New Year's Eve - that day in all the year when we either start brooding over the past year or forming resolutions of doing better in the New Year. I must admit I'm sentimental. Saying goodbye to the old year is almost like saying goodbye to an old friend. I've felt comfortable writing 2012 and now I'll be struggling for the first few weeks at least to write 2013 instead.
My reminiscences on the dying year are speckled with "why did I's?" or "why didn't I's?" as in "why did I let myself be persuaded to buy that pair of shoes that I can hardly take two steps in without falling over?" and the annual lament "why didn't I give up eating chocolate like I intended?" All too late now and I don't think any new set of resolutions I might care to dream up would fare any better when I take them out and go through them at the end of 2013.
Why do we wait until the beginning of the New Year to make resolutions? It's the worst time of all for keeping them. If they are of a dietary nature they'll be broken by the time the wintry sun sets on the horizon. Not eat chocolate? Well, there's just that one box I got for Christmas and when that's finished of course I'll stop eating the stuff. We know where that will end. And the idea that I can become a stronger person well able to fend off persistent sales people in the shops? Gone with the first piece of chocolate. For if I don't have enough strength to resist a box of chocolates what chance to do I stand against a smart sales assistant with "winter bargains" beaming in her eye telling me the dress was just made for me? I'll be led to the cash desk with a stupid smile on my face, fancying I'm doing this because I decided to and not because I am like a piece of putty who can be persuaded to anything, especially when it is tagged "reduced price".
So if anyone asks what my New Year resolutions are for 2013, my answer is going to be that I have liberated myself. I'm going to eat chocolate, drink wine, buy stuff in the shops I don't really need. Wait a minute - isn't that a kind of New Year resolutions in itself? In which case I can be sure I'll keep it.
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY!
Sunday 30 December 2012
Saturday 22 December 2012
Dreaming of a White Christmas
I forgot to mention that I was away last week visiting family and friends in Germany. Apologies to anyone who looked for a new post from me. And I'm afraid this post is going to be short because I have a lot of shopping and stuff to catch up on.
Disappointingly, there was no snow on the ground in Germany, in fact it was mild and rainy. This didn't stop me prowling round the Christmas markets and slurping mulled wine and - my favourite - eggnog with cream. Yummy. I just love the smell of cinnamon and aniseed and the all pervasive aroma of bratwurst (German fried sausage, as I expect you know). And of course I couldn't resist buying some Christmas ornaments and a few scented candles. But a bit of snow and a frosty sky sparkling with stars would have been a nice backdrop.
I often wondered why we like to have a white Christmas. I was reading Jane Austen's Emma for the umpteenth time recently and came across the passage where that pesky vicar gets into the coach with Emma and her father and says "ah,snows a little I see" and then goes on to say "Christmas weather! Quite seasonable!" So all those nostalgic Christmas cards depicting carriages or robins in the snow are not so wide of the mark for us insular Europeans. Snow was apparently wished for at Christmas and was not unusual in Jane Austen's time. And it does give us a warm, safe feeling if we look out the window at a white world as we sit in the warmth.
Whatever the weather, wherever you are, I wish you all a very Happy Christmas!
Disappointingly, there was no snow on the ground in Germany, in fact it was mild and rainy. This didn't stop me prowling round the Christmas markets and slurping mulled wine and - my favourite - eggnog with cream. Yummy. I just love the smell of cinnamon and aniseed and the all pervasive aroma of bratwurst (German fried sausage, as I expect you know). And of course I couldn't resist buying some Christmas ornaments and a few scented candles. But a bit of snow and a frosty sky sparkling with stars would have been a nice backdrop.
I often wondered why we like to have a white Christmas. I was reading Jane Austen's Emma for the umpteenth time recently and came across the passage where that pesky vicar gets into the coach with Emma and her father and says "ah,snows a little I see" and then goes on to say "Christmas weather! Quite seasonable!" So all those nostalgic Christmas cards depicting carriages or robins in the snow are not so wide of the mark for us insular Europeans. Snow was apparently wished for at Christmas and was not unusual in Jane Austen's time. And it does give us a warm, safe feeling if we look out the window at a white world as we sit in the warmth.
Whatever the weather, wherever you are, I wish you all a very Happy Christmas!
Sunday 9 December 2012
Just Looking
I must be every shop assistant's idea of a shop lifter. This was borne in upon me yet again last weekend when I went on a browse. No sooner than I had stopped at the first beauty counter than an assistant appeared out of thin air and honed in on me.
'Can I help you?' she purred. I told her I was "just looking". She ignored this feeble statement and with a practised eye noted that I had been looking at face creams. She picked up a tube of serum guaranteed to iron out even wrinkles you didn't know you had and have you looking younger than you did at 15. The price tag would have done justice to buying shares in the Waldorf Astoria. 'This is on special offer only this weekend,' she said, holding it out to me enticingly 'Try it.' I muttered something and moved away but she kept hovering at my side and as soon as I looked at anything on the counter she was there to tell me what great stuff it was. It was as if she thought I'd pocket something if she didn't keep a sharp lookout. In the end I slunk off without buying anything. I was even too discouraged to try a sample squirt of one of the new perfumes.
Of course I should have had more back-bone and kept on browsing, but with a shop assistant keeping a sharp eye on me - or so it seemed to me - I just didn't feel comfortable. And yet what are all those glass counters for, if not to browse what's on display and maybe buy something that catches your fancy and doesn't bankrupt you? Half of the fun is window-shopping and in these days of cold austerity it takes longer than usual to decide what you want to buy and what you can afford. Oh for someone who says "if you need any help let me know" and then goes off and leaves you to it. Nine times out of ten that's when I make a purchase. On the rare occasions when I really need advice the assistant is usually out of eye-reach attending some glamorous, well heeled customer. Ah well, that's Murphy's Law, I suppose.
To be fair, I guess many of these sales ladies are bored. They've learned all about the products and are dying to impart this information to prospective customers. The only trouble is that prospective customers like myself prefer to browse in peace and quiet. Otherwise we take ourselves off to the unmanned counters where we can look all we like.
