produced television programmes could lead to a similar situation in the UK, contributing to the already worrying increase in childhood obesity rates.
I am particularly concerned that product placement breaches the principle that advertising should be clearly recognised as such, and distinguishable from editorial content. It is important that people know when they are being advertised to, and parents are able to recognise advertising and protect their children from it. With product placement, marketing goes on behind parents' backs.

I know that I am not alone in these concerns: a recent survey of 1,349 UK adults by Redshift Research found that 91% did not think it is right to influence children with product placement.

Please help us to protect our children from covert marketing for unhealthy food , and not undermine our effort to give our children healthy diets by allowing junk food companies to target them with their brand of 'secret selling'.

Yours sincerely

Reply from: CHRISTOPHER.GREEN@Culture.gsi.gov.uk

Thank you for your recent e-mail about the Government’s consultation on television product placement. This is an important issue on which the Government is keen to hear peoples’ views, and we are grateful to you for taking the trouble to write. Our consultation closes on 8 January 2010 and we plan to make an announcement as soon as possible after that.We will give careful consideration to your comments before we do so.

Yours sincerely
Chris Green
Public Engagement & Recognition Unit
Department for Culture, Media & Sport

Sugar-coated dreams

2009-11-21T01:28:00.000-08:00

I went to a seminar the other evening where a bastion of our business establishment was speaking. People came up with the usual questions: "how can I be a successful entrepreneur?"; "what's your advice about investing in property?"; "do you think we're out of the recession yet?"; "what is the best piece of business advice you've ever been given?" - and the less usual: "how can I resolve the fact that I've under-priced my product?"; "I'm setting up a company at 50..."; "I sell solar panels but all my retail partners have pulled out"...

Nothing new under the sun, really. And the answers given to most of these questions were also pretty much what you'd expect: nothing new under the sun. Including the one about solar panels (tip: we're in the UK. Along the lines of : certain 'trendy' trends just don't work as expected!...)

Until I asked a question which would seem to be a pretty bog-standard-business-school-essential-information-gathering-cum-personal-curiosity-one: "Have you had mentors in your career?"

The answer was surprising. When starting out, he'd has his Uncle who'd had a shop. And other people he'd looked up to. But the people he most looked up to were those who had "contentment" and they, he said, are people "you in the audience will have never heard of", nor will ever hear of. People, therefore, who are contented in their everyday lives despite not having achieved either fame or fortune. He envied them, said the moghul businessman. He said: "I've amassed more money than anyone can spend in a lifetime...than even my wife [audience chuckles!] or family can spend." Then he talked about it being "a disease", not being able to stop, never being contented. So, his greatest 'mentors' are those who have the luxury of contentment in life. Who are able to reach a point where they are contented. Contented with life and what they have - but most probably and most importantly, also with what they don't have.

Forget all the business talk. As this multi-millionaire success story told us: "It's not Rocket Science!" Almost every answer he gave to every business question was based on pure common sense. They should have called the seminar: "Business Success De-mystified!"

But the one thing I came away with was his answer to MY question. That's what I learned that evening. Don't wish for what others have, unless you are fully aware of what's involved. Unless you are fully aware of the consequences. Of the road you'll have to travel to move in the same, or a similar, direction. And sometimes, even if you do end up getting there: you may not be happy. Even if you're the type of person who can't but help taking the journey in the first place, because you're born with the urge to travel (by the way, entrepreneurs are born, not made, and if you don't get it, you aren't one - apparently. Lord Alan Sugar was showing the Mayor of Hackney around his local school at the age of 11...)

Oh. Did I forget to mention? The name of the seminar was: "In Conversation with Lord Alan Sugar..."

Self-promotion - and a bit of life...

2009-11-12T22:34:00.001-08:00

I'd like today to give you folks an excerpt from my forthcoming book, "THINK SLIM - 52 steps to losing weight and feeling great! (...The no-diet weight-loss revolution!)" (hopefully out by the beginning of 2010, website too). Before you sigh (because you have no need to lose those pounds) or you're a bloke and think this kind of thing is purely for women, do me a favour and read on! I don't do things conventionally - most entrepreneurial-minded people don't...you may - no, WILL! - be surprised.

Anyway, THIS is what I am getting up a 5am for every day...for those with goals, remember that "Your Actions are your Goals and Your Goals are your Actions" (note I'm trademarking that one!)

Here we go:
You have only one life. Sounds clichéd, doesn’t it? But we forget, in our Western world of abundance, that many people who share our universe don’t have life. They don’t have life expectancy, they don’t have quality of life, they don’t have the basics to live a life of dignity or even to survive. Here we are, fretting about physical confidence, body weight, fitness... while some people don’t have the luxury of worrying about their physical confidence! It’s barely enough for them to get through the day alive with a belly full. Others spend their so-called lives suffering horrendous physical and emotional restrictions. Their only aspiration would be to be free from pain or suffering, let alone to lose weight! And, what to tell the mother whose children are slowly starving to death? Shouldn’t we be rather ashamed that our material excesses have brought us to this excess of paranoia?
In this context, worrying about one’s physical appearance is totally trite, when in this world there are those who have real cause for anxiety: not being able to see fully, move fully, speak fully, or being fully healthy; or the life and death of their loved ones. Some people are just grateful to have life at all. Others are put through such horrendous emotional suffering by losing loved-ones or seeing loved-ones suffer. We all know of people becoming painfully thin after bereavement. Who’d envy them their body shape now?

So why am I writing this book, you may ask? Well, partly because this irony hasn’t escaped me, and I’d like to show that there’s a healthier and more balanced way of approaching the problem of overweight and obesity in the West today. And because I understand that the more happy and balanced we are as individuals -the more liberated of insecurity and self-obsession we are - the freer we are as a society to look outside our little world and help others.

This book simply puts forward techniques you can use to help yourself to make the most of yourself physically, and thereby increase your self-confidence – hopefully boosting your mood and general happiness at the same time! But, there should be a warning attached to any book which promises that weight reduction will automatically guarantee happiness. I am sure that we have all realised by now that thinness does not equal happiness, and richness doesn’t equal happiness either, and if you don’t believe me just take a look at some of the super-rich and super-thin celebrities out there who despite having the trappings of an ‘enviable’ life appear to be suffering from a lack of the basics which truly do make for a happy life: a harmonious family, close friends who love you for what you are, a peaceful life without interference, the ability to get on and make decisions without being constantly judged – and that's just for starters! Now, that’s not to say that this is the case with every rich and thin celebrity, as there are some very well-balanced famous people out there (and I take my hat off to them!) – however, it cannot be denied that some celebrities renowned for their wealth and physical beauty still find it necessary to resort to drugs and drink: not the behaviour of someone who’s balanced and content.

We all need to take a few moments out of our busy schedule each day to reflect on how our limited perspectives on life can be so restrictive, misery-making – and, indeed, dangerous. Why, just this week I read about a bride-to-be who died of heart failure: after being on a restrictive diet of under 600 calories a day to lose weight for her wedding. That’s a real lesson in perspective.

So, just get on and LIVE LIFE and appreciate what you have got and what gives richness to your life, rather than what you haven’t got! Instead of feeling that you can never measure up, remember that other people have their own problems too, and that’s everyone, rich or poor, skinny or not so skinny (why do you think papers sell well when they dissect the life problems of celebrities, reminding ordinary people that they’re not so different to us after all?) Until you are happy in yourself and with your own life, then losing weight will never make a difference. You’ll just be a miserable thin person instead of a miserable plumper person!

If you exude happiness from every pore and sing along to your everyday tasks, you will find you don’t need that chocolate fix anymore, and along the way you’ll find that you become as fit as you’ve ever wanted to! Sing along to the washing-up, whistle to work, chat happily to your friends and neighbours, and live life with enthusiasm: you’ll be so busy being active you’ll find you don’t need that glass or wine, choc bar or cookie to perk you up. Just being busy you can burn up energy to become fitter too!

Why don’t you imagine yourself, right now, being the happy, confident and energetic person we all have the potential to be? If your problems seem too great, remember that they’re nothing compared to the mother whose young and only son is dying from a rare form of juvenile cancer (and that’s another true story, and someone I know). You can picture yourself and your good fortune every day in your mind, and if you find this hard just try picturing yourself living in Afghanistan or Gaza or any of the world’s other trouble spots instead – and you’ll realise just how much you DO have. We in the Western world are overcome with bounty and opportunity: why would you need a chocolate bar on top of all that to make you cheerful?

(Note! Slimy sticky and oily calories do NOT make us cheerful, happier, or blow our problems out the window. All they do is increase the size of our problems – by increasing the size of our hips and thighs and tummies, and clogging our brains and our ability to feel happy and carefree, as well as clogging our arteries at the same time!)

Key Points to Remember:
Live with a sense of perspective. Our problems are minute compared to those of many. Instead of dwelling on your worries and bad fortune, be aware of your good fortune every day, give thanks for it and be grateful. Vow to give back to the world the happiness and joy it has given you – whenever and however that may have been, and even if you don’t quite feel it now. Remember that appearance is important superficially, but self-esteem is deeper. Being thin or being rich will never make anyone happy if that’s all you aim for in life. Stop to smell the roses and remember you are healthy and wealthy already in so many ways. As a general rule, Happy people are slimmer, but slimmer people are not necessarily happier!

So be happy: and you’ll be slimmer on it!

END OF EXCERPT

P.S. On the subject of perspective, here's a girl I went to school with. Actually, watch this one too: check out the video, especially: WATCH IT! Your problems will fade into irrelevance, I guarantee you... and you'll also realise that YOU have so much potential to realise: which no doubt you may not be fully exploiting...so, what are you waiting for?!

Tomorrow - again

2009-11-02T12:37:00.000-08:00

Well, the immune systems of my family and myself having survived the onslaught which is India for over two weeks, have succumbed almost immediately once on British soil. We are all laid low with cold-like viruses, rasping, hacking, trumpeting and passing out on pillows piled high. My husband - who never misses work - stayed in bed today. My son - who never misses school - ditto. My daughter went: but is suffering a delayed reaction this evening. I - stoic mother, with that get-up-and-go-even-if-you're-ready-to-drop which women seem to be born with, am getting on with the washing and tidying and unpacking, but manage a couple of naps regardless and dreamt of doctors telling us we're to be isolated as we've all got swine 'flu (we haven't).
So my posting on Indian entrepreneurship's again relegated to tomorrow. And I'm off to hit the sack, leaving you with my favourite Will Shakespeare of all time, Macbeth's 'tomorrow' soliloquy (and a thanks to all of you who support my creative endeavours day after day: I'm reminding myself not to forget to thank people in my life...):

Macbeth:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28

P.S. Don't get me wrong, I don't do brooding nihilism. However I spend so much time labouring on self-worth and achievement, and when you're just struck down with what is essentially an elaborate version of the common cold you realise how easy it is to retreat into what Maslow, in his hierarchy of needs theory, called “pre-potency”: meaning that you are not going to be motivated by any higher-level needs (like ambition, self-esteem, etc) until your lower-level ones have been satisfied: like hunger, basic comfort, freedom from illness or exhaustion, and so on. I'm feeling struck down with feeling, basically, rather grotty and under-par. So I'm going to bed to try to redress the balance! (by the way check out Herzberg in the link for all those managers out there, if any of you reading my blog are such). Good night!

Excuses, excuses

2009-11-01T10:06:00.001-08:00

It's the longest ever since I've posted - the longest since I started this blog.

Now, one of my fellow parents on the school run mentioned a while ago that he (in this case, a father being the stay-at-home half) wondered why people read blogs. "They must be pretty bored or have plenty of time to waste!", he quipped.
I replied to him, to the implicit question contained in his question (the subject of the conversation being my blog) - for me, it's not about boredom ("and I cannot speak for my readers" I added, diplomatically!). Myself, I'm aware that it's human nature to read and be interested in lives, stories, emotions, information. And has been since the storytellers of the street squares and tents of yore started to ply their trade (even then there was an element of commercialism about it - pennies in a hat, or a bowl of rice). And, writing a blog, for me, is about discipline. About plying my trade as a wordsmith every day, or at least regularly. Don't believe that there's an inborn skill in existance that doesn't need nurturing and won't require practise to maintain a certain standard, and then, to increase proficiency. There isn't.

So, I am pretty ashamed that I haven't posted for, what, 3 weeks? Well, folks, I have once excuse, paltry as it may be. I've been in India for just over two of those weeks. But, then again, only 10 of those days were involved in travelling or living without internet access (but, not without a notebook, note). I could offer up the feeble excuse that I find it easier to type my thoughts than write freehand, true as it may be - but then that's like saying Tiger Woods would only ever practise in perfect conditions (not that I'm comparing my skills to his - god forbid. God forbid! Genius sadly escapes me.)

I have to add here, on the self-flagellation session I've embarked upon, that my five-year-old did take his violin to India. And practised more than I wrote. He only missed a week and that was due to the impracticality of taking a minature musical instrument (one-tenth of a fully-sized violin, for those curious) to an indian country village: which bar the randomly-strung bare bulbs and a couple of butane-gas-bottle-powered-stoves, is still stuck in the middle ages. A home-built-raftered-barn, 100 years old, with one side reserved for the water buffalos and wandering chicks, rogue dogs and meandering cats, and opposite, space for my husband's extended family (the farmers whose house this is) and us to sleep on charpoys - stretcher type beds. Or sit on the bare stone, and eat in a circle. Hand-milled rice. Curry fashioned from beans harvested from their fields. Oven-baked gritty flat breads hardened 'mongst the flickering flames of a chimney. Peanut and chili seasoning (ground in an immense granite hand-hewn mortar, larger than my son, as large as a small well, with a wooden mortar of a couple of metres long). And, the family's only meat meal in six months: an unfortunate rooster from their yard, conveniently killed just down the road by Muslims in the Halal fashion, "so as to pass the blame on, so Hinduism remains unsullied" my husband remarked, with ironic crook of the mouth.

Anyway. I wanted to write a post on what entrepreneurial lessons one can learn from the sullied, chaotic and quite exhausting mess that is India (we all need a holiday now, the whole household is sick with colds and fever on our return!) - the India of the supposedly 'developing' cities, I must add, as the villages I mention were a refreshing and inspiring break for all of us, especially memorable my son sitting on the floor with a slate and chalk, taking part in a lesson in the open-air country school. To my credit, I've already written it - scribbling a lone page of notebook on our very last night in India. In a tiny sand-beige airless apartment in Bangalore, to which my in-laws have happily migrated, leaving their large million-dollar mansion in Sydney (you could take them from their birthplace, 30 years ago, but not their birthplace from the hearts and souls of my in-laws, as it's turned out) and where they live in a space proportionate to their former entrance hall, in absolute frugality - and peace.

But that post will be for next time - for tommorow. For now, I reflect on what home means. And for me, to some extent, it means the freedom to sit at my desk at my pre-determined hours (I'm a creature of habit, when it comes to production) with my favourite mug of steaming soy milk and raw cocoa, and write. And look at my wallpaper which has trees stretching out to infinity. And wonder why I prefer it to the dust-stained real-life trees of India. Maybe I'm not that different at all from my in-laws, in some ways.

And, Oh, P.S. To all those experiencing marital disharmony. If you get on with your parents-in-law, if you have that warm glow of affection for the family of your spouse: it could very well save your marriage. Good night!

The Invitation

2009-10-08T04:08:00.000-07:00

Peoples, I am busy. Very busy. Writing a book - or rather editing it, hoping for publication some time in the near future (no, not a novel! Yes, 'self-help', as it were - no, not 'as it were', it IS self-help. So there you go.) I will flog it to y'all when it's physically manifest in the universe (grin, meaning, made of proper bound printed paper and not pixels). No I haven't got a book deal. Yet!

Here's a poem, in the meantime - not mine, I hasten to admit, though I might try my hand next time:

The Invitation
(What follows was written by a Native American poet named Orion Mountain Dreamer)

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams,
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic,
or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself,
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul;
if you can be faithless - and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it's not pretty, every day,
and if you can source your life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of a lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone,
and do what needs to be done to feed your children.

It doesn’t interest me who you are,
how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the Fire with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,
and truly like the company you keep in empty moments.

can you afford it?

2009-09-29T01:56:00.001-07:00

I haven't been posting as much lately. Instead, I've been having a standoff with my husband; trying (and often failing) to get to the gym; carting my children back and forth; finishing a book by Anthony Robbins (which, if you read one book this year, read it!: written in the '80s, it still has the power to transform); and attending 'webinars' by Rachel Elnaugh, an entrepreneur and ex-Dragon's Den judge - who now has all sorts of lovely motivational and coaching stuff as one of the many strings to her bow.

I'd like to share with you a great comment from last week's webinar, a conversation with Nick Williams and Marie-Claire Carlyle (two equally fascinating and enlightened entrepreneurs/business gurus worth looking up. P.S. only thing, Marie Claire: your webpage title sounds a bit like a bra' ad...sorry!). During the discussion they touched on why the phrase 'I can't afford it' is (and I quote Rachel) "perhaps the most negative mantra you can possibly have around money...it keeps you stuck in a holding pattern of scarcity, lack and limitation".

To me this was something which really struck a chord. Because I had been telling myself the exact same thing for a while now. And the phrase is bandied back and forth so much in our family kitchen I'm almost surprised it's not written up on the blackboard! But if you've got ambition and a tad of self-awareness in life (got the first, trying to develop the second!) naturally this kind of self-limiting statement starts to grate. And you need to overturn it.

The irony in our family is that we'd found ourselves in this rather tight financial reality simply because, a year and a half ago, we decided to shoot for the stars and make a dream reality: by moving to a rather dilapidated home with a large garden. And, we actually couldn't afford it! Not by any permutation of accounts prepared by my husband, our resident accountant. But, we'd fallen in love with this snapshot of rural England, an oasis in what is basically still London town. A garden with more mature trees than you can shake a stick at. Purple buddhleia, the 'butterfly' flower, curling round and coexisting with ancient clematis. An old stone well hidden behind a mound of ivy (and still hidden, as far as the children are concerned!) Blackcurrent, redcurrent and gooseberry bushes, bitter bramley and sweet, perfumed pink apples. Lots of grass to run around on and kick footballs. Space for barbeques. Heaven.

But, inside the house, there were holes in the walls, a 1930's, hideous old-folks' home-gone-wrong-decor/layout, and a kitchen barely suitable for cooking in. This all said to me: "It has potential!" (If I've got one skill in life, as an architect's daughter, I can see potential. Where's there's potential, the nasty outer wrappings don't matter).

Now, we "couldn't (really) afford" this house. But we WANTED it. So desperately. So much that we somehow begged, borrowed, sorted through financing options, and squeezed ourselves into the deal. With the result that we really couldn't afford the removal van to move us to the new house! I spent three weeks, with the children at their grandparents', carting boxes back and forth from seven a.m. until three (a.m.). Alone.

Still on the subject of the house, whether or not the price was right (it was a deal at the time of contract, but that was the height of the housing bubble...) our quality of life has been immeasurably improved as a result of shoe-horning ourselves into this move we wouldn't accept we couldn't afford. Despite my fight with the grim interior!. And, even as we agreed we had no money for furniture (we'd inherited much from the old gentleman who sold the house to us - much in the same vein as the rest of the decor), I wouldn't admit defeat: I'm rather wired like that. I resolved to improve our lot with what we'd got. One half-term, armed with paint-stripper, new season paint colours and textures, varnishes and a lot of inspiration, I transformed grotty 1930's art-deco and dingy cracked 1960's pieces into items which any interior designer would be proud of. And all practically for free. The result gave me far more satisfaction than being flush and going to BoConcept with a budget (well, almost!). The satifaction of taking action, mainly. Because if you take action, results are sure to follow. And from not being able to afford furniture, visitors now ask me where I got my sideboard and coffee table.

There are endless permutations to what you can get out of twisting the "I cannot afford it" situation to your advantage. Here's another. Recently I discovered a truly fabulous painter. Whose paintings I coveted, every last one of them. With no budget, I was so determined to buy a particular inspiring picture I'd fallen in love with, that I asked if - as a stranger, over the internet - possibly, I might pay in installments. This type of 'lateral thinking' - creative solutions as a result of pure stubborness ("if I can't, then I'll find a way"!) - is a great exercise in how to achieve what initially may seem impossible in a given situation and in life in general. Rarely is there a problem which cannot be solved by some form of creativity, or by taking small steps to 'bite' off chunks of the problem bit by bit with a view to resolving it entirely in the future. Sarah, the painter, said "yes"! And I'm going to enjoy saving up for it so much, knowing I own a little more each month... and I'm going to treasure it especially when, eventually, this seascape graces my wall and the power of the waves remind me of the inherent power in life and nature. And how we, as human beings, can harnass latent power to improve our lives too.

The key is often how we conceptualise obstacles to ourselves: how we represent problems. As Rachel says, if we think we "can't afford" something, we are telling ourselves that we are not capable of finding a solution. That we are unable (un-able, un-deserving) to afford it. If we tell ourselves that there might be ways and means to enable what we want, we unlock great reserves of creativity. We unlock the subconscious to work with our rational mind to help 'dream up' ways of achieving our dreams. We're telling ourselves we're capable and competant enough to overcome the odds.

Never forget the power of words. Language is important. How we talk to ourselves is important. So, I won't tell myself again "I cannot afford it". But, instead, "How can I afford it?" It's a much more productive, and positive, way of looking at financial obstacles - or any other problems.

Similarly, after writing (and telling myself) for the past few weeks that: "My husband and I aren't talking...my marriage is crumbling!" I realised that perhaps he wasn't talking to me because I wasn't talking to him - and that our relationship was "crumbling" as a result! So I talked to him, overcoming my pride, my stubborness, and my pre-conceptions. And, hey ho, things have been resolved! We still have incompatibilities, but it's better to think: "We have incompatibilities. How could we harnass these to make life easier? and how can we overcome these to make life less difficult?" than: "We have incompatibilites. We're doomed!"

...Sometimes in life it's not about what we cannot afford to have or do. It's about what we can't afford NOT to have or do... let's make it happen!

castle in the sky

2009-09-21T02:24:00.000-07:00

I went to a children's birthday party the other day. At this house. Suffice to say, it's not mine. (I could say: "in my dreams"...)

People talk about dreams in the abstract, far away in the distance of another reality- or unreality. But this house was - is - the embodiment of someone's dream. The couple who built it, had also built another one - and at some point, prior to finishing it, came upon major financial problems, and ground to a halt. A big halt. It was all documented on "Grand Designs", a popular TV reality show we have here in the UK which - yes! - documents the architecture of dreams. Literally. People who build their dream properties from scratch. Who watch, day after day, as the fabric of imagination takes shape in bricks and mortar (or vast expanses of glass, metal, cement, wood). Very addictive.

Well, this couple (in Clapham, London) had built their house around a protected tree: an innovative solution to wanting more space but being unable to chop it down and extend into the garden. All very interesting. But, what is more interesting to me is that once obviously wasn't enough, problems and all. Sometime later, they built a second ground-breaking house (the one I was honoured enough to visit. They're not there, by the way. It's rented out.) It had become a habit, dreaming. And then making dreams reality.

Now, I hear you - "this is a different planet!", you scream, "not my little life, of mortgage payments, credit crunch misery!", etc. "These people could afford it! This is the world of people who have serious cash!" But: listen up! We can all dream, can't we? 'Cos only by dreaming do we give ourselves the first lift up the ladder to making imagintion reality - one day, somewhere, somehow. If you believe all is possible, I'm not saying you'll make it possible - but you'll certainly lay the groundwork to bring it nearer. Hard work, self-confidence, and a mad, mad belief in turning straw into gold, then have to be added to the pot. Stir, keep on working hard, don't lose sight of your goals, and sometimes - just sometimes - you'll achieve what you thought was impossible.

Dreaming and persisting are all we have, those of us with ambition (and if you don't, I envy you - truly! - you're at peace, are you not?). To dream is easy enough. To persist is harder. Even when your purse-strings are long, to undertake major innovative projects still requires balls. So there you go. It's just all about the varying degrees involved. But the two key ingredients, the dreaming and the persistence? - the substance of those doesn't change, whatever your starting line.

Myself, I persist in dreaming, in laughing, in seeing the silver lining. Even when, at home, my once-perfect marriage flounders into dull silences and shoulders turned as we pass in darkened corridors, wordless. Live on mumbled acknowledgements or falsely upbeat matter-of-fact discussions involving kids, logistics, dates. Disinterest numbs the air. Two parallel but diverging lives, bound by the glue of two little children who love their parents equally. Yet I persist in believing it's all for the best, persist in finding light where there's shadow. I can't allow myself to give up. Things will get better. And so I walk round smiling, outside and inside. Because I know there are plenty of dreams left to make me smile.

And, I persist in stirring up those bubbles of social enthusiasm, even when friends slowly return to work (the kids are at that age now) and the school run gradually becomes vacant of familiar faces. And when long-lost souls from recent reunions seep back into their lives over the ether, reminding me the past is the past and the present's entirely separate. Again, when my chosen vocation accessorizes one silver laptop and a cup of green tea as companions over hours of the day. But I won't be reduced to feeling lonely! Oh no, siree!! It's all temporary. I'm working towards my dream...the parties will return, summer will swing back round, there'll be fun and laughter and new faces to discover. Believe. I do.

