tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44137196936656501372024-03-13T16:07:32.265+00:00What I saw. What I heard.What I said. What I did. What I thought.Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-69734281923095150352021-06-27T15:25:00.001+01:002021-06-27T20:32:22.812+01:00And nine months later… there was a book. <div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I say nine months but, truth be told, it was nine years and nine months.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In January 2012, I started a creative writing course called, ‘Get started, keep going.’ I had already been writing blogs about my life and traveling and I decided to try my hand at fiction for the first time. It was a great course and my teacher even suggested I enter the Daphne du Maurier short story competition, offering to edit the story for me. We were given the title, ‘Rendezvous,’ by the organisers, and I sent off a mysterious story involving a surfer, an abandoned wife, and an ice cream man, set on the cliffs of the north Cornish coast. A month later I heard I’d won, and slightly dumbstruck, I went down to Cornwall to attend the festival, give a speech, receive my prize, and have my story recorded for radio. My teacher immediately told me to start writing my novel in order to keep the interested parties, well… interested. So I did what I was told and started writing.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I always knew what my book was going to be called, I knew who the characters were and what the story was about, I even knew exactly how the book would end; all I had to do was write it. I imagined being like J.K. Rowling, sitting in a café, writing whenever I had a spare moment. I knew that time would be my biggest obstacle because I needed to keep earning money as a freelance designer while writing on the side. I made a plan to write before work, and write after work, I would write every weekend and I would write every holiday. I knew it would be exhausting and it would take longer to finish my book, but it was just the way it had to be.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I started writing longhand at first, taking an A4 journal with me on the tube every morning, but I soon discovered just how nosy people could be. Anyone in my proximity would invariably try to disguise they’re growing curiosity as I scribbled away next to them, peering over my shoulder and then turning away suddenly as I caught their eye. The braver ones, the ones that kept looking, would ask me what I was writing and when I replied, ‘A novel,’ the second question would always come, without fail, ‘Oh, what’s it about?’ People say Brits don’t talk on public transport, but my neighbours proved those people wrong.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I soon found out that my brain was not cut out for writing in the evenings. As soon as I was back from work, between 7 and 7:30pm, and I’d made dinner and eaten it, the only energy I had left was to plant myself in front of the TV. I kept writing in the mornings for a while but even that got difficult when I was bumped and jostled by fellow commuters in the packed rush-hour trains. Writing was reduced to snapshots of time, a weekend here, a week off there, a writing retreat each year, and every time I picked up the story, I would have to familiarise myself with what I’d previously written for it to make sense. It was really frustrating, my family and friends stopped asking about it, and I stopped caring about it. I also hated myself for not caring.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">When I had major surgery on my knee and thigh in 2015 and moved out of London to live with my parents, I actually thought, weehee, 3 months in bed, 6 months rehab, I can write my book, but I hadn’t considered how the pain would mess with my concentration, or how the medication would numb my brain. It took all my energy and willpower to simply do the physio four times a day, let alone string words together to form sentences and paragraphs.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Fast forward to 2017, and all it took was a couple of writing holidays on my own, in Wales and the Lake District respectively, to discover a new-found joy and excitement for what was happening on the page. I was then diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, and of all the places it could have chosen to invade, it chose my hands and wrists. For nearly six months, I couldn’t hold a pen, I couldn’t type, and therefore, I couldn’t write.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And then the pandemic came in March 2020. Doom and utter gloom. For those of us that had jobs, we felt incredibly lucky. For those of us that could work from home, we were even more grateful. The world around me was terrifying but at least I could concentrate on work, that was, until September, when the work stopped. Instead of trying to find new work straight away, I decided to go away, clear my head and re-set. Traveling was still allowed at that point, if you were careful, and all I wanted to do was go somewhere cheap, somewhere isolated, and not think about work. All I wanted to do was write.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, I did. I went to a remote island off the coast of Rhodes for most of October and I wrote. I woke at eight most mornings, went for a swim, had breakfast, and then wrote until two or three in the afternoon. I then walked to a beach and met up with some crazy ladies I’d met the first few days, then had supper, then went to bed. I did the same thing every day for 23 days; wake, swim, eat, write, beach, eat, sleep. I felt so happy because I was giving my writing the time it needed, the time I needed, and once I got back home, I decided to keep going.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was risky because it meant relying on my savings, but I knew the only way my writing worked was to devote all my time and passion to it, and not try and juggle it with other things. It also was the silver lining of the pandemic for me; being single and critically vulnerable meant I couldn’t do anything but stay inside anyway, so I might as well use the alone time to my advantage. I initially gave myself three months and told my family I was taking a sabbatical until the new year. I had hoped that by January 2021 the book would be finished, and I’d be able to start working again, but January soon turned into March, and March slowly crept into June. I had never thought it would take nine months to write my book, but I soon realised I’m a perfectionist. I would not let a page go if I didn’t like it, and much of the stuff I’d written from 2012 to 2017, dipping in and out of the story, suddenly felt disconnected so I re-wrote them. I pretty much started from scratch.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And for the first time in nine years, I put everything I had into it, my time, my passion, my imagination. And I worked hard, harder than I’ve ever worked at anything, giving myself a punishing schedule of writing six days a week, from 9am to 3:30 or 4pm every day, without stopping. By late afternoon it was almost as if someone had powered down my battery and switched off my brain, so even if I had pushed myself on and worked for more hours, the resulting writing would have been rubbish. I would then take myself off for a swim or a walk, have dinner at six, be in bed by 10, and start the whole process again the following day. In December I had a fall which resulted in my knee being locked at 65 degrees, and it was so painful, I ended up having to write in bed. I had three cushions supporting my knee, several others in the small of my back and supporting my head, and a couple more underneath the computer on my lap, bringing it to face height. It was so comfortable that I continued to write like that, even after I had the surgery in March. So yes, if anyone ever asks, my first novel was written in bed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I finished writing my novel last Saturday, June 19<sup>th</sup> 2021, at 1:51pm. As soon as I typed the last full stop and made the first phone calls to friends and family, the same question was on everyone’s lips; what happens next? I tried to not think about it and focused on feeling euphoric, revelling in the momentous achievement, but 48 hours later, I came back to reality and started asking myself the same question. To be honest, writing a book is easy, what happens next is the hard part.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The consensus is to step away from your book for at least a week, try not to think about it and definitely don’t read it. Give yourself time to detach from the story before you pick it up again. Then read it, cover to cover, in one sitting if possible and take notes (some say to read the whole thing out loud, but I know I would try to act out the scenes and try different voices for my characters, which would ultimately defeat the purpose of the exercise). And as you’re reading you see what works and what doesn’t, if the story flows, and are your characters believable? You then begin the 2<sup>nd</sup> draft, and once the 2<sup>nd</sup> draft is done, you ask a chosen few to read the book and give their feedback (this is scary because it will be the first time anyone has read what I have poured my heart and soul into, and if they don’t like my characters for instance, it will be like my friends saying they don’t like my boyfriend!) Once you have taken the reader’s critique on board, your write the 3<sup>rd</sup> draft, and once that’s finished, and you don’t think you can improve the book in any other way, you send it out into the world.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you are going down the traditional publishing route (which I am), then you have to, almost always, secure an agent before you can send it to a publishing house. Most publishers will not take unsolicited manuscripts from first-time authors; they will only accept them when they are put forward by an agent. To be frank, even getting an agent to read it is an ordeal. You are required to write a submission letter, basically selling yourself and your book, and if it piques their interest enough, they might ask you for a synopsis. Writing a one-page synopsis of 500-page novel might seem like torture, but again, if it hooks them, then they could ask for the first three chapters. And if they like the first three chapters, then they could ask for the whole thing, and if they read the whole thing, then… God, I’m actually boring myself. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that it’s a long process. Most literary agents say they get sent between 80 and 100 manuscripts every single day, so you can imagine how many of those go straight in the bin (the digital bin nowadays.) The statistics from publishing houses are appalling too, only 1-2% of authors ever get their books printed. Needle in a haystack? More like needle in a whole bloody field. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, wish me luck with the next stages because I imagine there will be a lot of stress and many disappointments. The only glimmer of light is that rejection, no matter how many times it happens, doesn’t necessarily mean failure. Some of our most brilliant novelists have been rejected over and over again (J.K. Rowling herself was famously rejected more than 20 times) and although I’m not suggesting I’m in the same league as the following great writers, some of their rejection letters are worth a mention. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Herman Melville’s manuscript for Moby Dick was rejected dozens of times, with one publisher commenting: ‘First, we must ask, does it have to be a whale? Could not the captain be struggling with a depravity towards young, perhaps voluptuous, maidens?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ernest Hemingway’s, The Sun Also Rises: ‘If I may be frank, I found your efforts to be both tedious and offensive. You really are a man’s man, aren’t you? I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you had penned this entire story locked up at the club, ink in one hand, brandy in the other. Your bombastic, dipsomaniac, where-to-now characters had me reaching for my own glass of brandy.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Louisa May Alcott’s, Little Women: ‘Stick to teaching.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">F. Scott Fitzgerald’s, The Great Gatsby: ‘You’d have a decent book if you’d get rid of that Gatsby character.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And one of my favourites, even though it is an anonymous author: ‘Dear Sir, no, you may not send us another manuscript, and we will not give you the name of another publisher. We hate no rival publisher sufficiently to ask you to inflict them on him. The specimen writing is simply awful. In fact, we have never seen worse.’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Honestly, the list goes on and on. Even one of my favourite books from 2010, The Help by Kathryn Stockett, was rejected 60 times! She said in an interview recently, ‘Can you imagine if I gave up after the 59<sup>th</sup> rejection?’</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can only hope that my rejections aren’t quite so brutal!<br /> <br /> <br /> </span></div><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0cm 0cm 14.4pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-23881115330492431212020-11-19T11:08:00.000+00:002020-11-19T11:08:40.621+00:00Stopping work to write my book.<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Last month I realised that I was in my 6<sup>th</sup> year of writing my book. I was not overwhelmed with this news, I was appalled and embarrassed, especially when certain friends would ask me, ‘Are you <i>still</i> writing your book?’ Um, yes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The most humiliating of these queries came from the novelist David Nicholls, of ‘One Day’ fame. I had met him a few times at literary salons and book readings and when I went to a recent book signing, he remembered me and asked how my book was coming along. I was absolutely mortified and sort of stuttered out an answer of being too busy; probably the worst thing I could have said, judging by the look of disappointment on his face.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Time is the enemy of a novice writer. When I first thought about writing a work of fiction I thought I had plenty of time. I planned to write on my one day off each week (Mondays), I could write every weekend and I could write on holiday. Very quickly, I knew this approach wasn’t going to work. By the time I’d re-read what I’d written the previous Monday and got my head back into the story, my day was almost over. The weekends didn’t work either as one or other social event always trumped the writing, but when I took a week off, staying on my own in Wales or the Lake District, I would immerse myself fully with no distractions. Having that chunk of time made me focus. I churned out chapter after chapter on those breaks, only to return to my freelance design work and put the book to one side again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So when I was made redundant at the end of September and decided to go away to Greece for a month, I knew this was the perfect chance to really get back into my book. I quickly got into a great routine, writing straight after breakfast and not finishing till early afternoon. I started falling back in love with my characters and I felt incredibly happy. Thinking about returning to England and beginning the job search again, filled me with despair. Design studios always get a bit quiet during October, November and December, so the prospect of finding work wasn’t good. Did I really need to put myself under all that stress and pressure or should I just take my time?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I gave it some proper thought over the last few days of my holiday. The redundancy</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">could</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">be a gift because, for the first time in my life, I was being presented with the perfect opportunity to write. Lockdown was looming so I would be pretty much housebound with very few distractions, the weather would be pretty appalling so staying inside wouldn’t be a problem, and most importantly, I was solvent enough to take 3 months off work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">So here I am in my new routine. I wake up around 7, meditate and do some sun salutations before breakfast, I then listen to the news. I start writing at 9 and keep going until at least 3pm, sometimes 4pm, yesterday it was 5pm. I have no breaks apart from loo breaks and I turn all social media, phone calls and messages off. I used to think my brain functioned better in the afternoons but oh no, my brain is pretty much mush later in the day. When I finally stop writing I go for a walk, usually in the woods, mostly alone. Getting out in nature has saved me during the pandemic. It also revitalises me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Since writing every day I have also found myself having conversations when I walk. Not with myself but between my characters. I don’t know whether it’s the space or not having a computer screen in front of me but I’ve come up with pages of dialogue and have to stop and record them on my mobile phone. I was doing this very thing a few days ago when a man on a bike rode passed and said, ‘I talk to myself in the woods too.’ He hadn't seen my phone but I didn’t correct him. I’ve found that as soon as you say the words, ‘I’m writing a book,’ the next questions is, ‘Oh, what’s it about?’. And then I’m stuck for 10 minutes giving a synopsis.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also used to think I would jinx myself if I told people the story before it was actually finished. But not anymore </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">because I've come up with a short answer. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My book is called Connie and Sam. Connie and Sam is a bittersweet comedy about love and friendship between two lost souls, and the series of coincidences that bring them together. </span></p>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-30888582254782763822020-10-07T09:29:00.000+01:002020-10-07T09:29:31.547+01:00Traveling during a pandemic<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It wasn’t a hard decision. Being made redundant and faced with a wet and cold October, as well as the prospect of another UK lockdown, made escaping to somewhere warm and beautiful my number one priority.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The first thing I had to do was check with my GP before I made any plans. Having RA, and therefore a compromised immune system (not great during a pandemic), means a Doctor’s letter permitting travel is essential. My GP simply said, “I think it will be the best thing for your mental and physical well-being. You have to be vigilant with your safety but of course I will sign you off”. Being vigilant with my safety during the Coronavirus outbreak has been my priority since March. I know <b>I’m</b> being safe with where I go, what I touch and who I see. I’ve also been meticulous with my hygiene and hand-washing but the question is always… have other people been doing the same? You can only control your own actions after all. It’s the behaviour of others that make me worry; the idiots that still don’t know how to wear their masks properly; the imbeciles who still don’t socially distance; the morons that meet in large groups, the selfish fools that don’t think quarantining applies to them, and so it goes on. So surely when traveling, the likelihood of coming across a greater number of stupid people is inevitable?<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">My biggest worry was, of course, the flight. Being packed in like sardines, breathing your neighbours air, unable to leave if someone starts coughing, going to the loo in a tiny germ-filled box, the list of stress inducing activities is endless. The least time spent on a plane the better, which basically meant flying to Europe rather than the Caribbean. I decided to go to Greece. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have been visiting the Greek Islands since I was 17 and have never been disappointed. The warmth and hospitality of the people, the stunning weather, the delicious food, plus the lure of the turquoise water</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> has never kept me away for long. But which Island to go to? There were already 7 Greek islands on the UK Government list that banned all but essential travel, and then I remembered an Instagram post of a friend of mine back in July, when she had visited this particular Greek Island with her daughter and some friends. The photo showed her daughter sitting on a jetty over the most beautiful clear aquamarine water. I knew it was Greece, I just didn’t know where in Greece.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">After a flurry of texts and being sworn to secrecy about its location, the Island was revealed to me. Accommodation was found, flights were booked, ferries were reserved. The Island I was to stay on is actually a tiny island about half an hour away from another island, and the reason it’s so perfect and unspoilt is that it hasn’t been invaded by hordes of tourists. Of course there are people on holiday here, just not in the number that many of the other islands contend with. The Greeks themselves come here on holiday and for long weekends so it has retained the charm and simplicity that has become harder and harder to find.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">But I still had to get here. I stayed at my parent’s house the night before the flight and woke at 4am to get the local taxi driver to take me to Heathrow. Both of us wore masks and I kept the window open, shivering in the cold October air rather than risk any foul escaping breath. At the airport everyone wore masks, some correctly, some not, but people generally kept their distance from each other and were quite respectful, so that felt safe too. The airplane, however, was a slightly different story. Yes, we all had to wear masks for the duration (apart from lowering them to eat or drink) but I still didn’t want anyone to sit next to me. Imagine my relief when the doors were closed and I realised I had 2 seats to myself. But then I saw who was sitting behind me; two very sweaty men, masks constantly sliding off their shiny noses, and one with a very irritating and persistent cough. Of course, you have to persuade yourself that it’s anything <b>but</b> COVID… maybe they’re always sweaty, maybe they’ve just moisturised, maybe they’re wearing too many layers of clothing to save on packing, maybe the cough is an allergy or an attack of the nerves…. and so it goes on, my rational brain arguing with my gut feeling. My gut won, however, and so I stuffed my denim jacket in the seat gap and turned my 2 air vents to full, pointing them in their direction. The tuts I simply ignored. I hunkered down for the flight, politely turning down all offers of food and drink, refusing to acknowledge my bladder asking for release, and fitfully dozed with my forehead pressed against the window and a pashmina slung over my head.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once in Greece, I got out of the airport as quickly as I could and was met by a lovely taxi driver who took me to the ferry. I had an hour’s wait, so I removed my mask for the first time in 12 hours, breathed in the sea air and sipped on a delicious frappé while sitting in a small taverna. Masks were back on for the ferry ride which seemed a bit odd as we were sitting on the top deck of a small open-air ferry with sea air whistling around us, but better safe than sorry. The island is so small that if one person came on with COVID, it would wipe out the entire population.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">So was traveling during a pandemic worth it? Put it this way… I gave a long, satisfied sigh as I got off the ferry and walked to my villa. I grinned and giggled as I flung open the windows and shutters and saw the clear blue-green sea only 10 feet below me. I felt safe and I felt free. The stress and anxiety of being jobless during a global recession and pandemic were behind me, and the excitement of having time to write and relax lay ahead. The sun hit my face as I heard the lapping of waves, the hum of fishing boat engines, and the quiet chatter of people sitting around the tavernas in the square. <br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p> <br /></o:p></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Someone once said, “You can’t run away from your problems”, but I think that’s rubbish. I have always run away from my problems and have taken the time away to look at my life, decide what I want and make the relevant changes on my return. I have never regretted it.