'Can I help you?' she purred. I told her I was "just looking". She ignored this feeble statement and with a practised eye noted that I had been looking at face creams. She picked up a tube of serum guaranteed to iron out even wrinkles you didn't know you had and have you looking younger than you did at 15. The price tag would have done justice to buying shares in the Waldorf Astoria. 'This is on special offer only this weekend,' she said, holding it out to me enticingly 'Try it.' I muttered something and moved away but she kept hovering at my side and as soon as I looked at anything on the counter she was there to tell me what great stuff it was. It was as if she thought I'd pocket something if she didn't keep a sharp lookout. In the end I slunk off without buying anything. I was even too discouraged to try a sample squirt of one of the new perfumes.
Of course I should have had more back-bone and kept on browsing, but with a shop assistant keeping a sharp eye on me - or so it seemed to me - I just didn't feel comfortable. And yet what are all those glass counters for, if not to browse what's on display and maybe buy something that catches your fancy and doesn't bankrupt you? Half of the fun is window-shopping and in these days of cold austerity it takes longer than usual to decide what you want to buy and what you can afford. Oh for someone who says "if you need any help let me know" and then goes off and leaves you to it. Nine times out of ten that's when I make a purchase. On the rare occasions when I really need advice the assistant is usually out of eye-reach attending some glamorous, well heeled customer. Ah well, that's Murphy's Law, I suppose.
To be fair, I guess many of these sales ladies are bored. They've learned all about the products and are dying to impart this information to prospective customers. The only trouble is that prospective customers like myself prefer to browse in peace and quiet. Otherwise we take ourselves off to the unmanned counters where we can look all we like.
Saturday 1 December 2012
The Next Big Thing - Tag
Janet Cameron, whose novel Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World will be published by Hachette in spring 2013, tagged me to answer the questions below on my current novel Spate of Violence which will be published as an e-book also in spring 2013. See link to Janet's website under My Blog List.
So here goes:
Where did the idea come from for the book?
Driving home late one night I saw a gang of kids roaming the streets, intent on no good by all appearances, and I started thinking about these kids, their families and what would happen if someone tried to stop them.
What genre does your book fall under?
This is a difficult one to answer. I guess it's a contemporary fiction novel.
What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
I would like all roles to be played by unknown actors because I think that would suit the nature of the story.
What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?
The Bartels move to the town of Bitterfeld when Sebastian lands a super job in nearby Frankfurt but his family are torn apart when he joins the local vigilantes whose avowed aim is to restore law and order to the city streets.
Will you be self-published or represented by an agency?
I plan on publishing Spate of Violence as an e-book.
How long did it take you to write the first draft?
It took me over a year. I revise as I go, so I kept changing and editing scenes.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
My inspiration to write comes from every day experiences, conversations with strangers and a generally overactive imagination.
What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
Spate of Violence is the story of how a a family walks the tightrope between self defence and obeying the law. It also provides an insight into the world of the gangs.
Normally I should now nominate at least one other writer but will have to do this at a later date.
So here goes:
Where did the idea come from for the book?
Driving home late one night I saw a gang of kids roaming the streets, intent on no good by all appearances, and I started thinking about these kids, their families and what would happen if someone tried to stop them.
What genre does your book fall under?
This is a difficult one to answer. I guess it's a contemporary fiction novel.
What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?
I would like all roles to be played by unknown actors because I think that would suit the nature of the story.
What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?
The Bartels move to the town of Bitterfeld when Sebastian lands a super job in nearby Frankfurt but his family are torn apart when he joins the local vigilantes whose avowed aim is to restore law and order to the city streets.
Will you be self-published or represented by an agency?
I plan on publishing Spate of Violence as an e-book.
How long did it take you to write the first draft?
It took me over a year. I revise as I go, so I kept changing and editing scenes.
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
My inspiration to write comes from every day experiences, conversations with strangers and a generally overactive imagination.
What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?
Spate of Violence is the story of how a a family walks the tightrope between self defence and obeying the law. It also provides an insight into the world of the gangs.
Normally I should now nominate at least one other writer but will have to do this at a later date.
Saturday 24 November 2012
Who goes there?
I read the other day that a friend of Prince Charles told the media that he (Prince Charles) had seven eggs cooked for him every morning and then decided on which one he would eat, depending on how cooked or not it was. We are assured that this is a myth and the Prince does no such thing and I can hear a collective sigh of relief all over the egg-eating world at this very important discovery.
It set me thinking, though. Who was this friend who blabbed about something about which he/she obviously knew as much as a reader of a secondhand copy of Hello at the hairdressers? How do you define who a friend is? If you are a celebrity you'll have lots of "friends" spilling your guts to the media any time you have half a personal crisis. "Friends of the couple, who wish to remain anonymous say ...." What kind of a friendship is that?
So what is a friend? For me, a friend is someone who knows when to keep their mouth shut. Someone who doesn't dish the dirt on me or give away my darkest secrets - I haven't got many, in case you're worried. And someone who makes me feel good about myself most of the time while still being able to give me a verbal kick up the derriere if I get out of line. By definition, this is an "intimate" friend - again another invention of the media. I either have friends of the above calibre or I have "acquaintances". I don't expect too much from acquaintances. They can be lots of fun to be with - people I really like - but I'd never tell them anything I'd regret telling to even the cat in the morning. And I might not like it if they criticize me behind my back, but hey, I probably do the same to them.
The most hurtful thing is to consider someone a friend and then discover they've been tearing you to pieces as happily as a terrier with an old slipper. That's happened to me a few times in my life - can't say I've learned from it, either. I have the feeling that it happens to celebrities a lot - otherwise it would mean colossal job-loss on those glossy gossip magazines even with all the eye-boggling "confessions" and interviews with the rich and famous. You have to have a quote from a "friend" of Brangelina or Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson or any other celeb who migh be currently in the spotlight for whatever reason.
In the old days the sentry guarding the gate to the city said something like "who goes there - friend or foe?" It would be good sometimes if we could ask this question of those around us - not that I think anyone would admit to "foe." But perhaps a telling silence might suffice.
It set me thinking, though. Who was this friend who blabbed about something about which he/she obviously knew as much as a reader of a secondhand copy of Hello at the hairdressers? How do you define who a friend is? If you are a celebrity you'll have lots of "friends" spilling your guts to the media any time you have half a personal crisis. "Friends of the couple, who wish to remain anonymous say ...." What kind of a friendship is that?