Life isn't instant. It's blocks upon blocks upon blocks, and sometimes you lose sight of the shape you're creating for the piles of rubble (emotional, psychological, you name it) you're surrounded with. True both when you construct a real house, and true too when you're building castles in the air. Often, you cannot see the stars for the clouds. But you still know they're there.

You just have to keep building and keep believing. The journey's no fun, sometimes. There'll be obstacles and tears and late nights and despair.

Welcome, my friend. Keep on dreaming. Keep on believing.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...

2009-09-15T02:00:00.000-07:00

The loneliest occupation in the world, I think, is being a writer. It's all about delayed gratification (a phrase and concept I relish, but the reality's tougher to enjoy). You're a virtual recluse, alone in front of a desk as the autumnal slate gray sky glowers menacingly outside,and the taupe computer screen glows dully inside, numbing the vision. And you write. And write. Tap, tap, the soundtrack to those moments, hours, days of your life. There's no excitement, bar what you put down on the page. There's no social activity. Your words are your friends, and if there are characters, you almost grow into them - they're your only companions. And all this, hoping to get a kick ONE DAY - cradling that book with your name emblazoned on it, something in black and white (or black and red) for posterity.

It's better, I presume, if you've got a deal in hand (where holding that book with your name's an undisputed truth - but the how you're going to fulfil all those expectations, and within what time frame, becomes your bugbear intead... life's never perfect!). If, on the other hand, there's no contract on the table, you just write. You tap. Sometimes disconsolately. The words and images regurgitated out with hard, long retches. Sometimes you tap in the equivalent of furious scribble, like a bitch on heat, desperate to reach satisfaction and an eventual birth. For your sake, and for the sake of hope. Tapping out your dreams. And all the time suspecting that those hours of solitude (and days, and late evenings, and time stolen from family, and curt brush-offs to children's insistent queries - and associated guilt, the bindweed of who works from home); and the multitude of stifled yawns, of stiff backs, of tea breaks and cereal bowls balanced by the keyboard - may, quite possibly, may, come to nothing. A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury...signifying nothing. Quote, unquote. Or perhaps, it's the detail that counts. All words pre-exist, most plots are re-hashes, most advice has been given before. You're almost like a window cleaner at times, trying to polish the surface of language to convince your audience they're seeing the view for the first time.

It's even worse if you are writing not a novel (that one's sitting dusty in the drawer waiting to be remembered, revamped, resuscitated, and have the breath of faith blown into it...), but a non-fiction work dealing with, how to put it?, how to eliminate compulsive behaviour through the power of the mind (yes, I'm also training to be an NLP practitioner - check it out). It means you can't even go for a slice of chocolate bar at the kitchen counter out of pure boredom. Because that's called 'displacment activity' - otherwise known as procrastinating (do you write - yawn?! or eat? or lie down and sleep?!) And if you're a writer, and you procrastinate, so will your career. (But I still desire that cocoa kick to offset the solitude, the backache and the nagging voices telling me I'll never make it).

no words

2009-09-04T04:39:00.000-07:00

There's a lady I know - a fellow Mum. Her son is dying.

Just a few months ago, he was in my son's class. One of the eldest, but also the brightest, head and shoulders above the rest in reading and maths. Reluctantly, the school transferred him up a form, to the year above, mid-term. His mother thought his headaches were part due to the change in pace, but he was happier and more fulfilled. A grand future ahead.

The tumour, in that precious brain, is deep. Too deep for successful operation, or further chemo. A young brain remembers.

Pray for a miracle, you think: beg the gods, whoever they might be, whichever faith... what does it matter when the desperation and despair is beyond belief? The instinct of a parent goes beyond rational thought. I'd lay down my life, my everything, to save a child. Wouldn't you?

I don't pray, normally. But for this Mum, her husband, this child, his sister, their friends and relatives, I'm praying. Hoping for a miracle. Because I don't know, don't dare to imagine, what I'd do with myself in such a position. "It doesn't bear thinking about", said my mother. Actually, it does. You don't just walk your thoughts away from tragedy, glad not to be involved personally. Or I don't, I find it somehow cold. Ancient peoples didn't have the head-in-the-sand, dismissive attitude to death we - in our materialistic, headonistic, society - more often than not show today. It's selfish to believe that another's tragedy shouldn't touch us. It should. Part of what being human means.

Nevertheless, I too am a tad superstitious. For example, I'm not one of those people who vehermently wish to win the lottery, to be on the end of fate's outstretched hand. After all, it can go both ways: there can be random acts of generosity by the Universe's roll of dice but also the shadow and taint of tragedy, waiting to fall on...?. It harks back centuries to be wary about wishing too much for anything you don't create yourself.

I had a dream last night: my children in a car, careering away along a country road with no-one else inside, me peddling furiously alongside on a bicycle, screaming, a sense of horrible dread and powerlessness. Luckily, as often occurs in my nightmares, in my semi-conscious state, I was then able to direct the dream (like a movie) and have a team of police in a helicopter winch down to enter and stop the car (and I made the country road straight and empty, and the children asleep so as not to alarm them).

My son's classmate's mother doesn't have that choice and there is no dream to wake up from.

There's nothing I can say to my fellow Mum except: "I'm sorry. I'll pray for you". Not even - "be strong" (how can you?) And realise, deep within oneself, once again, that it's our duty to ourselves and to our children to make the most of our time on this planet: both ours, and theirs. And to teach them that nothing else is as precious as health, energy and life itself. Let's make the most of it.

Get involved in fundraising here and set up your own mini charity here

Old friends

2009-08-31T03:43:00.000-07:00

A couple - good friends - came for a barbeque. It was high time - my five-year-old had been a babe of six months, when we last sat and broke bread together at our place (another house: one of the myriad addresses in the nomadic existence we'd had since settling down in this country half a decade ago). But though the location has changed, this long-standing friendship, thankfully, has not.

There's no substitute for the glow of close company, forged over years - the type of bond which doesn't break, even with a four-and-a-half-year gap between physically meeting (and often many many months inbetween, twixt emailing or 'phoning). And so we sit, indulging in a dance of catch-up: news versus reminiscing. An easy balance of old experience and new.

Wine flows, happiness and laughter and shared jokes trip off the tongue. There's a slightly charred smell of cooking, over the sweet perfume of fallen apples littering the grass around the tree. This could never be less than an all-day thing. From late lunch, talk about life, business and ambitions wrapped in snippets of children's play (ours - they have none - yet). Sitting at the green wrought-iron table in the shade with flashes of footballs kicked past, little voices calling: the younger generations thus occupied, we had our discussions in peace as third helpings were devoured and bottles of beer, sparkling with cool condensation, popped. Elbows propped. Bliss.

When we got married - during our actual wedding reception - this couple sat outside the venue on a Caribben garden wall, for hours during a similarly stretched-out afternoon. They missed the revelry - engaged in a fierce summit-meeting about their future and their relationship. Whether our wedding had sparked this tete-a-tete, we never knew, and never asked, just chided them (gently, and with good humour) for being absent for the toasts and, especially, the cake piled high with flowers and soaked in rum! So many years later, as our marriage (as do all, I suspect) grinds with painful effort over rocky terrain, their union (undefined by vows and paperwork) is as solid (and as joyful) as a honeymoon. And their co-founded business is going from strength to strength.

My friends started a venture from nothing - and this, even, after suffering huge losses, financial and emotional. His inheritance, sole legacy of a father's early death, was gobbled up by an unwise investment involved with dodgy real-estate deals in Asia, spectural scammers who disappeared into the burble of low-life India leaving lives ruined and purses void. The fact that my husband's family was (unwittingly) involved in various introductions could have left our friends sour, but instead they soldiered on and six months later put everything they had into a new hope for the future. An all-or-nothing calculated gamble, for him, a second start-up, with the currency of the serial entrepreneur: brash hope. Which paid off. And it's prospering.

She's thirty-eight now, and it's her brainchild, her baby, she who had the light-bulb moment in the first place. Now, thoughts of international expansion, of franchising, of uber-branding. But other thoughts, too: of a real family, flesh-and-blood, the pattering of little feet. In a way, she envies (or at least, aspires to) what I have (a ready-made family now, no more pregnancies or nappies or potty-training. Two well-adjusted, bright children at school).

And I, more than in a way, envy (or at least, aspire to) what she has: a business of her own, a commercial legacy and a success in entrepreneurship.

Well, I've been doing a spot of reading - Anthony Robbins, whom I won't start to hype, just check it out yourselves. I'm going to work with what I have, just as my friends did. That doesn't, of course, mean you cannot shoot for the stars, or have huge dreams. It just means that the building must fit its foundations as well as the time and materials available. To dream, you must first be realistic and draw up your drafts and plans. As the daughter of an architect, it's a discipline which I should (repeat, should) be familiar with... by now.

Our friends left late. Lunch morphed into afternoon snacks, morphed into dinner. Still-warm late summer breeze morphed into a slight dampness, overcome gradually by strings of chill wind signalling cardigans and wraps and eventually a decamping onto the couch to watch sport and continue fragmented discussions. Light excitement and close engagement and animated chat, evolved into heavy warm contentment and the satisfied silences preceeding the end of an enjoyable day of friendship reunited.
By the time the hubble of voices departed through the front door, kisses and promises stamped, it was past the kids' bathtime and dark outside.

Interaction with friends at this stage in life oft includes the realisation that we can all wish for aspects of each others' lives. This of course is an opportunity to bring into focus what we've achieved already individually. And to understand that with the differing experiences gained, we're in the position to support each other in calibrating our aims further over the years or months to come. True partnership works this way. Having gone through university together, these friends and I happily share a real desire to help one another with the 'assignment' of life, shared technology projects for grumpy tutors fortunately being long gone!

Somehow, I suspect, there won't be a four-and-a-half-year gap until the next time we meet. We're back in each others' lives again, and ready to exchange. Mutual exchange. Support. Friendship. True friendship.

marital (dis)harmony

2009-08-19T11:26:00.000-07:00

This is yesterday. Go out to romantic dinner with husband. Or, rather, intention was just dinner - but restaurant (river view at sunset) fits the romantic bill. Stunning menu. Nice atmosphere. Me, all glammed up.

I brush down my floaty silk skirt, in which I feel free and gorgeous. It's got a print with orange and brown and electric blue, exotic and flattering - and the colours of sunset: beyond the expanses of glass the river is still and the sunset sky, actually, that same electric blue, merging into an orange tinge beyond the blackening silhouetted bridge. It's the time of day where, magically, the fading screen of natural daylight meets the new manmade glow of lamps and bulbs - and everything is clear and defined but yet strangely hazy, in waiting. There's a promise held in the air of darkness beyond the wondrous setting, sun going down. A ethereality. Beloved of photographers, this magical light, brief moment in time. And of me. My favourite time of day. A time for lovers, when heart strings pull and the silky strings of jazz are at their most apt. Not for us, though. We're married. I feel an uncomfortable nostalgia, brush it off.

But, life is good: oh yes. The oysters are unsurpassable: melt-in-the-mouth, with that lingering taste of freshness and ocean. I have to wait between mouthfuls to fully stretch out the indulgence. Wine's cradling me already in its basking chill-out haze.

We're making nice conversation. Not the heady romantic stuff (we're well past that) but reasonable exchanges, after all, what do you expect after 6 years of marriage? The mains arrive, service is courteous and perfectly timed. My black olive bread, of burgandy hue, explodes with mediterranean earthiness. The seabass falls neatly into flaky chunks beneath the crispy, shiny parchment of skin. Complements the creamy mussels sauce - oh, what a surprise! - and the waxy asparagus which snaps satisfyingly between my teeth. Heaven. I'm in heaven. Nice food, nice atmosphere. Just my thing.

And then. We start a conversation about, of all things, Facebook. Let me fill you in. Until recently, I didn't 'do' Facebook. Then I waved my prejudices (about time-wasting etc.) to see a dear friend's new baby pics - and, of course I had to join! I discovered, that used in moderation, Facebook is...well, Great!

I'm on the subject merely to state that two 'famous' bloggers, with books published and all (bestsellers to boot) are now my 'friends' on Facebook. I tell my husband how, in a way, that's kinda amazing. The fact that this era of networking and contact is so, well, facilitating (for someone growing up with royal mail and an egg timer attached to the telephone, paid per unit into a money box!). I mean, I can ask advice at the drop of a hat from people I admire and respect! (even if I rather do less fancy a digital scribble on their Facebook 'walls', each one to his own use of technology!). I'm gushing with the positivity of the evening and how in fact, it's rather nice to see what friends are up to all around the world, and not just at Christmas and birth/marriage/death occasions. To note NOT that someone you know's in the process of drinking Colombian coffee (!) - but, maybe, taken a trip, rather, or been to an interesting place recently. It brings, in a small way, distant and well-missed friends a tad closer. (I waste no more time than a few minutes every few days - which, considering I've only just signed up, is the rate at which friends are 'adding' me. Admittedly the photos are all one-way: I don't and won't post photos on Facebook, bar one profile one. But my friends do, and it's interesting.) So, well, it's all an example of me having made an incorrect value judgement, which again, is a learning opportunity in life. Positive, all positive.

But, on the other side of the conversation, my husband's not positive at all. He's goading me, challenging me. Why I change my loudly-voiced opinions so easily. Why a Christmas card or a phone call isn't enough. "If you really cared about your friends you'd phone them up" sort of thing. Why it's a waste of time to read what people are having for breakfast, etc. What they're doing in the minutiae of their everyday lives being irrelevant.

I'm trying to explain, I don't read the trivial stuff. And how I used to think that way but have seen a different angle. And that anyway, naturally and of course, it's not a necessity. But, it's NICE! It gives me an idea, an insight, a feeling of warmth even, to glean the smallest snapshot of the lives of people I care about or am interested in, or even curious about. Saves you wondering, as in: "I wonder what dear so-and-so is doing these days in Japan/I wonder what dear another-friend is up to in Dubai/I wonder how ex-good-pal's business is going/I wonder what became of fun-acquaintance-who-emails-every-18-months". It's not necessary, in the way that eating oysters isn't necessary. BUT, it's nice. I mean, life isn't all about what's necessary. Christ.

But this conversation ain't going nowhere. I'm trying to explain, maybe getting a little defensive. My other half's provoking, prodding, questioning, provoking, prodding, questioning. This isn't what I signed up for at a 'nice' dinner, I'm thinking. I say so. He says, he's just challenging me. I say, I'm trying to explain but he's not listening. And why challenge me? there's no competition here, we're meant to be enjoying our night out! It doesn't help, things are escalating. I'm trying my utmost to concentrate on the melting flavours of my fish - "be aware. Be present. Live the moment"...

Then: "You need to GROW UP"...I, umm, WHAT? I can't believe he's just said that! Out at dinner with his wife! I thought, I was having a nice conversation and suddenly...this is how it all twists? I can hear the evening deflating, like those old movies when the projector suddenly winds down and dies - eeeuuurrr splutter!!. And the bright picture suddenly crumples and fades away with a whine of the soundtrack. CRASH.

"You know, there are plenty of guys who'd be only too happy to come to dinner with me and not ruin it by telling me 'to grow up' - quite unprovokedly - halfway through..."

(oops. wrong thing to say, probably. like a red flag to a bull)

..."No, I just meant, that, in that case, why do YOU, my HUSBAND of all people, have to ruin a perfectly lovely evening by being so...patronising. I mean, insulting! I just find that, well, incredibly insulting. It shows a lack of respect for your wife."

Nope. He's now caught the plenty-of-guys thread and bashing it for all it's worth. But I didn't mean...

"Look, I NEVER said that I actually wanted to go to dinner with 'other' guys...but why do you have to ruin it when you're the actual person it's meant to be so...so..."

I tail off. Anyway the waitress is embarrassed, probably followed the whole thing, asking us if we want dessert. "No thankyou, we've had enough." (too right we have). Horrible stony silence ensues, we both look away. Down, at the river, up, whatever. Big, big wall in the way.

"I'm going." announces my husband. He gets up. I barely saw him pay the bill, too busy looking inside the crevice under my (quite sexy) top, way beneath the skin, inside my chest, in the centre of human emotion where a choking boulder's blinding me to what was a beautiful evening. All I can see now is this heaviness, in front of my eyes, in front of my thoughts. Like, how have things ended up like this? and how long have they really been like this?

I sit, alone, looking out at the river. Fixedly. Diluting the inevitable streak of pain into the orange glow of the lamps, washing it out into the inky dark. Listening to my breathing, inside, and calming my thoughts. There's a couple on the next table, and I can't help but hear. I'm staring past them, no change of expression, but can't help eavesdropping. Perhaps they heard us argue too, clash and repel like magnets, perhaps she feels some empathy. I dunno. I do, when their words drift past me.

"So what do we do now?" she asks. "You've just got your ideas" he says, low. "If that's what you think...but, I try my best. I really do. It seems it's not good enough."
"You don't understand", she says, monotone. "It never changes. We just don't seem to be able to connect, communicate, about this."
"So, what do we do?" (again) "Tell me, what do we do then?"
"I don't know. I really don't."
I sigh, internally. Get up, slowly, 'cos I'm aware that people must wonder why I'm still sitting there, alone.

Outside, my husband's in the car, headlamps on, engine running. Gagging to get out of there but going nowhere without his wife. That's life, buddy.
I get in.
We go home. We don't talk.
What an evening.

But - tommorow's another day. Never forget. No man's an island - even if you feel like it, bundled up on the very edge of the bed. Tommorow's another day. Marriage is hard. What did I do wrong? What do I not understand about the person I thought I understood so well? and why does he seem not to understand me any more? Is this what marriage is always about? (my parents still don't really have compatibility or understanding after more than 35 years of marriage). Does it get better when it just seems to have gotten worse? And, did I wake up one day on the wrong side of the tracks, suddenly? These are my jumbled thoughts as I drop into sleep.

Next morning, I wake up hearing the front door click shut, remember last night, shrug it off, and begin my day unburdened. Later on, we don't talk about it. Today is another day. You just have to remember why you're there, and repair the chips.

(But I still think telling your wife "to grow up" is wrong. I mean, isn't it?!)

P.S. Just saw a very interesting movie: "The Darjeeling Limited", about a brothers' spiritual journey. Quite arty, and thought-provoking. Highly recommended.

High maintenance

2009-08-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

So, I got back home to the big smoke. Leaving the little ones frolicking on the beach for a few more days @ Grandparents. And when I returned to an unkempt and overgrown and over-dusty and full-of-washing-to-be-done-home, it struck me. This is what occurs when you go away and/or take your foot off the pedal. Maintenance is the key. Meaning, a steady commitment applied on a continuous basis.

Y'know those nice tidy mansions with their perfect lawns and flower beds always in bloom? No cobwebs under the eaves or weeds between the paving stones? (it took only the two weeks for these to take up residence chez moi). Don't be deceived. They take, 'scuse the expression, a shitload of work. A SHITLOAD of gardeners, patio clearers with power washers, cleaners and window polishers. Nothing which looks polished or well-maintained gets or stays that way without constant polishing and maintenance. Not your house, or your car, or, indeed, yourself.

We women know that to look our best takes an ongoing routine of nutrition, exercise, manicures, pedicures, creams, hairdressers, wardrobe and make-up. If you let it slip, it'll show. Forget the just jumped out of bed and look fantastic thang. Save that for the 16-year olds. In fact, post-30, might as well include the guys in this. Because I've seen quite a few examples recently of how men age. Not well, generally, unless they make the effort to catch up with their wives' examples.

And, it's the same with the inner life. Thoughts, state-of-mind, confidence, self-worth; and their progeny: development, learning, improvement, fulfilment, success. It's got to be a daily exercise, castles forged from a daily brick day after day after day. Weeks, months, years. My son has taken less than a year, at age 5, to learn to read at the speed and with the vocabulary of an adult, to learn to read music as well, and to play the violin and recorder to the standard where he can perform tunes, reasonably complicated ones with all sorts of notes and up to 6 or 7 lines long. I know, however, how much effort was involved. A commitment to keeping the practice going almost every day, wherever. There's not been a holiday away where the violin and the reading books haven't come too. And before you brand me a 'pushy parent': it's his choice (if there's not self-motivation, it'll never work. Resentment isn't fertile ground for laying down knowledge or applying oneself to understand new and challenging skills). My son wants to 'be the best' so he can buy himself a Eurofighter jet when he grows up!!!

So, as I slowly but surely realise that there's no lounging to be done in this temporarily child-free house (despite the temptation!), it strikes me again, as it does again and again in life. It's the accumulated effort, applied on a daily basis, that'll put you in a position to win the race; plus, of course, the vision of what you want eventually to achieve. It may be a long way off, but, as Lao Tse (NOT Confucius, despite popular belief) said, a journey of a thousand miles (or even a hundred metres) starts with a single step. I'm sure Usain Bolt, world Champion Record-breaking runner, would agree.

a (flat) learning curve

2009-08-14T11:46:00.000-07:00

Right. This is just a "testing...testing...1,2,3" kinda post, so please refer below for the interesting stuff. I'm learning how to tag/link whatever you call it. Having been too lazy (or distracted, or otherwise engaged) so far to find out where/what to do.

Here goes. Let's try. For a wonderful painter, try clicking here

For a wonderful photographer, try clicking on this one

My god. Is that all?! I didn't realise there were icons to do this stuff (I was obviously traumatised by my meagre computing past: check this posting

And, just to reward myself, a piece of chocolate cake

...bloody hell. Way too simple! there was a real gap between how complicated I thought this would be when I decided to find a moment to learn, and how primary-school simple it is. Hyperlinks! Bah!
..Right. Next I'm going to learn HTML. That's what I thought it was all about. That's a start to the website I want to eventually set up. (And the book I'm planning on writing). Where's the challenge otherwise if all you do is click on an icon?!

...[even if it DID take me 4 whole months to find it: i.e. look up beyond my words to the formatting possibilities on the frame. Equals: Deep and narrow concentration span - or just plain blind?]

The Beach

2009-08-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

The sand's soft, the sea clear. Where water meets sky, barely-there horizon, darker blue-gray, delineating the shimmering silver. Sunny. A stretch of coastline, golden croissant, encrusted with the colour and energy of holiday fun. Barbecue wafts across. Teenagers spray sand. A toddler, tiny hippo, padding. Red inflatable maneouvres diagonally, past muslim family, mums splashing fully garmented. My kids line up another shade and shape of fresh seaweed, no smell, newly collected, emerald green. It's hot. It's calm. I sigh and stretch. Happiness.

Surprise? We're in England! Could be anywhere bar the little beach huts in a row, some with striped curtains, and - yes, that obese couple over there with the footie shirts on, matching the (too round) hippo toddler with a aertex tee proclaiming: "Rooney...ROONEY" (no, geezer. Not with that unhealthy physical start in life, sorry). But there's no 'English tourist abroad' misbehaviour here. It's all lovely, well-behaved, pleasant, everyone's having fun. It's a nice England, this stretch of little cheap paradise, boutique seaside town, without the brash corn of Tracey Emin's Margate - thank God. Perhaps this country would need a prescription of sun and sea more often, to forget the governmental screw-ups, knife crime, unemployment and endemic drinking culture. Because I'm enjoying this moment, not feeling like I want to emigrate (as I often do) and even thinking - "yes! you've got it all here, on this beach,on this...what is it you call it in 2009?: 'STAYCATION'!!...and we didn't even have to spend the money! Hurray!"

Then I start thinking that I can't, shouldn't, be 40 and broke. Of course, my husband doesn't come into this: as a woman, I hate - no, detest - no, cannot ABIDE! -not having my own money. Of course, I did have it once. Got injected straight into bricks and mortar. For all practical purse-string-opening-purposes, however, it's gone.(Anyway, I want it back. To do what I'd like with. Splash around, if I wish. And a career of my own, to boot.)

Meanwhile, to my left, my daughter's lugging a bucket almost the size of her, with a uniquely determined set face and little muscles tensed. She manages it. And I smile to myself.

Then I start running over all my business ideas. One website one and one product lightbulb. Or two, if you're thinking future range expansion (I dream deep and wide). I'm staring at the line between sky and sea in the afternoon shimmer and distressing the cogs in my head, turning them this way and that. Doing all the psycho-speak to myself, the neuro-linguistic-programming [look it up folks if you dunno, it can change your outlook] on my own doubts, cropping up here and there across the sea of thoughts and obstructing like those mossy sea-walls break up the bay.

I'm a woman. On the beach. On holiday. Even if only 10 minutes from my parent's house, you can still classify it as that, here, today. In the balmy sunshine. With the kids playing and waves lapping.

But as soon as I chill out into the relaxed zone, I'm in this mental 'office', plotting, thinking, planning. Hmmmm......

...now, if I were rich, successful and on a beach in Bali, with a cocktail in hand, what would I be thinking?.. Would I zone out THEN??....there's the rub.

I'd like to have the chance to find out...

"Mummmy! The tide's coming in!!"