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-56530223351744873942020-09-06T12:22:00.002+01:002020-09-06T13:26:02.193+01:00 The comfort of strangers<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yesterday, while out for a walk in Longleat woods, I stopped to talk to two elderly ladies, accompanied by their 3 terriers. It’s not particularly unusual to talk to strangers while out walking; there is an unspoken etiquette whereby you always acknowledge an approaching walker in some small way. You might say hello, good morning or good afternoon, but if you fail to say anything, or god forbid they don’t reply to <i>your</i> greeting, it’s the equivalent of a driver not thanking you when you’ve given them the right of way on a narrow road. What was unusual yesterday, was that I ended up chatting to them for over 40 minutes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I realised as I approached them it wasn’t going to be a quick greeting because they slowed down and then stopped in the middle of the path as I walked towards them. They then smiled and told their dogs to sit, so I had no choice but to stop myself a few metres in front of them. I presumed one of two things at that point; 1, they were lost and wanted to ask me directions, or 2, they were just a bit bored of each other’s company after 6 months of the pandemic and fancied a chat with someone different. It was number 2. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Conversations with walkers always seems to start with the weather because we’re on safe ground there. And much to popular opinion, it’s not just the Brits that are obsessed with weather. I’ve travelled the world and it’s always the go-to subject to kick off a chat. So here’s how it went;</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Them: Gosh, aren’t we lucky with the weather today?<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Me: Yes I know. I even bought my waterproofs with me because I thought it was going to rain.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Them: Yes, we did too, but I think we might escape it if it carries on like this. Isn’t the light divine?<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Me: Yes it’s gorgeous. Beautiful dappled light as the sun comes through the leaves. But then again, I love the sound of the rain as it falls through the leaves so I really don’t mind either.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Them: No, we’re the same. Love walking in the sun, love walking in the rain. What’s that expression about clothing and weather?<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Me: There’s no such thing as bad weather, just unsuitable clothing.<br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Them: (Laughing) Yesss, that’s it. </span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So, you get the picture. I won’t relay the entire conversation because it might put you to sleep, but it was a joy. After the weather we talked about walking, the woods, local walks, dogs, knee surgery, the weather again, the woods again, hedgerows, deer, the weather again, and then there was a pause and I took that as a sign to carry on with my walk. It can sometimes be a little awkward to leave a conversation in any situation, when you know the other party might want to continue, but I think I have perfected a number of excuses that work rather well. If you’re at a social event or party and you are stuck with a total bore, just say: Gosh, I’m so sorry, I just need to nip to the loo. If said with some urgency, there’s simply no response to that. With walking, and the excuse I gave these ladies yesterday, I simply said: Well, we should really most of the good weather. Have a lovely walk. By saying “we” instead of “I”, they almost have to agree.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’m completely at ease talking to strangers and I know exactly why that is. It’s because I have grown up watching both my Mother and Grandmother perfect the art of interacting with people they don’t know. My Grandmother and her third husband Stevie, were fortunate enough to live in a stunning 14th Century moated gatehouse, and they loved nothing more than to fill the place with musicians and artists most weekends. Granny, at almost 6 feet tall, would infamously clench people tightly to her breast when she said hello or goodbye, many of those the very musicians or artists she might have only met that day. They would then be invited to stay and could be there for months. We never knew who’d be staying when we went to visit until we sat round the lunch table and there was one or more unfamiliar faces.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My Mother Anne has also perfected the art of talking to strangers and her approach has become an inside family joke… until now. It always begins the same way. We will all be on a walk together and then suddenly my mother won’t be with us anymore. We halt the group, do a collective sigh, and one of us will go back in search of her. It might be a natural distraction: looking at a bird, finding an unusual stone or spotting an amazing view, but invariably it will be someone, not something, that distracts my mother. By the time one of us has located her we will hear the oft repeated line, “Hello, I’m Anne” as she rapidly passes the fine line from stranger to acquaintance in a matter of minutes. My Mother sees it as educational… “I have learnt so much over the years talking to strangers” she says, and I have to agree. I’m always the one cornering a gallery curator to talk about the exhibition or quizzing an unsuspecting volunteer in a stately home. In fact, it’s talking to people who have a passion or a story, whether that’s a minicab driver or an electrician. My poor workmen have all ended up telling me their life stories (not necessarily voluntarily), because I’m curious about how people end up doing what they’re doing.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I also feel safe talking to strangers because I know I’m not stuck with them. Maybe it’s my terrible fear of commitment kicking in but knowing I can walk away at any time means I often open up more. I’m not judged, I can just be myself, and if they don’t like what they see or hear, that’s just fine because I’ll be gone in a mo. On the other end of that spectrum you can also be anyone you want to be. On holiday in Egypt, a slightly lecherous man who’d been staring at me as I sunbathed, finally approached and began talking to me in English. I instantly got the creeps and to get rid of him I pretended I didn’t understand English, put on a terrible thick French accent and said, “Je m’excuse, I no unerstan the English very good”. He then proceeded to talk to me in French which was most unfortunate (even though it means my accent was convincing), so I motioned that I needed the loo instead and disappeared. On the plus side, I’ve also pretended to be a travel writer, an actress (no you won’t have seen me in anything), a food critic and a librarian… just a few of the jobs I’d love to have if I wasn’t a designer. It’s just a little fun and doesn’t hurt anyone.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Talking to strangers is comfortable, especially at this moment in time. Nothing deep or intrusive or upsetting. A small interruption in a day that can feel endless… and saves me wittering on about the bloody Coronavirus all the time! </span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></h2>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-74217751911551955962020-06-08T11:20:00.002+01:002020-06-08T11:20:45.028+01:00Frustration and rage.<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was going to write about historical pandemics in this blog, having spent quite some time researching stuff, but it’s going to have to wait because right I now need to write about rage. Frustration and rage to be precise. Two things that occasionally fill me to the brim and I have to let it out.<br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know exactly the time that frustration and rage become a problem for me because of how they affect my dreams and sleeping. The last 3 nights I have woken up in 2-hourly intervals, mid-dream with my teeth clenched. I have a sleep app on my phone that records my sleep habits and having checked it each morning over the last few days, my REM sleep is very disturbed and I’ve been waking up feeling shattered.<br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The photo below on the left shows one of my rare 100% sleep charts from February this year. A good sleep result will show the wavy line going from awake (top) to sleep (middle) to deep sleep (bottom). It then goes back up to sleep and down again to deep sleep, and so on, throughout the night. If you achieve 3-5 of these waves, you should feel well rested. The middle sleep or REM sleep is hugely important because that is when you dream. Dreams unconsciously try to make sense of your problems while deep sleep fixes you physically. The photo on the right is from last night showing 65%. It may look similar but you can very clearly see that I become fully conscious 3 times, which means my dreams are essentially waking me up.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgTPI2oBlcVc8Lijl6iSrfT5JVF6Vp68GVm9RWlk7gCVNm4vliES_yeoLUPYXP0qXkmG7THfBBJxgVLL17O91GbCpRktM1aaJaEOt9gL8NGLRVAwMjm58_NP1AR9h2SmFY-wnyGfAsytdW/s1600/fullsizeoutput_1e80.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1496" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgTPI2oBlcVc8Lijl6iSrfT5JVF6Vp68GVm9RWlk7gCVNm4vliES_yeoLUPYXP0qXkmG7THfBBJxgVLL17O91GbCpRktM1aaJaEOt9gL8NGLRVAwMjm58_NP1AR9h2SmFY-wnyGfAsytdW/s640/fullsizeoutput_1e80.jpg" width="640" /></span></a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These dreams are vivid and I can remember every detail. I am in various situations where I cannot be heard, I am misunderstood, I am ignored or I am not allowed to speak. People are mean and abusive to me. The colours are dark or muted and I am often in hiding or looking in from the outside. I wake up feeling incredibly frustrated and my chest feels tight. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. I am not speaking up in my day to day life about things that are really bothering me. I don’t know what to say about certain situations for fear of saying the wrong thing, so instead I am saying nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So here goes, I’m just going to say it. This is my opinion and you can take it or leave it. If I offend you I’m sorry, but better out than in.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -18pt;">1. </b><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Donald Trump</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Without questions, this pathetic excuse for a man has made me shout more at the TV and radio than anyone else in my entire life. I find him narcissistic, vulgar, patronising, rude, uninformed, misogynistic and racist. I actually can’t find the exact vocabulary to describe my utter revulsion for him. My biggest problem with him at the moment is his inability to show any kind of empathy. He is dividing a nation every single day, when they really need and want someone to bring them together. As well as the US having the highest death rate in the world from COVID-19, protests have now consumed its cities after the death of George Floyd. His death, at the hands of a policeman, has been the tipping point for an already exhausted, racially divided nation, plunging it into chaos. And while Trump hides in his bunker or behind his chain-link fence, the people outside want justice. They want equality and fairness. They want to be understood. Instead of showing respect and empathy, Trump grabs the limelight for his own photo opportunities, makes incendiary remarks, threatens, belittles and then changes the subject back to him. The final straw for me was hearing Trump say, </span><span style="background-color: white; text-indent: -18pt;">“Hopefully George will be looking down and saying this is a great thing that’s happening for our country. A great day for him. It’s a great day for everybody”, when talking about the rate of employment increasing. It’s wrong on so many levels. It’s despicable.</span><span style="background-color: white; text-indent: -18pt;"><b><br /></b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; text-indent: -18pt;"><b>2. The UK Government</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">I’m realising there’s a pattern here. I never thought I was that political before I wrote this but I guess when stupid decisions affect me and my loved ones, then that makes me mad. Ok, there are way too many things to write down here and I haven’t got enough time or patience, so I will simply make some statements.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">• B</span><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">ack in April we were told that face-covering were ineffective and we didn’t have to wear them in public. Last week we were told they would be mandatory on public transport, two weeks after people had already started going back to work and were packed like sardines onto buses, trains and tubes.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -24px;">• One rule for them and one rule for us. Dominic Cummings. Enough said.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">• The PPE fiasco. By not making sure there was enough equipment for our frontline workers, you put our most important people in danger. We lost too many.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">• Closing our borders too late and opening them too early. Allowing people to fly into the UK and really believing that they will quarantine for 14 days? And even if they do follow the rules, they are still allowed to stay with friends, go to the shops and travel on public transport. It’s absurd.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">• You can be near hundreds of strangers in a public park, beach or a supermarket but you still can’t have more than a few people you know, socially distancing in your garden. It doesn’t make any sense.</span><b style="text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b style="text-indent: -18pt;">3. Zoom and skype meetings</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Yes, these have saved my life, in terms of both social interactions and work, but don’t people realise that it’s still impossible to hear anyone when they are talking over each other, even online? The normal rules of conversation seem to have gone out of the window – so why not try waiting for someone to stop talking before you start! People forgetting to turn their microphones on is equally as irritating, watching them opening and closing their muted mouths like idiot fish. It also seems unbelievable that we can send two men up in a rocket to the ISS, yet we still can’t get good internet picture quality, with the majority of attendees pixelated or freezing at some point. </span><b style="text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b style="text-indent: -18pt;">4. Noise</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Ok, this is not news. Everyone knows I have a high intolerance to noise and I have gone on and on about it previously. The trouble is, when everyday noise has been so quiet during lockdown, and then it returns, it’s a bit of a shock to the system. The big quarry lorries rattling past as 3am, the irritating whiny mopeds racing up and down the road, the groups of loud gossiping mums taking their kids to kindergarten using my lane as a short cut, teenagers wandering around smoking and drinking late at night, endless DIY power-tools early in the mornings, my neighbour starting his throaty diesel van at 6am every morning and sitting there with the engine idling for 10 minutes, and lastly, my neighbour’s son being given a paddling pool, a snorkel and a harmonica for his birthday. Yes, it seems you can use them all at the same time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Writing it down is good but not having a physical outlet is hard</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What with lockdown and social distancing, I haven’t had the usual bunch of friends and family around who I can have a good old rant with. Exercise helps though. Last year I started swimming – four times a week for an hour and a half each time – and the monotonous rhythm of breathing and moving through water would clear any negative thoughts I had. But since the pandemic, swimming is impossible, so I now walk instead.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Walking lifts my spirits in a different way. I see beauty and hear nature; the spring flowers, the infinite hues of green, the wind rustling through leaves, the enigmatic cuckoo, cows mooing and horses neighing in the distance. Walking in deserted woods </span><b style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">also</b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> allows me to talk to myself, and I’ve been having lovely long conversations about all sorts of things (yes, I know!). As well as my own rambling chitchat, I’ve also been testing out my theory of </span><b style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">better out than in,</b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> by shouting my grievances out loud as I walk. I’ve screamed “Arsehole” when I think about Trump, “Stupid bastards” when I think about Boris and the UK government, and all sorts of other obscenities aimed at a variety of people and things. It’s amazingly cathartic... until a few days ago. I was alone in the woods, so I thought, and I shouted out quite a lowly swear word aimed at (yes you guessed it) Trump, and realised a large family were walking up the path towards me. As they swerved passed, giving me an incredibly wide berth and frowning with disapproval, the little girl said, “Mummy, that lady said a rude word”.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yes I did honey, and proud of it. </span><br />
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</style>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-49860986914609934632020-04-04T12:51:00.000+01:002020-04-04T12:51:30.281+01:00A noisy two weeks in lockdown.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On March 23<sup>rd</sup> 2020 the UK went into lockdown. I watched the news broadcast and thought, hmmm, well that’s not really going to affect me too much at all. I work from home, I exercise, I eat, I sleep. I meet friends for lunch and dinner sometimes, I go to the theatre and cinema quite often, I go for walks and visit places, but I’m really not gallivanting around town every night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What has affected me is the unbelievable increase in noise! I thought everyone was going to take the opportunity to chill a little bit, to find some peace and quiet and wait out this scary pandemic, but instead, people have gone stark raving bloody mad, trying to fill their days with every activity known to man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In Frome, a market town known for being very family and pet friendly, it is becoming hellish. Gone are the days when I can work from home, hearing only the odd car, bird tweet or dog bark… now all I hear is hammering, drilling and sawing, as every household realise just how long they have put off building their treehouse, extension, shelf unit etc. and want to rectify that immediately. My next-door neighbour is a carpenter. There is no need to expand on that, apart from saying my filthy language has increased to worrying levels, as yet another of my work skype calls is interrupted by his need to build. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As well as all the endless DIY, there is, of course, all the noise coming from the gardens surrounding my house. We have had such glorious weather in the last 2 weeks that all those that have a garden, are out in it. Everyone is mowing their lawns, pruning, weeding, planting and chopping. If the families have children, they are also out in the garden, screaming on trampolines, screaming on swings, screaming on climbing frames. Screaming. And while the kids scream, high-pitched and infinite, all the dogs join in too, barking tirelessly and excitedly while still trying to figure out why they are getting so much attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And then we have the smug learners. That’s what I call the people you find on social media, deciding to use this period of inactivity to improve themselves. We have entire families posting videos of themselves singing, dancing and playing musical instruments. People learning new languages, taking up new hobbies like painting or pottery, we have the relentless posts of people trying to be funny with self-isolation videos. I realise I am an absolute hypocrite here, having sent a film of myself dancing to “All that Jazz” from the musical Chicago. But I didn’t send it to millions I promise, just a few poor friends who then had to say something nice about it! Sorry about that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is also quite a lot of activity on social media about romance in the time of COVID-19. People sharing their stories of dating via the internet or having dinner with prospective dates via facetime, skype or zoom. I mean that’s all fine but you won’t get me meeting a date for the first time on the internet, because that would entail getting dressed, washing my hair and wearing a bra! Haha. Actually I have been incredibly disciplined about my health and cleanliness. I exercise every day <b>and</b> have a shower. I do wear relaxed clothing a lot of the time and have definitely not been restricted by wearing a brassiere, but I don’t need to share that sight with anyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Social distancing is not a problem for me. I really don’t like being in big crowds of people and have been very vigilant about staying safe. I hold my hands up and say that I have probably annoyed everyone with my emails about safety and sanitation and I promise from this day forward that I will cease to do that. I do know you’re all grown-ups and I’m sorry if I sounded patronising. I will say though, that there are still loads of people that cannot get to grips with the 2-metre rule. My lovely elderly neighbour, who I do shopping and errands for, came round yesterday to drop off some money and seemed most put out when I didn’t invite her in for a cup of tea. Ha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think things will calm down in a few weeks’ time, when we realise we are in for the long haul. Reports from Italy – who have been in lockdown for a month now – are already saying that the group singing and exercising from balconies is not as regular as it was. That more and more people are finding their own routines and not being as spontaneous. As the UK is 2 weeks behind them, we are still in the throes of the newness of it all, and as we are adjusting, we are just trying to keep busy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There do seem to be a zillion and one things you can do online though… from group singalongs and cookery classes to pub quizzes and exercise classes. I too have joined the online group activity and am doing a pub quiz with friends on zoom tonight. I also do a HIIT class every morning and am doing my weekly Pilates, Yoga and Meditation online with my teachers. It works quite well as long as the teachers stay on the screen… I did find myself in the most extraordinary yoga position a few days ago when my teacher disappeared from view and as I followed her voice instructions, ended up with my ankle by my ear. I only realised that was not the correct positions when her face loomed large into the camera and she started laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But it’s also ok to do absolutely nothing and no one should feel pressured into keeping busy. I spend half my days just pottering, and I keep referring back to the wonderful Italian expression “La dolce far niente” which translates to “the sweetness of doing nothing”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What I do hope continues is the kindness and empathy that is being shown daily. Checking in on family and friends more and helping our neighbours, and strangers, with selfless acts if we can. We are all born kind I think, and in times of crisis, this becomes apparent. We appreciate the important things like love and friendship. And we clap for those that are putting themselves in danger so that we aren’t. That needs to continue well after this is all over. Kindness, empathy and appreciation cost nothing. And we can all be rich. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-1008512235965630832020-03-16T10:39:00.000+00:002020-03-16T10:39:17.422+00:00True Colours.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When there is a crisis, whether it’s close to home or more widely spread as in the C-19 pandemic, people’s true colours really start to show. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There are those people with the</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I have to save myself”</b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">attitude, most probably seen at the local supermarket armed with a 100 loo rolls, dry pasta and enough soap for a year, and there are those with the</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">“I have to save others”</b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">attitude, who immediately think of their friends, family and community, and offer them help.