So what is a friend? For me, a friend is someone who knows when to keep their mouth shut. Someone who doesn't dish the dirt on me or give away my darkest secrets - I haven't got many, in case you're worried. And someone who makes me feel good about myself most of the time while still being able to give me a verbal kick up the derriere if I get out of line. By definition, this is an "intimate" friend - again another invention of the media. I either have friends of the above calibre or I have "acquaintances". I don't expect too much from acquaintances. They can be lots of fun to be with - people I really like - but I'd never tell them anything I'd regret telling to even the cat in the morning. And I might not like it if they criticize me behind my back, but hey, I probably do the same to them.
The most hurtful thing is to consider someone a friend and then discover they've been tearing you to pieces as happily as a terrier with an old slipper. That's happened to me a few times in my life - can't say I've learned from it, either. I have the feeling that it happens to celebrities a lot - otherwise it would mean colossal job-loss on those glossy gossip magazines even with all the eye-boggling "confessions" and interviews with the rich and famous. You have to have a quote from a "friend" of Brangelina or Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson or any other celeb who migh be currently in the spotlight for whatever reason.
In the old days the sentry guarding the gate to the city said something like "who goes there - friend or foe?" It would be good sometimes if we could ask this question of those around us - not that I think anyone would admit to "foe." But perhaps a telling silence might suffice.
Friday 16 November 2012
Grotesques and Gargoyles
The Duomo cathedral in Milan is putting its 135 gargoyles up for adoption. The scheme hopes to raise the 25m euros needed to restore them and stop them falling off the building onto a passing tourist's unsuspecting head. If you've got 100,000 euros stashed in the right foot of your winter boots and are prepared to donate them you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your name will be engraved under a gargoyle.
Alternatively, you could dish out some cash for the preservation of ancient buildings in Rome. Recently, pieces of stone fell off the Trevi fountain. Now, a nice little thank you plaque with your name on it where it can be seen by all and sundry and caught on camera any time the Trevi fountain is used as background would be just the thing to gob-smack your family and friends. That's much safer than trying to explain away a gargoyle with your name underneath it. And it's much more intriguing than donating to some local charity. You might even be invited to Rome and given a special public thank you by whoever happens to be prime minister of Italy at the time. The Colosseum is also in trouble, I believe, and would be equally suitable for having your name held forever in gratitude in the Eternal City. It's something to think about as you leaf through that pile of bank-notes.
But to get back to adopting gargoyles: the most important distinction to be made, apparently, is that gargoyles are figures used to drain off rainwater and are not to be confused with grotesques, which although every bit as ugly as gargoyles are in fact meant to protect buildings from evil spirits. This distinction could be important. There are almost as many grotesques as gargoyles to be seen on churches and cathedrals all over Europe and it might make all the difference staying dry or getting drenched with rainwater depending on which figure you stand under in a rain shower.
Here's a thought: if you are visiting Milan and the Duomo cathedral with friends or family in years to come, there is a distinct possibility that when admiring the gargoyles, they might get the idea that one of them is a likeness of you, seeing as how your name is engraved underneath it. Do you really want to be associated with an ugly water spout?
Alternatively, you could dish out some cash for the preservation of ancient buildings in Rome. Recently, pieces of stone fell off the Trevi fountain. Now, a nice little thank you plaque with your name on it where it can be seen by all and sundry and caught on camera any time the Trevi fountain is used as background would be just the thing to gob-smack your family and friends. That's much safer than trying to explain away a gargoyle with your name underneath it. And it's much more intriguing than donating to some local charity. You might even be invited to Rome and given a special public thank you by whoever happens to be prime minister of Italy at the time. The Colosseum is also in trouble, I believe, and would be equally suitable for having your name held forever in gratitude in the Eternal City. It's something to think about as you leaf through that pile of bank-notes.
But to get back to adopting gargoyles: the most important distinction to be made, apparently, is that gargoyles are figures used to drain off rainwater and are not to be confused with grotesques, which although every bit as ugly as gargoyles are in fact meant to protect buildings from evil spirits. This distinction could be important. There are almost as many grotesques as gargoyles to be seen on churches and cathedrals all over Europe and it might make all the difference staying dry or getting drenched with rainwater depending on which figure you stand under in a rain shower.
Here's a thought: if you are visiting Milan and the Duomo cathedral with friends or family in years to come, there is a distinct possibility that when admiring the gargoyles, they might get the idea that one of them is a likeness of you, seeing as how your name is engraved underneath it. Do you really want to be associated with an ugly water spout?
Saturday 10 November 2012
Better than a play
Well, it's all over and the shouting (in the US senate) is about to start. I don't think anyone, anywhere, on this planet could have evaded the hype on the US election this week. As King Charles II said in 1610 of the House of Lords' debate on the Divorce Bill "better than a play". I know I happily switched to CNN to watch the whole thing unfold, drinking endless cups of tea to stay awake. And I was a teeny bit surprised, after all that had been said on the subject of jobs and the economy, that Obama won fairly comfortably. I felt sorry for Mitt Romney - tears were forming in my eyes at his speech - and I rejoiced with Obama (more tears). There was a tremendous buzz about the whole thing and I wouldn't have missed it for anything.
The thing that impressed me was the determination of so many people in New York and New Jersey to get out and vote amid the devastation of Hurricane Sandy. Maybe we don't appreciate our civil liberties until something happens to prevent us exercising them. If we were told we couldn't vote in a general election any more, that the government would re-elect itself and demonstrations were not allowed, I bet we'd have a fit. We'd be out there marching and social media-ing all over the place. That's why I really admire those civil rights people who put their lives at risk for things they believe in - people like Aung San of Myanmar who was under house arrest for most of her life and who is still fighting for democracy in Myanmar.
Well, it's back to grey reality and I need to catch up on the soaps which I happily put on the back burner during the last week of the election. At least Christmas is coming and the stores will keep our stress levels well oiled by telling us just how few shopping days are left. Won't have the same buzz as the US election, though, not even if I still believed in Santa Claus.
The thing that impressed me was the determination of so many people in New York and New Jersey to get out and vote amid the devastation of Hurricane Sandy. Maybe we don't appreciate our civil liberties until something happens to prevent us exercising them. If we were told we couldn't vote in a general election any more, that the government would re-elect itself and demonstrations were not allowed, I bet we'd have a fit. We'd be out there marching and social media-ing all over the place. That's why I really admire those civil rights people who put their lives at risk for things they believe in - people like Aung San of Myanmar who was under house arrest for most of her life and who is still fighting for democracy in Myanmar.