I'm in a meeting, dear

2009-08-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

Hello, umm, I'm in a meeting.
Actually, I've got a few minutes. What is it?
Ok, I'm listening.
You always get frustrated when you stay at your parents' place.
Well just enjoy the free childcare!
OK, ok, I know that's not the issue.
Life can't be one big excitement, ya know.
Well just enjoy the sunshine and fresh air then.
Yes I know that's not the issue. But even so.
Listen, you're always creatively frustrated.
I mean, you've even got a blog telling the world.
No, I don't read it.
Yes I am a little tired of you banging on about this.
Well you DID ask, so I'm telling you.
Whadd'ya mean you've got no-one else to moan to? You write a blog!
Yes you ARE the archetypal frustated stay-at-home mum.
Well get off your arse and do something then!
I know you're trying. Well you've gotta be patient.
I know staying with your parents for two weeks makes you feel like a teenager.
Such a bad thing? I wouldn't say! There are several benefits to being 16 I can think of!
OK, I won't joke. It was a bloke thing.
Listen, I've got a meeting to attend.
OK so take action then instead of blabbering on.
What? your ex-boyfriend, the one you hated so much, is a global executive?
And on facebook in a brand new Ferrari?
And you used to do his homework for him?
Yes I can kinda understand you're pissed off but you're a woman you know.
I mean, having kids and looking after them is the most important job in the world.
Ok, Ok I won't go there. I know it is and it isn't, if you say so.
Yes I know the kids are your greatest achievement but you need more in life. IF YOU SAY SO!!! ...so get on with it then!
OK,sorry, I am listening, I always do. Yes I know it's all part of the process, if you will.
Oh, about that ex-boyfriend again, well really I'm not that interested, you know.
Yes, I do feel better if you say he was a supreme tosser, if you say so.
So,Ok, you feel you're far superior. How do I know? You told me he's a tosser! I know. But that's all in the past.
Well, just because he's got a brand new Ferrari and you haven't doesn't mean he's acheived more than you.
Material things aren't everything. I know you agree fully. Yes it is irrational. You should just ignore it.
I mean, he might sleep in it and not have a flat! You said he's that kind of poser!
Yes, maybe it was a test drive, if that'll make you happy.
Yes I know we should never measure success by material wealth.
It just pissed you off, well don't let it.
Oh because he couldn't even spell.
Well let it go.
Listen I've a meeting to attend to.
I'm a bit fed up of your frustrated stay-at-home mum scenario.
OK I'll remember that.
OK it's all a challenge in life.
Yes it's right to aim high. And take action.
Well I've got to take action. My meeting?
OK. Forget about your parents bickering.
Yes we do bicker too. It's normal.
No, not in front of the kids.
Listen - I've GOT to go.
Forget about the Ferrari.
Bye. Bye. Bye.

(thanks and acknoweldgements to Millennium Housewife (see blogs) for the format inspiration...I've got to learn how to hyper-link, dammit!)

plum jam

2009-08-02T09:33:00.001-07:00

Back again in the bloom-adorned haven of Grandparents' Kentish garden - and, thank God, finally an English summer day to be proud of, despite all the cardigans and wellington boots I'd packed for the kids. Clever Granny (my mother, she of computer programming and near-photographic memory and 8 languagues) has taken my 5-year-old to the local Airforce museum where this weekend a special display of military vehicles and aircraft is being held. As usual, he is no doubt astounding all within earshot by cataloguing the specs of his favourites: amongst others, Mig, F-22, Nighthawk, Jaguar, even the first world war Sopwith Camel, he knows them all: at another Aircraft Museum (in Brussels) with over 100 planes, he walked around recognising most of the aircraft by sight before we'd even approached the information boards. "Such a leedle boy, mais quelle information!" gasped one of the staff. A discussion with an elderly British tourist didn't fail to dent his confidence: "Well, I mistook the Blenheim for the Lancaster, but now I know the Lancaster's got 4 engines instead of 2", mused my boy.

Later on, Clever Granny and her charge return. He's all excited about having sat in a cockpit and a simulator (and probably a combination of the two, what would I know?) and the difference between joy stick and fly-by-wire (?). He runs off to draw and document everything he's seen.

My 3-year-old daughter is busy with Grumpy Grandpa (who is NEVER grumpy with his granddaughter, who thinks he's a King) setting up a shop, painting abstract pictures and putting on dance shows. Grumpy Grandpa and little Miss (little Miss Prima Donna, beautiful, stubborn, get-away-with-everything-cute and get-my-own-way-by-any-means miss) are a match made in baby-sitting heaven. They both give each other the full attention they each crave with no-one to curtail or nag: she's his little Princess and he's the bees knees, happily reciprocatingly bolstering up egos all day long. Result: you can leave them contentedly playing for hours.

My husband sits on the periphery of all this activity, like a spare wheel, and with my second-hand cold virus, reading the Sports section of the paper. I bring him a coffee, thinking guiltily that he looks rather redundant and deciding, on a whim, that a bit of wifely attention might help. He lifts up an empty mug with murky residue sat beside him on the carpet. "Did you ask if I wanted one?" he enquires. "I just made one in the kitchen for myself. Didn't you see?"

I give him the mug, saucer and piece of fruit cake anyway. With a nod like, well whatever, eat/Drink it, it can't harm you (AT LEAST I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING).

Lunch over, the kids are still busy, involved with Grandparents and drawings. My husband's standing alone in the garden with a teacup, looking thoughtful and dishevelled. He enjoys being at my parents' house for the pure relaxation it entails, usually watching sport, reading or sleeping while everyone else's occupied with other stuff. No nagging either, for once.

I walk up to him. I too feel more relaxed here. At home we meet early morning and late evening, too tired to talk except about the kids or work. Weekends back in city life are marred by chores and errands. Married life suffers. Parallel lives, work and kids, are our standard. Seem to be our fate. I know that we're both philosophical about reality, but the partnership, as it once was, no doubt suffers (I don't even, you see, dare say "romance"...)

I reach up and give my husband a cheeky kiss on the cheek. He looks at me without changing expression. A statue. I want to show him the plum trees down the end of the garden, which feed Clever Granny's super plum jam production. My husband likes the concept of grow-your-own. And he loves the plum jam. So: "Come!" I say, and link my arm into his reluctant one. "Come for a walk down the garden with me!"

My husband doesn't move. He looks at me, unimpressed. "Why?" "What?" he asks, rather in a monotone. I am unaffected. "Come! Let me take you for a little walk down the garden path!" I joke, jolly, with cheeky undertones. He looks at me. He's unimpressed. Or by the undertone. I think: "That's marriage for you." (And not too bothered. Used to it. I gave up living my life for others long ago).

He comes nevertheless, meekly or else resignedly, to look at the plum trees.
"I've seen them already" he says...."But what a lot of plums!" he adds, as an afterthought, impressed nonetheless.

"Look at how the plums are this beautiful matte lilac and when you rub them they turn shiny and dark purple?" I spout, fascinated. The miracle of nature never ceases to amaze me.

"I know", he says.

There's such a difference in enthusiasm between the children and their father. I wonder if it's age, or marriage, that does it. I shrug it off. As I've said, parallel lives. Parallel lives. I make myself happy in life. Make myself happy.

World and oyster

2009-07-29T03:57:00.000-07:00

So, we all trooped off to Brussels for a week to visit my Godmother (anyone who wants full explanation of the background to this perculiarly-English-unrelated-relation, just ask. It's 22:05 and I'm recovering from a cold virus - and feeling lazy).

My Godmother's a legend. In short:

She's visited almost 200 countries. No cheating - no counting principalities, islands owned by mainlands, transiting through airports at midnight - like I do when I tot up my lot. No, she's ravaged across maps, in-depth. Criss-crossed dictatorships. Fine-tooth-combed through the world, on horseback, shambolic buses, on foot. Dives, digs, guest-houses, family-run inns, student hostels, castles in Romania and yurts on the Steppes have all seen her whet their thresholds over the many years - and still do. She wrangled a visit to Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia before his deposition: as a private guest, walking past live cheetahs flanking the entrance. Went to the island of Zanzibar, when it was by special dispensation only. Tibet? Bhutan? Central African Republic? Laos? Kyrgystan? the Pantanal? (several times) Sudan? Libya? Kamchatsk? (look it up!) Tick, tick, tick, tick, etc. And etc. Etc. Etc. etc.

As an English-French interpreter sometimes sent on conference work overseas (French Africa, when it still existed), she got a taste for voyage in places like Isfahan (Iran) - where she'd end up after veering 'off-route' on the free days following contract end, exchanging the allocated first-class-return for econo trips around the mulberry bush instead. Travelling then remained her only passion after divorce and childlessness, and finally took over full-time from employment when she retired early twenty years ago from her post as a top interpreter for the European Commission.

Places I've never heard of. Places you cannot go now. Places she'd first visited in the 50s, and RE-visits to get the updated version (!). And so on. And so forth. She's just as likely to be traversing the Mongolian steppes on horseback, hiking through the desert, research volunteering in the deepest Amazonian rainforest, birdwatching, as leaping out a Zodiac inflatable in the Antarctic. Birdwatching, you ask? Well, recently, her love is combining birding with travelling. How about having seen every rare bird in the world (and being able to name and spot most of the less rare ones)? Hand in hand with having been to all their habitats, and traversed their migration paths, naturally.

We were visiting, last week, on one of the two, or perhaps three, weeks max you'll find my Godmother at home (per year). Sponsored by a large golden handshake from the European Commission, the money's had to stretch a good twenty years so far and will have to stretch, if she has her way, a good ten years more. No five-starring it. No Hiltons. Which is what she doesn't want, in any case. Is that the way to really - REALLY - get under the skin of a country, a city, a culture, a way of life?

If you mention a city, she'll tell you exactly what to go and see, and where, as well as all the surrounding localities and places to visit. Mention a country, you'll get a verbal "Lonely Planet!" rundown. Never forgets a name, a place, a sight. Mind like a map. Physically, on a walk, I can still barely keep up. On the level of I.Q, I suspect I lag way behind.

Oh, I forgot to mention. My Godmother's 76 (SEVENTY SIX. Soixante Seize. Sessanta Sei. Sessenta Seis. Sechs und Siebsich. Jesus!).

It's not only what she's done and how. It's the never-ending flow of stories (all true and most matter-of-fact) which just make you secretly kick yourself and promise to grow balls like her. Every time.

The occasion in Peru where a small mountain bus was held up by the 'Shining Path' Guerillas because of the couple of foreigners on board. "Young man!" said my Godmother, in immaculate Spanish, to the spotty 17-year old brandishing an AK-47 in everyone's faces as they stood around the now immobile means of transport, in the middle of nowhere. "I could be your Grandmother. So make it sharp, you're not going to leave us here for hours with no food or drink, are you?!" And his boss meekly trooped down the hillside to a local farmhouse, arriving back with Coca Cola and snacks, which they all sat down to share.

The time in God-knows-where on a flight from Outer Mongolia or something, in an old Russian aircraft which ran out of fuel at some godforsaken military airfield. She was shaking the drunk Russian control-tower operator awake, in her 'limited Russian', as he lay slumped at his screen, surrounded with vodka bottles (now I'm exaggerating the number of bottles, the rest is true).

And in India, after a week's fruitless buzzing around a protected forest reserve to catch a glimpse of that shangri-la of endangered species, a tiger in the wild, she strolled out after breakfast on the last day, across the barrier fences, alone. And felt a presence. Turning, saw a tiger but a few meters away. The tiger stared. My Godmother stared back, motionless. And the tiger turned tail and walked off. No, my Godmother wasn't at all alarmed: she knows tigers only attack from behind, as tribespeople she's encountered in her travels have made clear, wearing painted masks on the back of their heads to guard against attack. (In the guestroom at her house was the photo she took, tiger looking on. In a cheap frame, above the children's beds. They were delighted.)

Back at home in Europe, whilst staying with her last week, we talked one day about things closer to home (for homebodies like the rest of us, that is). How Europe has changed over the years. "Is there any crime here in Brussels?" I ask. "Oh!" she answered, smiling. "Just a few days ago, in the centre of town down an underpass, a thug tried to mug me - grab my handbag", she answered. "And what happened?" I asked. "Oh, I elbowed him in the face and he burst into tears!", she said, matter-of-factly. "He told me - 'You aren't meant to do that! It's not allowed!' - And I said to him, 'I suppose you're allowed to steal my handbag, then, young man?! Off with you!'." ... "How old was he?", I asked, not in the least bit surprised, knowing my Godmother well. "Oh, about 25 or so!" she replied. We laughed, heartily. And I wished again, secretly, for Balls like hers. That's my Godmother, alright, at 76 and counting. (She's off again next week, on a trip from here to there...from there to here...lost count. Lost track.)

So, folks, this is why I'm not complaining that I've got laryngitis, feel below par, and have a million things to do since my return two days ago (and imminent departure again tommorow night to the kids' Grandparents in Kent for a couple of weeks). Nope. I steadfastly drank good quality red wine every day of my break in Brussels, took the kids to their aircraft and safari museums, the sights, the mussels-and-chips restaurants, the chocolate shops, all despite feeling more than a little rough (not Swine Flu, no worries!). I've a lot to live up to. Life, for a start! - as my Godmother would put it. She's determined to see every last unique or undiscovered corner of this world before she dies or it fades into anonymity, whichever occurs first. Me? I'm not gonna complain about a little bit of 'flu. As I just said, I've a lot to live up to.

the shadows of self-doubt

2009-07-19T13:05:00.000-07:00

The school holidays are upon us, rain has - according to England's natural 'sod's law of weather' - taken the place of sun and I've not posted for, gulp!, two weeks. But because I believe that someone out there might, from time to time, take a butcher's at my blog ["butcher's hook"= look, cockney rhyming slang for those not in the know] and perhaps even appreciate my writing, I'm compelled to make sure I don't leave you dry in the mouth and unfulfilled. (As if!)

...and there you have it: "As if!". In two words, the very English tinge of self-deprecation. Self-doubt, even. Ahhh... the British! - that art of auto-irony, sarcasm, jest poison-tipped with truth: who really wants to admit openly their self-image is flawed? Self-deprecation is like masturbation: relieves the frustration, but in secret. Hmmm. I rather like that simile. Or is it a metaphor?

So: I like to hope that my words are worth something. I want to view myself as someone who writes and even has a mini-market for it (in the absence of a book deal or the talent to write a bestseller). But, folks, I dunno. When the weather starts to waver and the year grows longer in the tooth, and I've still not achieved even close to my potential and my dreams...well, I slack off writing my blog and buy handbags instead. And eat far too much ludicrously expensive chocolate. And don't have enough sex. Or rather don't have sex at all. And curl up into a little, hibernating, ball inside, waiting for autumn and blustery winds.

How we view ourselves affects our confidence, our life journey, if and how we fulfil our dreams - or don't. How we view ourselves...secretly, deep inside, the ego's reflection on that mirror in your head, mate. You know: that person you've lived your whole life with and the tiny voice you wordlessly chat to, late at night?

No, folks, think about it, I'm not nuts. Admit it: what you know you shouldn't do, but do anyway. The person you'd love to be but aren't quite (or quite yet). It's all a dichotomy between reality and perception. Forget reality shows, this is the real deal. This is Your Life - and mine. And his, and hers. The movie inside your head. Inside my head. All of us. Who you want to be. Who you really are. Mind the gap.

Me? I'm someone who loves to throw parties. Who sees myself as wildly social (but can be self-absorbed and selfish and curt with those who love me best). Who'd like to be as perenially elegant as my late Grandmother, but doesn't always make the cut and secretly loves slobbing around in those old pyjamas. Who sees myself as a bit of a 'creative', but a frustrated one, hence this blog. Who'd love to have watertight integrity, but sometimes tells white lies, most dangerously to myself. Who hides new clothes from my husband under the bed and pretends I didn't spend the money. Who spools a mini-movie in my head of great success... BUT! STOP! Help! (I think), Wannabe Alert!

Granted, my mood does sway with the weather. Maybe it's a primordial thing. And the 'holiday' season's taken on the veneer of end-of-summer at the sea, when the full-blown self-content summer warmth's already a memory and the winds start to foretell the autumn chill-to-be. Nights are becoming longer, even now. Barbecues more risky. The decay of heat makes me introspective and unnerved. I feel my life slipping by with the march of the seasons, another summer passing. And I'm still not living the person I picture myself to be, in my inner eye. Mid-life crisis?

A treasured old flame recently wrote: "I've often agonised about losing my true, self. But it's at times like this that true friends can help to point out the continuity, and thereby remind...what...is motivating and worth doing. So, thank you." But, really, all an old friend can do is placate that secret voice. No-one can really reassure anyone, deep inside, unless they are capable of reassuring themselves.

All we can do, folks, is to keep on comparing that inner movie-reel with reality. And do our best, with the tools we have, to make a change. Not hibernate. Not curl up inside. Not agonise and ask anyone else for reassurance. But face up to the discrepancies, ask some raw and pertinent questions and strike out to take action.

Not living the life you want? Not being true to yourself? Somehow, you can change all that. And only you. That's why I've decided to re-ignite that feeling of summer, that feeling of power, and make daily changes to move towards what I dream of becoming, what I want for myself. This lifetime. Not the one in my head.

As I wrote to my friend: "YOU know who you are. Bugger the rest."

Out of hibernation, whatever the weather!

Garden party

2009-07-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

Right. Let the party begin!

The lawns are mowed, edged, the flowers planted, hedges spruced, paving washed. (A lot of work, for hubby and me).

Shoes bought, my little girl's dress tried for size.

My wreck of a house has also transformed itself into Cinderella. "Wow, what designer piece is THAT?!" asked a friend (old sixties, stripped and painted it myself). "Nice Lulu Guiness lampshade!" (no, I whisper, it's not, you won't guess where...a judicious choice at a quarter of the price!). Farrow and Ball paint? Osborne and Little wallpaper? (No, B&Q - who'd guess). A designer home designed on a budget and looking like a million dollars. "You should do it professionally!" gasp my friends. "I know. I KNOW." I reply. I do know. It's my one skill and I'm happy not to hide it. Love it, if you're good at it. Joy. So: things are looking up. Looking super.

We're setting out the champagne glasses. I'm bubbly inside. I love parties. Throwing a party - it's my natural habitat. Love fun. Love people.

So: tommorow 30-odd people will descend to christen our home and celebrate 40 years. Mine. Everything is lookin' perfect, folks. Lookin' perfect for a party. Let's celebrate life!

First or Last of the Summer Wine?

2009-07-04T10:50:00.000-07:00

So, the weather's still balmy. The last of the gooseberries are plump and velvety and flush on their spiny cradle, and our English summer evenings stretch out in their velvety warm breezy relazedness, pushing it all to last (how briefly, we all acknoweldge!): that last beer, that floaty dress before the rains, that feeling of freedom, that love affair with life.

Summer: a lost love, all too soon to become a lost love once more. But not yet. Not quite yet. Not quite...yet.

For now, there's promise in the air. In the sing-song of tracks on the radio, the rattle of ice brushing against mint leaves in a crystal glass. In the flick of a skirt, a wooden bangle against lean bronzed skin. And cool linen shirt across a toned chest. Feelin' free, lookin' good. Baby!

...oh, sweet, perfumed promise. Hot, sexy, free....alive!

Or, maybe, those days are past? In their absence, are they sweeter in memory? The longing which breathed into summer nights has morphed into the chattering cry of children playing and frolicking on the grass, the back-and-forth of little voices serious about a pouring game, water from one pot to another under the evening breeze.

No more playing the dating game. Or the mating game. It's done. Is that what all the breathless obsession, sweet poison, was all about?

To fall in love in summer is to fall in love with life, with the intoxication of freedom. Remember? Now hold it, keep it, the bird won't fly.

Love it. Live it. Life is good. Inject me with summer...while it lasts.

a smallish mistake

2009-06-30T06:58:00.001-07:00

A very pleasant middle-aged muslim lady at the checkout in the supermarket today asked me if I was old enough to buy the bottle of wine I handed to her. I was wearing a strappy summery dress and my (light)make-up by then had probably run into non-existance. Perhaps the flowery dress and no make-up are pre-requisites for teens nowadays (though I doubt it, where's the goth make-up and piercings, mini-skirts and fishnets??!); or maybe this lady's (rather naive?) impression of what a sixteen year old should look like, squeezed unlikely me into fitting the bill?

I hesitated, thought she was quipping a joke. But, she insisted on ID. I showed her my driving licence: 1969 - "That's 40, rather than under 18!!", I declared, as if she couldn't read the date herself.

"Oh", she said, "how do you keep yourself so slim and young looking?!"...
("you need glasses, me dear!" I quietly thought, despite being rather flattered, under the being majorly perplexed...)

Thing is, I had my daughter with me, who's 3 but could pass for 4. Which worried me even more than the lady's mistake. I mean, what is society coming to, bla bla bla, for had she been correct I'd have been a Mum at about 14....I'm sorry but there I draw the line!

A lovely day...

2009-06-29T12:17:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhhh.....today. Today was the kind of day every day should be.

One. No traffic on the school run. Hot weather. Sultry beginning.

Two. Brunch at Fortnum and Mason's in Piccadilly with a lovely old friend (Lovely. But not OLD!). Simply perfect melt-in-the-mouth salmon cakes. Melt-in-the-mouth-company. And a nice glass of chilled white. And chilled company. Gorgeous.

Three. After school pick-up, impromptu drop-in invite to a friend's. Nice chat. Nice food. Kids happy in the garden. I love impromptu.

Four. Another friend calls. She's waiting at MY home outside the front door! Jeepers! (Forgot I was so much in demand!) For once, have to make my excuses NOT to socialise (...feels good, though to have such a full social calendar that you're turning people down... Apologise effusively to clear my conscience).

Five. Interlude, off to another friend's to pick up my son. We sit, making elegant chat, the kids are in no hurry to stop the clank and clod of football outside. Nice glass of chilled white. Simply gorgeous. We talk men, handbags, romantic summer evenings stretching on unto eternity (or something like that). Anyway, it's good, we're gorgeous, we're chilled.... (Oh!..and we're in London, not Miami or Cannes!-shucks - but never mind!)

Six. Hop back to Friend number 1 with son. More food, good stuff, cold drinks, and chat. Nobody's in a hurry to get home. She gives me dinner to take home for Hubby (she had a party yesterday, Sunday, and fridge is full). Great: even better, no cooking tonight, relax!

Seven. ANOTHER friend calls me for drinks tonight. There will be more sitting outside, more good company, more nice white: Life's good, goddamn!

Eight. I get home....oh. Umm. It's a TIP. Where's my maid?....(Oh Shit. Forgot. I don't have one: back to reality!)

Nine... Never mind. Get the kids to bed, and I'm off out soon again. The weather's still breezing warm and comfy, a balmy evening: people to see, things to do, life is GOOD (capital G!)

...If only more days were like today.

P.S. Soundtrack:

When I wake up in the morning, love
And the sunlight hurts my eyes
And something strange without a warning, love
Bears heavy on my mind
[CHORUS]
Then I look at you
And the world is all right with me
Just one look at you
And I know it's gonna be
A lovely day…
…lovely day, lovely day, lovely day…
When the day that lies ahead of me
Seems impossible to face
When somebody else instead of me
Always seems to know the way
[CHORUS]
[BRIDGE]
It’s gonna be a lovely day (it’s gonna be)
It’s gonna be today
It’s gonna be a lovely day
Today I love the world and I love you
[CHORUS]
[BRIDGE]
It’s gonna be today
A lovely day today
It’s gonna be today
A lovely day today

The winds of war

2009-06-22T14:41:00.000-07:00

My 5-year-old son is teaching himself all about the Second World War. Because of his obsession with Spitfires and planes, he's found the entry in the encyclopaedia (kids' one, designed to help with exams and so on, but probably not for those who turned five barely a month ago) and is now surmising the lot to me. He tell me who was against who, who the Allies were and who the 'baddies' were. It worries me that he calls the 'Germans' baddies. I correct him: "That was a long time ago, Sweetie." "OK then, the NAZIS.." he counters, defiant."Look,Mummy, here's a photograph of that horrible dictator Hitler in a truck with Mussolini. William [sic] Churchill was against them. He was English." Sometimes, having a very bright child is quite humbling.

My boy's reading to me the different fronts on which the fighting took place. I was sort of aware of Egypt being included, but that was it as far as I could remember. "Look, Mummy, my plane says 'Palestine' on the wing" he notes, again. I crook to make out the minute letters on the Spitfire model his Grandmother's recently given him. "Maybe that's where it fought", I answer, something I've just realised now. I'm pretty amazed at the way the conflict spread like a disease to areas originally unrelated: somehow I had never linked Pearl Harbour to Kristallnacht but in a way one opened up a can of worms, a global belligerent mentality, as it were, and eventually enabled the other. I never really took note at school, if I ever did learn this much about WW2. I don't remember, but I should have. Why wars happen and who took part, (and why again), are things all children should have drummed into them, with the horror and senselessness of it all. At least, that's MY ideal.