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since leaving London a few years ago, I have been lucky enough to find myself in Frome, a small market town that is all about community. We have a huge amount of support groups, a Loneliness Café (for anyone that wants to chat), a Men’s and Women’s Shed (where you can mend things together), a Share shop (where you can swap skills), a community food fridge, drama clubs, art societies, walking groups, choirs, running clubs, communal gardening, litter picking…. You name it, we’ve probably got it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With Coronavirus galloping across the globe at an extraordinary rate, it is a confusing, worrying and scary time, so to see my amazing neighbours set up a What’s app group to help anyone self-isolating, is brilliant. We already had a group called the GG’s (Goulds Ground is my road), which consisted of 30 or so households sharing news and gossip, pet sitting, childcare, the occasional pot luck supper or party, and anyone needing to borrow something or take a delivery…. But this new group is specifically for Coronavirus concerns and is about 2 dozen of us (so far) willing to offer advice, support, conversation and shopping. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course, I cannot compare living in a small town with an over-populated city, because here it seems so much easier to organise this sort of thing. In cities, many neighbours rarely know each other let alone socialise with them, so maybe this is where it needs to happen more. NOTE: As I’ve been writing this, I’ve already noticed this changing in cities... There are some very creative individuals offering support, starting sing-a-longs in blocks of flats, aerobics classes from rooftops, and even mass bingo from apartment windows. It’s all quite joyful and I think people are realising that human interaction, even from a distance, is how we will get through this. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Social distancing in the countryside while still getting fresh air, is a piece of cake too compared to flat-dwelling urbanites. Instead of being cooped up in two rooms, we can jump in our cars and at least get out of the house. I am surrounded by green fields and acres of deserted woodland, so going for a walk without bumping into anyone is easy too. I feel so terrible for people that can’t do that. Listening to the BBC World service this morning, I was fascinated to hear all the personal accounts of what it’s like being on lock-down in Milan, Madrid, Seoul and all the other towns and cities across the world. For single people especially, being on their own for extended periods of time is going to be really tough mentally. All they have are their windows for light and fresh air, their TV’s and Radio’s for entertainment and a rare sighting of another human being in the flesh when they have to buy food or get medical supplies. People are going to go stir crazy. So if you do know anyone on their own, touch base with them, leave a note or your phone number if they need a chat, and keep communicating.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A weird silver lining of self-isolation and social distancing is the rate that pollution in cities has dramatically dropped already. Another is that people are reconnecting with old friends and family on the phone and skype (instead of email and text) to fill the time and check in. People are reading more, writing more, finding ways to entertain themselves that’s not just being a couch potato (although I do think we will have a slightly heavier population in the coming months, so maybe it’s time to buy shares in Weight Watchers!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I really do think people’s true nature is to be kind. We were born with a pack mentality which is in our DNA, to save our loved ones and our fellow human beings. So we can do what we can, as well as supporting the other amazing human beings out there, doing jobs that are more than a little scary right now... the doctors, nurses, scientists, ambulance drivers, police, carers, cleaners, rubbish collectors, delivery people and all the others that work in the service industry. People in Spain have been applauding those people from their windows, at 10pm every night, to show their thanks. What a lovely thing to do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Keep safe. Keep your distance. Wash your hands.</span></div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-26591557292314501302019-11-11T10:45:00.000+00:002019-11-11T10:45:41.324+00:00Happiness, therapy and losing weight.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was a happy, goofy, skinny child, with long limbs, a big nose and a small head. I loved school, especially sports, and was lucky enough to be picked for most of the teams, from hockey and rounders to tennis and diving. Until the age of 17, everything was about being outside and enjoying the fresh air; long walks with family every weekend, days out at the beach, exploring National Trust houses and gardens… in fact I can’t really remember a weekend when we weren’t exploring.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was still very slim during my late teens and early 20’s, at art college in Salisbury and Design School in the States, and even though drinking and eating out were now a big part of my life, I don’t recall ever being concerned about my weight or how I looked. But I re-read some diaries recently and I was shocked at how hard I was on myself; about my huge nose and my small boobs, about my big bum and thunder thighs. I wrote page after page of tear-stained outpourings about getting stretch marks for the first time. I wrote: “All I can see are these horrible red welts across my thighs. I’m so disgusting. I will never get a boyfriend because I never ever want anyone to see them. I am just one big ugly stretchmark on the face of this planet!”. My friends and family will laugh at this because I have always been a little on the dramatic side (understatement), but it made me realise how, even at a young age, I felt people would judge me for how I looked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When I was 21, a tumour was found in my throat. Because of the location, the surgical team had to remove my thyroid gland in order to save my voice-box, and I am forever grateful for my parents for making that decision (but it’s probably the reason you can’t shut me up now). I was told a week later that the tumour was benign and that I could live my life completely normally without a thyroid gland, with the exception that I had to take medication every day for the rest of my life, and that I no longer had a fully functioning metabolism. Fine with me I thought. But it became apparent rather quickly that a low functioning metabolism meant that it would be harder to keep the weight off. My lifestyle hadn’t changed but I began to get a little curvier.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And here, I just want to say how much a good mental state affects how you see yourself. I was left with a scar across my neck from ear to ear, and in my eyes, I looked like Frankenstein’s bride. To strangers, it must have looked like I’d been in a vicious knife attack because the reaction was a mixture of pity and fear. That scar has, subsequently, almost disappeared, but I was in such a state of shock when I first saw myself that I stopped looking in the mirror. My neck was also in a terrible state from the 8-hour surgery, having been extended and strapped over the back of the surgical table to fully expose my throat. I had no physiotherapy afterwards and no counselling. I felt like one of those Pez sweet dispensers with a flip top, as if my head could fall off at any moment, so I kept my head down. The result of this lowered head position left me with severe back and neck problems and to this day, I have to regularly see an osteopath.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Having been in hospital at least a dozen times since then, for both major and minor surgical operations, I wonder why therapy isn’t offered to people as a routine service? Beforehand, to ensure the patient isn’t too scared, is fully informed about what will happen, and for support…. And afterwards, to reassure them they will get better, to listen to how much pain they are in, and to be a friendly sympathetic face that talks in plain English rather than medical jargon. The NHS are so worried about lack of beds and how much time people stay in hospital and I’m sure having therapy as part of the process would speed that all up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have had therapy from time to time over my life and am a huge advocate for it. After the 7/7 bombings in London (I was on the tube only a few stops away), I began having panic attacks whenever I was in an enclosed space. My mother was convinced it was because of the incident itself but I think it was the result of being told (the week before), that at the age of 38, I would never be able to have children and was going through early menopause. I had lost control of my body once again, you see, and hated it for letting me down. It couldn’t give me the thing I most wanted in life, children, and I think it brought on the panic attacks. The diaries I wrote during this period are some of the most distressing. I thought my life was worthless. That there was simply no point. But I carried on with the therapy for a year, learnt to love myself again and that my body was ok. I was fine. I just had to look at my future differently and to embrace the good things in my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As the years went on my weight increased. By my early 40’s, I had already had several knee surgeries and was finding walking and sports harder and harder. I found comfort in food and stopped moving as much. I mean, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that equation… less movement, more food = more weight. But I couldn’t really see a way out. I was unhappy with how I looked and because of that, I didn’t want to embarrass myself by going to the gym to be looked at and judged. I had begun to be invisible to men too. They didn’t look at me appraisingly anymore, and after one horrendous date where the man said, “I had such an amazing time with you, but I have to be honest, you’re just a bit big for me”, I decided to stop dating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then came the major knee and thigh surgery at 47 followed by the Rheumatoid Arthritis diagnosis at 49. Both devastating for my body and mind. More soul searching as to what I’d done to deserve this. More weight gain from being on crutches for 6 months post-surgery and more weight gain from being on steroids and having full body inflammation and pain from the RA. I was more down in the dumps than ever before and so I began therapy again. My new lady is local. She makes me think, questions my choices and doesn’t judge. She lets me have rants and tantrums and sometimes she doesn’t utter a single word for the 50 minutes I’m there. Other times I say nothing and she looks back at her notes and challenges my ideas and motivations. She really is a great audience and even laughs at my jokes, but she is also crucial to changing my mindset to keep me looking at all the positives in my life, rather than focusing on the negatives. I know I am privileged and don’t want this to come across as poor me in any way, all I’m trying to do is explain that once you like yourself, many more things are possible.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In January, I began researching RA on a much deeper level, looking at all the ways I could help myself. I’ve always been curious medically and like to know what the drugs do to my body, what the surgeries actually entail, to the point of watching a similar knee surgery to mine on YouTube, from start to finish. My surgeon was horrified, saying it must have been like listening to an industrial workshop with all the hammering and sawing of bones. I agreed it wasn’t pleasant, but I felt informed, and to be informed means that you can then do the best for yourself. I knew my struggle with weight was a lot to do with my illnesses over the years, but I also knew that there must be a lot of things I could do as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Exercising while being overweight is tough, not just on the joints but on the mind (it’s embarrassing standing in Lycra looking like an over-stuffed sausage), so I knew I had to start with my diet. I have always tried to eat healthily but sometimes those foods are still fattening. Eating avocados, nuts, full-fat yogurt and dried fruit every day, for example, may seem like healthy choices but they are all high in calories and if you eat too much, you simply won’t lose weight. I was shocked at how much salt and sugar is added to everyday things like shop-bought bread, cereal and soup, so I went back to basics and began cooking every single thing from scratch. I was told that eating an alkaline diet would help with the inflammation for my RA too, so I reduced my alcohol, caffeine, dairy, salt, sugar, gluten and anything processed (ironically, that means many things I have designed the packaging for!) I began making sourdough bread with rye and spelt flour and every Sunday I batch cook; roasting a large chicken with heaps of root vegetables that can go in soups or salads throughout the week, I make a stock from the bones that can be used for loads of things, I make a huge vat of different legumes, and I make my own muesli. I only eat bread at breakfast, eat 7 portions of fresh fruit and veg daily, have upped my protein, and try not to snack, even though I do still have an addiction to salt and vinegar rice cakes and 70% dark chocolate, which I always allow myself. If you don’t let yourself have little treats, you crave them more!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But the biggest difference to how I eat now is that I always try and leave 14-16 hours between my evening meal and breakfast. Some call this intermittent fasting, but I see it as giving your body all the time it needs to digest, heal and restore itself. The body hates to go to sleep while it is still digesting food and it needs a good 4 hours to do that, so if you get a craving at 9pm and eat a small apple, your body still has to start the whole digestion process from scratch, which means you shouldn't go to be until 1am! So, based on that, I eat my evening meal at a terribly unfashionable 6pm, go to bed at 10pm, read for an hour or so, go to sleep, wake at 6:30am and only drink water until I have breakfast at 8am. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My sleep has improved so much it's incredible, and I know this for a fact because I have a sleep app. It records your breathing and is so sensitive that it can tell the difference between your waking breath vs. your REM sleep breath vs. your deep sleep breath. Before January, I would eat dinner at 8pm, watch TV until 11pm, read for 15 minutes and then try and sleep. According to the app, it would take me 30-40 minutes to go to sleep, I would then snore for 40 minutes and wake at 6:30am. I now don't watch TV as late, I read longer and I eat earlier. By the time I turn my light off, my app tells me that I fall asleep after 2-3 minutes, I don't snore and I wake up at 6:30am. It's still the same amount of time in bed but the quality of sleep is better and so I feel great. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Of course, if I go out socially or am invited to a dinner party, this all goes out of the window. I will eat everything that is on offer, stay up as late as I want, and heartily enjoy it but the majority of the time I stick to the above. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can report that I have now reached 3 stone in weight loss. That’s 42 pounds for my American cousins and 19 kilograms for the rest of the world. It has taken me 10 months to get to this point and, of course, with the benefit of having more energy and my joints not hurting as much, I have increased my exercise. I have recently been swimming every day for a challenge but now it’s over, I just swim whenever I want to (which is still 4-5 times a week). I do Pilates for strength, I see a Shiatsu and Acupressure practitioner to help my body release stress, and I see a therapist for my mind. And I sleep. I try not to tell people I’ve been on a diet; I simply say I have tweaked a few things and I cook from scratch, that’s all. It’s up to the individual what works for them because for all I know, the way I’ve done it may only work for me.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But the big question is, am I happier because I have lost weight? </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The answer is no. I am happier because I have taken control of my life and I’ve found ways to heal myself. The by-product of that is that I have lost weight. I no longer blame my illnesses and medication for how I look and feel, and I no longer let stress rule my life because stress makes me eat, and stress makes me ill. I have cut out toxic friends the way I would spring clean my wardrobe, I try and only do the things I love, see the people I adore, avoid situations that make me unhappy, and accept the things I cannot change. xxx</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-67425841499432534742019-10-29T15:32:00.000+00:002019-11-11T11:00:01.986+00:00Communal changing rooms and nudity.<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Does anyone remember clothes shop changing rooms in the 80’s and 90’s? Usually there were about four private cubicles which you would have to queue up for, or there was a really big room for communal changing which could fit about twenty people. I absolutely hated these rooms because I would invariably be wearing my worst faded and frayed underwear that day, plus I always felt extraordinarily fat and out of shape compared to the other girls, and to top it off, everyone else seemed to have picked really cool items of clothing to try on. I would feel embarrassed, unattractive and frumpy.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Thank God this has all changed and shops now have enough changing rooms for everyone, but there are still places where getting your kit off in public is an everyday occurrence. Yes, I am talking about sports changing rooms. Whether it be a public pool, a gym, a spa or a fitness class, the changing rooms are, seemingly, the last place where you can see every age, shape and size in all its glory. I bloody loathe them.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">I am not a prude. I love the human body. I can appreciate men and women’s bodies and think they are beautiful and magnificent forms, but I just think there are times and places where it is more appropriate to see someone naked. In art, nudity is completely acceptable. I often draw naked people in my life drawing classes, for example. Nude beaches are fine because everyone knows why they are there, they are forewarned of what it is they are letting themselves in for, and what they will see. At home, in private, nakedness is just lovely, whether you are by yourself or with another (much more fun with another). But in other situations, if people have to parade around naked, then there should definitely be some rules.</span><br />
<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">1. </span><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Respect other people’s personal space.</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="text-indent: -24px;">As everyone knows, I have been swimming at Babington House since I became a member a few years ago. I have to get down to my birthday suit when I change into my swimming costume, and I then have to get naked again after swimming, when I’m showered and dried, and am getting re-dressed. I usually turn towards a wall or the lockers when I remove my clothes but there are others that simply rip everything off and stand there stark naked. These are not always the body beautifuls, I hasten to add. Here are a few examples of my space well and truly being violated. </span>Last week, I was taking off my shoes and socks and a woman bent over next to me. Her naked bottom was inches from my face. For God’s sake, was that really necessary, I thought? Could she have not moved slightly away from me and bent over with her arse in the opposite direction? Decorum, please. </span></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: -24px;">A few days ago, I was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing my hair, when a large lady with a heaving bosom walked behind me and grazed my back with her nipple. Gravity was not on her side and her nipple was nearer her tummy, but still, she must have been aware of where it was. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Yesterday, I put a towel down next to me on the bench. Without looking, a naked woman sat down next to me, half sitting on my clean towel. Um. Yuck. All I ask is do it away from me, preferably 3 feet away.</span><br />
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<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: -18pt;">2.</b><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: -18pt;"> </span><b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Do not move around while naked.</b><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you do have to get naked and flash it all about, then please don’t wander around. Just stay still and then I can avoid you, because if you walk around or do exercises (yes, that happens) then it’s just harder to keep track of you. I really hate rounding a corner and bumping into a nude person. Just stop it.</span><br />
<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">3. </span><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Please don’t talk to me.</span></b><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Worse than moving around while naked is striking up a conversation while naked. This happens to me all the time, especially since I’ve been doing my Channel challenge. I will be minding my own business, holding up my towel up with my teeth as I try to put on my bra, and someone will say, “Oh are you the one swimming with the snorkel?” or such like. I turn around and they are stark naked. Not only stark naked but drying their bits, and they expect me to have a good old chat about swimming. No. Just no. I will wait until you are dressed and then we can talk for as long as you like.</span><br />
<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">4. </span><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Do not scar other people’s children for life.</span></b><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Parents often bring their children to the pool, and whether it’s a boy or girl, they usually get changed in the ladies changing room. A few months ago, I saw a boy of about 7, gaping open-mouthed at a naked woman a few feet in front of him. He stared and stared, looked her up and down, then went bright red and asked his mum if he could undress somewhere else. Poor boy.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">So, if you recognise yourself in any of the above scenarios, and are indeed a member of Babington, then please look out for me, don’t say hello, and kindly keep your distance. </span><br />