Well, it's back to grey reality and I need to catch up on the soaps which I happily put on the back burner during the last week of the election. At least Christmas is coming and the stores will keep our stress levels well oiled by telling us just how few shopping days are left. Won't have the same buzz as the US election, though, not even if I still believed in Santa Claus.
Saturday 3 November 2012
Home Again
I can't believe that I wrote my last post on 29th September! It doesn't seem that long ago since I was struggling with my virus and getting all excited about my trip to Spain. The weather was still warm enough to go out with only a light jacket. Now I am back almost a week and find myself reaching for my winter coat. Quite a change after temperatures of around 25C or higher.
I really enjoyed my time in Spain with my friend Eileen. My virus plagued me for the first five days (it probably thrived in those temperatures! but then finally left me. It was so hot that it took a few days to acclimatize. In fact, we didn't do anything madly exciting, we just chilled out - or warmed up would be more appropriate. We did go on a day trip to Cartagena and visited the Roman museum there. The amphitheatre was discovered in the late 19th century when some of the old fishermen's houses were being renovated. It is in excellent condition and well worth a visit. What an industrious lot the Romans were! Cartagena itself is a very old Spanish city with wide streets and lovely buildings. We also visited Mar Menor, the largest inland salt lake in Europe if I understood our guide correctly. People with arthritis, rheumatism and various skin ailments come here for the mud baths which are reputed to give a lot of relief.
I didn't take many photos but I have put a few under the "Photos" tab if you care to see them.
I loved the open air market in Torrevieja on a Friday morning. The food stalls stretch at least a kilometre and offer just about any kind of fruit or vegetable you could think of. You get the powerful smell of spices and herbs as you walk along. If I lived locally I'd definitely do all my fruit and veg shopping here. The market is huge and there are stalls offering clothes, shoes, watches, leather goods, things you've always wanted and things you've been trying to avoid. As soon as you stop to look someone pops out of the back regions and tries a hard sell. You suddenly find that the handbag for 50 euros is being offered to you for 20 and is genuine, yes genuine camel leather, and in fact the eager seller is going to throw in a genuine leather belt just to be nice. You smile, shrug and move on , avoiding the watch for 5 euros which is being presented to you. You also refuse to be drawn into the "find the dice" game which is being played by a shifty looking character using three halved and hollowed-out potatoes and two accomplices who are winning 50 euros each time by discovering under which potato the dice is hidden and are insisting that you can be just as successful. It is all good clean fun as long as you keep a tight hold on your purse.
Despite all the fun and sunshine, though, I am glad to be back home. I prefer the rough Atlantic in all its moods to the sleek sophistication of the Mediterranean. The Atlantic has more character, I reckon. And so I was out on the beach today drinking in the bracing salty air and watching the oyster catchers and the gulls parading around the wet sand. Cold? Not really, well wrapped up and contented.
I really enjoyed my time in Spain with my friend Eileen. My virus plagued me for the first five days (it probably thrived in those temperatures! but then finally left me. It was so hot that it took a few days to acclimatize. In fact, we didn't do anything madly exciting, we just chilled out - or warmed up would be more appropriate. We did go on a day trip to Cartagena and visited the Roman museum there. The amphitheatre was discovered in the late 19th century when some of the old fishermen's houses were being renovated. It is in excellent condition and well worth a visit. What an industrious lot the Romans were! Cartagena itself is a very old Spanish city with wide streets and lovely buildings. We also visited Mar Menor, the largest inland salt lake in Europe if I understood our guide correctly. People with arthritis, rheumatism and various skin ailments come here for the mud baths which are reputed to give a lot of relief.
I didn't take many photos but I have put a few under the "Photos" tab if you care to see them.
I loved the open air market in Torrevieja on a Friday morning. The food stalls stretch at least a kilometre and offer just about any kind of fruit or vegetable you could think of. You get the powerful smell of spices and herbs as you walk along. If I lived locally I'd definitely do all my fruit and veg shopping here. The market is huge and there are stalls offering clothes, shoes, watches, leather goods, things you've always wanted and things you've been trying to avoid. As soon as you stop to look someone pops out of the back regions and tries a hard sell. You suddenly find that the handbag for 50 euros is being offered to you for 20 and is genuine, yes genuine camel leather, and in fact the eager seller is going to throw in a genuine leather belt just to be nice. You smile, shrug and move on , avoiding the watch for 5 euros which is being presented to you. You also refuse to be drawn into the "find the dice" game which is being played by a shifty looking character using three halved and hollowed-out potatoes and two accomplices who are winning 50 euros each time by discovering under which potato the dice is hidden and are insisting that you can be just as successful. It is all good clean fun as long as you keep a tight hold on your purse.
Despite all the fun and sunshine, though, I am glad to be back home. I prefer the rough Atlantic in all its moods to the sleek sophistication of the Mediterranean. The Atlantic has more character, I reckon. And so I was out on the beach today drinking in the bracing salty air and watching the oyster catchers and the gulls parading around the wet sand. Cold? Not really, well wrapped up and contented.
Saturday 29 September 2012
Going Viral
I've come down with a virus. It happens to us all but I can't help moaning that of all the bodies in all the world why this virus should walk into mine (with apologies to Humphrey Bogart). And at a time like this. You see, I am going to Spain for three weeks next weekend. Hooray. Sunshine and warmth to give me a boost for the winter. And now this - sore throat, dry cough, and streaming eyes and nose. Worse still, the doc. says there's nothing much he can do to help, it will have to take its course which is on a scale of ten to fourteen days. That means I could be viewing the blue Mediterranean through very bloodshot eyes or poking about in my paella with a paper tissue poised near my nose. I suppose I'll have to sneeze and bear it.
Last night I gave up the unequal battle of breathing through my right nostril while mopping up my left one and fielding the constant flow from my left eye at the same time. I turned on the radio and found a station which plays music all night. Relaxing, beautiful music for the most part. Music to doze off to and wake again thinking "oh, this is nice." I sent several cyber-telepathic messages to the DJ in the hope he would intercept my request for Andy Williams singing Moon River which would have just about made my extremely long and sleepless night. Alas we were not on the same cyber wave length. Pity but there you go.
My blog will not be updated until the end of October when I hope to tell you all about my time in Spain.