"They didn't fight in India", says my son, proudly (he has Indian blood). I concur, and again (for the umpteenth time this week) try to explain to him how bad wars are, but he can't help dramaticising and romanticising it all. I wonder if it's in the male genes, or just the excitement of planes. Maybe a bit of the former and a lot of the latter, so I let him be.

"My God", says my husband, come evening, as I show him a whole portfolio of drawings: "Spitfire 1942...bommb Mesershmit...Franse, GM {sic: Germany, my little boy told me that meant, giving up on the spelling}, Hurricane, Dog Fhigte" reads one, clearly marked words fragmented around the paper in my son's neat childish hand. The drawing's good: the glass sectioned cockpit, an attempt at perspective with the wings, the badges, the propeller going round, the landing gear - the details are all there. Plus an enemy aircraft tumbling to earth in a mass of red crayon - furious scribbles. "I'm sure even the kids in Vietnam or Gaza didn't come up with this kind of stuff..." says my husband. He's a little shocked. I'm not. I'm actually a little proud, of my boy's interest and the detail of his learning. We'll keep it in perspective, I'll make sure of that, I say. "At least he can stop at drawing it and not have to live it", I add. And think: 'Yes. It's a learning opportunity'.

Salad days

2009-06-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

As we're trying to combine going 'green' with some sort of semblance of the "Good Life!", we're growing our own vegetable patch (or vegetables, rather. Or slug-perforated salad leaves, rather. And to disguise a rather nasty parcel of ground where we pulled down a shed).

After weeks of waiting, I finally decided on a harvest, perfect with the fish for dinner, and duly proceeded outside with enthusiasm - delicately wielding a pair of kitchen scissors.

"The rocket's lovely - nice and peppery!", remarks Husband, pleased - and I quickly flick a minute green caterpillar off his plate with my napkin as he looks up contemplating the taste of our home-grown. (Thank Christ he missed that one, I must've missed it for sure when dousing the colander under the kitchen tap!)

"But what's this purple and green leaf, it's rather tough?...." "Oh God, you haven't. No, you haven't. I can't believe it. You have, you goose!"

...."What?" (I wonder if he's eaten another caterpillar. Or worse, a slug.)

"You've only bloody cut the leaves off the beetroot plants! How are they meant to grow beetroots now? These ones!" he digs, annoyed, at his plate. "I spent all that time planting them! You really are fucking ridiculous, sometimes!"

"Oh." I say. "I thought they were some fancy Italian lettuce leaf. You know, like rucola or something."

"Don't you think before you act?!" interrogates Hubby. He really is bugged. I can't think what to say in return except "Harvest your own Greens, then!" - but bite my tongue: it sounds so absurd, I'm worried I'll burst out laughing and snort all over his salad plate! ...which would make things worse.

So, I ignore, and we eat the rest of the meal in silence. Some sodding 'The Good Life'!

Joining the little dots and dashes

2009-06-17T11:38:00.000-07:00

I'm diving headlong into the technosphere....("God knows where the Hell I'm going!", I think with ignorance...). The metaphor reminds me of my mother: who started to learn 'computing' in her sixties, and ended up on a C++ programming course with eighteen-year-old males, one of whom became her 'best mate'- they used to exchange weblogs about tecnical problems on microsoft patches - or something like that. (Forerunners to our blogs? group of anoraks posting about how Bill Gates is the Devil?). Actually, I shouldn't compare myself: my mother is VERY much more technical than I am. She was always top at maths as a child (and tried to hide it - in her day if you were clever they called you a 'blue stocking', rolled you in a carpet and beat you - at least, they did her. As a result, she always hid her school prizes, which she won year after year...you see, I did mention that unfulfilled potential runs in my family...my mother, in a different era, in a different mindset, could have run a Multinational with her left hand. Mind you, she does a nice sideline in her village fixing people's computer problems. For which she gets a lot of goodwill and cups of tea).

Well, I'm "Pinging on Technorati" - whatever, dude. I REALLY DO feel 40 now, with a statement like that. The verbal equivalent of me going out in a mini ra-ra skirt with fishnet tights, a bustier, and goth make-up. Anyway, from words to action: Here goes, I have to embed a code for this to work so the little white men can verify it:
Technorati Profile
Heh heh! I feel like James Bond. Or Jane Bond. Or perhaps just Jane. I got to see lots of interesting tecky looking words in a secret code line. You guys just get the shrink-wrapped version.

Anyway, the aim of the game is: I'm claiming my blog. As mine. Bloody hell. What a possessive society - or blogosphere - we have. As if anyone else'd like my life ramblings?! Get real!!! Unless of course, someone's gonna offer me a six-figure book deal, like 'Petite Anglaise'. I write just as well, I just don't have the love life. Sorry.

About the teckie bit. Actually, I lied. I did do a bit of computing once. Programming, as part of a University exchange Course I did in Turin, Italy at the Technical Institute they use to train the Fiat production managers (didn't last long - read on). I was the ONLY one of 30 students to pass the programming exam. My classmates -many of whom where much brighter and MUCH more "technical" than me - mutinied, and accused me of having slept with the (middle aged, male) teacher to get the Pass. Fact is, I'd gone to borrow a revision book with some other students and left my bottle of mineral water by accident in his study. He kindly brought it back - "You've left this at mine!" (translation). Well, it was all used to fuel their conspiracy theories when I'd got the honours, and they not. I never slept with the guy, by the way. God, you'd have to have more taste and integrity.

I was blacklisted for the rest of the week (last of the year) and ganged up against. So-called friends, with whom I'd shared books, dormitories, the experience of studying and living in a foreign culture, different teaching methods, home-sickness, etc., cold shouldered me. When I staggered down the stairs with my cases at the end of summer term to trudge to the station, not one head in the common room or dorm turned or nodded a goodbye. The wall of silence was unbroken. I don't need to describe how you feel. "Fuck them! Fuck the course!" I thought, once out of there (sorry - but true). I changed courses soon after. And countries. And Friends.

But I never forgot the fact that, during the exam, sitting there and trying to twist my brain cells into knots, by realising the matter was perhaps more simple than I'd assumed, I lifted myself above the haze of obscurity and treated the 'code problem' (like maths problem!) as a child's puzzle. And it worked and I wrote the code for that silly little command, and the next four or five, and it flowed. Because I'd removed the mental detritus and the crap, removed the painful brain-bending, cleared away the psychological complications I'd initially read into it all. Looked outside the box, as it were, to a simpler outcome.

Now, I often use the same technique in life. Sometimes, you get a solution when you look at things in the most basic manner. Sometimes, simple is best.

So, I shouldn't get freaked out by joining Technorati, should I???

In the Lake District

2009-06-15T02:22:00.000-07:00

So, the Lake District. Beauty. The weather complied.

"This is what England must have looked like in the Middle Ages", I thought (if you extrapolate a bit more of the forest across the fields). Blue green lakes, hills, soft snooker-tabled green with bracken and grass kept consistent by the grazing sheep. The odd white farmhouse. Sheep, white specks on the landscape. Fields of cows: caramel, mahogany, long-haired and short amongst your traditional black-and-white. And the baby lambs are all black - pitch black - beside white mothers. A nursery rhyme of a place. Traditional stone walls sinuous like backbones to the curves of the land, everywhere. Stone cottages, roofed with slate. And, no-one around for miles while the birds of prey circle and swoop in the silence.

On the first day, a half-day, we walked up beyond the farmhouse as the sun dappled the afternoon. We got all of the talking out of the way, my husband and I. His job, my ambitions, his ambitions. Mortgages. Bills. Quality of life. Life/work balance. Kids. Schools. Crippling school fees. Moving abroad. Moving jobs. Staying put. Future holidays. Renovations. Life/work balance. Mortgages. His job. Our ambitions.

And from time to time, reeling images and topics in our minds, we'd turn a corner and, head up, remember where we were. And stop, and just look at the views. Then again, head down, walk, and talk. The pebbles underfoot and the flowers and the weeds. And the time alone to wrangle out the marital discussions. The landscape took backseat.

Once all that was done, the air cleared, the evening air sweeter, a nice pub, a hearty meal and wine. Relax...

The next day, the scales fell from our eyes and we could finally 'be'. Walking, not talking. We climbed a hill adjoining lakes. 508m, not much, but paradise. The sun shone and the insects buzzed. At the top, we could see Scotland and the Isle of Man. Full immersion in the physical life. Sun on your skin, breeze cooling the exertion of walking, endorphins of a high. Take a great big breath of life and stand and stare. That lake ain't goin' nowhere...slot into the universe. A type of meditation (fuelled by the odd chocolate stop, I have to admit...)

The third day, we hiked around the only 'mountain forest' left in the British Isles, a wonder of fresh pine trees luscious across the rippled valley. Picture-postcard views, mental photos, we didn't bring a camera. In that air, in that solitude, in that freshness and oneness with nature, it's an injection of vitality.

That evening we ate far too much and drank far too much wine. Sod's law!

I'd never known the Lake District was so beautiful. Shame some people go to New Zealand instead, ignorant of what we have nearer. I'd go back and take the kids next time - mixing the outdoors with the only James Bond museum in the world....

On the way back we were stuck on the M6 motionless in the heat for almost 2 hours. Luckily we were 'zen' enough after the break to be philosophical...

The big one

2009-06-10T05:51:00.000-07:00

OK so I admit it. I'm 40 today.

I woke up with backache. My first thought: "Oh bloody hell. I never hung up that pile of damp washing last night. It's left in a heap." Then: "Oh. It's my birthday today. Fortieth!" I went back to sleep.

After the kids had jumped on me 10 minutes later, came the first surprise. My husband usually doesn't do birthdays, or anniversaries. Not purposely, but it's a character trait. He forgets them - or to buy anything, if he does remember. Or simply is so rushed off his feet, he hasn't got time. But, today, I was presented (still in bed) with the confectionary equivalent of winning the lottery. A 750g half-a-metre-diameter heart-shaped box of none other than Charbonnell and Walker's (by appointment to HM the queen) finest truffles. Those who know me will know that presents (unless they sparkle) don't get much better than this. (I have hidden the lot away. No arguing, I am notoriously possessive of my chocs).

Secondly, a card from Hubby with poems to the effect of: "Even if I don't show it I think you're amazing all the same." Jeepers! He's learning!

Thirdly, said card also had a spidery paragraph (his handwriting's not the best): "We may not be able to afford to jet off to a tropical beach, but pack your bags for a relaxing break in Lake District for several days: we leave tommorow!" First I realised he'd missed out "the". Then the meaning sunk in. Jeepers again and double Jeepers!!! Bloody hell! Maybe all birthdays should be 40th ones! Now, that has never happened in 6 years of marriage. Perhaps predictability is being flung out of the window with impending middle age (I hope). Brownie points: at least a year's worth for my husband. As far as the kids are concerned, they're jumping up and down at the prospect of Grandma and Eccentric Grandad looking after them (with attendant treats and forbidden delights), and all this mid-week too! No Mummy nagging on the school run! No Mummy shouting to finish off dinner!

"We'll have to pack our waterproofs, I'm afraid", says Hubby sadly. I'm thinking more my Pucci print wellies and jeans and cute tweed baker-boy cap (I'm not that side of 40 yet, so hunting jackets'll have to wait!) I mentally pencil in the need to 'phone the beautician at 9.30 when they open to get various important things sorted out today, if I'm going on a romantic weekend. Girls must be girls.

My son rushes up for major kisses. Once he's got his fill, he gets serious. "Mummy. Why did you tell me you were 30? You fibbed to me as I heard you tell someone it's actually your fortieth birthday! So, I'm going to tell everyone you're 40!!" (This after last week: "Mummy, I'm not going to tell anyone you're going to be 30, promise!") Damn. Wrong way round. Kids! But, hey, he can go tell the world. I won't be around: I'll be drinking real ale in front of a raging fire in some pretty country pub in the Lake District (if it's raining) or losing my cares across the expanses of gorgeous sun-kissed countryside (if it's not). Being 40 isn't that bad after all. And Links of London awaits me on my return (thanks, girlfriends...sparkly stuff!!)

Oh. PS. Do read the last post "A fitting tribute" in my absence. I promised my little boy...

A fitting tribute

2009-06-10T01:47:00.000-07:00

I took my son on a field trip to Tesco's the other day after school....let me explain.
The RAF Veterans were there with their stall (tea towels, badges) and their plastic coin boxes. Old men, but still straight, proud in their multitude of coloured medals and old-fashioned formality (tie, shirt, suit, even for fund-raising, even for Tesco's). My Great Uncle- whose funeral I attended yesterday - had been a fighter pilot flying Spitfires, too. I'd lived in the house he shared with his sister, my Grandmother, for several years when I'd first moved to London, and I'd never once seen him without the shirt and tie, tweed jacket. Even at home, watching golf on TV. Pride: pride in formality and correctness was what they were brought up with.

I was proud, too, the other day. Amongst the hustle and bustle of shoppers (several fat, pierced, slovenly, hurried, dragging screaming kids, pushing, not a glance, not a coin in the pot: many of them an anathema to the society these retired servicemen grew up in) then stepped up a little man, aged 5 - my son. His small figure, in his school uniform, hair nicely combed, tie straight, jacket on, standing up nicely, refected theirs, in a strange way. "Excuse me, Sir!" he piped up (I'd prepped him with the 'Sir': if you can't call gentlemen who risked their lives to give us freedom 'Sir', then what have things come to?) and the old RAF veteran bent down to hear, adjusting clear plastic hearing aid beside salt-and-pepper hair. "Were you a pilot in the Second World War?...Did you fly a Spitfire or a Hurricane?...I hope it was a Spitfire, I love Spitfires!...and did you bomb down lots of horrid Messerschmidts?" (and, yes, being gifted at music my little boy pronounced it perfectly. He'd done his research - ever since he went to visit the Spitfire Memorial museum in Manston, Kent, with Grandparents at half-term - in tribute to Great Great Uncle - he's been poring over books at home, making medals and drawing planes.)

There was silence and the old man smiled and placed a gnarled hand on my little boy's shoulder. "I wasn't a pilot, I didn't fly planes, young man" he answered. The disappointment started to drop like a curtain over my son's face, visibly. "But I was the one who TAUGHT the pilots to fly!..." The smile on my boy's face was like the sun rising. He looked up at the old man with wonder and awe: Wow! The veteran looked down, with paternal solicitude, and spoke again, delighted to be faced with such candid interest: "And the Gentleman over there, well he was a pilot... and the other Gentleman, he was Ground Staff, which means he was the one putting the planes up in the sky and making sure they all worked perfectly - like an aircraft mecchanic! And here....look....I'm going to give you something special. When you become a pilot we say you 'Get your Wings', so here are your very own for when you become a pilot." With trembling hands he peeled off a sticker, in the traditional 'wings' design, but with the letters: "FUTURE RAF PILOT". My boy read the words and his eyes grew wide, beaming as he looked down at the label being carefully placed on the lapel of his school jacket. "Mummy!" he gasped. "I'm a real spitfire pilot now! Do you think people really WILL think I'm a REAL spitfire pilot? I think, they WILL!"
I was too moved to speak. A little boy's fascination was tribute indeed to these old men's sacrifice long ago, to the events and acts which gained them their jangling medals. Who are we, spoilt and affluent, even to imagine what they went through?

We bought some spitfire and Hurricane badges, carefully chosen. The old man reached into a battered canvas bag on the floor and found a series of aircraft pictures which he pushed into our hands, each one depicting a different modern RAF plane. A keyring followed. He didn't want donations. But I gave over and above, gave handsomely, my son popping pound coin after 2-pound coin in the pot. One for each item. A good - a very good - cause. I gave until the coins ran out.

We had words with each veteran in turn. Each was delighted. And then it was time to go. Clutching his bag of goodies, my little boy approached the first gentleman to say Goodbye.
"Very pleased to meet you, Sir!" he piped up, as again the old, age-speckled cheek leaned in close. "Thankyou very much!"
I do believe, beyond the wateryness of old age, I saw the old man's eyes grow moist: "Thank you, too, young man. Thank you. And very pleased to meet you too." And a little man and an old gentleman reached out a little soft keen hand and an aged wrinkled hand, and shook hands, and then the veteran saluted, and a little person copied and saluted back. And this time, my eyes were moist.

Sorry to eavesdrop, but...!

2009-06-07T16:00:00.000-07:00

Just checked on my real-time traffic thingy. Saw: "Christchurch arrived from google.co.nz on "The reluctantly frustrated stay-at-home mum!" by searching for what to do if 16 yr old child forges his mum's signature".

Sorry to eavesdrop, as it were. But... Might I attempt a stab at that one? I did that exact same thing at about 16! My Mum told me: "NEVER NEVER NEVER do it again...You could be arrested!" (those were the days, when the cops still put the fear of God into kids!)

However, I did decide never to do it again. At least, not officially. I didn't want to get into trouble, with the Police, or anyone else. Suffice to say, that if you're good enough to forge a signature, you've 1) Got a great eye; 2) Got a decent brain; 3) Could do very well at art/design school; 4) Are pretty canny.
All quite interesting points for parents to note.

PS I have used my skills since, though not to do anything illegal. Not quite.

On the value of showing goodwill

2009-06-07T14:52:00.000-07:00

OK folks so I've been away a week. It's been frustrating not to write, plagued every day at random times by blog 'headlines' beeping across my consciousness....In the olden days, particularly in France I believe, I could've opened a "Salon des Artistes" and claimed to be an Artist with a capital 'A'. Which was generally the lot for those 'possessed' (in all senses) of creative urges. And, which meant you had an excuse to socialise with a bunch of interesting characters getting up to a lot of debauched activities, and drink a lot. Well, nowadays, instead, as a wannabe 'writer', I get to hang out on the ether with you anonymous lot. Rum job. No parties, no wine and absolutely no debauchery! Bloody shame!

I can't remember for the life of me all the blog posts I miscarried this week (I do lament them, for they would have given me much satisfaction had they come to life. So please forgive the metaphor, as politically incorrect as it is).

But there was one about 'HOW TO SAVE MONEY WHEN YOU BUY A HOUSE'. Raincheck on that: I'm not sure how many people really ARE buying a house nowadays (rainchecking on the housebuying itself!) although to be honest we all know that tips on saving money are pretty topical, even if you're an MP...

Oh, and there was the other potential post about Posh Private School Moneyed Mum coming to visit my home-in-progress (and being unimpressed). It would have been about how wealth really can skew your perception (I will resurrect that one, give me time, bloody pissed me off excuse my language. Just when I was so smug and proud of all my hard work you get someone who's only used to paying for interior designers and just doesn't 'get' the need to find (cheap)creative solutions oneself)....

And a post which popped through my head on Good will. Here it is:

All my D-I-Y-ing around the house over the half-term holidays, kids dispatched to grandparents, was a prime example of goodwill. I would personally have preferred to spend half-term doing something more relaxing, and less lonely. But, I showed my husband a form of "Good Will", as it were, by doing things myself, not purely demanding that he open his wallet (not that there'd be much in it! - not like Posh Private School Moneyed Mum who has an army of people to sort out her pad, just send-us-the-invoice type of thing).
No, seriously. Let us not forget that Good Will, Endeavour, Humility, Hard Work, are all endangered traits in our modern consumeristic age (though the credit crunch may well help to reverse the trend). The benefit of such old-fashioned values - young job seekers note!- is that they invariably attract people to your side: arrogance and materialism were rarely in vogue anyway (except amongst those who were already beyond help, financially and otherwise, if you get my drift).

Case in point. Action: my Good Will and hard work. Reaction: hubby, on discovering that a friend's Polish cleaner's father (who owned a building company back home before it went, in his words, "Kaput!") would do all sorts of juicy home-improvement stuff for a mere 120 pounds net a day (=2 hours ex-VAT usual London rate...say no more), suddenly sanctioned the use of a pro!...

Result: Yanush, a very nice and EXTREMELY diligent Pole, nuking my year's frustrations with my home environment, in a mere week:

Kitchen: wallpaper stripped, and painted. Door mended and painted. Floor re-grouted.
Front Room: wallpapered. Skirting boards painted.
Bathroom: regency wallpaper (yes!) stripped. Painted. Mirror hung. Nasty hospital one removed.
Hallway: painted. Mirror hung. Nice, Spanish style cast iron one. Illusion of space..
Loo: tiles put back on wall from which they'd fallen...thank Christ, intact. I wouldn't like to have bought a pack of 200 tiles just to replace 7 or so.
Shower: Damp dealt with, hideous floral brown tiles (you couldn't picture them in all their monstrosity, promise!) primed and painted over with white tile paint.

Conclusion: Voila'! I'm no longer so depressed and forlorn! My home's been reborn at the tune of about a grand! Grand designs - eat your hat!

Moral of the Story: Doing stuff yourself is such a valuable lesson. We underestimate ourselves savagely by outsourcing everything - a product of our convenience culture. It's so easy to learn new skills, if only we'd the courage to try! And...the kickback....first try it yourself before screaming for help (or the financing to pay for help), it shows Good Will! How much sweeter it is to give it a go yourself first and then, when exhausted, have someone else take over and do it propery...(breathe, readers, breathe, I don't mean to be suggestive!)

Let's dig up that old initiative: you'll see, Good Will CAN pay well - it did for me, this week!

1 half-term break doing-it-myself at home, complete!

2009-05-31T12:54:00.000-07:00

Half-term break: come to an end.
Kids collected from grandparents' country cottage: 2
Walls painted by yours truly: 2
Cupboards painted (3 coats): 2 (one large...bust my backside and my back...but worth it)
Chests of drawers painted: one (drawers only, but makes a statement nevertheless: 'arty concept'? or maybe, 'lazy cow!');
Ancient art-deco sideboard with great potential but nasty finish stripped and given a makeover: 1
Gorgeous bang up-to-date totally 'designer' sideboard I'm thinking of flogging on ebay: (same) 1
Dinners eaten out with husband and no kids: 3
Wine drunk: lots. At various random times of the day...
Happy husband: 1
Relaxed wife: 1
Satisfaction(yes, there IS joy in the simple things!): Lots!

Schadenfreude

2009-05-27T12:07:00.000-07:00

I fell in love once...actually, twice, three times, four...

More prosaically, I've got builder's radio going...you know, the romantic, 'old' stuff (here in London it's called "Heart" which just about says it all). And all the songs are coming on while I'm up on me ladder. And as the moisture drips down the wall, my heart, from time to time, seeps with sudden memory and nostalgia. It's hard, in the days of family warmth and cradling, of cuddles and gentle smiles, to recall that yearning, the crazy tugging of passion. When every evening's longing seemed to stretch out for eternity across the enveloping darkness, and then some. That pain mixed with joy, bittersweet. When your whole being seems to dissolve into that internal reality. And everything is tinged with sudden light: Oh my God! A spring (or summer) morning, and suddenly: Bang! You know it. And the whole world lies before you, full of promise, full of potential, full of unknown sweetness just waiting to be milked. And if it's reciprocated: Bang! Bang! Ecstacy! Enough to keep you going in bliss, even just lying prone staring out of the window for hours, running movies in your head.

I desperately loved at sweet sixteen for the first time. Brown eyed, floppy haired, tall. A Hugh Grant of my time. I was smitten. To the roaring surges of Tschaikovsky this love affair was all-involving. I played in an orchestra at his college. Which was ivy-league style. Mine - though decent academically if you found yourself in the top 'stream' - was just on the outskirts of town, a grammar school with a crappy band. Instead, on Sundays, I immersed myself in another, Harry Potter-eske, world, and visited venerable buildings hidden inside cathedral walls, violin (my passport) under my arm. The age-old beauty of stone garlanded by old-fashioned roses; vault-shaped leaded windows overlooking silent squares of lawn; leafy muffled cloisters with cool damp shadows. Pinstriped serious young men rushing to-and-from philosophy discussions and string chamber recitals, my love amongst them. After a silence of perhaps twenty years, I received an email the other day. Difficult to know how to feel, except obviously pleased, and not-so-surprisingly relieved: I believe, no, I know, it's good to revisit good times and good people in life. And, of course, a little love remains. How could it not? What we were at sixteen is, strangely enough, and with the benefit of retrospect, the foundation of what we are today.

But,a year above me, he left back to his father's diplomatic life abroad. Our close mutual friend took his place. A different, less cerebral, less romantic love - but a passion no less, based on unconventionality and creative temperament, mutual artistic masturbation, if you will. Pragmatic and reassuring. He had his girlfriends. I had my love, still abroad, as I waited weeks for letters (oh how things must be different nowadays with email! How easy they've got it, the teenagers of today, in long-distance affairs of the heart!) My new 'best friend' wanted to be an architect, and he was alternative. We dressed in black and wrote poetry. We gatecrashed crazy parties in remote mansions, rich kids stuff with all sorts of debauchery going on, the mice playing whilst parents away, and my mother never worried, she'd trust this charming rather shy young man until the cows came home. And it was true. I was always safe with him, despite our bohemian leanings. Morally, physically, emotionally safe. It wasn't love but as close as friendship can get to it. Actually, it would've been the perfect union. The perfect marriage. No emotional currency to bartar, everything out in the open, total acceptance and nothing to lose. Again, we got back in touch a couple of years ago. Surprise, surprise, he runs an environmentally-friendly architectural studio. But we've yet to meet up. Perhaps we don't want to spoil the heady magic of those days: the feeling that we wore our destinies as tortured artistic souls branded on our foreheads for none but our breathren to see. And find out we've all turned into ordinary, boring, everyday people.