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</style>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-86913693842459494052019-09-21T10:29:00.000+01:002019-09-21T10:56:36.901+01:00Wild Swimming<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Last week, on a beautiful, bright, sky-blue Autumn day, I went swimming in the local quarry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s actually quite a famous quarry called Vobster Quay. Famous because it is one of the deepest freshwater inland places to swim, dive and free-dive in the UK. At 40 metres, it doesn’t sound all that deep, but imagine swimming to the bottom of an Olympic diving pool and you will see and feel what a mere 5 metres feels like! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Vobster is a safe, sparklingly clean and incredibly beautiful quarry with sunken <span style="background-color: white;">wrecks of a large aircraft, a caravan, a yacht, two metal wheelhouses, and the famous Crushing Works - a towering structure the height of a 2-storey house. It even has a spooky 14-metre-long tunnel at 35m deep that is by all accounts, terrifying! But forget all that because I just went for a swim.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Since I was small, I have loved being in the water. There are dozens of photos of my sister and I as children, splashing about in the sea and swimming in rivers. My parents were adamant about us learning to swim from a very young age, and both my parents used to take us to the local swimming baths. It was my Father’s job, however, to take us every Sunday morning while my mother prepared lunch (different times folks, different times). I have really vivid memories of these mornings… to the highly chlorinated water resulting in red-rimmed eyes, to seeing the odd child wearing a verrucae sock, to never being able to dry myself properly in the tiny cubicles, to being dusted with talcum powder. After we came out of the changing rooms, with matted hair and twisted damp trousers, we were always allowed a hot chocolate from the vending machine, and to this day, I still associate hot chocolate with swimming.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The majority of our summer holidays were spent in France, Cornwall, Wales or the Outer Hebrides – always by the sea – and the rest of the time we would go to our school’s open-air pool. The pool was never heated, and even on the hottest days I remember our lips turning blue, fingers and toes wrinkled, covered with goose-bumps and shivering uncontrollably. My mother would simply give us a vigorous towel rub to get the blood flowing, followed by a slurp of Heinz tomato soup from a thermos flask, and we were back in again. We were also lucky enough to live in California for a few years – when I was 10 and my sister was 12 – where we used to perform synchronised swimming routines in the local pool, play Marco polo, or have endless handstand and diving competitions to entertain ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I grew up my passion deepened. My first holiday without my parents was at a friend’s Aunt’s house in northern Corfu, aged 16. We spent the days eating local peaches and homemade yogurt, drove around in a battered 2CV trying to find undiscovered aqua-coloured coves where we could snorkel, and at night we would go skinny dipping, mesmerised by the phosphorescence. The following summer I went island-hopping around Greece. As three girls from single-sexed private schools we were very naïve, taking up offers from the local middle-aged fishermen to go out on their boats to swim topless in the deep Mediterranean water, seeing extraordinarily colourful fish and diving for sea cucumbers. I loved it so much that I even got a job in the local bar in exchange for free booze, counting up the takings each night as the owner was too inebriated. I’ve subsequently been all over the world, from Costa Rica to Egypt, the Caribbean to Italy, Sri Lanka to Australia, and always spent half my time in the sea. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not being scared of open water or deep water is the key, but even I have had my moments. I watched the film Jaws for the first time in the late 70’s, and that did put the willies up me for a while. As did water-skiing off the coast of Long Island when I was 15, and a great white shark being caught the following day exactly where we’d been. The scariest moment was when I was in Australia with my mother in the late 90’s. I swam quite far out from the shore, joking that I hoped there weren’t any sharks about. As I turned to swim back to the beach, I saw my mother frantically waving and shouting at me, then pointing to something behind me. At least I now know what would happen in the case of a shark emergency because I completely froze, treading water very very slowly, while trying to remain calm. I then realised my mother was laughing and smiling so I turned around and swimming beside me was… a penguin!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s safe to say that I wouldn’t be happy going on a summer holiday unless there was a place to swim but living in good old Blighty, and not being that close to the sea, means I have to make do with other bodies of water, no matter what the temperature. You have to love the feel of cold water and embrace the benefits… boosting your metabolism and immune system is fantastic, but for me, it’s the sense of calm that swimming surrounded by nature brings. Mindfulness in water if you will.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, back to last week. I went with my cousin to the quarry and we both undressed to our swimming cozzies, put on our hats and goggles and walked down the ramp into the cool crisp water. It was 18ºC, the warmest it’s been all year apparently, but we soon realised that we were the only ones not wearing a wetsuit. We were given incredulous looks from fellow swimmers and divers as we gasped and splashed around for a bit, our bodies adjusting to the temperature. And then we swam and chatted as we got into the deepest and darkest part of the quarry. Even I realised that wearing goggles might not be a good thing when all you can see underwater is black. If I did see anything lurking in the water beneath my feet, I’m not sure I would remain quite so tranquil. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are 3 rules at the quarry. Firstly, you have to swim with a buddy just in case you get into problems. This totally makes sense because once you set off from the concrete jetty there is nothing to grab hold of… the quarry has sheer stone sides! Also, the water is very chilly, and many people aren’t prepared for how fast that coldness can spread through the body, and the quarry is very deep so there is nowhere to touch the bottom. So, you have to be a good swimmer and have a certain amount of confidence in your abilities. The second rule is you have to wear a hat so that you can be spotted from land in case you disappear, and thirdly, you have to give an emergency contact number, just in case you die! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My cousin and I went a second time on Saturday, another gorgeously warm and sunny September day, and the place was packed. Well, packed for September. I counted about 36 divers, 10 free-divers and 12 swimmers. What’s interesting is the difference in the 3 groups. The divers are probably 95% male (nice!), coming in all shapes, sizes and ages. Eavesdropping on some of their conversations, there is a lot of loud chat, bravado and one-up-man-ship… what they’ve seen, where they’ve been and how deep they’ve gone. The free-divers are a much leaner and quieter bunch, mostly in their 30’s and 40’s, walking around with serene expressions on their faces. The swimmers are a totally mixed bag, some training for competitions, some to get fit, and others for pure enjoyment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I realised my cousin and I are a very good match as buddies because we pretty much swim as slowly as each other and are pretty hopeless doing front crawl. As the triathlon athletes power round in their wetsuits looking very focused and capable, my cousin and I look like ladies of leisure, doing a slow breaststroke while gossiping. The whole thing is seriously addictive though. The feeling when you finally get out, a little breathless, fingers and toes a bit numb, skin pink and tingling, is pretty exhilarating. Then a slightly pathetic dribble of a luke-warm shower in the stark wooden changing huts followed by, of course, a hot chocolate. Everyone is so friendly too, from the swimmers and divers to the people that work there, so I think I have discovered my new obsession.<br /><br />The guys that run the place, say there are only a few hardcore swimmers who go all year round without wetsuits, so we will see if we can become part of that rare statistic. We are planning on going every Monday morning, until we simply can’t hack it. The trouble is, I also have an open-air heated swimming pool option at Babington, just down the road, where the showers are hotter, the towels are warm and fluffy, but the hot chocolate is 4 times the price. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And just to show that I’m not making this all up, here is me in the water. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b style="background-color: transparent;">NOTE:</b>As an addendum to this post, I have now decided I am raising money for Cancer Research UK’s Stand Up to Cancer campaign, by taking on the October Sink or Swim Channel Challenge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">To reach 21 miles on my own, I will be swimming 43 lengths of a 25m pool every single day for 31 days. It may include open water too, depending on where I am. Having only recently re-learnt the front crawl and only managing 30 lengths non-stop so far, this will be quite testing. Please go to my charity page on <span style="color: black;"><a href="https://fundraise.cancerresearchuk.org/page/juliets-giving-page-40" style="color: #954f72;">https://fundraise.cancerresearchuk.org/page/juliets-giving-page-40</a> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">if you feel like donating. Thank you.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-7448092344315298982019-08-06T12:21:00.001+01:002019-08-06T12:27:51.006+01:00Weight Loss & Change.<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm becoming a bit of a bore. It always happens when I have a lifestyle change because I get a bit OCD in my routine, in order to keep me on the straight and narrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Since January, I have been doing Weight Watchers or as they have now re-branded themselves, WW. Mind-blowing identity change I know, but maybe they think people haven't got the time or energy to say 2 whole words with 3 syllables when dieting! I say dieting, but I'm actually not dieting at all. The main changes I have made in how I eat is; to cook everything from scratch, cut out sugar, lower my intake of carbs and make my portion sizes a little smaller. I don't drink much alcohol either but that's mainly due to the fact my RA drugs don't like booze, so it's best to not consume too much.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The other thing I do is leave 4 hours between my evening meal and going to bed so that my body has time to digest properly. As I go to bed around 10 or 10:30pm every night, this means I eat around 6pm, which socially, is quite challenging. You can't really invite people to a dinner party at 6pm. A BBQ yes, but there is something about sitting down for dinner at 6pm that makes you feel like you're sitting at the kids table at a family gathering. It just doesn't feel right. So, I have tended not to go out as much in the evenings as I used to, instead I make lots of plans during the day at weekends because I know I won't fall off the wagon, so to speak. If I do fall off my 'healthy eating' wagon and go out for a big lunch, it's not the end of the world because I just won't have as much in the evening. But it is difficult because I love having dinner parties and I love eating out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If I do have a dinner party and we are eating late, then I adopt Plan B. I wait 14-16 hours between the last bite of desert and eating the following day which means breakfast might be around 11am, but it seems to work, counteracting the increase of calories with a longer fasting stage. The harder part is not drinking too much, especially during the balmy evenings of summer in my garden, when I don't have to drive and bottles of wine are generously gifted. One glass of Prosecco miraculously becomes 5, as if Jesus has done a party trick, and before you know it, I've consumed my whole day's allotted calories in 40 delicious sips. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But the main thing is that I feel great, and that's all that matters really. As of today I have lost 30lbs which is pretty good, but I would like to lose another stone (14lbs) which will make me the same weight as I was when I was 26. Some people have assumed that I'm losing all the weight because I'm going to start dating again, but that's not the reason at all. In fact, it wasn't even a conscious decision when I signed up to WW on January 1st 2019. I simply did it so I could use the online food diary out of curiosity. It becomes weirdly addictive, logging your food every day, seeing it's nutritional breakdown and counting the good and bad points. It has made me really focus on what I'm putting in my body, especially now that my Rheumatoid Arthritis means that eating anti-inflammatory is much better for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So I'm not here bragging or promoting anything, I'm simply saying I'm happy with my body for the first time in years. And if anyone of the opposite sex also finds that my body makes them happy, then that's an added bonus!</span><br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-50685716729659636942019-05-20T15:28:00.001+01:002019-05-20T15:28:34.388+01:00Morning routine.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am definitely a creature of habit and because I have lived on my own for so long, there is no one to tell me to do things differently. I have developed something of an unusual morning routine which now takes about an hour, so it’s a bloody good job I don’t have a dog to walk, children to sort out or a boyfriend who hogs the bathroom.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Annoyingly, I wake most mornings at about 6am, desperate to pee. I have tried everything to avoid this… drinking only a little water in the evening, making sure I have my last loo visit right before I go to bed, even varying my bedtime, but no matter what I do, I wake up, look at my phone and it’s six-bloody-o'clock. Of course, now that I’m awake, I find it very difficult to go back to sleep, so I usually start my ritual.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I begin by lying on my back and raising my legs so that my feet are above my face. I then grab my big toes with each hand, hip distance apart, bend my knees so they are almost in my armpits, and rock from side to side. I would love to say this is an actual yoga pose but I think I made it up. But what it does do is relieve pressure in my back, open up my hips, and it feels great even if it looks ridiculous. Then I roll over onto my hands and knees and do ‘cat pose’, which involves rounding your spine as you exhale and coming back to flat as you inhale. I can only do this with a few pillows under my knees because the downward pressure might crack the cement holding my plastic left kneecap to its titanium joint implant. Oh, what I have to think about! After about 20 breaths I get off the bed and stand up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I then begin rubbing myself vigorously with my fingers and hands, from between my toes to the top of my head, taking in every limb, nook and cranny! This was an exercise my body therapist, Peter, gave me to do, and when I looked at him with bewilderment as he described it, he decided to video himself doing it in his garden and then sent it to me for reference. I have to admit it’s one of the funniest things I’ve watched, especially when his cat decided to enter the scene to rub against his leg and he nearly kicked it across the lawn. Imagine you are washing yourself all over in the shower, minus the soap and water, and that’s pretty much what it entails. When I get to my shoulders, I do some hard squeezing and karate chops, and then go up the back of my head rubbing my scalp, pulling my earlobes and sticking my fingers in my ears. It’s really good to massage into the back of the ears and the base of your skull too as this opens up the meridians. The whole thing takes about 15 minutes and it’s supposed to wake up the skin, the organs and energise you. It certainly does.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then the twerking begins, which is the only way I can explain it. Again, this is a Peter exercise, guaranteed to get your blood pumping and your limbs loose. Imagine a dog shaking off water in slow motion… it sort of starts in their bottom and goes up the body. Well that is probably what I look like, a booty twerk combined with an electric shock. It actually feels bloody marvellous as long as you don’t put your back out or pull a muscle. After 10 minutes of that, I do my face yoga.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I started doing this a few years ago when I noticed I was getting a slightly less defined jawline (jowls if you will). Ooh I didn’t like that at all, so I started googling face exercises and after trying many of them, I’ve now come up with the ones I think work best. Using the tips of your fingers and working both sides of the face, gently massage your skin in circles, from the forehead to the temples to the cheeks, either side of the nose and down the creases of the mouth. Pinch along the jawline to your ears, then rub your neck upwards with your fingers either side of your windpipe. To finish, I tilt my head back and blow kisses at the ceiling which is supposed to tighten your neck and jaw as well. It should take a good 5 minutes and if it feels all a bit rough on morning skin, use a bit of face oil or do it when you’re moisturising. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What’s interesting is that because a lot of men shave every morning, they naturally pull similar faces as they try and remove whiskers from awkward places. The shaving exfoliates their skin at the same time so they can sometimes look a lot younger as they age. Annoying I know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After the face yoga, I lie back down on my bed and meditate for 10-15 minutes, which might seem counterproductive as I have just woken up my body, but it actually allows you to slow things down again and really focus on your breathing. I usually do guided meditations with an app, making sure I carefully vet the teacher and what they sound like, as there is nothing more annoying than getting ready to meditate and suddenly hearing a really irritating voice telling you to relax. As well as meditation I’ve also added another technique to my morning routine. This is slightly stranger than everything else I’ve already mentioned but one of the supposed benefits is it reduces stress and helps sleep. I do it in the morning after meditation because it is a method in two parts, and the second part is in the shower. As I take my showers in the morning it makes sense to do it early rather than before bed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, this is the Wim Hof method. Wim Hof, also known as The Iceman, is an extreme athlete and well known for being able to withstand freezing temperatures. He has become rather a celebrity in recent years because of the many other celebrities that talk about him and the amount of world records he has broken, like climbing Everest in only a pair of shorts and hiking boots. I first heard his name when I was watching a documentary about Tony Robbins, the American motivational speaker. The film was fascinating, not only because of the techniques Tony uses to help so many people, but it also showed how disciplined he is with his own health routine. In each of his many homes he has had an ice-cold plunge pool which he jumps into after a hot sauna each morning. This sort of cold therapy is not unusual, it has been around for thousands of years, especially in Finland where people regularly take saunas followed by cold immersion of some kind. The benefits are widely known as well; improving heart health and circulation as well as increasing adrenalin and endorphins. It basically makes you feel good. But the theory is much easier than the practise!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Wim Hof not only extols the benefits of cold immersion, but he also has developed a way of breathing, a sort of temporary </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">hyperventilation that gives you </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">more energy, lowers stress levels and improves your immune system</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">. It all sounded quite fascinating, so of course, I thought I’d try it. You take </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">30 quick, deep breaths, inhaling through the mouth and exhaling through the mouth. Then you take one further deep breath and exhale, holding until you need to breathe again. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I know this sounds barking mad, especially when the warning instruction is to do the breathing exercise in a safe and comfortable place, just in case you pass out! My Father actually said it reminded him of his school days, where kids would hyperventilate until they fainted, for fun!! So, once you have done the breathing, you sort of space out a little and the first few times, I actually held my breath for 2 minutes before checking the timer, without any problem. The second part of the Wim Hof method is to then immerse yourself in ice cold water, and as I haven’t an ice bath to my disposal I basically just jump in the shower and turn the temperature to cold for 30 seconds. It really isn’t pleasant. What is pleasant is how you feel afterwards… tingly and alive. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Combined with repeated exposure to the cold, Hof says that his method will lead to seemingly superhuman feats of endurance, brought on, he says, by the physiological changes that his breathing techniques impart. Don't worry though, I'm not about to climb the Himalayas in a bikini!!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And after all that, which takes about 45 minutes, I make breakfast and take it back to bed. Yes folks, I have breakfast in bed every single morning, listening to either a podcast or the radio, and finishing with a sudoku puzzle or crossword to get my little brain cells stimulated. Of course, if I’m staying in someone else’s house or if I have friends or family staying with me, I don’t do much of the routine mentioned above. I certainly don’t bring my guests breakfast in bed, if that’s what you were hoping… and unless you specifically request it, I won’t make you twerk or immerse yourself in freezing cold water with me!!</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span>Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-66523890828213412202019-04-23T15:55:00.001+01:002019-04-23T15:55:26.619+01:00Human Touch.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last week I visited an amazing man called Peter. He is a body therapist, which basically means he uses acupuncture, acupressure, massage, reiki and shiatsu for all sorts of skeletal and muscular problems, as well as getting the energy flow back in your body if it’s ‘blocked’. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">This ‘blocking’ is slightly harder to explain, and I know some people might zone out a little here, but a lot of long-term physical pain in your body is caused by trauma. This trauma can be physical or mental, but both can manifest in the same way, namely, as physical pain. Imagine going through a tragedy and not ever talking to anyone about it. You hold the grief in your body, it has nowhere to go, so it locks itself in. Peter wanted to try and get to the source of my headaches – something which I’ve lived with daily for the last 29 years – through physical manipulation and simple human touch. I will talk about human touch later but right now, let’s talk about trauma.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Scientists are discovering how this trauma is caused by elevated and prolonged cortisol levels (i.e. stress), and it’s actually killing us. High stress can lower your immune system, cause weight gain, raise blood pressure, raise cholesterol, cause heart disease, bring on depression and essentially lowers life expectancy. What is so strange about this, and the reason we have cortisol released in the first place, is that it’s supposed to protect us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Everyone has heard of ‘fight or flight’ right? We respond to fear, danger or stress by an internal alarm being sounded, which releases cortisol and adrenalin into our bloodstream, preparing our bodies for action. But there has to be a physical release, fight or flight, otherwise stress levels build up, wreaking havoc on our minds and bodies. Imagine yourself as a caveman (I know that’s easier for some of the men I know!), walking out of your cave and coming face to face with a hungry sabre-toothed tiger. Your body knows it has to fight it or scarper, so you throw your spear at it, kill it, and the stress is released. Great. Now imagine it’s today, and you are attending an important business meeting. You walk into the room and come face to face with an ex. Your first impulse is to leave but that’s unprofessional. You also can’t club them over the head, so the stress gets trapped in your body for the next, god know how many hours or days. Did this actually happen to me? Hmm, I will leave that to you to decide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The point is, stressful situations occur every single day, from road rage to work deadlines, health problems to break ups, and because we are supposed to behave and act a certain way in modern society, we can’t just run away or have a public brawl, so our poor bodies can’t cope. We also tend to not talk about the things that hurt us. My body, according to Peter, is full of unreleased trauma. Unfortunately, he can’t tell me what has caused the trauma, he just knows that he can help release it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The first thing he told me, after half an hour of examining me from top to toe, is that my pelvis is crooked. So crooked in fact, that my left leg is 1.5 inches longer than my right. That doesn’t mean I limp, but it means I compensate for this tilt by putting stress through my knees, hips, back, shoulders and neck. Not good. Peter said to start with, I needed warming up, which entailed rubbing me vigorously as if I was being scrubbed in a Turkish bath, but without the water, soap or scrubbing brush. Next, he flipped me over and I heard this loud vibrating noise. I was slightly anxious when this giant vibrator approached my buttocks, but Peter assured me this was a very good technique for releasing the tension in the glutes. I’m sure it is! The large vibrator travelled down and up my body for some time, accompanied by fairly painful ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ from me, until I suddenly got the giggles and said, ‘Do your neighbours know what you do for a living, otherwise they may give you funny looks!’ He laughed, thank God. Next, he began pressing and tapping all my meridian points which, in Chinese medicine, are your energy highways, your Qi (Chee). If your Meridians are blocked, the energy can’t flow, and you become locked. Again, he was doing this to release the stress and trauma in my body. I know it was doing something because at one point, with absolutely no warning, I burst into tears, and Peter said, ‘Good’, which either means he’s an utter Sadist or he knows that it’s helping. That said, at the end of the hour I felt like I’d been thrown around the room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve subsequently had two more sessions with Peter. The second was even more extreme and quite brutal and I burst into tears several times, letting out fairly guttural animal noises as he prodded and poked me. I also had the most awful headache for days afterwards and when I told him so this morning, at my third appointment, he looked very concerned and showed me, on my arm, how hard he’d been pressing. It was ridiculously soft, like a light massage, but my poor body is so sensitive that it feels like an elephant is standing on it. So today was going to be very gentle acupressure and massage only. Phew. I didn’t cry, I didn’t wince in pain, and I felt so relaxed that I think I drifted off at one point. Then he sat me down and asked me, point blank, when the last time was that I’d had physical contact. Well that threw me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">As you can imagine, living alone with no pets, partner or children, I don’t really get touched that much. I’m a proper hugger and am very tactile with my friends but that is not what he was talking about. He was talking about human touch, skin on skin. Um. I felt a bit embarrassed when I answered, because apart from the odd massage, and an ex-boyfriend nearly 3 years ago, I haven’t been touched at all. Peter frowned at me and said, ‘That’s not good at all, you need to be touched more’, and he simply looked down at his notes and started writing. Well, that’s a helpful comment to be left with and something which is slightly difficult to rectify. How to get touched more. I know some of you will be willing to come up with some more sordid ways this could happen, but I want to keep it PG if you don’t mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There has been a lot of research about the healing power of touch.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Touch stimulates the production of oxytocin, a chemical in our brain that brings on feelings of closeness and security, leading to decreased anxiety</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">. Some Doctors recommend that elderly patients get pets so that they feel less isolated, as well as it being beneficial when they stroke them. Even a simple hand massage a few times a week has had incredible results. Nursing homes are introducing puppy and baby therapy days so that the residents can interact with them, which has shown to dramatically lower cholesterol and blood pressure. I was also reading about specialised Dementia and Alzheimer care homes that have invested in life-like baby dolls for their patients, and surprisingly the same results have been found as if they were holding the human form. We naturally want to love and nurture. It’s in our genetic make-up.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But not only are we witnessing transformational shifts in old age care across the globe, we now understand the importance of person-centred care and our responsibility to create moments of joy and purposefulness. A GP friend of mine told me that if a weekly massage was on the NHS for every single person in Great Britain, it would probably cut stress-related illness by half and save the UK millions. We have the opportunity to get back to the basics of human needs by some simple changes. Dr. Abraham Verghase, who wrote the incredible book</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Cutting for Stone</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">, says, ‘The most important innovation in medicine to come in the next 10 years is the power of the human hand.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So, unless I can find an alternative, I may just be seeing Peter for the foreseeable future, for my hands-on therapy! Not the most cost-effective solution but one I’m happy with for now, especially if he keeps his giant vibrator locked in the cupboard.</span></div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-15691509689453272882019-03-23T16:09:00.002+00:002019-03-23T16:09:53.924+00:00Being independent.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My name is Juliet and I am a strong single independent 50 year old woman. Hello there. I have my own cottage, my own car and my own business. I have great friends, many of which I have known for over 30 years, and I have a close loving family, who I adore. I’m confident and I know what I want. So why do I still let some people (okay, men!) knock me down or belittle my ideas?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have noticed that a few of the tradesmen working on my house over the last year, don’t really appreciate my decisiveness. Understatement. You can tell, with a slight eye roll or sigh, that they are unused to being told what to do by a woman, but having spent a lot of time designing my house, and a lot of time saving the money to do it, I have a vision and I want to stick to it. When my carpenter turned up with completely different shelves and brackets to the ones I’d picked, I felt it was absolutely OK to say it was wrong and to please change it. When my builder ordered the wrong loo and sink for downstairs, saying they were ‘similar’ to the ones I’d picked, I said they would have to be returned and to please get the ones I wanted. I don’t want to ‘settle’ or ‘make do’, and I certainly won’t, “Just wait a few weeks and you won’t even notice the difference”, as my carpenter suggested. I’m a designer, for God’s sake, I will definitely notice the difference.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’ve been tutted at, I’ve had shrugs, I’ve had mutterings under the breath, and I’ve still stuck to my guns. If it was something logistical like a sink not fitting or a light not being possible, then I listen and take advice, but please don't try and persuade me that something I haven’t chosen will look just as good. I was almost talked out of having a certain wall colour (dusky grey pink) in my bedroom, when my decorator clumsily said, “If you ever get yourself a boyfriend, they won’t want to sleep in a pink room!”. Thanks for that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I decided to move the hideous eyesore of a kitchen boiler to my upstairs cupboard, the boiler man stared at me with his hands on his hips and asked me if my husband agreed with me. After a slight pause (and a count to ten) I told him I lived alone. I could see him quickly re-assess the situation and he quoted an astronomical amount for the job. Luckily, I found another brilliant boiler man who did the job for the ‘right’ amount and was utterly charming. This is the thing, I love charming, I like cheeky chat, I like a bit of a flirt, but I don't like misogynistic comments or put downs. I don’t even mind being called ‘luv’ or ‘darling’, which you certainly can’t avoid here, but try and pull the wool over my eyes, do a job badly or think that because I am a woman I can be insulted or walked over, forget it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My sister and I were brought up to be independent. We had an amazing childhood being introduced to new things and were encouraged to ask questions, to educate ourselves, to read, to discover. We travelled abroad, went on endless road trips, visited historic sights, museums and galleries and we certainly weren’t children that should be seen and not heard. I was already living on my own at the age of 18 when my parents moved to America, but they made sure I knew how to look after myself, as well as numerous practical things like changing a tyre, reading a map, re-wiring a plug, organising a dinner party and paying the bills. So, it’s hardly surprising that my sister and I have lived our grown-up lives the same, very capable, way.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Last week was particularly trying. The plumber I currently have is wonderful, but it took three attempts to find the right one. The first was going through an awful custody battle and invariably I would find him with his head in his hands, sobbing. I became his therapist for a week and helped him compose emails to his ex, but it was very obvious this was not an ideal solution for getting my bathroom done. The second plumber was good looking and very confident, but he shot down every idea I had and, quite arrogantly, said he knew what was best for me. He never returned emails or phone calls and cancelled the job on two separate occasions, the night before it was supposed to begin. He then quit when I used the word ‘disappointed’ in an email. Ooh that word really does get people riled.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, my third and final plumber is brilliant, but he brought a man into my house last week, that was anything but. The guy was a flooring expert, his words not mine. He stood there when I asked him questions about laying the bathroom vinyl, checking his phone and grunting. When I tried to get his attention, he scowled at me and said, “Luv, I’ve been doing this for 30 years, just let me get on with it.” So, I did. Two hours later I returned and looked in horror at my butchered £200 piece of vinyl. It was if he had cut it with a blindfold and pinking shears. My plumber and I stood there, open-mouthed and dumbstruck. Without me even saying anything my plumber said he would call him, so I went downstairs to give him a bit of privacy while he railed into the guy. But instead of saying what a crappy job he’d done, I heard my plumber say, “Yeah so you’ve met Juliet. She’s a perfectionist and she’s not happy with the job. I know she’s difficult and scary, and to be honest, I think we’ll be lucky if we escape with our balls intact!” Now, I did laugh when I heard this but then I was a bit peeved. My plumber had basically thrown me under the bus.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s easy to blame women for being tricky customers when all we want is a good job done. I chatted to my plumber later about it over a cup of tea and asked him why he hadn’t backed me up. He actually said it was easier to blame it on me than be the bad guy, so at least he was being honest. We talked about the words he used to describe me… ‘Difficult, picky, scary’, and I asked him what words he would have used if I had been a male customer. He thought about it and said, ‘Decisive, strong, confident.’ He then gave me a hug as way of apology.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My plumber is brutally honest but can also accept when he’s said the wrong thing. I wish all men could admit when they have overstepped the mark or said something which has massively upset someone. One of my male colleagues recently said that my passion can sometimes be perceived as aggression, even though the other designers, and more importantly the female clients I was presenting to, had said what a great job I’d done. Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t happen often enough for me to get a royal bee in my bonnet. I’m not an angry ‘man hater’, I just think life should be fair and equal. I think that’s what feminism actually means nowadays... fairness and equality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am living in an area of the world that sometimes feels a bit behind the times, but I have also never met a stronger bunch of independent, creative, outspoken, wonderful women, who are now my friends. The fabulous men in these women’s lives also appreciate them and everything they stand for, and it’s a wonderful thing. I only have a few more weeks of my house being invaded by big, clumsy, olfactory-challenging tradesmen. The mess, chaos and endless noise will soon be a thing of the past and I will be able to look at my little cottage and know that every decision I’ve made was mine, and definitively worth defending. </span></div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-71739681619271723862019-01-20T14:21:00.002+00:002019-01-20T14:21:16.190+00:00Dating in your 50's.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since turning 50 last July and having been properly single for over four years, I decided it was time to date again. My rheumatoid arthritis was under control which meant the everyday pain I had experienced for over a year – and that had stopped me doing most things I enjoyed – was no longer dictating my every thought and action. I had started exercising again, I was working regularly and so my confidence returned. What better way to really start living again than to have some love in my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When I moved to Frome, Somerset, I soon realised that the majority of the local population were married with children, so the choice of prospective single men to date was severely diminished. My new friends only knew other married people or were reluctant to recommend their ‘not surprisingly’ divorced men friends, so I had to get on that hideous bandwagon called internet dating.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I joined a new dating website called Bumble, which basically puts the woman in control. If I liked the look of someone or what they had to say in their very brief intro blurb, I could click on their photo and ‘like’ them. They would then get notified and have only 24 hours to reply if they ‘liked’ me back. And so it began.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The first time I went on to Bumble and put in my age range (40-56), and my desired area (15 miles from my postcode), only one man came up on my search and he happened to live in Frome. Ooh. He was also online at that precise moment and replied within minutes. We agreed to meet for coffee that day. I liked his approach which, like my own, was to meet asap rather than write messages back and forth for weeks. It came down to chemistry after all and no matter how wonderful a man sounds on paper, he might not do it for you in the flesh. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So we met. We went and sat in a local café for a few hours and talked and talked. We had cake and coffee and it felt very relaxed and comfortable. Trouble was, I didn’t fancy him, and as it turned out he didn’t fancy me either. We really liked each other’s company and he has subsequently become a very close friend. We can also compare notes now on how our, mostly horrific, dates have gone. Also, my little joke, and how I have subsequently introduced him to friends, is “This is N, the most eligible bachelor in Frome”, because he is pretty much the only single man in the area. He has lots and lots of dates because of this fact!! I have had three since N, and it’s safe to say, that I am still single and pretty much fed up with the whole thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">In my 20’s, living in America and going to University, I ended up meeting men all the time. I dated a lot, went through a series of not so serious boyfriends, and didn’t have a care in the world. When I moved back to England in my late 20’s and started working, I had a new set of colleagues, old friends, and friends of friends, and I never seemed to have a problem attracting and meeting guys. Then I met the love of my life and for a few years I thought that was it. He was the one. Turned out he wasn’t, and after quite am extensive mourning period, I tried internet dating for the first time. I was in my 30’s by then, and met and went out with some great guys, but none of them lasted. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">By the time I was in my late 30’s, dating became more complicated. For women, the biological clock is ticking very loudly and very fast and it can be a scary thing to meet someone and think that you have to make this work very quickly if you have any prospects of having a child. But then fate, that cruel ironic beast, came into play and I was told I couldn’t physically have children after all. The weighty burden and pressure had been removed but every man I met still wanted children, so I gave up dating, thinking there was really no point.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">By my early 40’s I tried again, thinking that by this age, men were more likely to have children and maybe I would meet a wonderful divorcé with kids. I would have a ready-made family. Great. I did meet a wonderful man with a teenage son, a romantic Celt with a heart full of poetry and romance. We fell in love hard and fast. There was no pressure, we simply loved being around each other but other circumstances came into play and the relationship ended.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I haven’t been unhappy being single so please don’t feel sorry for me. I think if you surround yourself with loved ones... both friends and family, your life can be so full. I have a great life; a beautiful home in a town I adore, and my days are packed with exciting things. I am really happy but there are always occasions when you need a kiss and a hug and someone to tell you they care. So, I carried on dating after meeting N, and this is what happened.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My second date was with an Irish climate-change executive. He went around the world advising big corporations on how they could make their businesses cleaner and greener. I found him fascinating. He was bright and charming, well read and funny. Tick, tick, tick, tick. We met a second time and had a 4-hour lunch in a local pub and just as we were about to leave, he mentioned he was going to Wales for another date. Um… sorry, what did you just say? Turns out, he was serial dating, a mostly male activity I hasten to add, where they see as many women as they can at one time, and then strike off the ones they don’t like as much. It is cut-throat and lots of men do it, they just don’t usually tell you about it on your date. I suppose he thought he was being up-front, but it didn’t feel quite right. My way of dating is to see one man at a time and if it doesn’t work out, then you move on. Stupid old fashioned-me. And lo and behold, later that night he texted me informing me I was off the list. My words, not his.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Next!! My third date was with a very witty man from Yorkshire, a single dad, hard-working and also new to the area. We met in a pub a few villages away for lunch. As it was a Monday, we were the only ones in there, thank god. Witty on paper turned out to be very loud, rude and crude in person, and even the waiter raised his eyebrows at me as he approached the table. In fact, the waiter was my only saving grace, pulling faces at me from behind the bar as my date dropped innuendo after innuendo, and finally put his hands on his hips and shook his head at me, when the date suggested meeting up again. I said thanks but no thanks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My fourth date was with a surgeon from Bath. Tall, handsome, a tad shy but quite brilliant. We met at Babington for brunch on an Indian Summer’s day in late September. The brunch turned into lunch which then continued until afternoon tea and finally an early evening drink. It was so good, I was giddy. When he said goodbye, he gave me a lovely kiss and told me it was the best date he’d ever had. Wow. One hour later I received a text saying, “Thanks so much for the most wonderful day, I just don’t think we are that compatible. Good luck.” I would consider myself a very good reader of people, but I certainly didn’t see that coming. Oh well.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am still waiting for my fifth date with an army major who knows some old friends of mine, but the fact that we have had to cancel the date more than 4 times since November doesn’t fill me with much hope. Sometimes you have to read the signs and go with your gut. My gut is saying I will meet someone when I least expect it. My gut is saying stop dating from the internet. However, if</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">your </b><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">gut is saying, “Ooh I know just the man for Jules”, then please send him my way. x</span></div>
Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-58926133719014697202018-10-13T11:27:00.000+01:002018-10-13T11:27:12.657+01:00Is it wrong to fancy your workmen?Imagine a scene from a 1970's British sitcom... a middle-aged woman, wearing only a skimpy black negligee, opens the front door to a young muscle-bound plumber and says something like, “Oh hello there, are you here to check my pipes?” The plumber chuckles naughtily as she grabs him and pulls him into the house.<br />
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Now picture the reality of me opening the front door to my plumber in 2018. It is early in the morning, very early, I still have pillow creases on my face and my hair is stunningly tied up in an old scrunchie on top of my head. I am clad in leggings and a giant mishapen sweatshirt, so when I say croakily, “Oh hello there, are you here to check my pipes?” it really doesn't have the same effect as the above.<br />
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The only similarity with these two scenarios is that my plumber <b>is</b> young and sexy. Frustratingly, so are all my tradesmen. They turn up at my door and just before I open it, I pray they will be ugly and fat with beer bellies and repellant hairy bum cracks on display, but no, my carpet guy, my builder, my decorator, my electrician and my carpenter are all unfairly blessed with good looks, are in their 30's, in good shape and utterly charming. It's frankly very annoying. It's annoying because I am at the age where it would be hilarious to think that someone 20 years younger than I, would find me in the least bit attractive but even so – and maybe because it's safe knowing that I'm old enough to be their mother – they <b>do</b> flirt outrageously and my God, it is fun! It's also the closest I've got to any male attention in over 2 years so I'm making the most of it, getting as many quotations and visits as I can without making my neighbour's curtains twitch.<br />
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But I'm also aware of how it can look. Years ago, when I was about 25, I was sitting in a bar with a friend watching two very drunk middle aged woman flirt outrageously with their young Italian waiter. The waiter was egging them on, giving them shots, pulling them up to dance, sitting on their laps and it was really funny but I also felt so embarrassed for them and I remember saying to my friend, “Don't ever let me be that woman!” And yet here I am, probably the same age as those women and I'm getting my kicks from mild innuendos and double entendres with my tradesmen but I haven't even got the excuse of being inebriated. Shoot me now!<br />
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If anyone had been a fly on the wall in my sitting room a few weeks ago, as my carpet guy showed me samples, they would have been aghast. He was sitting next to me with a pile of carpet samples on his lap. “Feel this one,” he said, indicating for me to rub the surface of the carpet. “Nordic Berber, soft yet hard-wearing, nice against the skin isn't it?” “Hmmm,” I replied dreamily. “All my clients love this,” he said, “So if you want it, tell me now”. This continued for about half an hour. He would put new samples on his lap, I would reach over and run my hand across the surface and make comments like, “Ooh yes that's nice,” or “No, too rough!” It was only when I made us a cup of tea and we both leaned back on the sofa, letting out deep contented sighs, that I completely got the giggles. So did he.<br />
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My plumber arrived the following day and as soon as we got upstairs, he ordered me to get in the shower and pretend to wash my hair to see how much room I needed. He then asked me to lie in the bath to make sure it was long enough, and then told me to sit on the loo to make sure my knees didn't hit the radiator. He was quite brusque and commanding and I must say, I'm not sure I've ever been in a situation where a man barked orders at me and I just did as I was told!! I quite enjoyed it. I asked him if he spoke to everyone like that and he replied, "Only women that pay me for my services!" and winked. Gosh.<br />
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My electrician then came by to see about fitting ceiling lights in the bathroom. He asked me me what I got up to in my bathroom in the evenings? When I frowned, turned a deep shade of red and asked what he meant, he said, "Well do you want to be fully lit up when it gets dark or would you rather the bathroom be a place to unwind with candles and a glass of wine?" Crikey, that's a bit personal I thought but he explained it was all to do with how many down-lights I needed and what intensity of bulb would work, so I guess it wasn't that probing after all. But then he added, "Well at least now I know what you get up to in the evenings!"<br />
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My carpenter is also great for saucy one-liners and any man with that many tools can always make something sound rude but he is also an actor so his delivery and timing are brilliant. In fact, we had an improv innuendo battle one day, seeing how many we could fit into a normal conversation whilst keeping a straight face. It's amazing how long we kept it up (excuse the pun) but with so many carpentry references such as: wood, erection, hammering, nailing, butt, cupping and screwing (to name a few), we managed a good 20 minutes. In the end, his partner got so annoyed with us he excused himself for a cigarette!<br />