Until then, here's looking at you!
Last night I gave up the unequal battle of breathing through my right nostril while mopping up my left one and fielding the constant flow from my left eye at the same time. I turned on the radio and found a station which plays music all night. Relaxing, beautiful music for the most part. Music to doze off to and wake again thinking "oh, this is nice." I sent several cyber-telepathic messages to the DJ in the hope he would intercept my request for Andy Williams singing Moon River which would have just about made my extremely long and sleepless night. Alas we were not on the same cyber wave length. Pity but there you go.
My blog will not be updated until the end of October when I hope to tell you all about my time in Spain.
Until then, here's looking at you!
Saturday 22 September 2012
One size doesn't fit all
A good few years ago I went in for all sorts of training courses, some of them suggested and paid for by my employer at the time. In particular, I recall that two warring departments were frogmarched onto a course on effective communication facilitated by an energetic lady who seemed to think that we were all a menace to society in general. 'Say something positive to the person next to you,' she challenged. I was first in line and all eyes were upon me. Now it just so happened that the person sitting next to me was a colleague with whom I'd had rather a nasty spat the week before. Some very bitter words had been exchanged and we were both convinced that a) we were in the right and b) the other person was a thoroughly nasty piece of goods. What could I say to her that would be acceptable? I still remember the panic that swamped me, the overwhelming desire to get up and run. But there was no escape. In the end I think I admired the blouse she was wearing. The facilitator's chilly eye fell on me and I knew she was classifying me as "not a team player."
And that's sometimes the trouble with these kind of courses. Some facilitators, not all I hasten to add, have very definite ideas on how one should behave in certain circumstances. One size doesn't fit all, though, as I learned to my cost many moons ago. A friend of mine dragged me to a course on self-assertiveness which she reckoned I badly needed because she said I was inclined to get lumbered with extra work. 'Learn when to say no,' said the lady holding the course. It all sounded easy so I decided to put what I'd learned into practice next time my boss came and asked if I could do something over and above my workload. I can't remember what he wanted done now, but the details don't matter. I told him politely and regretfully that I was simply too busy. He accepted this immediately and I felt the first flush of triumph at having taken a stand. I should have done this long ago, I told myself. And then came the downside. My boss never again asked me to take on any extra work and when a promotion to team leader came up, I was bypassed, being too busy to be given extra duties, no doubt.
Lesson learned for me is that what works in one situation is by no means sure of success in another. At some stage I decided to use my gut feeling and a bit of commonsense and this has carried me through the rest of my career without too many blips. Maybe that's the secret, maybe we shouldn't try to be what we are patently not. Recognizing our weaknesses is a major step on the way to coping with them but we shouldn't overdo it. Should I have accepted more work from my boss all those years ago and maybe been promoted to team leader? I really don't know and when I think about it now, it doesn't really matter, does it?
And that's sometimes the trouble with these kind of courses. Some facilitators, not all I hasten to add, have very definite ideas on how one should behave in certain circumstances. One size doesn't fit all, though, as I learned to my cost many moons ago. A friend of mine dragged me to a course on self-assertiveness which she reckoned I badly needed because she said I was inclined to get lumbered with extra work. 'Learn when to say no,' said the lady holding the course. It all sounded easy so I decided to put what I'd learned into practice next time my boss came and asked if I could do something over and above my workload. I can't remember what he wanted done now, but the details don't matter. I told him politely and regretfully that I was simply too busy. He accepted this immediately and I felt the first flush of triumph at having taken a stand. I should have done this long ago, I told myself. And then came the downside. My boss never again asked me to take on any extra work and when a promotion to team leader came up, I was bypassed, being too busy to be given extra duties, no doubt.
Lesson learned for me is that what works in one situation is by no means sure of success in another. At some stage I decided to use my gut feeling and a bit of commonsense and this has carried me through the rest of my career without too many blips. Maybe that's the secret, maybe we shouldn't try to be what we are patently not. Recognizing our weaknesses is a major step on the way to coping with them but we shouldn't overdo it. Should I have accepted more work from my boss all those years ago and maybe been promoted to team leader? I really don't know and when I think about it now, it doesn't really matter, does it?
Friday 14 September 2012
Goodbye Lady Nicotine
I was a chain smoker. I'd tried to stop more times than a politician talks about austerity. I remember once doing really well for a week and then a colleague brought me 200 duty frees and I thought what a shame to waste them and hey presto I was back to where I started.
Of course I read all those horror stories about what smoking does to you. Then I stopped reading about it. Sure I had a cough, sure I had no control over my smoking and would still do it even when smothered with a cold. But nothing was going to happen to me. So I reasoned.
One day at work a colleague gave me the Alan Carr book on how to stop smoking. I skimmed through it, not really wanting to read it. I just wasn't ready to give up yet. So I gave her back the book after ten days and she'd started smoking again by then so I figured it couldn't be that effective.
Eight years ago while prowling round the bookshops on holiday I came across Alan Carr's Easy Way to Stop Smoking again. It was actually on special offer so I just bought it, thinking I'd have another look at it some time. Back home I put it in the furthest corner of the bookcase where I wouldn't see it. I already worked in a no-smoking building and had to nip down four flights of stairs in order to have a cigarette and as I had a busy job I sometimes didn't get to smoke more than two or three cigarettes during the day. At home I had long ago taken to smoking outside regardless of the weather. In all I smoked between ten to fifteen cigarettes a day and I couldn't stop. Yet Alan Carr's book bothered me. I was very conscious of it there in the book case. One day I took it out and skimmed through the first few pages. Glowing stories of people who stopped smoking with no side effects did not impress me much but then I came to the chapter headed Warning. I can't remember the exact wording but I know he wrote that maybe the reader was scared to read on in case they had to stop smoking immediately. He said to keep smoking while reading the book. Suddenly I felt that here was someone who knew what smokers were all about, someone who understood that panicky what-am-I-going-to-do-without-a-cigarette feeling. And I started reading the book.
That was over eight years ago. I haven't smoked since. I remember that when I finished the book I still had three cigarettes left and I decided that when I had smoked them, that was it. I smoked my last cigarette at around one p.m. on a Saturday. I still recall the sense of finality, of being finally free. My family didn't notice that I'd stopped. I wasn't bad tempered. I didn't feel any of the usual withdrawal symptoms. Sure, it felt a bit strange at first. Something was missing, especially after a meal or when having a coffee with the girls, but not so badly missing that I wanted to smoke again. In fact whenever I thought about smoking I remembered what I'd learned in Carr's book. Nearly everyone would like to stop but they are afraid of that empty feeling. Carr's idea was to take that fear away and he certainly succeeded in my case!