Many years later I loved an older man. Dangerously close to the father complex thing. We used to work together, driving across the border from Italy to Switzerland for our work in import/export. There was always, for me, a whiff of naughtiness about the whole thing. For a start the outfit wasn't quite above board. And he was married. And twice my age. He never knew I loved him, until it was too late. I left countries to escape: the dodgy job, him, and my conscience. A case of the affair risque' that never was.

And then, my husband. There were travails, to be sure. Family against us, culture and background held against me. I moved abroad again, this time for him, then fled our home back to London a year later. Ultimatums,tears, remonstrations, reconciliations. And then marriage and two children and it all became very... normal.

Looking back, I need to grab that passion, in these soon-to-be-middle-aged times when I feel it's almost left me. Grab it and inject it into my veins again, to inspire, to move. And to make me feel, once again, the smooth, stretching, eternity of a summer evening, and the unlimited potential of my life before me. I look in the mirror and still see myself, thank God. But. But - to FEEL myself, the self I was at sixteen, the unfettered and untarnished me. I don't ever want to look in the mirror, and not only think the stray gray hairs and lines aren't really me, but feel the wrinkles on my soul aren't, either. I don't want to regret the slacking dents in my potential just as I mourn the elasticity of my skin. I don't want to lose grip of that last clutch of my younger, promising self and feel the passion and exuberance of youth slip through my fingers, a last stroking touch before it's gone, leaving a void. I Mustn't. I'd lose a part of me. Or myself. My true self.

Waiting for that chocolate cake to cook

2009-05-27T06:02:00.000-07:00

We're waiting. Waiting for my mother to arrive and pick up the kids, to whisk them away for half-term. I hate waiting. It's that in-between limbo that does it.

The kids blatantly feel it too. They are, in our household lingo, "faffing". Unable to concentrate on doodling, construction bricks, tea parties. Forever looking out of the window to see if that car's arrived.

Much as I feel I should take a feather out of the Buddhist cap and remember to be 'present' in every moment, living 'consciously', waiting moments are, basically, wasted on me. Waiting at the airport, waiting for a 'phone call, waiting for the line to clear when it's engaged (my pet hate. I'm so impatient, I've been known to repeat dial an embarassing amount of times. Ok. About 25?). But, add up all those wasted, waiting, foot-tapping, nervous-tic creating, impatient, nervous energy-consuming moments in one's life and you'd probably get a nice long holiday out of the sum of it all! So, should we really be wasting the seconds and minutes of our waking lives, or getting on and doing something productive to while away the time? (as we get older by the minute...food for thought!) And, a watched pot never boils.... as me old Pa likes to say.

Having children has helped to 'productivise' (invented a word there?) what would otherwise be written-off moments for me: story books read in airport-waiting-lounges right up 'till that last moment, 'I spy' at the dentist, that sort of thing. (Although many husbands, dare I say it, seem not to have this dilemma of free and discarded minutes - the ubiquitous 'crackberry' device has helped to put a stop to idling away the time. Scrolling away time instead - even marriages instead!)

So, today I grabbed my conscience in both hands, and decided to use my waiting time productively. I whipped up my household's fave chocolate cake: admittedly the kids'll miss eating this one, but it'll be plenty excusable, I reckon, for a woman burning up calories stripping walls and re-painting furniture! It's my husband's favourite, too, and indispensable to finish up the easter-egg hoard in my spare fridge(325g of chocolate per cake and anything else you'd like to throw in - leftover turkish delight, anyone? -worked a dream, actually, added gooey bits!). After Easter, I send Hubby to work with a large slice every day (he then wonders where the 'love handles' came from, but, my, he does have a mid-afternoon pick-me-up!)

So, this one's dedicated to the concept of slow time...to living the moment with "consciousness", to banishing the trickle of wasted seconds lived in impatience and boredom. Taste it like you mean it!!!

"RELUCTANTLY FRUSTRATED STAY-AT-HOME MUM'S SERIOUSLY CHOCOLATEY CAKE" (promise you'll be blown away...not too sickly and as light as a feather.)

Serves: 8 (or 1 doing D-I-Y!!)
Cooking time: officially 45 minutes (but can take 15 or even 20 minutes longer). When a skewer inserted comes out clean, it's cooked. So test it, blasting up the oven to max as you open it to prevent the in-rush of cool air collapsing the thing like a burst balloon.

225g to 325g chocolate, broken into pieces (former is official recipe, latter is my tweak to finish off the stuff accumulated in the sweetie drawer: makes no difference to the recipe in my experience).

225ml milk, you can add an extra splash if you're putting in more choc and see the need...
150g butter, softened
300g light muscovado sugar
3 eggs
1tbsp golden syrup
225g plain flour
2tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda

1) Preheat the overn to 180c/350F/Gas mark 4. Melt the chocolate and milk together in a heatproof bowl set over a pan of gently simmering water (bain marie. Or 'Ban Mary' as my husband calls it. I said: "You Philistine!...who's Mary?!") Stir until smooth, then remove from the heat and set aside. Try not to finish the whole bowl by tasting for: temperature/consistency/taste/because it looks yummy.

2) Cream the butter and sugar together in a large bowl until pale and fluffy (never quite understood when fluffy was, but pale and lack of discernable crystals does it for me). Use an electric beater unless you are sexually (or otherwise) frustrated and need to beat the hell out of the mix with a wooden spoon (no, not me. I use the electric gadget. For the cake, that is. Sorry!) Beat in the eggs, one at a time, then stir in the golden syrup. Sift the flour, baking powder and bicarb into the bowl, and combine. Gradually stir in the chocolate mixture.

3) Grease and line the base of a 900g loaf tin with non-stick baking parchment (official recipe - I use whatever I can get my hands on in the melee of my cupboards, normal round non-stick cake tin also fine.) Note however that the parchment (grease-proof paper, folks) is a good idea, for this cake is a vision of light and airy - and would suffer being prodded and pushed out of a tin.
Spoon in the mixture (it might seem runnier than usual stodgy mixes, don't worry) and bake to 40 minutes or so, OR until a skewer inserted into the cake comes out clean (my cakes are unpredicable. Up to 1 hr 15 has been known. Just make sure the skewer comes out greasy but clean to check it's done, right in the middle.)

4) Turn out onto a wire rack and leave to cool - if you can wait that long. I don't...

Enjoy every mouthful, folks, and by the way. The being conscious-of-the-moment thing? It's also a very good way to lose weight. Live it like you mean it and eat it like you mean it!

The charm of self-creation

2009-05-26T10:41:00.000-07:00

The wallpaper stripping is deeply satisfying. There you have it! No wonder all these random perps on 'Grand Designs' 're showing off their creations whilst proselytising about the satisfaction of build-it-all-yerself. The results-in-moments-thing is quite a balm for a frustrated housewife like moi with no immediate satisfaction in: bank account/romance/glamorous lifestyle/career.... ("sod it, lean over the ladder and go for it...ready...want the whole damn chunk in one little tug...go on then...grab the edge, gently goes, here we go....PEEL!!!!!!! Yeeeessss!!! Ha hey, slickly done, woman!: mental high-five!")

Actually, my father, too, built his own house from scratch. I spent the most memorable and unfettered moments of my childhood there. Wondrous, echoes of Le Corbusier, natural rock walls lining the interior, minimalist but yet sinuous(I sound like an art critic..), inspired touches like the massive millstone atop an oil drum, glass-covered, as dining table. It faces the thumping swell in winter when the air tastes of salt, and the twinkling, happy, whooping beach in summer. It's abroad- obviously- a little bolthole once the preserve of artists and hippies, now discovered and developed, village charm rather engulfed: in the same way as its dry river bed - once a heaven of mimosa trees - has been asphaulted over, yellow fluffy blooms of lingering scent long gone. Not a place to live, not now, and not outside the holiday season. It reeks of lost charms and uncertain future (a bit like a middle-aged spinster once ravishing). Charming, still, but its rarity faded. And the house, too, as if in reflection, stands rather neglected: shabby and let-out to brutish tenants who ill respect it, forever trashing object after object year after year. But it was a dream house once. A Grand Design to beat Grand Designs. If building your own house is something to be proud of in life, my father's proud. But yet that's all he really achieved of note, though he could have been a great architect. A really great one. My family is dogged with unrealised potential (which is why I'm hot-housing my son - can't help it - but that's a story for another time).

Anyway, back to the bare wall. I'm gazing at it. I love it. I love its promise, its whole latentness, it being a blank canvas by means of which to transform the space around (yes, a statement wall, I admit it. What a horrid expression that is, though. Cheapens the whole creative concept to exhibitionism). Husband thinks I'm mad when I come out with such thoughts, but to be candid (and he admits it) he's design challenged, as you'd call it nowadays. The day to day aesthetics which badger me and make me suffer mean nothing to him. He's pragmatic. But, me,I'm a dreamer and, yes, CARE about beauty and how my world is ordered. It's undoubtedly easier to live like him, than like me if you're short on cash! I just suffer. And end up picking up that trowel myself when I just can't stand it any longer! I care about how things look, about balance, about harmony, about relationships between objects and environments, almost as much as between people (because I believe environment improves quality of life, relationships, mood, morale). The flip side is, I'm vain, ambitious, quixotic (that one's for your benefit, MH!) and probably selfish too, in the way arty people can be selfish when the creative urge takes over. I'm sure I'm a challenge to live with and to understand..... why I love a bare wall so?!

A ring, a ring...a ding-a-ding-ding

2009-05-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

In my background, marriage is for life. My parents - had they not believed this, or perhaps had they not had two children - would undoubtedly have gone separate ways. They are still one of the most incompatible couples around (I think). They still struggle to share a home, a life. Yet some sort of acknowledgment of eternity forged, keeps them together. (I wouldn't have.)

And my husband is from a culture where you just DON'T divorce. Only losers divorce: and then, this simply serves to prove to the community around them that the naysayers had been right all along! Only those without the sublime merit of duty, a sense of commitment, and the strength to work it out through thick and thin, fail in marriage. Those with moral fortitude, good breeding, and well-chosen wives, have happy lifelong marriages.

We all know that's hogwash. Or, at least, half of it is: and half is actually quite true, if you contemplate it.

After all, to take one side of the argument, there are husbands who beat their wives: who'd ever argue for sticking it out? And the serial philanderers, male and female both: I'd be signing the papers before you could think of better adjectives than "Darstadly Cad" (or worse, if it's a woman doing the dirty!). An acquaintance's ex-wife used to go out and (pardon me) 'screw other blokes' and come back at 3 in the morning: oh, back, that is, to her MOTHER-IN-LAW'S house where she was living with poor cuckolded husband whilst refurbishing!! (look the word up if you don't know it, btw...). Now surely he had valid grounds for divorcing her, in most rational people's books - if nothing else you really can't let that kind of thing go on under your dear old mum's nose, can you? And whilst we're on this side of the fence, who else merits a quick split?: well, the terminally bankrupt, the permanently stoned or sozzled or the manic depressive. The Billionaire who spends every waking hour working (and then some, whilst perhaps having it off with the P.A.,too, for good measure)and who views the kids as simply a means of passing on the inheritance - a lonely union I would reckon and one worth hacking out that pre-Nup for.

But, no, seriously. We all go through thick and thin in marriage. Our mental attitudes undoubtedly help. I know two couples who aren't married officially but to all intents and purposes, might as well be. Kids, mortgage, every trapping of the real deal, except the deal and the being trapped (sorry couldn't resist that!) No, but seriously, they both tell me that it's the not being married at all that helps to keep it all fresh - the underlying risk factor, as it were (although, to be honest, with a mortgage and a couple of kids I don't know that there IS more or less risk of splitting up, certificate or no certificate.) And, to be truly really honest, it's the (previously-married) husbands who seem to have established the status quo as the girls in the equation have confided that they would love/or rather, have loved the whole wedding thing one day/if... etc. Nevertheless, the civil partnerships they do have seem to be going very strong, a fact the ladies don't deny (and they do seem to have a lot of sex happening - within these non-marriage-marriages!- to boot).

Let's compare now those who are attached by the hip (or rather that register entry). Forced by the book to be together 'till death do us part, does this make for a stronger union? Or could the whole inevitability of the thing, the whole eternality, be a bit of a downer? Discuss...

What all of us, signature or not, do know, is that there are times when marriage is challenging (remember your Mum or Dad, when you first tentatively discussed shacking up with a first love or indeed the whole engagement thing? "You have to think long and hard...Marriage is hard enough without... bla bla bla"?) Times when a spouse might as well be a stranger. Times when you think: "Christ!...Bloody Hell! Do I actually LIKE this person at this particular moment...(oops!... my spouse!)!"

And then times when the happy family thang is just wondrous. And THAT, (the whole happy family scenario, and feeling, and vibe, and bond) once broke, you can't fix it. Ever. Not worth ever letting go of, for ding-dongs or bust-ups or petty arguments, or selfish reasons. Those without kids, well, I reckon, the whole structure's much more precarious, isn't it? and for good reason. Kids cement the deal.

So we slog on through thick and thin, most of us. Sometimes, when things aren't tip top, wishing we were married to someone else, or not married at all (a bizarre thought when there are children involved, to be sure!). Sometimes, when things are as smooth as a Mojito on a summer day, thinking of those poor sods who are single and pitying their lonely, frustrated fate. (No offense, please, you know it's not a rational or real evaluation).

Ahhh, marriage....And here's little me, communicating with my laptop - and perhaps some random readers out there in the ether? And hubby reading the newspaper in bed, alone...Oh Wicked Wench! Remember thy marriage vows and weep! (but you see, never good to judge from afar...poor chap's a streaming cold. Left him to it.)

But, then again....would I, as a doting girlfriend, so many years ago, and not enmeshed in this whole marriage malarky, have behaved the same? Of course not. There would have been back-rubs, hot tea with lemon, you name it. Not a wife, on a computer, busy tapping out her thoughts, separate from him to whom she vowed to be eternally linked. Is that food for thought? Or just a fact of life?... A fact of marriage??

on procrasination

2009-05-22T02:40:00.000-07:00

Procrastination is the thief of time. So they say. Seeing as from where I'm currently standing (or rather sitting), I can see the spectre of procrastination stealing my gym visit today (nasty fellow only pinched my half hour on the treadmill yesterday, too, bloody hell!) I'm going to put a stop to it. And allow myself ten minutes of blogging to try and talk myself mentally out of the motivation rut. A form of auto-ass-kicking! And then, of course, go. To. The. Gymnasium. Straight. Away...(I hope).

Here we go:

How Not To Procrastinate.

(1) Chop the oh-so-daunting onerous task into little manageable steps. I did this a few years ago (pre-kids, admittedly!) to overcome my lifelong vertigo (fear of heights): I decided to jump out of a plane!!

First step: call sky-diving company (I was in New Zealand at the time, at Lake Taupo, one of the most beautiful locations in the world to see from above, so that helped).
Second step: pay (stiff!) deposit. Funnily enough, money IS a super motivator...
Third step: Jump on a bus.
Fourth step: get geared-up.
Fifth step: Get into a small plane. From then on it was just literally a step over the edge and that was taken for me by my tandem instructor to whom I was strapped, so unwilling or not, over the edge I went. All in all, not a big deal really. (How was it for me, you ask? Amazing. Nothing comes close (dressed or undressed!). So you see, worth it not to procrastinate and, especially, worth overcoming one's worst fears, at least in that case. I do deal with heights much better since. A bit like dealing better with pain after childbirth).

So, let's translate to my current (less dramatic) scenario of gym attendance: First step - Get into the car and drive off! Second step - swipe card through gates. Once that far, it's hard to turn back if only because of the very fit examples of aerobic motivation you're confronted with in the lobby.

In general, though, I do find that once I'm on my way to something there's no feasible excuse to procrastinate any more: action has already been taken, time and motion. So turn on that laptop! Open that file! Make that phone call! Whip apart that wad of documents! you're almost half-way there (at least mentally, which is indeed half the battle) - promise!

(2) Give yourself a reward for each small step. The mind gets overwhelmed by large, seemingly unending projects but if you subscribe to: "A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step" (thanks, Confucious!) and reward the milestones along the way things become enjoyable instead of a slog. I'm going to have a few squares of chocolate on my way back from the gym and I do enjoy my forest fruits isotonic drink in sips at intervals as the distance counter ticks on!!!

(3) Don't think about the future - except in positive terms. It's not a 'mountain to climb' - picture yourself instead on the summit waving the flag: imagine that feeling of success inside your chest. Positive visualisation really does bolster up achieving that goal. Live the sweetness of satisfaction in advance, so you know where you're headed. And before you know it, you'll be there! (I'll have that serotonin racing when I'm done at the gym, and feel invigorated on the drive back. I know this in advance, so why I'd prefer laziness to that refreshing feeling is the million dollar question!)

(4) Concentrate on what you can do now, in the present, to help your cause. If you planted a bulb a day, you'd have a whole field of daffodils (for example. Or whatever analogy helps you on your way.) Personally, I wrote a novel of 80,000 words in about four months at a rate of a little bit every night (OK so it's not published, but still, it taught me about getting a job done bit by bit...)
And, back to the gym example, 20 minutes a day is better than an hour twice a week, ask any fitness expert...

(5) Override your brain's negative messages: they are self-defeating. It's NOT hard, it's NOT boring, it's NOT something you don't like: it's something positive you are doing to free yourself up, by finishing it off and giving you time to do stuff you prefer!
(Let's face it going to the gym is a pleasure, in that if you keep fit you look good. And, in my case this week, can then indulge at upcoming weekend barbeque with no feelings of guilt: what could possibly be bad about offsetting wine and good food with a spot of exercise?!)

(6) Just get on with it. Excuses like perfectionism are just: Excuses! Things can always be revised, but they have to be finished first. As with writing a book, without a first draft there's nothing. Again, I don't have to go to the gym to do a full olympic-style circuit and tick the boxes on an entire training regime per session. 20 minutes on the treadmill still counts but is an awful lot less daunting! Aim too high and it's easy to give up and give in. Slow, steady and achievable wins the race.

(7) Don't allow the turkeys to get you down! (I used to love this expression as a teenager. It means, don't allow other people's perceptions to affect your self-worth. Be your own best, toughest, but fairest critic and you'll do a good job).

Do remember that even (and especially) friends and family can (subconsciously) sabotage your good plans, either due to (subconscious) envy or by putting their own agendas before yours (human nature, so don't take it personally). A girlfriend cajoled me this morning: "Oh you can give the gym a break: come and have coffee and cakes with me!" -and I suspected she was most likely reflecting her own guilty procrastination onto me - as she subsequently admitted: "Well I know I should go too, but can't be bothered, so let's be lazy together...!" Oh no, no, noooo.......! What, both be fat and lazy??!! No way, girlfriend, don't count me in your guilt trip! (she tootled off to get the trainers on, grateful).

So, each to his (or her) own - get your own stuff done, your goals fulfilled, your own guilt assuaged. Forget others. We've all got our own individual responsibilities to deal with. I've only got my one life, I reckon - no time for excuses or sabotage.

(8) P.S. Reward yourself for finishing the job (but that's the easy part!)

(9) Remember no-one's perfect so the odd procrastination is human. As long as it's a conscious choice and not a habit, and you have the power to make that choice.

Bye! I'm off to the gym! First step.... log off....avoiding the latest gossip on msn and the temptation to log onto hotmail...and Nooooo, Helen, another quick cup of tea is NOT a good idea... and the bills to pay can wait...GET OUT OF THE DOOR RIGHT NOW WOMAN!!!

The gentle power of persuasion...

2009-05-21T10:52:00.000-07:00

Business bods are always harping on about 'networking'. This is something I've always been particularly good at: whether because I can (in the words of my University tutor) "talk the hind legs off a horse" (is that good, or bad?), whether it's because I'm quite an opportunist at heart (aren't we all?), or whether just because I simply do love meeting people - different people, nice people, interesting people, or just plain people (you can learn from anyone) - I don't know. Anyway, I seem to have either networked (or made a name for myself) sufficiently to have been today nominated without opposition for the post of 'Chairman (-woman?) of the (School) Fund-raising Committee.' I must have done something right to market myself correctly. Which, tell you a secret, is pretty good going, as here's the reality:

Example 1: Yesterday - (rushing my son into school at the last possible moment), his teacher looks at me in that benignly concerned manner: "Are you all right, Mrs. Romeo?"

I blinked. Wanted to say: "what, apart from the week of migraines due to this awful high/low pressure weather; the inability to sleep well (worrying about paying the school fees); the having had to organise a birthday party for 32 children (cakes at school break, family cake at home and cakes at the party included - how many cakes?!); the skin breakouts and sluggish feeling from over-consumption of said cakes; the constant nagging in order to get children ready for school on these between-season days which start shrouded in heavy sleepiness and cloud; my recent feeling of complete disorganisation and resulting dip in motivation; and, lastly, lack of any redeeming physical exercise over two weeks, gym and marital acrobatics included..? What, the fact that I'm a total mess?!". But I just replied: "Ummm. Yes. I suppose so..."

Teacher looked at me again, indulgent smile - as you would to a five-year-old, not normally to a forty-year-old mum - "well, it's just that...you were absent last night, and I wondered if everything was OK?" (OH god! I think. What the hell was last night? Some sort of parent's evening?) "Ummm. So sorry. Ummm. Sorry, but what WAS on last night, if you don't mind me asking? I'm not sure I was ever made aware of it..." (blatantly, I haven't been reading either my emails nor those silly crunched-up bits of paper they shove in the school bags, in fact..)

"The parent's evening in preparation for moving up into Form 1 next year. We looked at all the children's work and what they've achieved over the past year, and parents had individual meetings with the new teacher for next year to ask questions and so on."

(Oh Christ! Well, wouldn't have been able to make it as hubby arrived back from work at 10pm anyway. Bloody hell. And isn't this sort of thing an end-of-term thing anyway?)

I apologised and slinked away.

Example 2: Woke up today at 08.10. We have, as a rule, to leave at 08.30 in order to get both children to school on time. Somehow got dressed, teeth cleaned, faces washed, hair done, shoes and coats on, and breakfast eaten in 20 minutes flat. And two pack-lunches made. Although this may be seen as an example of astute and timely organisational ability, I view it more as complete chaos.

All I can deduce from the above, is that if my over-sleeping-, migraine-prone-, nagging ad infinitum-, disorganised-, out-of-control-, and totally unaware of important dates-persona has made enough of an impression to be nominated as chief fundraiser for Posh-Private-School, I think there may yet be hope for me to go work for the government in spin instead! However...I haven't as yet informed the scholastic powers-that-be that, before I fund-raise for anyone else, I should really be fund-raising for myself: or I won't exist at the school next term to chair those all-important meetings after all! (How to put it?...Hmmmm.... let me think....sure I can put a spin on it...)

Mind the Gap

2009-05-18T13:07:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was at the 'Grand Designs' Expo in London. Those who know me, know I am rather obsessed with design. Fault of being the progeny of an architect, even if the old man's not exactly Frank Lloyd Wright. I used to live by the mantra 'don't have anything in your house which is not either useful or beautiful' (preferably both, in ideal scenario) - those with young children may understand why this has been modified over time. Nevertheless, I am neither designer by trade nor can I afford to buy the design that I would, if I could (despite the odd mass-produced Alessi and Philippe Starck, no big deal.)

I sat down with an architect at the exhibition. I hadn't brought any plans of the complicated and major project I foresee for our property... (one day. As in, the dream we envisaged when we bought this detached and outdated house with playing fields stretching beyond and no neighbours on one side. No-one to overlook or look down, no barrier to potential planning permission/s.) Anyway, despite no plans I sat down quietly for half an hour and drew them out. Then sat down, less quietly, with said architect, and talked them out.

The architect gave me a figure we can't afford and haven't got. Might have in ten years. Might have in five. Probably not, bar an out-of-the-blue book deal (probably not). Again, probably not, bar my husband moving to Kuwait and earning tax-free stacks of cash (there again, definitely not).

I told the very nice, very-I-could-work-with-him architect that I have no current plans as my finances won't stretch the distance. As I did to plenty of others who tried to sell me their juicy wares from all the top design names, all day. I suppose I love it all so much that I project an aura: there seemed to be no gap between the customer they perceived me to be and the one I am (in stark reality). Certainly, I am as well versed as your next interiors- or design-aficionado. I know whose iconic pieces are which. I know the latest up-and-coming names. But it all ends there.

Mind the gap... The gap between who you'd like to be and who you are. The gap between how others perceive you and how you perceive yourself. Therein lies perdition...as they say. You can extrapolate ad infinitum...The income gap... The spending gap... the self-esteem gap... Bla, bla, bla. Lots of lovely matter for sociologists and psychologists.

Of course, the impressions and opinions of others matter only up to a point: though it's a point mostly stuck well into career, reputation, honour, glory, etc! (On the other hand, the Dalai Lama can give you a very valuable perspective on how none of these can bring lasting happiness. Read his stuff, it's good.)