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My decorator and handyman is the odd one out here. He is in his fifties and has become quite a good friend over the last year... doing everything from hanging blinds, building beds, plastering walls, fixing shelves, digging holes, everything I couldn't do when my hands were so badly in flare. He and I still flirt outrageously but it's become a sort of game, which of us can ask the most embarrassing question. We have talked a lot about dating and relationships in the past as we are both single, and I found myself telling him much more than I probably should have because when I bumped into him in the bank queue the other day, he gave me a huge hug and loudly asked, "So have you got lucky yet Juliet?" with a big grin and a nudge to the ribs! As the other customers turned to look at me, I realised I would never be able to set foot in Natwest again.<br />
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I have always liked to flirt as long as it is harmless and doesn't make the other person feel uncomfortable, and in a world where my life is surrounded by 95% women, it makes a refreshing change. But as all my my house renovations are likely to be finished by Christmas, I wonder where I will now get my kicks? There will be no more flirting and saucy chat, no more lovely men coming to my house, no more testosterone!! God... does that mean I have to get a real boyfriend?<br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-67903342684224639612018-08-17T12:52:00.003+01:002018-08-17T12:52:58.681+01:00How to celebrate your 50th birthdayThere are no hard and fast rules about celebrating a 50th birthday but usually, encouraged by friends and family, you must mark it with at least one party. Marking a new decade gets people excited, as if that single second at 23:59 and 59 seconds which takes you from your 40's to your 50's will be a eureka moment. It wasn't. I slept through until 9am and woke up feeling exactly the same.<br />
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A few months before my birthday I thought I might have a little lunch party or a drink with friends but as the big day approached I decided I would milk it for all it was worth. My "significant" birthday would be celebrated with as many get-togethers as possible. I did get a few medical letters, encouraging me to have a breast scan and a cervical smear now that I was half a century... that was nice... but apart from that I felt healthier and fitter than I had in a long time so thought that at least was worth a glass of champagne or two.<br />
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I began by inviting my 3 oldest girlfriends down to Somerset. I have known 2 of them since I was 17, and the third since I was 26. On my bedside table I have a photo of the four of us on my 30th and 40th birthdays respectively. Smiling, slightly squiffy and very happy. My 30th birthday I shared with my fiancé at the time, who was also my twin (same age, same year of birth... no wonder we split!) and we had a big dinner party in a gorgeous restaurant in Holland Park. It was followed up with another celebration at the Sanderson Hotel and in the photo, the four of us girls are dressed all in black, lounging on a designer sofa with one friend lying across our laps, pouting and trying to look cool. For my 40th birthday I had a big party in a pub in Balham and in that photo, my three friends and I are standing in a row with our arms around each other, in flowery summer dresses, one friend having just given birth to twins, another heavily pregnant with her first child. We are tanned and glowing and this time, only three of us are alcoholically merry.<br />
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The girls came down the weekend before my actual birthday, to spend the Saturday and Sunday with me. One of my friends offered to cook dinner for us all as a birthday present, and so delivered her Ocado food order to my house the night before so that she didn't have to carry it all on the train and could arrive at my place and prep dinner before we headed out for the afternoon. The first slight hiccup was that two my friends had traveled down from Waterloo on the train and managed to consume 2 bottles of Prosecco on the way. I'm not saying they were inebriated but when I picked them up from the station they were very merry and very loud and had befriended a good looking man on the way down, who I suddenly thought might be joining us the way they were linked arms with him as they exited the station, giggling. My other friend had arrived on a different train and so once I had them all in the car we headed home. The previous Prosecco consumption made the prepping of dinner slightly less efficient, accompanied by the fact that two of us had terrible arthritis in our fingers and hands so couldn't chop the vegetables. But we persevered and once everything was prepped and the slow-cooked lamb was in the oven we headed out to a beautiful country house hotel nearby. Not only were they showing the World Cup football on big screens outside (which was terribly exciting because England hadn't been knocked out yet) but it was a gloriously sunny day and perfect for lazing around in the garden.<br />
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We arrived at the hotel and I quickly told the girls the rules of the house. Not my rules I hasten to add, but the hotel rules. #1 Turn the volume off on your phone so you don't disturb people with pings and dings, and #2 Do not take any photos where other guests may be in the background. This is simply because they do have a few celebrities around and you're not allowed to take photos of them, even by accident, in case you put them on social media. Fair enough. Everyone abides by these rules except my one friend apparently, who loudly exclaimed, "I'm 51 years old... my whole life people have been telling me what to do and I'm certainly not going to bloody well be told what to do now!" Oh blimey! After a few angry huffs and puffs from her and a stern 2-minute silent treatment from me, she relented. We found a lovely table in the garden and the girls ordered Prosecco (possibly the most expensive bottle on the planet I have to admit). Bear in mind that as I was driving, I wasn't quaffing the booze as readily as the others and had a more sober view of the following drama!<br />
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As we toasted our friendship, we all commented on how beautiful the champagne glasses were... old fashioned cut-glass crystal coupes rather than flutes, and my "I hate rules" friend announced that she might even slip a few of these glasses into her bag! We all laughed nervously and I said that she better not because this wasn't the sort of place to do do that, and I would never be allowed back if the staff found out. After an hour or so and the football came to an end, we decided to leave and go to a gorgeous pub in the next village, an old coaching inn with cobbled terraces, a beer garden and much cheaper drinks. As we sat down at a table in the walled courtyard I lowered my bag to the floor and noticed one of the champagne glasses in my friend's bag. I couldn't believe it. Oh God I thought, I will never be able to show my face at the hotel again. Worse, I might be arrested and have to skulk around Frome as word spread of this scandalous behaviour, but as it has now been 3 weeks and no one has tapped me on the shoulder, I'm presuming the crime wasn't witnessed. Karma is also a beautiful thing because when we got back to my house, my kleptomaniac friend took the glass out of her bag and dramatically banged it on the table with a "Ta-dah", where it promptly snapped in two!!!<br />
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The four of us carried on into the night, with a divine Ottolenghi-inspired dinner, lots of bubbles and a gorgeous birthday cake. It was a balmy evening, I had the garden lit up with strings of retro light-bulbs and candles, bees and butterflies hovered, and it was just wonderful to be with my girls, where no subject is off limits, teasing is enforced, and secrets are kept. The volume of voices and music may have been a little loud for my quiet street but I had warned the neighbours and so we were left in peace. We slept like logs and then walked into town for a long brunch, before I took them all back to the station and sadly waved farewell. I hope it's not another 10 years before we all get together again.<br />
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The day of my actual birthday, Friday 13th July, I had the day off and invited four new Somerset friends and my wonderfully eccentric Aunt to lunch at a local restaurant, 5 minutes walk from my house. The bistro is at the top of the most bustling street in Frome, Catherine Hill, a long steep cobbled lane, lined with artisan craft shops, vintage clothes boutiques, gift shops and café's, and so every few minutes one of us would see someone we knew and wave out of the window. Cars slowed and beep beeped and friends of my friends stopped at the table to say hi. I love this about Frome... a constant stream of friendly faces. In the evening I had a few drinks at my house and the next day my sister had a garden party for me at her house.<br />
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My sister, brother-in-law and nephews have lived in Frome for about 16 years and have a gorgeous detached house the opposite side of town to me, with a big garden and lots of outdoor seating, so it was perfect to have my family, my best friend and godparents down for the day. It was a scorching day and we pretty much ate and drank for 5 hours, catching up on news and gossip and generally having a lovely time. Then me and my bestie went to the pub and came back to mine for drinks. We had brunch the next day and had another lazy day in the sun. Somerset is the perfect backdrop to lazy sunny days... rolling green hills, fields of wild flowers, lots of wonderful pubs, plenty of friends with gardens and a laid back attitude to life, where nothing is really rushed – an annoying trait when you're waiting for workmen to show up but great for everything else.<br />
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The following week I had two more lunches with friends and was genuinely spoilt rotten. The other good thing was that I asked everyone for donations to my garden rather than gifts so have managed to plant all my flower beds, buy a beautiful outdoor rabbit painting, purchase a few big pots and still have money left over for a fire pit, a vintage outdoor mirror as well as a bit of furniture. Lovely. I still have a belated birthday party planned for September, which will double-up as a house-warming, so that's another thing to look forward to. My house is also officially open for guests to stay so please come and visit... my only rule is no stealing!<br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-28615552909402388832018-07-09T14:36:00.000+01:002018-07-09T14:36:00.378+01:00Last week of my 40's.I am in the last few days of my 40's and from what I have heard, read and witnessed, many people begin to reflect on how their life has turned out as they are about to turn 50. It raises a lot of questions; Have I spent the last 30 years in the right job? Am I with the right partner? Do I like where I live? Have I traveled enough? Have I loved enough? Am I happy? It seems to trigger something that can propel some into making rather drastic life changes.<br />
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I think it is quite natural to look in the mirror when you reach middle age (for 50 is becoming middle age for more and more of our healthier ageing population) and look in horror at the expanding map of lines on your face, notice more and more grey hairs, pinch bigger rolls of flesh around your expanding waistline and realise that much of your wardrobe simply isn't suitable anymore. You begin to rub aching joints and make noises of effort when you get up from a chair. You realise you could do more exercise and eat better, you could change careers and seek out more adventures... that maybe this is the last chance to really change things for the better.<br />
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You only have to google "My life changed at 50" to see just how many thousands of people have done just that. It could simply be a new hobby, a new car or a new haircut, but others out there have done way more drastic things at 50. A growing number of people on the internet vow to become fitter at 50, and sign up for marathons and triathlons, get personal trainers and take up yoga. Others decide to go on adventures of a lifetime and take year-long sabbaticals and travel to far flung places that would normally never be on their radar. Millions decide to volunteer or become more involved in their communities, realising it's time to give something back after half a decade. For many of my friends, their own children have now reached an age where they have either left home, are at university, or are very much independent beings that no longer need their parents as much, and with that comes the question of what their spare time can be filled with. Other friends who had children in their forties realise how bloody knackered they are!!<br />
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For me, of course, many of these questions I have tackled already or been forced to face by early on-set illnesses. At 21, I had life-saving surgery when a tumour was discovered in my throat. By my late 30's I knew I wasn't able to have children so I was already in a position where my life would be different from most of my peers. I had time on my hands that others wouldn't have so I knew I should make the most of it. Major surgeries on both my knees forced me to leave London and make considerable changes to how I was living and how much I could work. And being diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis last year made me slow things down even more and really take a good look at my life and what made me happy.<br />
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So turning 50 is not worrying me at all because the last 2 years have already been the toughest of my life so far. The titanium knee implants meant I could no longer do the sports I enjoyed... playing tennis, skiing, or doing any yoga poses that involved kneeling or twisting. I even had to teach myself how to swim again as breaststroke (the only stroke I have done for the last 30 years) was strictly forbidden by my orthopaedic surgeon, who calls the frog-like kick the "devil's stroke"! And just when things seemed to begetting back to normal, and my knee recovery was almost complete, I was diagnosed with RA. The RA floored me completely and left me physically unable to do so many of the other things I enjoyed. I couldn't use my hands for 4 months and I was knocked down by a chronic fatigue I didn't think possible. And all this whilst being in a new Somerset town with very few friends, no place to live and unable to work.<br />
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Turning 50 is a bloody breeze compared to all that. I have no regrets at all and nothing that I would really want to change. Of course, I would rather have not gone through all the pain and obstacles but I think that I have come out the other side of it ok, possibly stronger because of it. I am now on the right drugs and have such great physio that I can work 2-3 days a week again. My hands are feeling quite strong so I can type and write again, and I am starting to discover this wonderful town that I have moved to. My house is at a point of renovation where I can invite friends to stay (even if there is no upstairs floor or shower in the bathroom), my garden is all planted and I have bees and butterflies and friendly robins and blackbirds eyeing my daily progress. But the most important thing about turning 50 is that I have no list of things I wish I'd done.<br />
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Twenty or so years ago, when I was still living in America, I had to make the decision to return to England to pursue my acting career or remain in the States and carry on doing freelance design. To pursue acting was risky having just spent 3 years at a very prestigious and expensive art college, and I would be throwing that all away (and my parent's tuition money to boot) to pursue a dream! I remember being at a party, thrown by my Uncle and Aunt, and I began asking their friends if they had any regrets or if they wish they'd taken a different path in their lives if the opportunity had arisen. Had they chosen the safest path? Many said yes. I decided I didn't want to regret not having tried. I also knew that even if I did fail, I would still have a career in design so I had nothing to lose. Long story short, I went for the dream but I didn't get in to the drama school I really wanted, I couldn't get enough acting work doing small plays and the occasional advert, so I had to do freelance design work to survive. But I tried.<br />
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I told myself every single morning for years, Carpe Diem, Seize the Day. I wasn't sensible like many of my friends who had full time jobs, pensions and property (probably to the angst of my lovely parents). I didn't settle down and have a family not because I didn't want to but purely because I didn't meet the right man. And probably because of that I have led a very different life to most of my friends. I now think that having that major surgery at such a young age maybe did trigger something in me, push me to a way of living and thinking that life really is too short to put off things til later because anything might happen. I have traveled the world and done some amazing things and if I had waited until now, I doubt very much I would have been able to do them.<br />
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So to all my friends who are turning 50, have no regrets and don't put off those dreams. We are old enough to know what we want, and young enough to make them happen. xxJuleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-81962917274991322082018-02-12T12:04:00.000+00:002018-02-12T15:57:34.612+00:00A week of firsts.It's been a good week. And when I have a good week, these days, it's often worth writing about. I have, after 6 months of agonising Rhuematic pain in my hands and wrists, finally been able to use them to some degree, to be productive, to get things done. So it has been a week of firsts.<br />
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I have been able to paint my kitchen cupboards (yawningly slowly with my left hand mostly) a pale blue grey, or Paris Grey as the colour is called. I'm not sure what it looks like in Paris but in my kitchen it looks rather lovely, certainly better than the 1980's magnolia that was there before! In fact, the magnolia cupboards weren't the worst design fail in my cottage. The previous owners last decorated in 1981 (bravely admitting that on my second viewing) and was a hotch-potch of hideousness... in the sitting room, one wall was a light pink terracotta, the opposite wall peach, and the two end walls pale yellow. The ceiling was white, the floor was covered with a dusky pink threadbare carpet and the curtains were navy blue. In the kitchen, magnolia loomed large, from the cupboards to the walls, with faux brick linoleum on the floor and wall tiles in a confused palette of dark brown, beige and tan. The hallway was bright yellow and the downstairs bathroom a sky blue with pale avocado sink and loo. Luckily, I was able to see through this nausea-inducing decor and imagine what it could be.<br />
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The first thing I did was to knock down the wall between the sitting room and the kitchen, which opened up the space and allowed the gorgeous morning and midday light to flood both rooms. The carpet and linoleum were replaced with oak wood floors throughout, I got a lovely decorator to come in and whitewash the whole of the downstairs, replace the skirting boards and paint the tan mdf doors. The boiler was moved upstairs and suddenly, after 2 months of chaos, the downstairs resembled something quite beautiful. White wooden blinds hang in the front window and gorgeous vintage curtains of soft blue and oatmeal are in the kitchen. This week, I finished the cupboards and I have finally been able to unpack some boxes and start living in the space.<br />
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I used my oven for the first time this week and cooked myself a fried egg on toast. That may sound rather disappointing for a first meal but you cannot imagine how vile microwave-cooked eggs are, so it was divine. I had my washing machine delivered and washed my clothes for the first time rather than taking them to the local laundrette which is a complete pain the arse, not only because you always lose sock and knickers in the dryer but almost always end up with someone else's pants as a bonus! I have a fridge for the first time too, having used an old ice box outside for the last 3 months to store everything... fine in the winter when everything is cold enough, not so pleasant when it's pouring with rain and everything in the ice box gets waterlogged. I painted the kitchen tiles myself and for the first time, I have been able to unpack and display all my kitchen things, from toaster and kettle to vintage cake tins and cook books. For the first time, my cottage is beginning to look like a home.<br />
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Being a home for the first time also means that I want friends and family to come and see it. My parents and sister all came round for tea last week and were able to all sit in the sitting room, in relative comfort, while we chatted. I was able to have my first dinner party a few days ago. It was only three of us, not a grand affair, but I cooked a chicken casserole and some fluffy baked potatoes, we had chilled prosecco from the fridge and we sat on chairs, like normal people, around the kitchen table for supper. It was divine and it was the first time I felt truly settled.<br />
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Now that downstairs is almost finished, I look at upstairs in horror. Upstairs has soooo many more problems than downstairs. Rotten windows, bare chipboard floors, massive holes in the walls, a mouldy bathroom with no shower, dodgy stairs and a loo that sometimes regurgitates its belongings up the bowl!!! I need to make a sign saying "Please be modest with your 3 P's", warning people not to put too much pee, poo or paper down the loo. It's terrifying. I am sleeping on a mattress on the floor even though I have a new bed leaning against the bedroom wall because it seems redundant to construct the bed when I will have to deconstruct it again when the floors are done. I can't unpack anything either because I will simply have to pack up again when the painting starts and that seems ridiculous.<br />
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But my week of firsts has been very very rewarding and it still continues. I have gardeners here today for the first time, cutting back my first ever wisteria, a job that needed professionals as it had been left for 15 years to grow wild and resembles an intricate 8 foot high web of 5 inch thick branches that span the length of the cottage and the 20 feet of wall beyond. There is beautiful old stone behind it apparently, which I can't wait to see. Later, the gardener Sophie has promised to show me how to prune the roses, another first for me. And later still, I will be going to my first ever Owl life-drawing class. Yes, it is as bizarre as it sounds but that's Frome for you, a town I'm discovering is full of the wild and wonderful, the beautiful and the bizarre!<br />
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I am turning 50 this year, and as exhausting and challenging as the last 2 years have been, mentally and physically, I also know that I might never have had the chance to do certain things the way I have, had I not been ill. It's forced me to slow down and appreciate things. It has shown me that a little can mean much more than a lot, and that the smallest act of kindness from a friend, new or old, can mean the world. I am never too old to do things for the first time and I hope to have a lot more firsts for years to come.<br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-24875941905031094642018-01-09T16:40:00.001+00:002018-01-09T16:40:23.234+00:00My home... the money pit.Yes it's official, my new cottage is a money pit. I was aware of many of the problems when I had my survey done. They were duly pointed out to the (then) owner of the property and the price was reduced accordingly. However, no one ever prepares you for the hidden problems. The ones that show their faces only when you have already spent a fortune fixing a previous problem. I call this the chain of crappy events, if you will.<br />