So Goodbye Lady Nicotine. We had a time of it but I sure don't miss you!
Of course I read all those horror stories about what smoking does to you. Then I stopped reading about it. Sure I had a cough, sure I had no control over my smoking and would still do it even when smothered with a cold. But nothing was going to happen to me. So I reasoned.
One day at work a colleague gave me the Alan Carr book on how to stop smoking. I skimmed through it, not really wanting to read it. I just wasn't ready to give up yet. So I gave her back the book after ten days and she'd started smoking again by then so I figured it couldn't be that effective.
Eight years ago while prowling round the bookshops on holiday I came across Alan Carr's Easy Way to Stop Smoking again. It was actually on special offer so I just bought it, thinking I'd have another look at it some time. Back home I put it in the furthest corner of the bookcase where I wouldn't see it. I already worked in a no-smoking building and had to nip down four flights of stairs in order to have a cigarette and as I had a busy job I sometimes didn't get to smoke more than two or three cigarettes during the day. At home I had long ago taken to smoking outside regardless of the weather. In all I smoked between ten to fifteen cigarettes a day and I couldn't stop. Yet Alan Carr's book bothered me. I was very conscious of it there in the book case. One day I took it out and skimmed through the first few pages. Glowing stories of people who stopped smoking with no side effects did not impress me much but then I came to the chapter headed Warning. I can't remember the exact wording but I know he wrote that maybe the reader was scared to read on in case they had to stop smoking immediately. He said to keep smoking while reading the book. Suddenly I felt that here was someone who knew what smokers were all about, someone who understood that panicky what-am-I-going-to-do-without-a-cigarette feeling. And I started reading the book.
That was over eight years ago. I haven't smoked since. I remember that when I finished the book I still had three cigarettes left and I decided that when I had smoked them, that was it. I smoked my last cigarette at around one p.m. on a Saturday. I still recall the sense of finality, of being finally free. My family didn't notice that I'd stopped. I wasn't bad tempered. I didn't feel any of the usual withdrawal symptoms. Sure, it felt a bit strange at first. Something was missing, especially after a meal or when having a coffee with the girls, but not so badly missing that I wanted to smoke again. In fact whenever I thought about smoking I remembered what I'd learned in Carr's book. Nearly everyone would like to stop but they are afraid of that empty feeling. Carr's idea was to take that fear away and he certainly succeeded in my case!
So Goodbye Lady Nicotine. We had a time of it but I sure don't miss you!
Saturday 8 September 2012
Good Hair Days
I've been following the US election conventions and I have a question : do you have to be blonde and wear a red dress in order to be a politician's wife? Seems that way sometimes. Take Ann Romney, mother and grandmother, shoulder length blonde hair, no noticeable wrinkles, and wearing a stunning red dress at the Republican convention in Tampa. Jenna Ryan, long blonde hair, admittedly not wearing a red dress this time but I'm sure it''ll come, and of course there's Jill Biden, wife of the vice president with her shoulder length blonde hair who likes to wear red,too. Even Michelle Obama's dress was of a red shade when she gave that rousing speech. Right or wrong, a red dress seems to signify power and success.
What does that mean for us non-political mortals who have passed our prime and are in the state of grandmother-hood? Are we lesser women because we're a teeny bit overweight, fighting the grey hairs and don't own a red dress between us? I think the answer is we are just as feminine as the Ann Romney's and Jill Biden's of this world. It's not how you look but how you act that makes you the person you are and thank goodness for that!
In case we are tempted to get discouraged by so much glamour and so many trim waists, let's think about this politician's wife scenario. Ann Romney and Michelle Obama have both been highly praised for their speeches in support of their husbands. They may even swing the vote in undecided states. Awesome thought, isn't it? Is there some lesson to be learned here for us non-political mortals? Should we accompany our husbands to a job interview, insist on going into the interview room first to tell the prospective employers what a great job he's done and how essential he'd be to their company if they take him on? Not a good idea is it? Of course, they might try to hire us instead of him! Let's be thankful we don't have to champion our better halves and sing their praises to thousands of people. We'll just soldier on, doing the best we can whether we are blonde, brunette or just plain grey. And wearing red whenever we feel like it.
What does that mean for us non-political mortals who have passed our prime and are in the state of grandmother-hood? Are we lesser women because we're a teeny bit overweight, fighting the grey hairs and don't own a red dress between us? I think the answer is we are just as feminine as the Ann Romney's and Jill Biden's of this world. It's not how you look but how you act that makes you the person you are and thank goodness for that!
In case we are tempted to get discouraged by so much glamour and so many trim waists, let's think about this politician's wife scenario. Ann Romney and Michelle Obama have both been highly praised for their speeches in support of their husbands. They may even swing the vote in undecided states. Awesome thought, isn't it? Is there some lesson to be learned here for us non-political mortals? Should we accompany our husbands to a job interview, insist on going into the interview room first to tell the prospective employers what a great job he's done and how essential he'd be to their company if they take him on? Not a good idea is it? Of course, they might try to hire us instead of him! Let's be thankful we don't have to champion our better halves and sing their praises to thousands of people. We'll just soldier on, doing the best we can whether we are blonde, brunette or just plain grey. And wearing red whenever we feel like it.
Friday 31 August 2012
Rainy Days and Sundays
There is nothing I love more than to curl up with the newspapers and a pot of tea on a Sunday afternoon. When I lived abroad it was the one thing I really missed. The various columnists with their take on the week's news and the behind-the-scenes reports from journalists in the world's hotspots and fleshpots have always held a fascination for me.
My real weakness, though, is the glossy lifestyle magazines. I drool over houses with divine gardens and conservatories and kitchens fitted out like operating theatres. That little bijou apartment in Bayswater with a view of the park. Small but luxurious. London on your doorstep. Sigh, sigh. Or - if you prefer the country - the ivy-covered cottage by the sea down in Co. Mayo with the cute little love-seat in the garden. Might need a little makeover but a bargain at the price.