Love, friendship, family?... if there are no gaps here then we should be happy, no gaps where it's all important, most important. But yet, for many of us, there's still the one gap which tends to rub. Between who we know we could be and who we are, right now. Between our reality and our potential, perhaps.

To thine own self be true, said William Shakespeare. And it will follow, as the night the day, you cannot then be false to any man.
(or words to that effect)

I mean, we all dream of being a more... successful?/slimmer?/fitter?/richer?/better organised?/(insert yours here)...version of what we are. We are aware of the gap, and it rubs. Especially if others notice (or don't notice). But, all we can do about it is either live with it or close the gap. Period. Or, become Buddhists.

So, in my case: what do I need to do to be true to myself? It's not about refurbishing a house or buying a Le Corbusier lounge chair. It's something about creativity, about a feeling for harmony and a love of beauty. Probably, and especially, the creativity bit. Food for thought. Mind the Gap!

The architect was disappointed, though. He's still trying to get me to sign him up for my big 'grand design'. Not now, my man. Not yet. Maybe I have to discover myself a bit more first - a 'grand design' on my career destiny, as it were - before dealing with the plain bricks and mortar stuff.

food for thought

2009-05-18T10:55:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you turn the corner in life, and catch a glimpse of that first milestone by the wayside?
...seek out old friends and wonder about old loves?
...vow to appreciate new friends and current loves more than you do?
...remember the person you were at 16 and ask yourself, what can I learn from the young self I was then?
...make time to do the things you never have time for?
...remember that what you're interested in forms an essential part of yourself that you shouldn't ignore?
...acknowledge that life isn't infinite...
...ask yourself, if you don't make the best of yourself now, when will you?
...know there's no age attached to potential
...stop and smell the roses
...and, hey, it's never too late/you're never too old/never too tired/... to party!!

Alright, trite. But still true.

De aye why

2009-05-16T08:58:00.000-07:00

OK, it's official. Not the fact that our politicians appear to be spending all our hard-earned money to dredge their moats and install high-tech security shutters at their (third-residence) mansions...God knows they'll probably need both soon enough, to fend off angry hoards armed with bricks and rolled-up copies of "The Telegraph"... No, the fact that little Mrs. Non-Politico - me - is so broke that I'm going to be forced to do MY refurbishing MESELF. Yes. I am packing my two children off to Grandmother's country cottage this upcoming half-term (not a second residence, not my "current" (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) residence, and no moat nor acres to spread taxpaying manure costing five thousand pounds a lorry on). Because if I don't do something to fill the holes in the wall.. and remove the ragged wallpaper... and paint said surfaces (and new plastered fireplace)... and replace the tiles fallen off the bathroom wall...(etc)... I will not be able to have a 40th birthday party at home (soon). As I will be too ashamed. Period! Sad but true. And with no way to drown 40 years in copious drink to dull the shock and no-one to help me commiserate, I will then probably feel my age. Which is what, above all, you're meant to try and avoid when you turn forty - aren't you? (Whether or not I'll feel fifty after attempting to revamp my own home single-handedly, is another matter.)

As for my new-found (very reluctant) role as de'-uh-ray-uh, (de' as in dec), suffice to say I know NOTHING about D.eye.why. Except that, like everything else in our household, I have to DO. It. Myself. (With. NO. Help!)

So, I was supposed to tootle off to our local four storey hardware store this afternoon, B&Q. A tad more than a hardware store, a glorified version, for those in the know. To pick up some 'supplies' for my home renovation exercise. Oh, and a 'brush' to block the letterbox at our tenant's place where some daft opportunist attempted to burgle them at four in the morning the other night by sticking a metal broom handle into said letterbox and jamming the lock to try and open the door. Streetlight bang outside the front door, and car in drive. Everyone asleep upstairs. Which isn't a story any landlord wants to hear (but that's all another story for another time).

But anyway. I went nowhere. I ended up making my son a Viking Longship instead and eating a large slice of wholemeal bread with organic peanut butter and pine forest honey - when I wasn't in the slightest bit hungry - instead. Hmmmmm. Procrastination is the thief of......

And that, folks, is that. I should've been in politics instead, I muse, perhaps via the Parent Teacher Assoc. at school (like moose lady across the Pond). And I would have had a moat and acres of something (woodland? grassland?? savanna??? mud????) and three residences (Oh, well of course I forgot, I do have three mortgages but that's why we are so poor. No one pays them for me or even buys me a John Lewis designer stone sink. Bad time to enter property speculation, that was). Naturally (continuing the fantasy) I'd need my city residences and country piles all prickling with taxpayer-funded security to avoid blind broom-handled-burglars.

Oh well. I'd better log off and start looking up how to strip off three layers of wallpaper dating back 80 years, and fight the cravings for chocolate biscuits (which seem to accompany the intention). I'm thinking, I don't own overalls. Wonder if my floral apron would do?

An ocean

2009-05-08T03:46:00.001-07:00

Since I continually harp on about entrepreneurship, I thought I'd write a list of my achievements in the sector. You'll soon realise that between dreaming and doing there's an ocean in-between - at least in my case. Let's hope that can change sometime in the future!

Stuff I've done successfully:

(1) Property investment
(2) Property refurbishment
(3) Buying-selling designer denim on-line (marginally successful, at least I ended up with a great wardrobe!)
(4) Having lots of lovely ideas in the shower....(steady, steady, readers!)

Just a few of the (multiple) stuff I've dreamt of doing, done research, but never got so far as writing a business plan (those old demons again "you haven't got the capital...you'll never pull it off...you haven't got the time...you're not good enough..wicked chuckle, wicked chuckle!"):

(1) Environmentally-friendly dry-cleaning business (opened by someone else locally 6 months later...and doing well...ARGHH!)

(2) Designer clothing 'swap' website (still pendng but bought URL. But then, STILL pending is all that matters...)

(3) Idea for a cut-resistant glove (no joke! - after I cut the end of my finger off - anyway, already exists as my research uncovered!)

(4) Cellulite friendly underwear (subsequently done by 'spanx'...)

(5) Italian-style bakery

(6) Hot chocolate cafe'

Books I've written but not published: 2
Languages I speak but no occasion to: 5 and 2 bits
Husbands with whom I'm not communicating: 1
Gorgeous kids: 2
Dress size: 6-8
Height: 158 cms
Oh....sorry....got carried away.....

Well, as I say, between dreaming and doing there's an ocean in between...one day I'll get out of my rut. I will. I WILL!! I WILL!!! (...I hope. Watch this space. My husband says there's no rut to get out of. All depends on perception. And character. And ambition. And dreams...Uh oh, back to square one!).

fate

2009-05-07T01:22:00.000-07:00

The builders have been and gone, and my computer sits lonely and disconnected, tangle of wires temporarily housed in a waste-paper basket. The longterm 'hole' in my wall - offending fireplace - is newly blocked up and pinkly plastered. I should feel good about this: it was a scar on my aesthetic sense for far too long. But I feel strangely blocked up too: a few days too many without writing. (In the end I came to the gym. Firstly, to quench my nervous energy tapping on the PC in the cafe. Secondly, only secondly, to quench my restlessness by stepping on the treadmill - that's for later). Because, there are those who write, who have to write, who 'need' to write. I am one. The best-selling author Jodi Picault (who's written a novel a year for the past god-knows-how-many; had penned ten even before success; and who has one for each of the next two years already mapped out) talked about this in an interview I read recently. She wouldn't stop writing even if she stopped publishing: "Don't you think that when J.D. Salinger dies they'll find a barn full?" (of unpublished novels), she asks, rhetorically.
It would help me no end to be desperately (as in single-mindedly) churning out novel after novel (preferably published, not in my garden shed!) instead of just desperate. But I'm no Jodi Picault. Or even J.D.Salinger. Just a mum. Oh well.

And there are other, more prosaic, things to do, too many. An absent husband. Busy kids. A wall of flocked cream wallpaper to strip off. The daily grind of life. Recession. Sacrifices. Then guilt - we've got it better than many. Than so many. But this is my life, not anyone else's. A horrible, sinking feeling of desperation, of drowning. My sister-in-law's fortieth today. Mine soon. What have I accomplished in those forty years? A lot, says Hubby. A husband (working all hours, then watching football). Two lovely kids (agreed. Thankyou!). A (ramshackle - Oh God!) house with a (stunning - Thank God!) garden. Lovely friends (sanity) and not enough time spent with them (insanity). Health (priceless). Career? Ambition? (don't make me cry...). Conclusion: I STILL just feel: "Not enough". Sodding 'A'-type personality. Bloody ambition. But: Happy days. And then: days of frustration.

BUT. But, then: driving to school this morning, I turned out of our drive (over the generous cycle path) into the line of traffic trickling slowly down our road. Further up, a car, parked frozen in the position in which it had swerved to turn into a driveway just like mine: diagonally half over the cycle path and half in the road, like one of those matchbox model cars of my son's when flung onto the playroom floor. Off to the side enough for the queue of cars to pass. So, we crawl past. Similarly, half on the pavement and half on the cycle path: a long blue cyclist in tight dark blue lycra, lies there. Somehow, rings a bell. Tall man. Hurt. Mangled bike. Someone runs out of the neighbouring house with a pink flowery blanket. He's not moving. Far away, back in my rear view mirror, the flashing lights of an ambulance stuck in the morning rush. "Someone's hurt", I tell my children, who are wondering what it's all about. "I think someone in a car wasn't looking and hit into a man on a bicycle who also maybe wasn't looking. Cars are hard and people are soft. So the man is hurt. But I think he'll be OK. There's an ambulance coming. That's why we always have to be careful in life, to watch out, to look carefully. So there aren't accidents." My children, quiet, accept this. We move on, turn off the road. End of subject. But I feel strange. I've got a horrible feeling the cyclist is the one who mouthed: "Bitch!" at me the other day. As, already half out of my drive to turn into the line of traffic, he appeared from nowhere and speeded on towards me, in dark blue lycra, racing. And I stopped to let him past - cyclists have the right of way, don't they? And that was fine. Or maybe it wasn't. He had to slow his pace and he didn't like that. And so he mouthed off at me. And I was surprised, a tall obviously middle-class man of my husband's age in expensive cycle gear on a very posh cycle, swearing foully at someone who could be his wife (or maybe that was the point, I'd thought!). I suspected it was him on the pavement this morning, I was horribly sure. The word "karma" came to me and I felt like crying. I could in another life, perhaps, have been the motorist, the car pulled over beside the injured man mine. If fate had had it differently I could have been the driver the police no doubt were questioning when on my return from the school run I saw a bare pavement on the same spot, but a police car too. Then I wanted to cry again. For the cyclist, a man, someone's husband, someone's dad maybe. And for me. Shocked for the man. Relieved for me.

I'm wanting to cry too much this week, in any case. But I stop, and shake myself, and remember to be grateful for what I've got. So, I'm off to the treadmill. The real one, not the imaginary one that sometimes feels, most ungratefully on my part, like my life.

spinning gold into straw...

2009-05-02T14:44:00.001-07:00

My husband casually asked my four-and-a-half year old son a couple of months ago what he thought the Credit Crunch was. Much to my astonishment, he knew, without missing a beat (and I quote): "It's when the banks aren't sharing and they don't want to lend to each other." Granted that the child's quite bright, but still...
(I suspected the long arm - or lips rather?! - of the BBC, but quite liked the child-friendly vocab. Luckily I reined myself in at the last moment before quipping, instinctively, "Hmmm....a bit like your sister!")

It did occur to me that Rumplestiltskin - the fairy tale where straw is spun into gold - would also be a good way to explain the whole mess, but only if you reverse it, gold into straw. Now that really would be one way to explain Mortgage-backed-collateralised-debt-obligations...

Anyway, just a day or so ago, my little man piped up asking me what I'd written on my "blog today, when you write stuff on the computer, Mummy".
"Mummy's writing tips for saving money, sweetheart!", I replied, cupping his cheeky grin. He looked up, interested seriousness: "Is that because of the recession?". What to say, except agree and change the subject to avoid getting into a full-blown explanation about what, how and why - gross cowardice, no doubt! - but I'd prefer to wait. Despite the predominance in fairy tales of poor peasants, rich kings, tricksters, the whole straw to gold concept and the multiple pots thereof, I really, REALLY prefer to wait...It's that instinctive whisper trickling inside me, admonishing that children should be full of lighter, more earthy persuits: mud, sunshine, rascally laughter, old-fashioned games and crafts! NOT MONEY, for God's sake - how vulgar!! Not Recession, for Goodness - why darken their perfect innocence!!! (no matter that children have been privvy to harsh realities for millennia).

Nevertheless, I bow to our modern children's 'radar': I really do have to be careful what I say in front of little mister these days. Do we adults underestimate the ability of our children to grasp rather complicated 'adult' concepts and phrases? Granted, children have always heard and repeated, but do they understand a tad too much on top of all that, nowadays? Or is it a sign of the times, of what they're exposed to, conversations, radio, television, media? Or, just possibly, maybe we should simply get them to go out climb trees/make bows and arrows/run around the garden more... like in the 'old' days (rhetorical question)? Maybe then, in their natural element of fresh air and exciting, mucky pursuits, they wouldn't bother wondering about recessions, credit crunches and the like. Or want to grow up too fast and "get a job to help Daddy, because Daddy has to work too hard..." (that one was nipped in the bud before you could fling open the patio door with a: "Out to play football! Out you get, go on!")

Credit Crunch Tips for the cashflow challenged

2009-04-29T05:51:00.000-07:00

You can take a person out of poverty, but never poverty out of a person. Discuss.

No doubt, having had to struggle financially in life has long-lasting effects on spending and saving behaviour. We all know of two types of ex-poor: those who can't help splurging to fill the yawning, aching gap (and attendant feeling of inferiority) caused by past penury; and those who make stock and darn socks.

My mother is one of the latter. My grandmother, too. I'll tell you a story.

My Grandmother came from what was deemed a 'good background'. She married into a large family with several sons. She married the youngest, weakest, most consumptive son. The one with coughs, faints. The one who didn't want to go 'into the city' or some such profession. The one who wanted to be an apple farmer.

He used up all his inheritance to buy an apple farm in Norfolk. The fresh air and farm work did him good, but the risk wasn't paying off. There was no money left, and no more support from his family. He had a young wife of a year or so and a newborn daughter. They did all the work themselves. The apple trees were blighted. Times, as they say, were hard-hitting. He began to have fits, black-outs. But he had to support his new family. He persisted. He stretched himself to breaking point.

One Christmas eve he came back from a dance with his wife and they readied themselves for bed, turned in for the night. He leant over the pillows to kiss her goodnight, the twenty-two year old wife he loved dearly. And had a heart attack. And died. In bed, beside her. His daughter (my mother) was barely two years old.

My Grandmother tried her best to keep the farm. She rose at dawn and worked the orchards herself, my mother in a cradle beside her. But she couldn't afford to pay the few farm-hands and just as the trees her dead husband had lovingly tended flowered, she was forced to extinguish the dream and sell off the farm, at a loss. The harvest which ripened just after the sale was to be one of the biggest and most fruitful ever.

The young widow, destitute, moved in with her mother-in-law. Her own parents couldn't help. As a child, her father and uncles' jewellery shop had gone bust and, tainted with bankruptcy and shame, they both took a pact, and a rifle to their brains. She'd lost father, uncle, and husband. At her mother-in-law's house, they accepted lodgers to pay the bills. My Grandmother's job was to kneel in the soot and sweep out the fireplaces and coal-scuttles every day at dawn. There was no time to mourn. Just enough time to get on with daily life.

The women in my maternal bloodline have always had to make do and show initiative, never rely on a man to provide. Which perhaps is where I come in (as 'frustrated', and a wannabe entrepreneur!) It's hard to drop a couple of generations of girl-power. Even if they didn't know it as such in the 1930s.

So: here are my 10 Credit Crunch money-savers (which have been working for me for years, incidentally!)

(1) It is never necessary to throw away food. What you don't eat or drink you can quickly freeze raw (fruit juice; bread; all cakes/pastry/bakery products) or cooked (stew leftover fruit and freeze; make vegetable soups and freeze; cooked pasta and rice freezes too, wouldyabelieveit). If you pop spices in the freezer they'll last long beyond their expiry date. Same with fresh herbs, just crumble into cooking. If you boil milk nearing its date it will last for a couple of days past it (and be good for coffee, tea, cooking etc). Blackened bananas are great for smoothies. Soured wine for keeping by the cooker and adding to stews. I've even successfully made fresh cream cheese from 6 pints of milk that curdled when my fridge conked out, but that's real old-fashioned business with cheesecloth, etc.. and perhaps not for the faint hearted (I'm proud to say not a drop was wasted). And this from someone, who in my heyday pre-Credit crunch, happily ate at Ramsey's and The Fat Duck, and who considers herself a bit of a 'foodie'...

(2) Use-by dates and best-before are simply that - best before. And the use-by's have litigation margins built in. You won't get sick if you eat anything past its date unless it smells or looks 'off', has mould or is fermenting. Sue me if you will, but I've always survived! And you can cut mould off cheese (which you are paying good money for in gorgonzola or stilton anyway) and it'll be quite edible underneath. You NEVER need to throw away an egg - printed date or not - unless you crack it and it's obviously 'bad egg!'. And by the way use-by dates on anything sugary are just a joke: raisins, jams, etc: the sugar is a natural preservative! Any biscuits etc which might have gone a touch 'stale' can easily be shoved in the oven and warmed then cooled to regain their original crispiness. Trust me!
Our mothers and grand-mothers never had sell-by, best-before or use-by dates. They just used common sense (if we don't, we'll gradually lose all the domestic wisdom they've spend generations accumulating: throwing away an egg which smells fine is just one example. A friend of mine used to do just that.)

(3) Again, food related - use roast carcasses to boil up and make stock. 15 mins in the pressure cooker with water, a cube, an onion and a carrot. And Bob's your auntie! (sorry, uncle...)

(4) Anything branded costs more. Anything packaged costs more. Anything 'convenience-related' costs more. It's not rocket-science, but you can save a lot. A LOT!

(5) Children love the old-fashioned pursuit of baking. It costs very little in money or work to make your own bread, with flour, those little dried yeast packets, and some tasty additions (raisins? walnuts? chilli flakes for the big people?) And kudos with your guests. Everyone loves a home-made loaf!

(6) Manicures, Pedicures, and eye-brow trims can be done at home. Just look up top tips on the internet if you're not sure. You save a LOT of money and the results are just as good.

(7) Waste not, want not. What goes around comes around. If you are generous with your time and your possessions, others will be generous to you. I pass all my daughter's clothes on to a friend, and in return another friend passes me her (older) daughter's clothes. There's some great stuff going. It's a lovely merry-go-round of saved money. And the satisfaction of giving children's clothes the wearing-in they otherwise rarely get. If not, ebay has mountains of kids' stuff. Designer, even, if that's your cup of tea ( I find Tesco's to be just as good if you choose judiciously).

(8) Don't be afraid to be cheeky. Who doesn't ask, doesn't get. I 'phoned my household insurer and told them my neighbours were paying much less with other names. They promptly cut my yearly premium by almost 50%...FIFTY PERCENT, you scream?! I asked them why they'd hike it up so much in the first place if only to slash it down. "We don't want to lose your custom!" they said. Yeah right. More like daylight robbery to begin with... similarly our builders just cut 15% off a quote for filling in a fireplace. Just because we told them it was a discount or no job. Simple.

(9) Check your bills and reconcile your statements. Computers aren't human. And do make mistakes. We've been over-charged or mis-charged or ripped-off needlessly, at least 4 times over the past 5 years!

(10) Before you rush out for that cup of coffee, invite friends home instead. Before you rush out for a meal, cook your own treat! Before you rush out to the movies, rent your own, or read, or get the kids to stage a show. Before you impulse buy... STOP!... and think. Do you really NEED what you are buying or can you find a (nicer, simpler) alternative? Or are you trying to fill another type of hole with the purchase: boredom, dissatisfaction, greed, habit???

Happy saving! A friend of mine's saving £500 a month just by doing the above, paying attention, being aware, and NOT being ashamed. After all, saving's the new black...

The politics of envy...

2009-04-28T05:52:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again. When I and the wee lot visited a wildlife park not long ago, we were treated to the sight of peacocks strutting their mating dance, all posh plumage, sashays and swaggers. There were about 4 cocks to one (blase' and indifferent) brown hen (pea-cock; pea-hen's the syntax). The males didn't seem to be in the slightest interested in the female's lack of interest, but more involved in out-posing the other guys.

Likewise, the Sunday Times Rich List came out two days ago, strutting its pound signs in lieu of emerald eyes. However, this year the talk of the farm's all on the plumage that's been lost. Feathers thinned, net worth likewise.

Now, the thing is: do we, mere mortals, REALLY care? Well, for a start, whether or not the man in the street cares, the rich (or dented rich, this past year) obviously do. Because it's not really about money at all. I could now go look up a host of academic research I vaguely recall from college (Frederick Herzberg's Two-Factor theory on job motivation being one), but really, who needs the boffins to tell us what we already know - that if you love your job and do it well, success will inevitably follow. I've read a lot of books on entrepreneurship by entrepreneurs, and the message time and time again is: "I didn't start out to get rich. I just wanted to excel at what I'm good at/wanted to be the best in my arena/wanted to deliver real value/wanted to make a difference/wanted to get my message out there/loved what I was doing...(etc) and am lucky enough to make a great(!) living out of it." And a few between the lines of: "I was poor/teased at school/had a difficult childhood... and wanted to show the b*stards that I can be better than anyone else, despite it all."

It's like my son (soon to be 5) at school, when he got the 'Reading Cup.' Despite the trophy being BIG and SHINY and a CUP, he soon lost interest in showing it to people. But he never stopped announcing: "I got the Reading Cup at School!" It's all about the honour and the glory (read, massage-to-ego), and not really about the shiny stuff. Which is why it DOES surely matter to many of those in the Rich List what position they are in. It's a league table, an indicator of triumph, with ego deeply intwined. Don't tell me that most immensely successful people don't have large egos: they have to, to have taken the risks and knocks they've inevitably suffered as part of the route on the climb up the steep North face to victory. Or, if they hadn't owned a larg-ish ego to start off with, they'd have surely developed one once they got to the pinnacle - it's only human nature.

No, money isn't just about money for the rich. It's more a thermometer, an indicator of how well they're meeting their own internal goals or deadlines as well as their companies' and investors' (or whichever stakeholders are attached). Why else would Richard Branson keep on diversifying?; would JK Rowling keep on writing after the first couple of books (and even now, I'd bet my right (writing) hand that she's still penning SOMETHING...)?; and (insert name of pop artist) keep on singing?; David Beckham keep on footballing?; and so on ad infinitum? 'Cos it's not about the money.

But it is about the money for us, those without. When you've heavy mortgages to pay and the threat of redundancy, how can it not NOT be about the money? Cue, the politics of envy. And resentment. And scape-goatism. So, this year there seems to be a flavour of discussion around, about whether a 'Rich List' isn't, in fact, in rather bad taste, in view of the current climate. People have a nasty coating on their tongues after all the hoo-haa about banker's bonuses etc., and understandably. I'd no longer feel safe driving about in my personalised Bentley anymore (if I had one!). The admiring looks you'd have received two years ago might well be scowls by now (even in my Toyota today a passing cyclist to whom I gave way, coming out of my own driveway no less, mouthed: "bitch!"...so there are some unprovokedly nasty people around in the world, to be sure).

Positively, there's definitely a new world order on the horizon. People are sliding back towards questioning new values vs. old-fashioned morals. Glitz vs. resilience. Sunshine and birds vs. salon tans and i-pods. Or suchlike. Deservedly so. Money does not equal happiness (only less stress - and that up to a certain point. I'm sure that having millions is in itself a merry source of anxiety: failure, extortion, kidnapping, security, what to do with it all, if/how to give any away...etc)

Interestingly, some of the most humble people I've ever met have been in the ambit of the 'rich-list' realm. A lovely family I know very well keep a copy of the compilation itself on their living room table: out of pride, I suspect, for their daughter's husband tucked away inside its pages. I mean, I would too. And one of the nicest young couples I ever met clocked in at £450(million...) in last year's rich list (or hubby did - as I discovered quite by chance flicking through: "Hang on! ...Don't I know him?!"...) I won't reveal the position or name and I won't check them against the list this year (voyerism isn't my style): suffice to say I visited their (beautiful, truly stylish) residence (only) once for a children's birthday party a while ago. It was the type of mansion you'd design for a millionaire, but a lot more unpresuming than what you'd imagine for a semi-billionaire. And, as far as the birthday party went, bar an entertainer, they'd done it all themselves. And the husband (master of the universe at work, no doubt) knelt on the floor to put (my) son's grubby shoes back on for him. His wife, a lovely, charming and completely down-to-earth mum, has little help at home (not even someone to clean the unending expanses of glass). So, you see, we shouldn't forget that the rich are human too. Some, true, may have got lucky. But a lot, many, perhaps most, have worked their butts off for what they have. Who are we to slate them for that?