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When I first moved into the property at the beginning of November, the first thing my plumber suggested was that I buy a Carbon Monoxide Alarm so I wouldn't, "Pop my clogs the first night!". He had basically condemned the current 30 year old boiler and unless I wanted to, "Freeze my tits off," with the heating off, then it was a good idea to monitor the toxic fumes it was emitting. Great. Instead of just buying a replacement boiler, I decided to spend a bit more money, free up the space on my kitchen wall where the old boiler was sticking out like a sore ugly bulbous thumb, and move it upstairs and into the cupboard where the old water tank had been. Before they could move the boiler, the electrician was summoned to check the wiring in the bathroom cupboard to make sure it would work, and there he discovered that the electric shower and lights were arcing and smoking every time they were turned on. All the wiring was burnt out in the cavity wall and up into the attic, a blackened mess of melted plastic, wires and wood. He was amazed it hadn't started a fire! Upon further investigation, he explained that the whole house was a bit "dodgy" and basically cut off my supply until he could return! So what started as a simple process of moving the boiler, resulted in a complete re-wiring of the kitchen, hall, bathroom and upstairs cupboard, the shower was thrown into the tip and now I have a gigantic hole through the bathroom wall and in the ceiling. And no shower. Hurrah.</div>
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What the plumber also failed to mention was that he'd re-directed the external gas pipe from the kitchen up to the bathroom, so where I had been excited to get a gas cooker re-connected, I now have to have an electric one. He's also, very kindly, left the gas pipe in the kitchen as an annoying reminder of what could have been, sitting there, completely useless, giving me the V-sign, and I now have to find someone to cut it off the wall! The plumber has also left a bloody great hole in the kitchen wall through to the external wall, where the boiler was, and has only filled it with a few bricks and some rough cement, so "I don't get the rain coming in" which means I now have to get a builder to re-plaster the wall. </div>
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And this is where my builder enters the scene. His name is Tim. I can mention his name because I doubt very much I will be sending him this blog, nor will he see it on Facebook as he will never be a Facebook friend! I really like Tim but he seems to bring calamity with him. I first contacted him when I discovered he was the same builder who'd put up a partition wall in the house about 15 years ago, and thought he'd be the perfect person to take it down again. He was very obliging, removed the wall in half a day and only charged me a £100 cash. As he seemed to be the perfect man to do all the other jobs I needed, I hired him on the spot. We agreed he would work for cash and fit my jobs in when he could. That meant turning up willy nilly after he'd finished his normal days work... he even arrived on a Saturday morning at 8am once, which I was slightly less pleased about, as were my neighbours!! </div>
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The first thing Tim did for me was to remove all my skirting boards. I needed this done because I had arranged for beautiful, achingly expensive, oak wood floors to be laid throughout the downstairs. The reason I needed achingly expensive wood floors laid was because I had asked the previous owners to remove all the carpets. I had requested the removal of the carpets because there were signs of carpet moths, and as anyone that's had carpet moths knows, once you've got them, it is very hard to get rid of them. But I was quite happy because I naively thought that even though the cottage was built in the early 80's, there might be some lovely old floorboards lurking underneath which I could buff up or paint. Of course there weren't!! Downstairs were concrete floors and upstairs were chipboard. So my new plan was to put oak flooring in downstairs and replace the carpets (with anti-moth ones) upstairs. If you haven't had oak wood floors installed in your home then you might be surprised to learn how costly they are. Let's just say that I could have bought a secondhand car <i>and</i> gone on holiday for 2 weeks to the Caribbean with that sort of money. </div>
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Tim began removing the skirting boards and it was only when I heard him say, "Oops" a few times that I thought I should have a look. The skirting board was coming off fine but it was also taking half the wall with it. He casually remarked, "Bloody hell, it's like sandstone!" which wasn't helpful. He also said it wouldn't be a problem because he would just fill the holes and re-plaster after the wood floor was laid. If that sounds a bit backwards, it is. The floor should always be the last thing to do when you're renovating so it doesn't get damaged, but I had no choice. The wood floor guys could only fit me in to their hectic schedule because of a cancellation, otherwise I would have had to wait until March! And I couldn't bear another 3 months of concrete floors because it was kicking up horrible dust and was freezing cold to walk on, so needs must. Just as Tim was leaving he looked back at the floor and said, "Hmm, that's weird." Oh no. He had noticed that where the partition wall had been removed – between the kitchen and the living room – the floor seemed to rise up in the middle. He laid his spirit level down and saw that indeed, the floor was not level. You can't lay a wood floor on to uneven flooring so the next day Tim retuned with a jack hammer and a mate of his, and they began digging up the floor in order to re-level it with compound. The noise was so horrific that my neighbour from 3 houses away came round to complain!</div>
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With the skirting removed and the concrete floor now level, the wood floor guy came to do his part. Three days later it was finished and looked stunning. Beautiful wide planks of oak with a matte oil finish. Of course, even though I was over the moon with it, paranoia kicked in whenever someone came to visit. Could I ask complete strangers to take their shoes off? Amazingly, I didn't even have to ask... every builder, decorator and carpenter immediately removed their boots and wandered around in their socks. But after about a week, I noticed a strange creaking in the middle of the kitchen floor and one plank in particular seemed to see-saw from one end to the other. I filmed it and sent it to the floor guys. They didn't seem too worried and said, "Oh that's fine, it happens sometimes, we'll come back and fix it in 3 weeks." Three weeks!!! But I knew they were busy, I said it was fine, and spent the next 3 weeks tiptoeing around the area in case I made it worse. They did come back and they did fix it, so the next thing was to put the skirting boards back on. Of course, because of the hold-up fixing the floor, everyone else in the renovation chain was now put back and I had to wait until after Christmas for work to progress again. </div>
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In the meantime, I launched myself into the January sales and managed to buy a washing machine, cooker, extractor fan and fridge/freezer for under £900, saving myself £350... bargain! Or so I thought. Stupidly, I had to forgotten to take the additional height of the 3cm wood floor into consideration when ordering my washing machine, and realised, with horror, that it would no longer fit under the countertop. Oh God. My builder suggested cutting out a section of wood floor and sitting the washing machine into the hole, which sounded awful. The carpenter suggested raising the height of the kitchen counter by 3cm because I was, "tall for a woman" and it, "might stop you getting back ache when cooking and washing up!" Thanks for that Mr. Carpenter. I am now waiting for the washing machine to be delivered this week and hoping for a miracle. Perhaps the manufacturers measured it wrong and it will fit just fine, if not, then my savings of £350 will be spent on raising my counter tops! And I can't even plug my cooker or fridge in until the other work has been done!</div>
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As I am writing this, my builder Tim is downstairs and re-attaching the skirting boards. He is also filling the holes in the wall created by him pulling off the original skirting boards and the plumber removing the boiler. Tim is a good builder but with a short attention span. His love of tea breaks, fag breaks and talking means he frequently forgets what he is doing and it's then my job to go round the house at the end of the day and point out where a nail is missing or a hole hasn't been filled. On careful observation I have noticed that he simply cannot talk and work at the same time. I have always known men to be a little rubbish at multi-tasking but Tim takes it to a whole new level. Even if I ask him if he wants a cup of tea, he has to lay down his tools, scratch his head, and then give me an answer. He cannot just say, "yes please" and keep working. Thank God he charges by the job and not by the hour otherwise I'd be broke.</div>
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Tim also loves to tell stories, usually about other workmen or local residents, so is a proper little village gossip. He's a natural performer with a wonderful lilting Somerset accent, a deep tobacco-tinged voice and the ability to keep his audience (me) on the edge on my seat! But as soon as he starts talking I know he won't be able to keep working so I sigh, take a seat and listen. He tells me about things he's witnessed on building sites and in client's homes, from botched jobs to dead bodies to affairs, but the best story (today) was about a Curry's delivery driver he knows. Not the best story to tell me when I'm actually waiting for a Curry's delivery, but it's a good one. According to Tim, it is common practice amongst delivery drivers to damage items themselves, so they don't have to deliver them... especially late in the day. He told me of a guy he knew who was supposed to deliver a big American-style fridge to a large house in the middle of the countryside. It was dark and rainy Friday afternoon. The driver was tired and knew it would take at least another hour to get to the address which meant he wouldn't get to the pub until late, so he tipped the fridge off the back of the lorry, rang the depot telling them the fridge was damaged and that he would have to deliver a replacement the following week, then reloaded the fridge on to his lorry and went to the pub!!</div>
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I love Tim and his storytelling but I also can't wait for him, nor all the other workmen, to leave. I'm so sick of cleaning and dusting and generally living in a building site. I have never made so many cups of tea in my life nor bought so many packets of biscuits. I am fed up of putting the toilet seat down and always being cheerful when they show up at all hours of the day. I adore male company but my God they are irritating! I have been camped out in one room upstairs for 2 months, sleeping on a mattress with everything I own still in boxes... <b>and</b> the list of things to do for some strange reason, keeps getting longer not shorter. With very little money left, I might have to try Crowdfunding because I have no idea how I'm going to pay for all this: Decorating the house, carpeting the upstairs, buying new interior doors, replacing the front door, buying new blinds and curtains, putting up shelves, buying a bed, installing a shower, re-tiling the bathroom, replacing 3 velux windows, mending the porch and fitting a downstairs loo. And that's just the inside, don't get me started on the garden! </div>
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I love love love my new home and everyone keeps telling me to be patient, that it will be worth it in the end... but what is a home unless you can have your loved ones round for dinner, to hang out or to stay the night? I'm hoping that by Spring I can at least have a few friends round for a meal, so please form an orderly queue, and maybe bring a paintbrush and some cash with you.</div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-40085486860070845842017-12-22T22:07:00.002+00:002017-12-22T22:07:39.018+00:002017 in numbersMy year...<br />
4 months living at my parent's house, plus the whole previous year of course (thanks M & D)<br />
12 visits to Airbnb's<br />
4 nights in Premier Inns<br />
7 months living at my friend Katie's cottage (eek, thanks Katie)<br />
4 mice caught while living in Katie's cottage<br />
9 months house-hunting in Somerset<br />
19 properties viewed and rejected<br />
2 visits to new cottage before putting in an offer<br />
9 weeks from initial offer to moving in<br />
6 weeks living in my new cottage in Frome (hurrah)<br />
4 other terraced cottages in my row<br />
1 converted mill on my road<br />
4 big Georgian houses on my road<br />
1 bigger Georgian manor house on my road (with swimming pool to boot... hello neighbours!)<br />
2 Dachshunds, 1 Schnauzer and a King Charles Spaniel living on my road<br />
7 visits from neighbours since moving in<br />
3 weeks waiting for internet to be connected (BT... what a surprise!)<br />
2 days having my electrics re-wired<br />
2 days having my plumbing sorted out and new boiler installed<br />
1 week waiting for plumber to come back and fix strange noises coming from new pipes<br />
3 days having my oak wood floor laid<br />
3 weeks waiting for oak wood floor man to come back and fix oak wood floor<br />
8 visits from builder<br />
1 wall removed<br />
1 visit from decorator (eye-watering quote only)<br />
3 visits from carpet fitter (sample books only)<br />
1 visit from landscape gardener (to talk about fences)<br />
2 hours carpenter spent fixing rickety stairs<br />
2 more visits from carpenter (to discuss my designs for shelving and other odd jobs)<br />
30 minutes carpenter took to explain he was now unavailable to do the work for me<br />
2 hours spent sulking after visit from carpenter<br />
9 different white vans parked outside my cottage (on different occasion I hasten to add)<br />
50 cups of tea made for workmen (at least)<br />
8 packets of biscuits consumed by workmen (at least)<br />
13 boxes, 2 suitcases and 5 bin bags left to unpack<br />
1 week spent in Wales, writing my book, on my own<br />
2 weeks spent in Thailand, on holiday, with girlfriends<br />
5 birthday parties attended<br />
8 drinks parties attended<br />
5 BBQ parties attended<br />
7 dinner parties attended<br />
23 new friends made<br />
12 visits to the theatre (3 in London, 4 in Bristol, 3 in Bath, 2 open-air in Somerset)<br />
38 visits to pubs and restaurants<br />
21 films watched at Babington House (blimey)<br />
1 drive-in film watched at Babington House<br />
11 creative workshops attended at Babington House<br />
8 people (at least) who have got bored of me talking about Babington House<br />
23 books read<br />
14 blogs written<br />
3 trips to the seaside<br />
5 months ill with Rheumatoid Arthritis (hideous)<br />
3 months not working because of Rheumatoid Arthritis (even more hideous)<br />
5 visits to Rheumatologist<br />
3 visits to Occupational Therapist<br />
7 visits to Physiotherapist<br />
12 visits to GP<br />
3 visits to knee surgeon in London<br />
14 blood tests taken<br />
1 visit to Dentist<br />
7 visits to Acupuncturist<br />
12 visits to Pilates rehab<br />
1 foam roller class attended<br />
3 meditation classes attended<br />
101 consecutive days spent doing at least 20 minutes meditation<br />
24 pills taken daily (holy moly!)<br />
3 hair cuts (not enough)<br />
2 manicures<br />
3 massages<br />
12 Congratulations on your new home cards received<br />
18 Christmas cards received<br />
1 Nativity play attended<br />
2 Carol services attended<br />
17 presents wrapped<br />
107 minutes spent writing this blog<br />
12 words and 1 letter to say: Have a wonderful Christmas and a very Happy New Year, love Jules x<br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-57523121005749002302017-12-11T13:29:00.002+00:002017-12-11T13:41:15.530+00:00Home.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The last 9 months of house hunting has taken its toll on me mentally and physically. I began looking at properties armed with a huge checklist, great expectations and oodles of enthusiasm but as the months passed and I saw nothing I liked or could afford, I grew weary. My priority list got shorter, my patience dwindled and I began to dread looking at property websites. The butterflies in my stomach stopped fluttering when I answered the phone to estate agents and I began to ignore the "For Sale" signs as I drove around Frome. I was down in the dumps.</div>
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So, when I first viewed the property I have now bought, a cottage that was way above my price range and didn't have many of the things on my checklist but was, very importantly, in one of the most beautiful areas of Frome, I didn't hold out much hope. But as soon as I walked through the door it felt good. It had prospects. It was hideously decorated, had terrible light and was in need of a lot of TLC but I knew I could make it beautiful. So I made a ridiculous offer, £20,000 under the asking price and crossed my fingers. My position helped... I had nothing to sell, all my stuff was in storage, I was renting a room at a friend's house, I had a large cash deposit and I had a pre-approved mortgage, so I could potentially move really fast. And that's exactly what the sellers wanted. After a nerve racking 24 hours wait, they said yes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1OBt1DktH3H_8x5p0V5fMNsXU_MA32W5_JHHRWSELIjSKgEqCcLIh2DVJrCaXTtSzcpiP_noS_IN1E5rz7PAiIKjfkpcD-Z5TVf6-xr6v59k4gF06DS1IypJJdeLKNrHI2I3UkX93hVC/s1600/fullsizeoutput_7ea.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1OBt1DktH3H_8x5p0V5fMNsXU_MA32W5_JHHRWSELIjSKgEqCcLIh2DVJrCaXTtSzcpiP_noS_IN1E5rz7PAiIKjfkpcD-Z5TVf6-xr6v59k4gF06DS1IypJJdeLKNrHI2I3UkX93hVC/s400/fullsizeoutput_7ea.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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It took only 10 weeks from my initial offer to me moving in on November 10th, an incredibly short period of time that surprised even the estate agents. My brilliant solicitor discovered a number of shortcuts, from paying Mendip Council a private fee to speed up paperwork (£30), to getting cancelled appointments for surveys and buttering up my mortgage provider, so I was moving in before I had time to catch my breath. By then, of course, I had been living with this damn Rheumatoid Arthritis for 3 months and was finding everything very difficult. Having no energy and in pain all the time makes a somewhat stressful period even more so and the hardest thing for me was relinquishing control and asking for help!!</div>
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My sister and I were brought up to be resourceful, practical and independent women... my parents wouldn't let us leave home until we were capable of at least changing a tyre, unblocking a loo, re-wiring a plug, painting a wall, building a fire, reading a map and working out our finances so I have always managed to do things on my own and have not had to rely on anyone to help with day-to-day things. 49 years later and I am physically unable to do anything that requires lifting, carrying, hammering or screwing, so I had to get friends, family and removal men to move me in and shift things around the house, I've had to get builders in to knock down walls and rip up flooring and I will have to get decorators in to help me paint the house. It's terribly frustrating because I'd usually be doing all that stuff myself and now I have to stand around and watch someone else do it. Arghhh. I never knew I was such a control freak!</div>
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Thank goodness I have had recommendations for all the amazing workmen I am using and they have been brilliant. One friend who lives four houses away has pretty much imparted her whole tradesman database to me, from tree surgeons to wood floor specialists. Thank you Lizzie! Frome is a small market town with a large community spirit and many passersby have stuck their heads round my open front door or peered through my window to: A, have a good nose or B, offer opinions, suggestions or impart local knowledge. After the first few days, I had already met almost all of the neighbours on my road and have been round for coffee to a fair few. </div>
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My small stone-fronted cottage is at the end of a row of 5, halfway down a narrow lane flanked by dry-stone walls. Although it was only built in the early 80's, which is certainly not very old for this part of town, its clever design means it blends in well with the surrounding Georgian houses and converted wool mills. Location is everything too, and being in a conservation area means nothing hideous can be built and no additions or alterations made without strict consent. It is a beautiful spot... I overlook several grand Grade II listed houses so my views aren't bad, and it's a quiet too, most of the time, which as my family and friends well know, is high on my list of priorities. The only times it's not that quiet is first thing in the morning when kids are going to school and dogs are having their first walk of the day, and in the afternoon when kids are being picked up. As my road is a cut through for foot traffic it can get a little boisterous. At the back, the gardens are mostly walled which is very pretty to look at but which can also amplify noise upwards and outwards, so again, at times it sounds like a distant barking dog is actually in my garden but I can't say I wasn't warned... many months ago I was told that if I didn't like children or dogs, then I shouldn't move to Frome! Fair enough.</div>
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After 4 weeks, I am still camped out in one of the small bedrooms upstairs. I haven't been able to unpack because there is still a fair amount of dust and chaos. There is still dust and chaos because the floor was bare cement until last week and had to be levelled, a wall had to be knocked down and a boiler had to be removed. I can't unpack more than immediate necessities because I have to decorate and that means trying to keep everything covered and only moving it from room to room as one gets finished. I need to re-plaster some walls and ceilings, put in a new downstairs loo and sink, put in a new upstairs loo and sink, re-tile the bathroom, install a shower, replace 3 windows and 3 doors, and <b>then</b> decorate. And only when I have decorated can I lastly, but not leastly, lay new carpets on the stairs and upstairs. Phew. </div>
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Of course I need furniture too. All that remains from my London flat is my mattress, a chest of drawers, a sofa and a bookcase. I also need a cooker, a fridge and a washing machine and this would all be fine and do-able if I had the money to pay for it all, but again, due to this buggery Rheumatoid Arthritis, I haven't been able to work, therefore I haven't been able to earn money and so I can't pay for anything but the immediate and the crucial. I considered heat and a floor to be essentials so the rest is on hold. Even my amazing builder agreed to work cheaper for cash but he can only squeeze me in between his other more important and better paid jobs. So I sit and look around me and have an every-growing list of things I could and should do, but when I attempt to do them, get beaten back by the pain. Or I work through the pain and then can't move the following day. Neither is a good option.</div>
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But I will get there. My cottage will be finished eventually and my doctors will find a drug that works. I am forever hopeful and I suppose that's all that matters. It goes without saying that once I do have both these things figured out, I will then be able to invite my friends and family to stay. I miss having people in my home, laughing, chatting, eating and drinking, because that's what keeps me sane. I love entertaining and I love hosting so not being able to that right now is frustrating. But keep your diaries free for Spring 2018... hopefully by then my body will be fixed and my home will be open.</div>
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Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-74537865182475730252017-10-16T18:10:00.001+01:002017-10-16T18:10:08.932+01:00Beds, bugs and Bruno.Due to circumstances beyond my control, last week I found myself with nowhere to stay. For the last few months I have been living with a friend in her gorgeous cottage in Somerset but as her boyfriend was coming to stay, we agreed I would vacate the premises for the week while he was here. I had arranged to visit friends and family in Yorkshire and Cumbria but at the last minute I had to stay in the area rather than head up north, and suddenly realised I was a bit stuck.<br />
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I am quite used to scrabbling around trying to find places to stay while I've been house-hunting. Over the last year I have stayed in practically every Airbnb, B&B and Pub in Bristol, Bath and Frome. Some have been more expensive than others because they've been conveniently positioned to wherever I've been working, others have just been cheap. But I have never had to find somewhere with only a few hours notice that would be ok to stay in when ill. My RA has been particularly hard to deal with because of the chronic fatigue, nausea and pain... it leaves me utterly incapable of doing anything for more than a few hours and I have spent much of the last 8 weeks in bed. My lovely cousin had offered me a bed but her household had come down with flu and because my medication lowers my immune system, that was out of the question. So it was a tricky one. I could hardly ring up some of my newer friends in the area and ask to stay when I would have immediately turned up at their house, said hello, and then needed to sleep. Not the most social of things to do. I also needed to be close to Frome because of some appointments so it narrowed my search somewhat. After some panic googling, I found a place near Shepton Mallet, a town I have subsequently learnt is referred to as 'Shit and Smell it' by locals as it is often said to be one of Britain's worst places to live. No wonder the pub I found had rooms available.<br />