When I've picked the house of my dreams - usually with reservations such as "not too keen on the second guest bedroom, needs refurbishing" - I turn my attention to the cookery section. This is just as much of an adventure, especially for someone like me who has three main dishes at her fingertips: pasta with tomato and basil sauce served with a side salad; chicken breast in lemon and herbs with roast potatoes and a veg. if you're lucky; and beef curry with rice and a side salad, the curry sauce comes out of a glass jar and has only seen Madras at the factory. Looking over the exotic dishes in the lifestyle magazine I realize how lacking in imagination my cooking really is - yes, I know you've spotted that yourselves. I tear out the recipes even though I know I am never going to use them. The crostini with salsa verde just isn't going to taste right no matter what care I take to prepare it. I won't go into my attempts at that steak recipe using Tequila. And if I do manage to bake one of those oh-so-easy-to-make cakes, it might taste okay but it always looks as if the mice were at it. So all I have is a drawer-full of glossy recipes, most of which I'm too scared to try out. Beans on toast, anyone?
And then there are the wines. I adore those descriptions, they get my taste buds working overtime: silky, nutty, fruity with an edge of blackcurrant. How's that again - "an edge of blackcurrant"? I could probably get the same effect at half the price using a dash of Ribena mixed with Australian shiraz. But it does all sound too, too romantic, doesn't it? Makes me want to pop down the off licence and look as if I know what I'm doing when I pick out a wine.
When I've extracted the last bit of pleasure from the glossies, I feel geared up for the week again. Who knows what gems - houses, recipes or wines - are awaiting me in next Sunday's offerings?
My real weakness, though, is the glossy lifestyle magazines. I drool over houses with divine gardens and conservatories and kitchens fitted out like operating theatres. That little bijou apartment in Bayswater with a view of the park. Small but luxurious. London on your doorstep. Sigh, sigh. Or - if you prefer the country - the ivy-covered cottage by the sea down in Co. Mayo with the cute little love-seat in the garden. Might need a little makeover but a bargain at the price.
When I've picked the house of my dreams - usually with reservations such as "not too keen on the second guest bedroom, needs refurbishing" - I turn my attention to the cookery section. This is just as much of an adventure, especially for someone like me who has three main dishes at her fingertips: pasta with tomato and basil sauce served with a side salad; chicken breast in lemon and herbs with roast potatoes and a veg. if you're lucky; and beef curry with rice and a side salad, the curry sauce comes out of a glass jar and has only seen Madras at the factory. Looking over the exotic dishes in the lifestyle magazine I realize how lacking in imagination my cooking really is - yes, I know you've spotted that yourselves. I tear out the recipes even though I know I am never going to use them. The crostini with salsa verde just isn't going to taste right no matter what care I take to prepare it. I won't go into my attempts at that steak recipe using Tequila. And if I do manage to bake one of those oh-so-easy-to-make cakes, it might taste okay but it always looks as if the mice were at it. So all I have is a drawer-full of glossy recipes, most of which I'm too scared to try out. Beans on toast, anyone?
And then there are the wines. I adore those descriptions, they get my taste buds working overtime: silky, nutty, fruity with an edge of blackcurrant. How's that again - "an edge of blackcurrant"? I could probably get the same effect at half the price using a dash of Ribena mixed with Australian shiraz. But it does all sound too, too romantic, doesn't it? Makes me want to pop down the off licence and look as if I know what I'm doing when I pick out a wine.
When I've extracted the last bit of pleasure from the glossies, I feel geared up for the week again. Who knows what gems - houses, recipes or wines - are awaiting me in next Sunday's offerings?
Saturday 25 August 2012
Birds and Brains
I recently read the results of a scientific study led by Dr. Christian Schloegl from the University of Vienna and published in the journal Proceedings of the Royal Society B : Biological Sciences which found that African grey parrots were cleverer than two-year-olds in a test of intelligent reasoning. During a series of experiments the parrots were asked to choose between two closed boxes, one of which held a piece of walnut and rattled when shaken. The other container was empty and could be shaken without making a noise. Not only did these clever parrots know how to detect hidden food rattling in a shaken box they also deduced that if a box made no noise when shaken then the piece of walnut was in the other box. Clever little boys, eh?
The article maintains that human children achieve this standard by the age of three. I wonder if these eminent scientists ever tried to hide the TV remote before a visit from a two-year-old? I suspect not. It never fails to amaze me how quickly a toddler can find all the things you thought you'd hidden safely away. I'm pretty sure that most of the two-year-olds I know would have found that piece of walnut pretty quickly - they would most likely have discovered the grown-ups putting it in the box. Such are the acute sensitivities of toddlers, in my experience.
That being said, I checked into the website to see what other gems they have available and found entries on such diverse subjects as the influence brain parasites have on human cultures (ugh!), first-ever observations of a live giant squid and an even more intriguing subject Cooperation and the Evolution of Intelligence. Admittedly I didn't read any of those reports, I just couldn't get enthusiastic about brain parasites or giant squids. I have enough trouble understanding the weather forecast.
To me the most fascinating thing about the research is that it was carried out at all. It is certainly very interesting if you are a fan of African grey parrots - or of two-year-olds - and I daresay the world of biology is richer for knowing the results. Does it mean that when boasting to other mums you excuse your toddler's inadequacies by saying "Well of course little Timmy isn't quite as clever as Polly the Parrot."?
The article maintains that human children achieve this standard by the age of three. I wonder if these eminent scientists ever tried to hide the TV remote before a visit from a two-year-old? I suspect not. It never fails to amaze me how quickly a toddler can find all the things you thought you'd hidden safely away. I'm pretty sure that most of the two-year-olds I know would have found that piece of walnut pretty quickly - they would most likely have discovered the grown-ups putting it in the box. Such are the acute sensitivities of toddlers, in my experience.
That being said, I checked into the website to see what other gems they have available and found entries on such diverse subjects as the influence brain parasites have on human cultures (ugh!), first-ever observations of a live giant squid and an even more intriguing subject Cooperation and the Evolution of Intelligence. Admittedly I didn't read any of those reports, I just couldn't get enthusiastic about brain parasites or giant squids. I have enough trouble understanding the weather forecast.
To me the most fascinating thing about the research is that it was carried out at all. It is certainly very interesting if you are a fan of African grey parrots - or of two-year-olds - and I daresay the world of biology is richer for knowing the results. Does it mean that when boasting to other mums you excuse your toddler's inadequacies by saying "Well of course little Timmy isn't quite as clever as Polly the Parrot."?