And, at the end of the day, who is really richer? Are you poorer by not having to clamber up league tables and not having your wealth dissected? Are you richer when you learn the joy of boiling up your own roast chicken carcass to make your own stock and "best" home-made soup? (no apologies! one of my homely pleasures). Can you pay for that sunset? It's all relative, my friend. (But I still play the lottery...)

Mental processes

2009-04-27T02:00:00.000-07:00

7 good reasons to GIVE IT A BREAK AND NOT GO to the gym today:

1) Drunk too much wine yesterday at sunny outdoor barbeque.
2) Feeling tired because of (1).
3) Sitting at computer, not in front of steering wheel.
4) All my daughter's posh-private-school class-mates are wearing summer school dresses today. Have to take hers to the tailor to be altered, or she'll be the only one in her class still wearing winter uniform (cue - guilt).
5) Feel a dry tickly throat, undoubtedly due to (1) and (2).
6) (5) might turn into something worse, then I won't be able to go to gym at ALL next week.
7) Had 5 squares 70% cocoa chocolate for breakfast, in the car outside school, not long ago.

7 good reasons to JUST DO IT AND GO to gym today:

1) Drunk too much wine yesterday at sunny outdoor barbeque.
2) Feeling tired because of (1).
3) Sitting at computer, not in front of steering wheel.
4.i) All my posh-private-school class-mums are wearing summer gym gear today. Have to go to the gym, or I'll be the only mum in the class still not getting fit (cue- guilt).
4.ii) Have been wearing gym gear since 7am to auto-convince myself to go.
5) Feel a dry tickly throat, undoubtedly due to (1) and (2).
6) (5) might turn into something worse, then I won't be able to go to gym at ALL next week.
7) Had 5 squares 70% cocoa chocolate for breakfast, in the car outside school, not long ago.

Conclusion? I feel tired today, maybe some more high-cocoa chocolate might help to give me enough energy to make a decision? And, ummm, how much time have I got left 'til midday pick-up anyway to go to the gym?

On work and play

2009-04-25T13:59:00.001-07:00

Admittedly, I'm squeezing this post in simply 'cause my children are fast asleep and my husband's in the shower. There's a reason I'm loathe to write on weekends, when everyone's about. I want my children to remember me, with floury hands, wiping them on my apron and flinging it off over the kitchen chair, to join running races hand-in-hand down the garden. Or perching the carrot I'm peeling on the wooden board to come and look over a small shoulder and review, with the seriousness it deserves, little spidery hand-writing. I'd break off doing anything if my children need me: REALLY need me, because there's an idea that can't wait... or an impromptu game. I believe early creativity wants nurturing. And that for me means not saying: "Just wait...!", so letting the moment evaporate just at the point support's most crucial. (I do draw the line at tantrumy 'now!'s - but, like most parents, it's easy to differentiate).

But writing...writing's different. When I fall 'into the zone', where images and feelings dance over that inner eye, distractions are irritating. You lose the flow - ZAP! So, I've decided not to combine my children, and my writing. I love them both, but in different ways - like your own blood vs. stepchildren, perhaps? (the simile only comes to me because I have extensive knowledge of a friend's experience in this department, so can possibly imagine...tho'again, probably not.)

My husband, too, is learning. Learning, that is, not to mix work and family. Learning from experience. Learning as he gets older, and the kids get older. He wants his children's memories to be of fresh green cricket games outside amidst family cheers, of little shins dangling happily over large broad shoulders viewing the world from up on high. Of rough-and-tumble, mussing curly hair, swinging in circles. Pulling up rugby socks. The correct way to catch a ball. Propelling the lawn mower in tandem: one mini pusher, one big pusher (no matter if the lines aren't straight...). Of standing on the counter inspecting Mummy's store cupboards, Daddy holding on, and pleased at Daddy's 'yes': "You want a sugar lump from the jar? Well don't tell Mummy!"...

My husband already works a 14-hour and 5-day week. The children rest assured that he kisses them goodnight each and every evening in their sleep. If they wake up to the click of the front door on his way out on weekdays, I have to cry down the stairs - or rush to intervene - so they don't miss a quick hug before he leaves: sleepy half-open eyelids and crumpled 'jarmies squeezed for the briefest moment 'gainst ironed pinstripes. Or: there could be tears. But mostly they're used to it. So, on weekends, when Daddy's NOT AT WORK (HOORAY!) he doesn't want to be a 'blackberry' father: looking up and grunting monosyllabic responses as dials are urgently twiddled up and down. He'd prefer to pick blackberries from the brambles behind the house with them, instead. (My brother-in-law, an entrepreneur, is infamous for being "always on his mobile". Always. He was on it - in charge - when his daughter almost drowned in the pool. But still lives with it connected to his ear. My husband knows, and says, this shouldn't be the way.)

True, ambition is ambition. People want to be remembered for different things. I too want to achieve more than simply being a Mum. But there's a time and a place for everything in life. And priorities... What do you REALLY want to be remembered for, and by whom?... And what's the most important ambition? If you were to breathe out that last, final, farewell breath tommorow, what would be your last regret?

You wouldn't end your life wishing you'd worked more, replied to more emails, attended more meetings, even written more blogs, surely? ... Wouldn't you have wanted more sex? more sun on your back? more belly laughs with the children? Less virtual "twitter" ...and more listening to the birds REALLY singing (my mother used to differentiate a blackbird...who can do that nowadays?)

....I must go now. Hubby's out of the shower, and I don't want him to sit at work in an idle moment (if there are any?!) and think of a wife married to the blue glowing screen of a computer, in the darkness of a weekend evening. Or even lie in bed and think of it.

Men...

2009-04-24T02:04:00.000-07:00

...MEN!....

Our television was born a whopping 30" state-of-the-art Panasonic in 1991. Its wealthy owners (friends of ours in Tokyo) palmed it off on us 10 years later when we moved to Japan and it happily travelled back to the UK with us a few years on from that. But for a while now, it's been deciding to give up the ghost. First turning green, then yellow, then sparkly multi-coloured psychedelia.

We'd decided to wait 'til it really did die (credit crunch and so on). And we don't watch that much TV in our household, or at least, the children are only allowed to watch their mini set upstairs, with carefully vetted DVDs and no weird screen effects. Husband downstairs, meanwhile, doesn't care what colour the sport is...

My mother was visiting when hubby put the kids in front of a DVD DOWNSTAIRS. "How can you let the children watch that screen!" intoned mother-in-law, with carefully controlled politeness. "You wouldn't want to ruin their little eyes, now, would you? Come, children, let's go and read a book before you go blind!"

("Told you not to let the kids watch this TV!" I hissed as I walked in from hanging up my coat, just back from an appointment.)

"I'm going to give your wife a new flat screen for her birthday!" announced my mother later on. "Why?" answered my husband, pride bruised.

He soon warmed up nicely to the idea, though. Mother-in-law promised to match what she'd paid for her new top of the range 35" flat screen. Husband went straight on-line to check prices, then drove off to a local hypermarket with the kids where he (apparently) stood transfixed watching the football on the display screens.

Now, the old set was next to a fireplace we'd ripped out of a load-bearing wall we were planning to take down. Or rather, next to the hole where the fireplace used to be. For a year we'd stuffed furniture in front to hide the damage, waiting to decide what we could or couldn't afford, not wanting to spend money plastering needlessly. The gaping bricks had diven me mad: pretty obvious behind the silly bookcase. Being the one at home all day looking at it, I'd have emptied my last coins to block it up. But we ride on mutual decision-making in this family, so I'd closed my eyes and soldiered on.

Back at the ranch, or the TV retailer, my husband made calculations and weighed up value-for-money, the way men do. As a result he purchased a 50" flat-screen Panasonic display model which had never been used but had 15% off. It has all sorts of fancy acronyms as spec which I don't understand, not least some measurement of how quickly pixels renew the image so you don't blink and miss Tiger Wood's best shot (or something).

"Right!" says my husband, eyeing the mammoth cardboard box propped up in our hall with more than immense satisfaction. "Let's get that fireplace all plastered over nicely so we can get this beauty set up in front! You call the builders?"

...I tell you, MEN!

D.I.Y

2009-04-23T01:51:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, a friend who lives a few houses down said: "These old houses used to have really nice wooden parquet flooring in the hall". Or maybe I just heard what I wanted to, she might have said: "Before renovation most of the properties on this road had some really grotty old features, like scrabbly old parquet flooring in the hall." In any case, a lightbulb went on in my head: "Ping!" I rushed home and pulled up the sooty corner of the 25-year-old carpet covering the gleaming intricate pattern of interlocking hardwoods I had laid in my imagination. By the way, I know the carpet's 25 years old because it's exactly the same as the one which was in the 'master' bedroom when we bought the house, which I refused point-blank to keep (it had a label with the date underneath):

Husband (patiently): "I know it's not the best carpet, but considering we've emptied our bank account and nearly bankrupted ourselves buying this house [editor's note: March 2008], and the fact that we AGREED not to waste money doing anything to it 'til we can do our major renovations....can't we just get some rugs to hide it?"

Me (soothingly): "Yes, I understand, and I know we did have an agreement. But..."
Me (vehemently): "...but...There's no bloody way I am going to sleep in this bedroom with that piece of horrible **** on the floor! It's disgusting! I mean, look at it! I'm sorry but NO WAY! I hadn't seen how bad it was when the furniture was all on top of it, but it's almost threadbare! Not forgetting how many horrible cheesy feet have tramped all over it. No! Sorry, but that's final!...."
Me (matter-of-factly) "...anyway, rugs cost money too!"...
Me (sweetly): "...don't they darling? And it IS our bedroom..." (nudge nudge, wink wink)...
Husband (defeatedly): "Well, if you put it like that...you'd better look into it and sort it out yourself, then! I'm too busy at work trying to make ends meet..."

Anyway, back in the hall, I pulled up the corner of the carpet and everything looked rather nice and hunky-dory underneath. I mean, in contrast with the carpet.
Cue following conversation:

Me: "Love, Ummm, take a look at this..."

Husband (sighing): "Oh God. What 'grand designs' have you got now? I thought we agreed we don't have money to do anything to the house at this point in time? I mean that's not a priority...we've got that matting over it!"

Me (all excited): "No, I mean, there's lovely wooden parquet flooring underneath, look! All we need to do is pull this up and bob's your uncle! Immediate renovation!"

Husband (eternally sceptical): "Are you sure? I mean, what about the condition of the rest of it?...and anyway, who's going to do all this?"

Me (resolutely): "I'll do it one morning during the week when the kids are in school. It doesn't take much to pull up a carpet!" [editor's note: I'm the one with the architect/builder father, and used to domestic building-sites, while Husband's the Accountant and, to be polite, more used to accountancy...]

Husband (panicking): "Shouldn't you wait before rushing headlong? And anyway, it'd take you more than a morning!...it'd take hours to pull all this up and sort it out"

Me (countering): "Rubbish! I know all about this kind of stuff! I can do this little lot in 45 minutes max! including the gripper rods!"

Husband: "What are gripper rods? Oh well, have your own way, you always do...Anyway I'm going out to the barber's with little Mister. We're both going to have a hair cut, we won't be long, they're quiet on Sundays. Listen out for little Miss asleep upstairs...Bye!"

(45 minutes later)

Husband (throwing hands up into the air): "God you ARE THE MOST STUBBORN WOMAN I HAVE EVER MET IN MY LIFE!....what, where did you put the carpet and all the stuff you took off then? Has little Miss not woken up yet? And..[kicking several stray pieces of paper-thin wood sliding around the floor]... this stuff's not in good condition at all! Couldn't you wait?!"

Me: "Well it WAS/IS great around the edges...anyway, anything's better than that grotty old carpet!"

Husband: "I give up! We'll have to put a new carpet down on top now! It'd cost too much to renovate this lot! ...Go and have a shower at least!"

I think my husband is quite long-suffering [really sorry, love!, if you're reading this!]. But then he did sign up for a Type-A-personality wife and a house to do up...

Practise what you preach, teach what you practise

2009-04-22T06:15:00.000-07:00

I was frustrated with my daughter because she was too occupied running around the garden to come inside to pee. So she almost wet her pants. No matter that I'd been rushing around, preparing lunch, getting drinks, answering the telephone, clearing up, dealing with tiffs, all the while with a full bladder myself. "But I'm an adult!" I thought. "I've got an excuse!" Then: "No, I should be consistent".

I'm against physical punishments for kids - of any kind. However, as most decent parents know, it's almost impossible not to have succumbed to a slap at least once on our parenting journey. My daughter had deliberately ignored my warnings and swung a bamboo stick around wildly in the air just that one time too many and hit her brother, who exploded in hot tears. I exploded in frustration too, at the failure of my power struggle with her. And because it was dangerous behaviour.
It was a little stinging tap, on the hand, not the cheek, but I still felt mortified.

She did learn not to wave pointed objects around. But a few days later, cross with Mummy, she came and slapped me on the arm. With kids, you teach what you practise (I'll never slap her again).

Parenting is often a clash of egos, a power struggle, a conflict of interests (literally: when you are interested in paying a bill by phone and they're interested in singing at the top of their voices, or when Mummy's interested in writing on the computer and little miss is interested in playing tea-parties; or when you're standing having a refreshing gossip with a friend and little mister's interested in tugging at your sleeve and going to the park...).

The trick's to keep everyone happy, be a patient listener, make sure everyone feels valued, stimulated; to reward the positives, play down the negatives, dis-incentivise bad behaviour; to build up initiative, decision-making, responsibility and self-confidence; and the ability to share and work and play together. A sure road to good behaviour and productivity all round. Or so my husband says, who's in Senior Management!

...Oh, and it's the same with "little people", too, as I've been discovering since I became a Mum!

No Sex please, we're British!

2009-04-22T01:59:00.000-07:00

Rightyho. Having (in the words of a kind reader) 'pimped my blog', let's rev up the ride! Now, on the slippery subject of marital sex I'm simply going to cop out and post you an excerpt from my linked, serialised novel ("The pre-credit crunch diary of a private school mum"). Disclaimer: the characters in the novel are fictionalised, so I don't have to worry about my husband reading it! However, they do say you write what you know (or have known): so there you go. Of course, my real name isn't Helen Romeo either...(dun dun dun duhhhhh.....)

"My husband Martin complains that I have too many new clothes, but the fact is that everything IS new to him. By the time he comes back at 10pm I’ve long changed either into track-pants or into pyjamas...the old 50’s adage, dress up for your husband’s return, just wouldn’t work in our house! Last time I’d put on a naughty silk nightie, thinking it might spice up our marriage a bit, was in the new year. Martin was back at work but me and the kids still on holiday...hooray, a chance at last not to feel wiped out at nine thirty pm. So, at ten o’clock at night, I’d arranged myself artistically over the bedclothes, lights turned down a touch, waiting for the door latch to click and the hall lights to turn on. Meanwhile, I thought I’d get back into that John Grisham gathering dust on my bedside table. I was soon engrossed in the latest evidence; never heard my husband return let alone felt him join me in bed - actually, I must’ve conked out, and the book fell off the duvet and crumpled its middle pages on the floor where I discovered it in the morning when I got up, stood on it, and found Martin had already left for work - he never mentioned the sexy get-up, maybe never even registered it... He really wouldn’t know if I’ve put on half a stone or not...my curves are now a foreign land..."

Remember what peace there may be in silence...

2009-04-21T10:56:00.001-07:00

Today, I planned to provoke any (invisible) readers out there by writing about marital sex, or politics, or credit-crunch-money-saving tips...just to test the waters, poking a stick to encourage a bite. I find it hard to believe anyone's actually reading anything I write...most probably, the 1,000 and counting 'hits' on my little gadget are simply robotic search engines humming: "Exterminate... Exterminate" as they tootle on by my virtual door, simply checking out the facade. Planning all the while to mount attacks on my defenceless computer and knock my hard drive for six. Which would be a family tragedy, as I first begot a child and a digi camera at about the same time. "Take lovely mental pictures and LIVE the moment, instead of viewing the world through a camera lens" had muttered my husband many a time. But when I became too swamped with memory sticks and piles of CD storage marked with indelible pen, I stopped arguing and began to take heed.

And, I admit, my husband was right. Living the moment, or Seize the Day, or Time flies (tempus fu**it, as grumpy Grandpa is wont to say: you work it out...) or taking time out to smell the roses...do we do enough of it? Awareness, perception, seeing through the eyes of a child... call it what you will, when the senses take over and the brain's chatter and clatter and clutter subdues. We sat in the garden at dinner, little curly cheeky girl, sweetly serious boy, and me. I was full on: "Eat your peas! Don't drop that...Stop arguing..." Directed, as usual, at my three-year-old daughter. She looked at me, liquid caramel eyes unfazed and innocent, and replied: "I love the fresh air, Mummy. I love the sky and the earth 'gether and the trees. And the flowers." She was zoning out my nagging, but not the beauty around her. My son said: "Look, Mummy. A bumblebee! It's an endangered species. That means there are not many of them." "Look, Mummy! A bee! A 'dangered speeshees!" echoed his sister. The evening's breath flickered apple petals down onto our hair. "Like Snowflakes!" piped one. "Mummy, the sun's going down!" noted the other.
I sat and let my mind flow and expand, for a moment. The evening held a stillness.

So that's today. Tommorow I might well write about marital sex and about credit-crunch-inspired- creativity. Pursuits for which immersing oneself in the moment are surely useful (if not essential!). I'll sleep on it. Remembering to be more 'aware'.
And defer to two great voices on the subject:

"In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you." Leo Tolstoy
(1828 - 1910).

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence" (Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, 1952).

Put like that, no wonder the 'bots pass me by...

Swamped

2009-04-20T01:48:00.000-07:00

My garden, at this point in time, between Spring and Summer, is heaven incarnate. The fruit tree (judiciously pruned) is in full lush blossom; forget-me-nots surround our little flower-bed Thai God statue waist-high; the Rhodedendron bush (which hubby got so many brownie points clearing hostile hijacking weeds from last year) has come into its own with beautiful, bigger-than-a-tennis-ball blooms in sexily intense and fluffy dark and light pinks. The grass, speckled with daisies, has regained its healthy coat and from time to time petals flutter down like summer snowflakes from the apple tree flowers. The slash of red crocuses, painterly spread of eye-blue-bluebells, delicate mandarin green of the Japanese elm.

But - stop - this isn't a gardening columnn! No, the problem is, you see, the nasty rack of laundry outside on the patio, spoiling my Chelsea-flower-show-view.

Actually, I am drowning under washing. Piles of which, post-Easter-break and before the start of school, have suddenly mushroomed on every available flat area, bed, even stuffed into those builders' plastic tubs (otherwise used for mountains of toys). There's a whole menu: the yet-to-fling-into-the-machine lot; the already washed and dried but due to iron lot; the ready to put away (in a week when I've had time?!) lot...I HATE washing.

And that's not all. This morning I cursed under my breath as I negotiated a thigh-high pile of my husband's clothes gradually accumulated on the bedroom chair: (to absent husband>) "Bloody Hell! I'm not your bloody mother, you know! (to me, little voice>)I wish he'd put his own sodding clothes away for once..."

Hmmm. I think the holidays really are over.

Eternity's too short...

2009-04-18T13:43:00.000-07:00

Back in London, the currently so-called "Important Bank Holiday weekend break" neatly behind us, I'm already harking-back to my bucolic EASTER HOLIDAYS in the Kentish countryside: the embodiment of an old-fashioned English dream. So here's one I wrote earlier: after a delightful country walk with little people stumbling behind (they, for the record, have been fully briefed on Easter, lest the New Labour government take it away from them...)

OK, here we go:

Around here, the countryside's flat, skyscapes stretching out, 20 percent earth, 80 percent sky, to the ratio of a watercolour class. A Turner, Whistler feeling. I used to escape oppressive adolescence jogging down a ribbon of a footpath, a mile or so down through the fields, wheat stretching almost as far as the eye, sky stretching further.

Bank holiday, Easter monday. My first return to this track for over 20 years. The rutted jagged muddy scar clogged with clods I used to struggle my day-glo trainers through has become a smooth slate-grey tarmacked backbone, straight quicksilver cutting through the thick green pelt, swathes of crops crowding either side. Towards a gentle rise, the view drops off. Over, it reaches langorously down the slope once more and..out.

Seven o'clock, almost. Oh joy - that summer feeling! I once penned a teenage poem about this vista, over miles of Kentish countryside, over-arching heavens. A vista nearly obsolete (no factories, no hedgefunder's mansions, barely a road) then, as now. Combined with the langorousness of long summer evenings buzzing with late afternoon gnats and early evening fireflies, and iced with the romance of a first-time love, it made heady reading.

Then, at the base of the hill, beyond the wooden stile (now a metal gate, spray paint absent, thank God) and beside a stream (or was it a dyke? steam sounds better), my young beloved and I had a picnic. Very grown up, quite "Brideshead Revisited", as I'd intended (minus the champagne). Baby sausage rolls, strawberries and cream, mini custard tarts, various other tidbits quietly pilfered from Mummy's larder - that kind of thing. It wasn't the food that mattered, of course, but the feeling of BURSTING promise, a grey version of which seeps back a little as I think back. For who could ever, in later years, truly re-live that emotion? that certainty: of life, youth, love, possibility...stretching out forever into eternity.

As we walked back home, I thought of this. Our lazy steps - big ones and little four year old and three year old ones - were rhythmic through the goldening haze. As we headed back, the layers upon layer of graduated shades of green-to-gray, detail-to-silhouette, the layers of the miles of Kentish view, transfigured as the light changed. Oast-houses, pointed cones ("Madonna"!!) on the boundary between near and far, becoming darker...an old windmill, pretty against the frame (now restored and offering cream teas - we'll go tommorow and buy its very own traditionally-milled flour!)...a hot air balloon, miles and miles and MILES away! - ghostly and charming, immobile.

Our shadows lengthened as we walked, biked, scooted. "Look, Mummy!" pointed my daughter. "You're so tall!" "Yes, you take up half the field!" added my son. I checked my watch. Nearly 8 o'clock. How time flies! No stretching out into eternity any more. No more bursting promise, unlimited potential. "Be quick!" a little voice whispered, wistfully. "Or the shadows of your own life will lengthen too! Look out or the flower which bloomed on that romantic summer afternoon will go to seed even as you sleep..! (evil chuckle)". We went home.

At home: "Hurry up! Hurry up! If you don't get ready for your bath quickly, I'll take away all your Easter eggs"...!
Perhaps not what the little voice intended. But, maybe it's a miracle I could remember any of this to write it down at all!

Perception, Reality, Tragedy...

2009-04-17T08:22:00.000-07:00

Here in England, Saturday 15th April 1989, a football match kicked off at 3pm. The FA cup semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest. During the next six minutes 96 Liverpool fans were to die. And it occurred, partly, because of perception.
Police, at the time, were obsessed with controlling football's scourge - hooliganism. Visiting Liverpool supporters to the Hillsborough stadium in Sheffield were herded through an underground tunnel into barricaded 'pens'. As the numbers increased and people piled up against old fashioned turnstiles, police opened a main exit gate to allow other fans in from outside the ground. The perception, perhaps, was that the dangerous crush at the turnstiles could be relieved. Next, the police perceived an attempt at pitch invasion, the 'bete noire' of hooliganism. A policeman shut an emergency gate at the front of the pens as it was pushed open. Other policemen shouted to "push back". Perception was, that hooliganism and pitch invasions were to be avoided....and this crowd was trying, desperately, to push out onto the pitch. Hooliganism and pitch invasion to be avoided...
... at all costs?....
BUT: What was to be the cost of this mistaken thinking...?
BUT: this was no 'rush for the pitch'. Instead a crush to the death. Fans weren't wanting to 'invade', to play havoc. They wanted to survive. Crushed against the wire netting, blue faces, tongues were seen lolling out, eyes bulging. People vomited. People hemorraged. People died. Bodies piled against bodies, many were the children and the young. Meanwhile the match continued for six minutes. 96 people perished. Parents went home that day, forever to be without the youngsters they had arrived with.
Even after the tragedy, perception continued to cloud reality, with newspapers falsely blaming drunken fans ("animals"), and fans "rioting outside the gate" (again, all wrong).
Two days ago, on Wednesday, exactly 20 years after the carnage, the city of Liverpool came to a dignified standstill at 3.06pm, its bells solelmly chiming 96 times for the victims of.. Reality vs. Perception...

I tell my children all the time: Things are not always what they seem. Look before you leap, Stop before you think...

A matter of life and death

2009-04-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

Out here in the fragrant English spring countryside of gamboling lambs with cat-kin tails (another world) I thought of our home back in London today. When I met a lovely woman who's also suffering a house direly in need of refurbishment (and can't). I sympathised. We're in the same boat (boat?!). But let's talk positive. Admittedly, our home can offer one antidote to lovely-Kentish-village-withdrawal-symptoms: ours is a rather dilapidated (but!) detached house with a dreamily mature immense garden (at least for London)...that view from the master bedroom windows stretching down the garden and over the sports field beyond, and beyond, towards the row of elms in the distance.