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For £35 a night I was offered a double room with ensuite bathroom and breakfast was included. Now I have never stayed anywhere that cheap that wasn't utterly horrific. It didn't disappoint. The pub itself was next to one of the areas busiest roads and in order for the guests not to be kept awake by the constant stream of traffic, the windows were painted shut. It made no difference, in fact, because there was also the constant hum of the kitchen extractor fan just below the bedroom window, extracting, by the smell of it, old cooking oil. I also found myself being jolted out of bed every 5 minutes by a loud hollow bang that reverberated around the room and made the bed shake. I discovered what was making this loud bang when I bravely entered the main bar downstairs, a few hours later.<br />
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There was only one man working in the pub, who seemed to be responsible for not only manning the front desk but also serving drinks, taking food orders, and probably cooking the food itself. I use the term 'food' loosely. The extensive menu (4 pages, large bold type) consisted of things that had once been frozen and would now be fried... Chicken and Chips, Fish and Chips, Chicken nuggets and Chips, Fishcake and Chips, Deep fried Camembert, Deep fried Prawns... you get the idea. In fact, the only thing on the menu that wasn't going to be engorged in boiling vegetable oil was Sausage and Mash, so that's what I ordered, careful to request that my sausages be cremated (I didn't want to risk food poisoning on top of everything else!). Were there any vegetables I asked? The man frowned and said, "Well it comes with mash". O-kay. What worried me was the speed in which my meal arrived. Yes, I was the only one in the pub, but still, to cook sausages from scratch in under a minute was a bit of a concern. Maybe they too had been fried. The sausages did not taste like any kind of meat I'd ever had before and the mash, well it took me back to my school days... watery, cold, lumpy and drowned in lukewarm gloop that I guessed was gravy. It was utterly revolting but at the eye-waterning price of £10.95, I felt obliged to at least have a few bites. I could hardly complain and send it back because it really wasn't that kind of place. It would have been replaced with something equally horrific anyway! <br />
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I did discover from the receptionist/barman/cook what the banging noise was, however. "Oh, your room is above the men's toilet," he said. "It's the door banging every time someone goes in for a pee". Oh how lovely. "But it bangs every few minutes," I said, "and there doesn't seem to be anyone else here but you and I." "There's everyone in the kitchen," he replied, gesturing to the door with his thumb. <i>Everyone</i> in the kitchen. Surely <i>everyone</i> implies quite a few people. What on earth were they doing in there? Certainly not preparing gastronomic delights for <i>everyone</i> in the pub!<br />
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My night was not spent sleeping. I had become used to the traffic noise and once <i>everyone</i> in the kitchen had left for the night, the banging loo door also stopped but what kept me awake were two things; The stifling heat and the motion sensor light outside. The heating was kept on high throughout the night and as anyone knows from staying in a cheap hotel, the sheets were also cheap, which meant polyester, which meant sweaty. I couldn't open the windows so lay there suffocating. Then there was the incredibly bright motion sensor floodlight that was triggered every few minutes and invaded the room like a spaceship, glowing menacingly through the very insubstantial paper-thin curtains. It meant that there were either creepy Shepton Mallet low-lives walking around, about to break in and attack me, or there were wild animals! Listen, I was ill and sleep deprived so my imagination was slightly overactive. The lights also attracted a myriad of giant moths and insects which hit the window with such ferocity, I thought they would break the glass.<br />
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Safe to say, I felt and looked much worse in the morning than when I had arrived, but I was hungry, needed to force down a bit of breakfast so I could take all my medications, and only then could I try and sleep again. Breakfast was served between 7am and 8am, an incomprehensible time slot that definitely did not appear to be designed for the average tourist or holiday maker. And guess what... that's exactly what was not in the breakfast room (I say breakfast room... it was in fact the same room I'd eaten in the night before). Four of the tables were occupied with pairs of big burly men in workwear. I don't mean that in any derogatory manner, it's just a fact. Overalls, boiler suits and jeans, covered in an array of paint, plaster, earth and god knows what else. They all stared at me as I staggered over to a vacant table... not in an appreciative "Ooh it's a woman," type of way, more of a "Jesus, what has the cat dragged in!" kind of way. I was not looking my best. Matted hair scrunched into a topknot, dark circles under my bloodshot eyes and a deathly pallor that normally would have put the average person off their hearty breakfast, but not these chaps. A cursory glance and they went back to shovelling great forkfuls of baked beans, fried eggs and sausages (probably mine from the night before) into their mouths! But where had they all come from? They certainly weren't here the night before... or maybe they were, and had been the ones triggering the light through the night. I didn't really care to be honest, I just needed food. There was only one thing on offer, a Full English, which didn't surprise me because it's fried after all. I managed a few mouthfuls of molten lava-hot beans and a few bites of burnt cold toast before the queasiness took over and I departed as quickly as I'd arrived. I headed for my room, collapsed on the bed and amazingly managed to sleep for the rest of the day. And then, even more amazingly, I slept through the night.<br />
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It's a fantastic feeling to wake up and feel better. Well, not better better, but I had managed to sleep on and off for more than 18 hours and the never-ending fatigue had suddenly lifted slightly. But I knew I couldn't do it for another night, not with the prospect of banging door, the bright light, the heat and disgusting food, so I decided to go upmarket (upmarket meaning anywhere but here) and booked myself into a Travelodge. Basic, clean, quiet. The only slightly off-putting thing when I checked in were the two ambulances parked outside the front entrance. I asked the receptionist what was going on and she just pulled a sad face. Oh God. She handed me a key, then took it back, pulled another face and scratched her head. "I'll put you on the top floor, right at the end of the corridor so you won't hear anything." Oh God. I walked to the room trying not to imagine what on earth was going on elsewhere in the hotel, and just to be on the safe side, dug out some old fluff-covered earplugs, drew the curtains and fell asleep. I didn't hear anything, I didn't see anything, and I didn't feel anything.<br />
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I left the next morning feeling a little more revived but halfway to Frome, realised I had left my hot water bottle in the bed. Now I don't care about the rubber hot water bottle itself, it is the hot water bottle cover that I care about. It is a very old, very shabby-looking, brown, furry, hot water bottle cover that all my friends know about because it has traveled with me for the last 20 years. His name is Bruno and he is a dog. Even boyfriends have had to fight Bruno for space in my bed, sometimes a little bewildered when a foot meets fur instead of skin. Bruno is there all year round you see, through spring, summer, autumn and winter and I don't care who knows it. But now I had left him behind and wasn't going to be back in the area for a few days. My Mother urged me to call the Travelodge and get them to keep him safe for me. I felt a little idiotic but I rang and spoke to the same receptionist who had checked me in the previous day. "Yessss, we found it," she said laughing, "But the cleaner had quite a fright when she stripped the bed. She didn't know what it was." "Yes, that's happened to me before," I said, remembering similar scenarios. "But then again," I added, "You must have had weirder things left behind." "Oh my God yes," she said, "But we don't talk about those!" I laughed and then remembered the ambulances. "Was everything ok with whoever was ill by the way? The ambulances?" There was a slight pause, and then she said, "What ambulances?" I guess they don't talk about those either!<br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-10686205900649976132017-10-05T12:07:00.003+01:002017-10-05T12:07:38.987+01:00Hidden IllnessesOver the years I have had a lot of different illnesses and operations, and I've noticed that people react very differently to ones that are obvious or visible, like a knee replacement or a bug that might leave you pale and sickly-looking, and those that are invisible, such as depression or something affecting your insides. The hidden illnesses may not leave physical scars or change the way you look but they can be far more debilitating and have more of an impact on both your daily and future life.<br />
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I have many physical scars from surgeries but I also have the physical memories of get well cards, letter and emails. The hidden illnesses certainly don't get the same level of attention and I think it's mainly because they aren't obvious and therefore probably not talked about as much. Unless you walk around with a sign most people are oblivious.<br />
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I was diagnosed with severe autoimmune disease 8 weeks ago, a hard-core, life-sapping illness, often referred to as Rheumatoid Arthritis. It is not, as many people think, quite the same things as having a few swollen joints after eating spicy food, or having a crooked finger or toe. When it is severe, it is a chronic and progressive disease that causes inflammation throughout the whole body. Yes, it affects the joints and is incredibly painful but the reason it can be so debilitating is that your own body's immune system starts attacking itself. A normal immune system attacks outside invaders in the body but due to a bizarre re-wiring, the immune systems of people with RA fight themselves, which is a bit silly, and a bit crap.<br />
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A few months ago I woke up with a shooting pain in my right hand and wrist. It was very swollen and hot to the touch and I couldn't move it without screaming in pain. I thought back to what I'd done the previous day and realised I had attempted a bizarre new manoeuvre in my Pilates class and hung upside down on a trapeze for several minutes, alternately gripping the bar with my hands or feet... I thought maybe I had ruptured some tendons. I took myself off to A&E, they took an x-ray and agreed that as nothing was fractured, then it must be torn tendons. On with a soft cast, and 2 weeks later, a visit to my GP. My GP was puzzled. She didn't think it was tendons. In fact, she didn't think it was anything that I'd done physically and immediately sent me off for blood tests. A few days later she rang and told me to come and see her. I made an appointment and she very slowly explained what the blood tests had revealed. Acute Rheumatoid Arthritis. I, like many people, thought that Rheumatoid Arthritis was a few painful joints and I simply shrugged it off, thinking it would get better in a while.<br />
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I remember my father suffering from RA around the same age when we lived in America, and he had been treated, very successfully, with gold injections! I had never talked to him about it at great length because I had been away at University and by the time I was back, his symptoms had almost disappeared. He never spoke of the initial diagnosis and how it had affected him. My mother never spoke of the months spent helping my father get dressed because the pain was so awful. My sister never told me how shocked she had been, seeing my father bent and crooked and walking with a stick, aged 50. I was oblivious to it all, until now.<br />
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Unfortunately, the gold injections my father had are not the most common form of treatment used nowadays (as you can imagine) but as Rheumatoid Arthritis has no cure, it is one of the most heavily funded and researched illnesses. As a result, there are many ways for it to be treated with different drug therapies. You are never actually cured of the disease but most people do go through stages of remission and can have years where the disease lies dormant. The first 3-6 months are the worst I am told. The Rheumatoid specialist I saw a week after my initial diagnosis was very clear about that. Be prepared because it spreads through the body like an out-of-control wildfire, getting much worse before it gets better. It swells your joints and heats your body and feels like flu most of the time. A dull ache in the bones, an ever-present roaring headache, nausea and dizziness and a chronic fatigue I never thought possible. Without doubt, I have never felt so ill in my life. But it is hidden in my body, and apart from the lumps on my wrists, the puffy hands and knees, a bit of a limp and the red flush from the steroids, I look fine. Tired but fine. Rosy cheeked but fine. And because I look fine, most people think I'm fine.<br />
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I haven't been able to work for 4 weeks now. My doctor said I should stop working for 3 months but as a self-employed designer that is simply impossible. If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid for a period of time, then my whole life falls apart. Initially, I thought I could strap up my hands like a boxer and carry on as normal but this illness has caught me by surprise. The exhaustion is overwhelming. By the time I have showered and dressed (very slowly using my left hand only), I feel as if I haven't slept for a week. Many mornings, I have barely been able to get out of bed as the pain soars through my body. Some days I can't move my fingers and other days I can't move my hands and some days I spend the morning with my head in the toilet bowl. My wrists are in soft casts much of the time, so I don't accidentally bend them and cause torturous lighting bolts to shoot up my arms and down my fingers. I have an additional complication and that is Sjogren's disease, an irritating infliction which causes extreme dry mouth and dry eyes. I hate it, and hate that if I don't constantly chew gum or suck a sweet or have a litre of water at my side, my mouth feels like a desert and my eyes itch and burn.<br />
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The pills are a work in progress too. I have no idea at this point whether the numerous medications are causing ill effects or it is the disease itself. The side effects, from what is essentially a low dose of chemotherapy, are horrendous... mostly nausea but with the added fun of vertigo and ringing ears, something that I can only associate with clubbing in London! It's impossible to try and describe how all this feels to someone that has no experience of it, and I hate myself when I text friends and moan about how shit I feel. Poor me poor me is one of the traits I despise but if someone asks me how I feel, I can't lie about it. The worst things is having to try and do anything for myself when my left hand is the only functioning one. And I am not left handed. I can no longer clean my teeth, brush my hair, pull up my jeans, do up buttons or make food with my right hand. I cannot grip you see. So imagine how long things take. I end up with toothpaste by my ear, my hair in knots and my shirts skewiff. It's ridiculous. And apart from people who have damaged their wrists, fingers or hands in the past, the only people that can relate to this are other RA sufferers.<br />
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I was advised to join an RA community online by my rheumatologist. Not only are there thousand of people that have gone through, or are going through the same thing but they can offer support, suggestions and advice that you might not get elsewhere. My family have been amazing which goes without saying and I truly cannot thank my mother and father enough for their hospitality and the offer of a bed and love whenever necessary. But the timing is shite. I am in a new chapter of my life, working for new clients and meeting new friends in Somerset and it really isn't the easiest of things to explain. I have had to cancel bookings and nights out, weekends away and dinner parties. I meet new people and wince when they shake my hand. I go to the cinema and can barely keep my eyes open. I try to go swimming and can't swim... treading water for half and hour like an idiot because I can't use my hands. I do get peculiar looks I must say. Some friends have been amazing, always there, always asking, always offering and always there at the end of the phone. Some have gone beyond... offering beds, bringing round food and books and cards. And others have problems of their own, their own health to look after, their own pain, their own suffering, and we trade paragraphs of support and love via our phones.<br />
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Let's just hope things start to improve. It has been 8 weeks so far and the latest blood tests aren't so good. Worse inflammation, worse pain, worse. I have been at my parents house for a few days each week, and know I can relax here without worrying too much. I'm not asking for sympathy or even empathy, I'm simply asking for understanding.<br />
<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4413719693665650137.post-37915061221386269072017-08-29T12:10:00.001+01:002017-08-29T12:10:19.085+01:00HummingI surprised myself by humming this morning. I literally stopped in my tracks when I heard the slightly tuneless noise being expelled from my lips and thought, how interesting, I can't remember the last time that happened.<br />
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I equate mindless humming or singing in the morning with being happy. I was so surprised by it happening to me because for the last few years I have woken most mornings in pain and the first thing that enters my head is how many pills I have to swallow. The next thoughts are where I'm working, how far I have to drive, or the endless quest to find a home.<br />
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So, why was I suddenly humming? My circumstances haven't changed but there is something I've been doing for the last 2 weeks, upon waking, that seems to have completely altered my early morning mood. Meditation. Ok, I know what you are thinking... another person banging on about finding inner peace, omm-ing their way through life without a care in the world but I swear to God, it's the only thing I can put my altered mood down to.<br />
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I've tried meditation before without much success. When I was in Sri Lanka in 2004, I sat for an hour every afternoon with a local Buddhist monk from the village. I desperately tried to sit still, to stop my mind from wandering, and every single day I would get utterly bored and frustrated after about 10 minutes. I would get distracted by anything invading my senses... a dog barking in the distance, the shouts of the fishermen, the smell of cooking, wind blowing my hair in the wrong direction, even an ant crawling across my toe. I remember twitching my toe to get rid of it and it just kept crawling higher up my foot. I opened one eye to spot it and kill it, only to find the monk staring calmly at me, sightly shaking his head. I squeezed my eyes shut again and let the pesky ant continue its journey until I could bear it no longer and shot my leg out, shaking my trouser leg with a squeal. The monk did nothing. He sat there is such a state of focused bliss that I wondered what it would take to make him react. How did he do it, hour after hour?<br />
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A few years later I went to a meditation class in London. A group of about a dozen of us sat cross-legged facing a statue of Buddha, with some lit candles and an incense stick burning. I was fine for the first 5 minutes, focusing on my breathing and feeling quite calm. Then I got annoyed by the smell of the incense... it was too strong. The background music of chimes was increasingly irritating and the woman next to me was breathing so loudly it sounded as if she was gong into labour. No this wasn't going to work. My mind was too restless, I had too many things to think about, and once again I gave up.<br />
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In recent years, mindfulness has taken over from meditation as the thing to do. But it really is a clever re-brand of an ancient practise. The only difference really is that mindfulness can be practised anywhere at any time. It is simply being aware, being in the moment. You can practise mindfulness drinking a cup of tea, for instance. Instead of having a couple of sips whilst thinking about what you have to do next or what plans you have for the following day, simply focus on drinking the tea... the smell of the tea, the taste of each mouthful, the sensation of the warm liquid in your mouth, of swallowing the tea. Many people have moments of mindfulness when they taste something utterly delicious and have that <i>Mmmm</i> moment when all your senses are heightened by the taste. It sounds ridiculous but that is what mindfulness is about. Taking a minute to just be in the moment. Mindfulness is a form of meditation therefore. Meditation being the ultimate practise of being able to calm the mind, slow the breathing and concentrate.<br />
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So I began trying to be more mindful, to focus on the things I was doing, rather than letting my mind race all the time. Going for a walk and not talking, eating and really tasting the food, slowing everything down. And then I was told about an app for the phone that did guided meditations. You didn't have to sit for an hour in total silence, you could listen and be guided into different forms of meditation to help you keep focused, which I have to say, sounded a bit more like it.<br />
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So for the last 2 weeks I have been listening to a different guided meditation each day, for at least 20 minutes, as soon as I wake up. I do not leap out of bed and thrown myself into a lotus position on the floor, I simply rest my phone on my chest and lay perfectly still. The app is called Insight Timer and is a global community of experts with over 12,000 meditations. I do have my favourites already because there is nothing more annoying and distracting than a voice suddenly telling you what to do if they have a horrible speaking voice. So that is number one for me. A lovely calm voice. Secondly, I like ones that focus on breathing. As soon as you slow your breathing down, the effect on your stress levels is overwhelming. I also like visualisation ones although some I've listened to end up making me laugh. There was one I tried a few days ago, where you imagine yourself on a white sandy beach, waves lapping at your feet. That was fine, nice slow breathing to the sound of waves. But then suddenly she told me to get into a boat and float over to a deserted island, to get out of the boat, find a path and walk through a rainforest. In the rainforest was a clearing with a pool of deep water. She told me to take my clothes off and get into the pool of water. And then I started giggling. Of course my brain could not ignore the questions that came into my head... were there sharks in the water? How did the boat know how to get to the island? What if it missed the island on a weird current and floated out to sea instead? Who else was on the island and could they now all see me naked?<br />
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So, you see, not every single one does the trick of calming and focusing but I'm very much enjoying experimenting. The latest one, that I did this morning, involved me picturing bright balls of light, zooming and spinning around my body. That was quite nice. I actually felt a tingling sensation for at least half an hour afterwards... but that might have been my new medication instead!!<br />
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<br />Juleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09202778387966005139noreply@blogger.com0