Saturday 18 August 2012
Feel Good Factors
Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.
This quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay on Self Reliance came into my head the other morning. I woke up feeling as if I had stubbed my toes on the wall of life, in other words, not in the sunniest of moods. Outside the rain was coming down in buckets. As I was hauling myself out of bed I remembered the above quote and decided that I would find five "feel good" things about the day. Needless to say, it wasn't actually that hard.
This quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson's essay on Self Reliance came into my head the other morning. I woke up feeling as if I had stubbed my toes on the wall of life, in other words, not in the sunniest of moods. Outside the rain was coming down in buckets. As I was hauling myself out of bed I remembered the above quote and decided that I would find five "feel good" things about the day. Needless to say, it wasn't actually that hard.
Here they are:
- Being able to stand under the shower and feel that warm water cascading over my body and having a choice of shampoo and cosmetics stocking my bathroom shelves. We take this all for granted but we'd certainly miss it if we couldn't have a warm shower whenever we pleased. Those of us who've been on camping sites queuing at the wash rooms of a morning know the feeling.
- Watching out of my window as a crow swooped on a piece of bread. He had barely alighted before a crowd of his fellows descended on him. They formed a circle and were plainly hoping to make him nervous enough to drop the crust of bread. He took this all in his stride, picked away while keeping an eye on his fellows. Two wagtails came to see what was happening and hung around on the edge of the crowd in the hopes of picking up a few crumbs. They all looked so like a bunch of children with a toffee bar that I found myself chuckling.
- On my way to the shops I met a daddy with his little girl. She was chattering away nineteen to the dozen the way small children do. He listened to every word as if it this was the most important conversation he could possibly have and threw in a remark here and there in answer to her questions. When he noticed me watching them he smiled down at his daughter with so much love and pride that I found myself smiling too.
- It had been raining all morning but in the afternoon a watery sun came out and I decided to risk a walk to the beach. I was glad I did. Strolling along the promenade I saw children and dogs having a wonderful time splashing about in the sea. I'm not sure who was having the most fun, the kids screaming in the surf or the dogs jumping around with tongues lolling. I saw joggers, senior citizens, people in wheel chairs, families pushing baby buggies. Everyone was enjoying themselves despite a stiff on-shore breeze and the occasional black cloud hovering threateningly. It was good to be alive and part of it all.
- On my way home I passed a beautifully tended garden. I stopped to admire and was met with the heady scent of roses, geraniums, jasmine and other flowers I couldn't name. I'd passed this way so often and never really noticed it before.
Sunday 12 August 2012
Goodbye to all that
After over two weeks of excitement the Olympics are over and a lot of us are left with a very flat feeling indeed. No reason to sit in front of the television with nerves on edge, hoping against hope for that gold medal. No more watching the news reports and drinking in the interviews with the medalists. I am not an Olympics kind of person, if such a kind of person there is. My main source of exercise is carrying the groceries to the car or chasing the vacuum cleaner around the living room. Yes, I'm exaggerating, I do actually walk for an hour every day, but that's about it. I don't swim, play hockey, take part in marathons. Hitherto, the sight of lightly clad athletic bodies scooting around the arena, legs and arms going like pistons, did not cause so much as a quiver of my heartbeat. Much less long-legged pole vaulters or those seriously scary diskus throwers. But then, on that fateful Sunday night, I turned on the television to "have a quick look" at the opening ceremony and I was hooked. Watching the lighting of the Olympic fire touched some primitive long-forgotten chord of pride in the human race as a whole. The competing nations parading with their flags and hopes held high gave me more goosebumps than a Christmas turkey. Here they were and they had been training for so long for this moment while most of us had happily carried on with our lives, totally unaware of the hard work and dedication. I might never have heard of half of the disciplines in which these athletes would take part but I was swept up in their enthusiasm.
And now the last gold medal has been awarded, the closing ceremony is about to take place and will no doubt prove just as impressive as the opening one, and we are left to our own devices again. It was a wonderful time, an enchanted time and I for one am grateful and humbled by having witnessed it.
And now the last gold medal has been awarded, the closing ceremony is about to take place and will no doubt prove just as impressive as the opening one, and we are left to our own devices again. It was a wonderful time, an enchanted time and I for one am grateful and humbled by having witnessed it.
Tuesday 7 August 2012
The Magic World of Loyalty Cards
I can't say no to loyalty cards. I never realized this until the other day when I accepted a loyalty card from a restaurant which I know I will never - as in the "never" of everyday parlance - visit again. The lure of getting a free portion of chips or half a chicken with my next menu proved just too much and before I knew it I had accepted the card and put it in my wallet with all those other loyalty cards.
I spend hours registering on loyalty card sites. Finding a suitable ID is harder than you think, I always find. I suppose the easiest thing would be to use the same ID and passport for every site but a friend of mine, who happens to be an IT junkie, told me this makes it easier for a hacker to get into your loyalty sites. Well, I don't want that. It sounds nasty, doesn't it, people getting into your loyalty cards? Not that I think it would do a hacker any good to see how many Real Rewards I have at SuperValu, or points at Debenhams or indeed how much free chicken I am likely to get at that restaurant. At any rate, by the time I have fought through the whole process of ID-creating, I am exhausted and cranky. And there's a very real possibility that when I check into the site again, I won't be able to remember my password or ID correctly and I'll have to go through the "forgotten password" process.
It's worth it in the end, of course. You can really save some money and get yourself a treat. And I don't blame the stores for trying to ensure that customers come back. Small shopkeepers don't have the budget, of course. The only way they get people to come back is by providing a service which the customer wants. What I like most about small shops is the personal contact. That's where the big stores miss out no matter how pleasant the sales assistant is. I can't chat to my loyalty card, can't complain about the weather or find out what's going on with the neighbours or tell anyone about what my kids are up to. I just hand over my loyalty card together with my money to a smiling employee who wouldn't know me from Adam if she saw me ten minutes later.
Next time I'm asked if I have a loyalty card and if not would I like one, I know I'm going to say yes please and start the online registration process as soon as I get home. Don't want any bargains to slip through my fingers,now do I? In years to come will there be a therapy for loyalty card junkies?
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