(That’s why we garotted ourselves with a heavy mortgage right in the thick of real estate overpricing. This view. So that we could feel we’re not in London, but somewhere else in the countryside. The irony does strike me but I don’t care. That view saves me from insanity).

“Master bedroom”...no, we’re not hedge-funders, FX traders, or even close (and yes they still appear to own their mansions, swishy cars and self-satisfied wives (and I mean that politely, I would be too), lifestyle intact despite the dreaded C/C...no, we...we are just a couple struggling to give ourselves and our children a better quality of life. Struggling being the operative word.

Our home may be detached. It may have a heavenly garden. And re-development potential (lots of redevelopment, that is). But now, let's talk negative. Inside, it’s a nightmare of browns and beiges and...yes, more browns. Not much has been done to it since the 1930’s. Depression era...

Depression era...depression...the holes in the kitchen wall (where I single-handedly pulled off a cabinet to make the area more roomy – and we haven’t had time to plaster)...the olive and brown battered kitchen (my dinner plates in drawers, pressure cookers and pans piled on TOP of cabinets at ceiling level - no space!)...the loo with grey tiles falling off the walls (my son touched one once with a finger tip and nearly broke a toe as it crashed down)...the fireplace we ripped out and haven’t got the money to fill in/plaster over as we really need that wall taking down...the boxy, cramped spaces. The ants in the kitchen. The lack of homeliness, lack of space to entertain properly, or really at all...
For a woman at home all day yearning for a bit of comfort...depression?...BUT: patience...patience...patience...

No, as aesthetically bad as it is, it’s an exercise in positive thinking (and delayed gratification!, see my earlier posting with this title). And, I cannot forget, there are worse things in life. Like the history of our home.

Our home was sold to us by a charming, correct, and old-fashioned old gentleman. A true gentleman. Real endangered species, sadly, nowadays. We didn’t get a bad price, for the overblown year we purchased it. He wanted a family in. Developers wanted it. He stood firm. We offered, cheekily low. Declined. I gave up my dream. Developers wanted it. Dodgy money-laundering-types wanted it. Developers wanted it. Families did not (too much work). He dropped the price and called us, I gasped. We met at the property, me with kid in tow. He was charmed by my daughter. We met in the middle. Documents were drawn-up. A developer tried to gazump. The gentleman stood firm: “I am a man of my word”. Documents were exchanged, completed. The old gentleman was truly grateful to hand over his family home to our young family. Me, I didn’t have much time to contemplate. I had to move our possessions in single-handedly (as we couldn’t afford the removal company beyond the table and the beds at that point!)

A few months later I was chatting happily to the neighbour over the garden fence (lovely neighbours – another reason to ignore the interior!) when...I found out a story. I cried.
I told a friend, she cried too. I told my husband. My husband was speechless.

The old gentleman and his wife had a son who was born, was weaned, learned to walk, to run, to talk. Went to school. Had his nappies changed as a baby, his knees patched as a toddler, his homework corrected as a schoolboy. Went on to University. Came home for the weekend to see his parents, wanted to tinker with an old gadget he was clearing out, set it carefully out on the patio, beyond the kitchen window. Came inside. Two drops of rain fell. Went outside, touched two wires together.
His mother stood at the sink in the kitchen and saw a lifetime of care and love dissolve in a moment. And was never the same again.

I said to my husband: “Let’s hope our two lovely children will bless this house with their happiness, blow away a dark cloud of tragedy, we’ll represent a new beginning!”

So I don’t really think 25-year old carpets in the entranceway and the wrong layout are cause for concern in life. They’re not matters of life and death.

The millionaire, the mansion, and the moral tragedy

2009-04-15T05:14:00.000-07:00

A true story.
Chris Foster had always had a fascination with fire. After seeing coverage of an oil rig disaster in which the inferno blazed for days, he invented an insulating material for valves and staked everything on a demonstration. When the flames died down, the valves were intact. He was made.

Over the next few years business boomed and the money rolled in. A £1 million manor in the rolling English countryside, blingy personalised cars, holidays in Mauritius, private school for his beloved daughter, membership of costly hunting and shooting clubs. His transformation from ordinary lad to country squire was complete.

Several years on, his position was unravelling fast. Unpaid taxes backlogged, securitized loans, mounting debts. He loses control of his company. Meanwhile, he's still compulsively spending.
He tells no-one. His wife, his daughter, his own mother unaware.

Fast forward - August 2008. Chris Foster spends time after a barbeque lovingly flicking through family photo albums in his luxury kitchen. His loved ones are already tucked up in bed. He calmly pumps oil into the basement, takes his custom-made engraved rifle and, caught on his own CCTV cameras, paces around his estate. Dispatches his dogs and his daughter's horses with single point-blank shots to the head. He does the same to his slumbering wife, his daughter. Then he lies down entwined with his spouse on the marital bed and waits for the smoke to overcome him. The bailiffs were due barely a few hours later to repossess his property. They got nothing.

His sobbing mother, a stout silver-haired lady, tries to make sense of it all. I think he did it because he loved them, she suggests. He hadn't wanted to drag them down in the fallout, lose the lives of luxury, disappoint his daughter who lived for her horses. But I still love him. You don't stop loving your child just because they do something...awful.

(I won't pretend it's word for word, I don't have the transcript. But you get the meaning).

Chris Foster's story is an extreme case of career, money, power and ego trumping everything else: most tragically, family. Without one, the other became worthless to him. And he forgot that his wife and daughter weren't possessions, on a par with the cars, the pets, the mansion.

MORAL(S) OF THE STORY:
1) What lasting value has career, ego, money and power if we sacrifice those we love in the process? This example is the most extreme (and perverse), but we can still apply what we can learn from it to our everyday lives...

2) We don't 'OWN' our children, our families. We cannot control them, dictate their lives in the same way we might lay down performance targets at work. As put by the lebanese writer and philosopher Khalid Gibran: "Our children are not our children...they are the Sons and Daughters of Life's longing for itself...we are the bows, from which our children, like arrows, are sent forth..."

P.S. Kirstie Foster was only 15...

(acknowledgements to Channel 4's programme 'The Millionaire and the Murder Mansion')

Statistics, oh statistics...

2009-04-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

Despite being married to an accountant I'm not great at maths. However, the day I took my 'O' level maths oh so many years ago (25?) my mother picked up a Nun (or rather, gave her a lift as we say here in England - there being a convent nearby and the Nun wanting to get somewhere - no, I really can't think she might have been hitchhiking?! so I think I recall my mother was just being polite and, stopping gently on the little deserted country lane wound down the window and asked her if she'd mind hopping in. Perhaps her robes looked like they would impede her progress swishing in godly manner along down the lane. Besides there was no footpath (yes, I did go to school in the English countryside and not London!) On hearing I had an exam that morning the round-faced kindly 'Mother' said: "I'll pray for you, daughter". My own mother jokes that's the only reason I passed the exam with a decent grade to boot.

So, please explain to me someone, the difference between Visits and Page views on the sitemeter counter gadget a friend suggested I put on my site (not sure what I complied for, if not to become paranoid and/or obsessive?!) Since I installed it yesterday at midday I've had 678 visits and 813 page views. Not really convinced... or sure what it all means, as if folks are visiting they're not leaving any comments! Anyone care to explain? any comments to clarify the difference and what exactly is being tallied would be much appreciated!!

Delayed Gratification

2009-04-14T02:32:00.000-07:00

In view of the debate ranging on Penelope Trunks "Brazen Careerist" (thanks for linking me, P!) I've sidelined a nice cosy Easter break ode to the sweet and simple things in life here in green and fragrant England, to tackle the controversy of what's best for kids and parents. Or at least, shouldn't that be the crux of an on-line lynching match between a young female 'brazen career-ist' and a father who suggested that, if she wasn't enjoying her kids, she should send them c/o his family in Ohio?! My, the vitriol! It seems quite a few raw and maybe even primordially instinctive buttons were pressed! Anyway my take on the issue involves: 1) BALANCE=HARMONY in most of life; 2) Our attitude shapes our reality; and, 3) there's such a thing as "DELAYED GRATIFICATION"!! ...Gotta love this expression! For all you guys (and women?!) out there thinking, squeeze certain muscles to delay orgasm, well that's it too, gives you an idea of the benefits! But I'm talking more life in general (sorry to disappoint!)

Not having time to check out the definition in the Oxford Dictionary (with 2 kids you learn to prioritise better than a CEO!), I reckon delayed Gratification's all about making sacrifices in the present in order to reap future rewards. Thing is, you've got to keep your goal in mind and the vision fresh, if you're not to get discouraged and give up prematurely and blow the whole thing. Many business start-ups I'm sure go through this process.

Example 1: We squeezed our credit to buy a house with huge redevelopment potential and a big plot. One day, we'll have a 6 bedroom pad with (still) a large garden, in a prime area of London. All well and good. BUT: For the moment, I live daily for my "Vision": whilst 'camping'(slight exaggeration) in a 1930's-styled home with dark, badly-arranged spaces, holes in walls, ants, and currently no money for these refurbishments! But, isn't patience the way to succeed in the end? - one step at a time, as Confucious said? (Think financial meltdown too, the mess we're in - instant vs. delayed gratification had a lot to do with it...)
And on the way, myself and hubby, we're learning important lessons in life and business: manage cashflow/learn to save/how not to WASTE/how to appreciate the present/how to have vision/how to be strategic/how not to rest on our laurels.

Example 2: My husband and I talk about his going to work for a couple of years in the Middle East (instinctively: ARGGGHHH!...). Watch this space! It's a serious plan. Again, not something I long for, admittedly, but if I think "delayed gratification"... I can focus beyond the immediate nervousness: we'd be able to save up enough to sort out house in Example 1; plus bright son's private school fees are currently paralyzing us rather, which would be all paid for (only if the schools are good in Bahrain, which apparently they are). There are other benefits, too quite apart from setting us up financially for the future: Why not cut the fear, slip out of comfort zone?, and use the 2 years to broaden the mind?/discover a different culture?/ Even open up opportunities for a new career for me (new environment, new contacts, etc?, less time doing boring chores...)

Example 3: Child-rearing is all about delayed gratification!! So here my posting goes full circle. Putting one's individuality and independence in the toy cupboard (and possibly one's career) and shutting the door for a few years or months, out of selfless generosity in order to make one's kids better educated/ happier/more stable/more creative, (add your choice in this space)...human beings in the long run. Not forgetting what the experience might do for the parents (I'm talking productive benefits here!)
But then again, it need not be forever, and, as my father (Grumpy Grandpa!) puts it: "Too much of Anything is good for Nothing!" You need balance, and the right attitude. The choice is individual. I never really wanted kids (type A personality) but they have made me a richer, more patient and more rational person. I've come to a natural hiatus, though, now (after 5 years) that's it's time now to learn where they end and I begin so that I can be the more balanced and happier mum they deserve, living out my potential as well as helping them live out theirs (hence this blog!) But I'm patient.... DELAYED GRATIFICATION IS KING! Blessings to you all, do comment!

I'm an or-fer too, Mum!

2009-04-13T13:32:00.000-07:00

Despite repeatedly telling my four-year old son I'm NOT an author, he's convinced I am. Because an "or-fer" is someone who writes? And Mummy writes.

Today he proudly rushed up. "Mummy, you know! I'm an orfer too! I wrote a poem...AND a book! Listen, Mummy, Look Mummy!" Clutching and waving one (of Grandma's) index-cards with scrawls on, and one little book I'd knocked up blank to keep him occupied, of folded stapled recycled A4. He can read now, bless his little brain, and loves to write stuff all on his own - shopping lists, whatever - with inimitable phonetic spelling which his teacher finds "amazing" but I just find a result of our having read to him at home before bed, since birth...

The poem read thus (sic - work it out!): Sharks and fishis
sharks and fishes
Cuming to FiTe
They Fite all niTE
Thiy fiTE all Day
on Minis Bay

Minnis Bay, where we strolled along the shore on Good Friday. Got the "Fishes" right second time lucky!

The book appeared to be a cross between a thriller and Harry Potter (!!) - yes we have a four and a half year old Harry Potter maniac in the house, and a little 3 year old sister who is convinced she's called Hermione.
The book "cover" started off with his name neatly written across the top (as author) and boldly proclaimed, in purple, red, grey and orange felt-tip pen: Harry Potter aNd The HarFF BluD PrinC

(He doesn't know the story as I veto anything beyond the tame first couple of plots in the series, but we read (simple bits) or recount (general plot) and sometimes watch a few choice sequences from the movies: 1 and 2 only. So the Half-Blood Prince has reached mystical proportions - something "Big Boys" can read: "And I can watch when I am 11!"...

Page 1 and 2 read as follows (sic, again I'll leave you to decode):
ONe EVNiNg sumThiNg funNy HappaND
The wiNDO was cract
WiTV Owt
SumThiNg BrakiNg iN
But The ROBRZ Wor Theer

Harry suDaNlee wok up
He JumPT OWt OF BED
He JumPT aNd got Hiss Owl Kage

"Bloody Hell!" I thought! "He's got a more gripping opening than any I've ever managed to write!" He showed it proudly to Grouchy Grandpa. "Ha!" says Grouch. "At this rate, the young chap'll burst into print before you!"

The ethics of blogging

2009-04-13T07:25:00.000-07:00

My parents are rather conservative, pedantic. My husband's parents even more so, with religion thrown in. My husband, too (his needle inching further up over the 'middling' meter as the years go by. He was wackier when we met). Myself, on the other hand, I'm made like one of those old-fashioned ice-cream tubs: half plain traditional old vanilla, half some shocking pink or lurid brown. An old italian boyfriend nicknamed me "Pazza" (Mad/crazy woman). My mother says: "You're certainly unique"...

In another life, I could throw off my clothes, pole dance, throw paint against white walls and call it art, spy for my country (or perhaps not, who knows). In this life, I prefer to channel my "creative" side to good effect (I hope- with a pinch of opportunism and ambition thrown in, admittedly, at times). Not that I haven't had my day of blagging into launch parties in the company of arty Gay friends or spent a drunken weekend texting a crush so many times with off-the-cuff-come-ons that I autodistructed a budding relationship. Thrown a crystal china set. Had an affair with a married man plenty older (am I now kidding you or not?), sky-dived to cure my vertigo, forged an international rail ticket (and travelled across three countries with it), been hauled up before the powers-that-be at a "BIG" firm and accused of defamation...

Ahhh, the latter. I did a favour for a friend and 'helped' a journalist to shore up her numbers on a (supposedly...) tick-the-box questionnaire for a woman's rag weekend supp. I ended up with a big(-gish) photo in the middle pages of a major tabloid (pic not reduced to a postage stamp as promised) and a whole set of columns, half an article, to myself. Subject: "Why Women With A High I.Q. Can't Find A Man!" (...Today We Interview Two Foxy Vixens With, Yes, A Brain!...or some garbage to that effect). My (vital) statistics were mentioned (how had I ever thought that bra and dress sizes were kosher questions?), the number of languages I speak, and that a former boyfriend had been abusive out of jealousy (exaggeration, though he did resent women having a mind of our own).

Anyway. Shamed, named and allowed to keep my job - just. But made a laughing stock. "Unprofessional". I huddled, crying, at home for weeks as a boyfriend deserted me and colleagues sneered: "Ha ha brain bigger than her boobs or the other way round?" (I was too green to call sexual harrassment, as you might, nowadays. That was many, many years ago and I was fresh out of Uni). Reading about Catherine Sanderson, the 'French Bridget Jones', sacked only 3 or so years ago for a similar breach, I see things haven't changed much. Though she did win her tribunal for unfair dismissal!

My 70+ mother, with whom I am staying, views my blog with suspicion. She's very pixel-savvy (studied programming a couple of years ago, yay, patron saint of intellectual stimulation!) but still appears to expect slugs, bugs and slime to emanate from the screen (or the literary equivalent of them). "Why am I not your target audience?" she asked, when I suggested as such. "So it's all horrible things about me you're writing, then?" (Mum. I'm 40 soon. Christ.)

I've got free access to use her computer but I know she still thinks there's something distateful about her own daughter writing a blog.

So, I ask: is it really a "breach of trust" to document feeling, thoughts, beliefs? To sketch out friends and acquaintances, everyday details? If I believed so I wouldn't be here now. But there are areas where I draw the line (a nice red one!): I also blog a novel in diarised form (there's a prize for first guesses) where the wicked husband is not, I repeat, NOT, my current husband (sorry folks!!). Personally, I wouldn't risk a marriage, a relationship, to toss sordid details over the ether to strangers (but having said that, he DID exist. As does/did most of it. They do say: "you write what you know").

You write what you know. Really, that's my conclusion. Nothing wrong with it, in blogger format or dead trees or whatever. Personally, I don't want to hurt anyone currently dear to me in the process. Other than that...no plain vanilla. Life's too short.

I'm torn, torn, torn...

2009-04-12T13:13:00.000-07:00

I'm a torn, conflicted woman. We went to an Easter barbeque (Bar B Q?). Old friends of the children's grandparents - or my parents, rather - with a sprawling ranshackly manor house in the little village. Far reaching lawn, mature trees, nooks, crannies and vegetable patches. Sitting in the Spring sun south-facing and feeling good as the cherry wine seeps. Too much food and no cares. Bliss.

And friendly chatter. Hello to acquaintances from several years ago, who ask what I "do" now. I'm about to blurt: "Nothing, I mean, I look after the children", but check myself and say "Writer. I mean, I haven't published yet, but I write." ...I'm trying to use a form of NLP (Neuro Linguistic Programming), or you can call it simply positive thinking. It started because I hated scribbling "housewife" on aeroplane landing cards, like a punch to my pride whenever I wrote it (I used to fly a lot, even after my son was born. With my daughter and the credit crunch and mortgage shackles, things changed). In a similar vein, I've always wanted to mark the space "entrepreneur" (at least denoting that I think like one, or would like to) but even NLP'ing myself can't bring myself to be that cheeky.

Anyway, I hate being asked what I do. I know I should be proud of "housewife", but I'm not. I hate the label. And that it could be attached to me. "But there's no more important job than bringing up my children" says Hubby. I agree - but one job's not enough. My problem. My issue. My guilt. I need more than my children's validation. Need to be more than "the best Mummy in the world".

Back at Grandparents' and after a delightful day, my husband leaves shortly after seven for the drive back to London. There are "things to be done back at home" (an overload of work, document sorting, and hopefully not watching the sport on TV). The children, insouciently, hug goodbye. "Goodbye, Daddy!" they chorus, and turn back to other tasks, immediately distracted. They are used to Daddy being "having to work". Then, just after teeth cleaning, an uncharacteristic whimper. My son (four and a half year old) is a bright, calm, rather rational chappie, doesn't cry often, doesn't do tantrums, doesn't shed needless tears. You can usually talk him round any upset when it starts to itch. But tonight he's not only tired, but hyped on adrenalin and - of course - today's astronomical chocolate intake. The tears suddenly intermingle with the toothpasty mouth: "I want to say Goodnight to Daddy!" "But, sweetie,you know Daddy left to go back home. You kissed him Goodbye!" "But why has he gone home? You said tommorow is Easter as well! Why can't he stay? I want him to stay!"
I hug, carry, get him tucked up, comfort cloth and best friend leppy the leopard at the ready. Small eyelashes swept with gooey wet. Puffed cheeks. Exhaustion. Little sister oblivious, already fast asleep. We'll call Daddy tommorow first thing! You eat one of your chocolate dinosaurs after breakfast - which one? - TRex? - tell you what, you can eat TRex before he eats you!

It seems to do the trick. But minutes later, whilst tapping quietly on the keyboard next door, I hear a small wail rising, ebbing. Rising again, higher. Run in. A lump bunched up under the covers. How to explain why Daddy has to miss Easter Monday? How to explain what's so much more important than a son, a daughter, a rare day off at Grandparents (with no distractions, no household tasks)? But my husband's job must take precedence. He's got to justify his position, his (meagre) bonus, as others crash and burn around him. The industry's precarious. Credit crunch means sacrifices.

So why am I a "reluctantly frustrated stay-at-home mum" then, I question myself? What if a career meant I weren't there to kiss away the damp perplexed ache from soft little eyes, to reassure, warm, consoling, a sanctuary. Always there. Mummy. My job. My most important one ever. But still, sadly maybe, not enough. Torn.

10,000 hours of hope...

2009-04-12T04:41:00.000-07:00

My four and a half year old son's violin teacher had a chat over the phone. "I think", she said, enthusiastically but carefully, "he's going to be very good". I took a minute to register that good meant talented. A small voice inside me immediately piped: "He'll achieve what you never did! It's early enough! He can be great!" I wondered, is that shocking or instinctive? Should I be ashamed of myself?

He'd wanted to learn (I'd played too, but from nine. I'd been "good" too, but not good enough early enough). They teach the Suzuki method at school and I'd agreed reluctantly, privately thinking: "Isn't he a bit young?"

They chose him to play in Assembly. I crouched in the corner, against the wall, minimising my presence, worried about embarassing him. But he stood, proud, a little figure with ruffled brown hair, brown violin up, tiny bow, and from the waist, tiny bow....there was silence. The notes came, pure, well drawn, rarely out of tune. He stared ahead. A very fixed, very serious stare of utter concentration. Not of a four year old. The pride bubbled up and seeped through. "My son...my gorgeous, wonderful, clever son...I love you". I thought. "My miracle..."

They say it takes 10,000 hours to truly master a skill. I told my son, as a joke. "Can I do my violin practise now?" he asked, in reply. He plays every day. And it's become as natural as cleaning his teeth. I'd never force him or push him. If anything, he pushes himself. He enjoys being able. Being 'good'. Making progress.

And I still can't help thinking: "My sweet boy. He'll achieve what I never could." Only time will tell.

A faraway view

2009-04-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

On a visit to favourite Grandparents at the coast, we went for a family 'Good Friday' stroll along the shore. Calm, unruffled late morning, grey watercolour sea blurred into its identical sky. Gentle intake and sigh of waves, the stark darkened bones of the old groynes reaching out from the beach ("dinosaur spines!"), a young couple in black (black for such a Spring day?!) kissing perched on the newer concrete maritime wall. Seaweed aroma on the breeze. Two dogs reciprocately chasing tails in a perfect circular dance. A mound of stones piled to form a campfire in the adjacent field, the mustard spread of rapeseed blooms across the landscape beyond. My son, small figure resolutely forging ahead on his first wooden bike, my little girl in flowery skirt and leggings progressing in zigzags on her little pink scooter along the path - step, whizz, step, whizz, step step whizzz. I climbed to the top of a mound - tide break - to embrace the view through my designer sunglasses. A young (handsome!) man, cycling past below, smiled and quipped: "Don't jump! It's not worth it!" The seascape hummed in the midday silence. The sun warm on my cheeks. I watched all my loves frolicking, three figures, and thought: "Could it ever get better than this?" And, "Do you need the career, the power, the glory? Is this not enough?" And: "Rhetorical question..."
Then my son waved, my daugher called in her little high sweet voice, and I slotted right back into the day's gentle lull.

Call to arms...

2009-04-10T09:00:00.001-07:00

I wrote to a very successful female serial entrepreneur with a hot business , award-winning blogger, influential writer and author, and - yes! - mother of a young son. I wanted advice on... just let's say one of my (frustrated? or frustrating?!) blogging ventures....this is what she wrote:

"hm. i don't have advice. except. okay. i'm just going to be totally honest: you sound incredibly bored and lonely and you should put your kids in daycare and get a job. why aren't you doing that?

i was a stay at home mom for three years and nearly died. some people aren't cut out for it, just like some people aren't cut out for the office.

try going to therapy. really. to figure out what's right for you. it's hard to get perspective when you're home with kids all day.
also, try this site: escapefromcubiclenation.com -- i think it's a lot of people like you."

Yaaaaahhhhhh.....before I ran screaming to cut my veins, I set up this blog. Three minutes later! For MORE people like me. I hope you'll find me over the ether, and we'll help each other to become what we know we can become, even if only by starting to dig up that old initiative and believe in ourselves, dust off that rusty career, or just share past and present experiences to help clarify...what? a predicament? life? - well, anything (and save on therapy costs, if that's how you'd have it!!)

By the way, this is what I wrote:
"Hi, I am a mum-of-two from Wimbledon,London,England. Having been given a place at Oxford University (and never went) and worked for PriceWaterhouseCoopers (and never stayed) and been a straight-A candidate throughout my life (and accomplished musician, and artist, but only at an 'amateur' level), speak 5 languages, have travelled the world, I now find myself a stay-at-home mother of two kids under 5, 40 years old this year, and with a horrible sense of frustration and untapped potential...I know I'm smart, savvy and have good leadership skills, a perfectionist who knows how to delegate, and enough patience to set up my own business one day. BUT: with no time, a house to renovate, and a husband who works all hours, for the moment my only creative outlet is writing.
I would love to build up a readership as there is very little in my life to provide me with honest feedback and off which bounce off my thoughts. When the kids are older if I don't end up doing something really entrepreneurial I will disappoint myself, but for the moment I'm doing the little I can!"

Any thoughts? Any other frustrated mums - LONDON CALLING?!!