I have a lot of respect for my ancestors. How those women managed to survive entombed in whalebone corsets, the only relief coming from the occasional waft of smelling salts, amazes me. This is perhaps the only point over which I won’t kick up a fuss if ever faced with my Edwardian relations telling me that I have been spoilt by modern life and wouldn’t know what it’s like to really suffer.
I decided to take the plunge as the date of my niece’s Christening encroached and I still hadn’t got any further in losing my, ahem, Christmas weight. I’d ordered my dress in my ‘smaller’ size, after resolving to run ten miles every day and survive solely on goji berries, which was precisely why last week I found myself in the Debenhams changing room with a selection of drop-a-dress size mechanisms and an over-eager assistant.
I was unsure as to whether my first offering, which I had been assured was in my size, should be pulled up or yanked down. I opted for the former but only managed to slide it up as far as my knees before the friction became too much. I had to pause for a breather before grasping the upper hem, in the same way that I’d cling onto a cliff edge for dear life, and tugged. I’d got it halfway over my backside when my helpful assistant called out to check on my progress.
’I’m fine!’ I squeaked, taking a deep breath and resuming my clawing grip on the nylon. I knew I sounded like a constipated grizzly as I felt my triceps take the strain, but desperation was kicking in. The underwear inched up my trunk, every millimetre making a difference, but unfortunately my hopping around on the spot didn’t take my boots into consideration.
I didn’t actually flash, but the bruise along my temple did lead to a few raised eyebrows after my Godmotherly duties. But at least I sported a cinched in waist and, due to my depleted oxygen supply, needed little bubbly to get the after party started. Perhaps the Edwardians were onto something…
Sunday 23 October 2011
Monday 26 September 2011
Marriage? P'ah... (?!)
This week I have been congratulating myself on getting through yet another wedding season without blubbering into my cake about the sorry state of my love life or succumbing to a night of ‘passion’ with the sleazy middle-aged usher that even thrice divorced Aunt Mavis rejected. When questioned about my thoughts and plans for nuptials and children I have been proud to turn my nose up at all that jazz and make a thing of concentrating on my career and snubbing the idea of spending all that money on just one day, like the liberated, privileged twenty-first century woman that I am; my real achievements, I (occasionally waveringly) assert, lie in the field of work. After all, anyone can just meet a guy and get married, right (cue wobbly-mouthed smiley)? But to pass the mileposts in my professional life, as the first woman in my family who has had such unparalleled choices and opportunities? Now that’s success and progression. Right…?
An article in London's Evening Standard on July 7th attacked the summer flick ‘Bridesmaids’ for conveying the message that getting wed should be viewed as the greatest achievement in a woman’s life. Hear hear! I cried, pleased to be able to arm myself with support to carry on with my ball-busting career journey (as well as to avoid facing up to a few home truths). But when I conferred with my friend (a first-class Oxbridge Phd student working on a cure for cancer) her response was somewhat different to the fervent agreement I had envisioned. ‘Well yes, I think that getting married probably would be one of my biggest achievements. I mean, I know I can clone cells and find a cure for cancer (ok, maybe she didn’t quite go that far…), but finding a man I like enough to spend the rest of my life with? And to have that reciprocated?’ Well that really would be impressive!’ Hmm. I was actually hoping for a bit more support there…
An article in London's Evening Standard on July 7th attacked the summer flick ‘Bridesmaids’ for conveying the message that getting wed should be viewed as the greatest achievement in a woman’s life. Hear hear! I cried, pleased to be able to arm myself with support to carry on with my ball-busting career journey (as well as to avoid facing up to a few home truths). But when I conferred with my friend (a first-class Oxbridge Phd student working on a cure for cancer) her response was somewhat different to the fervent agreement I had envisioned. ‘Well yes, I think that getting married probably would be one of my biggest achievements. I mean, I know I can clone cells and find a cure for cancer (ok, maybe she didn’t quite go that far…), but finding a man I like enough to spend the rest of my life with? And to have that reciprocated?’ Well that really would be impressive!’ Hmm. I was actually hoping for a bit more support there…
You never make me scream...
Right ladies, honest answer now. What do you do when you meet the seemingly perfect partner, who wines and dines you and treats you right, shows you respect and doesn’t push it then, on that night when you finally decide to go ahead with the deed, doesn’t quite, well, live up to expectations? Interpret as you will.
This time last year I was as chuffed as a lovestruck teenager to hit it off with a friend’s sexy, older, Italian housemate. I felt my heart flutter like an overexcited daddy longlegs as his lips touched mine, but unfortunately the adolescent similie didn’t lift as he proceeded to slobber all over me in a way that I would expect a bloke nearly twenty years his junior to have done.
Then there was the Bostonian banker. He did have his plus points, but they were coupled with a rather miniscule, ahem, appendage. Let’s face it, that was never going to hit the spot. I was heartbroken when it ended, but I must confess to a certain underlying sense of relief.
Another couple of significant exes shared an uncanny likeness for attempting to win the time trial, with only that one goal in mind. In fairness they were considerate of my needs - rather sweet in a way - but I do now have a rather different interpretation of ‘rampant rabbit’ to before. And not in a good way.
But is the physical side of a relationship really so important that it’s worth losing an otherwise perfectly good catch over? Can you really teach an old dog new tricks? Yes, maybe so, but by the time you’re in your mid-late twenties you really would hope that they at least had a secure foundation to build on. I think it might be time I went for a different kind of guy…
This time last year I was as chuffed as a lovestruck teenager to hit it off with a friend’s sexy, older, Italian housemate. I felt my heart flutter like an overexcited daddy longlegs as his lips touched mine, but unfortunately the adolescent similie didn’t lift as he proceeded to slobber all over me in a way that I would expect a bloke nearly twenty years his junior to have done.
Then there was the Bostonian banker. He did have his plus points, but they were coupled with a rather miniscule, ahem, appendage. Let’s face it, that was never going to hit the spot. I was heartbroken when it ended, but I must confess to a certain underlying sense of relief.
Another couple of significant exes shared an uncanny likeness for attempting to win the time trial, with only that one goal in mind. In fairness they were considerate of my needs - rather sweet in a way - but I do now have a rather different interpretation of ‘rampant rabbit’ to before. And not in a good way.
But is the physical side of a relationship really so important that it’s worth losing an otherwise perfectly good catch over? Can you really teach an old dog new tricks? Yes, maybe so, but by the time you’re in your mid-late twenties you really would hope that they at least had a secure foundation to build on. I think it might be time I went for a different kind of guy…
Lymphatic Drainage...??
I‘m going on a diet. That’s not really news - I’ve been on a diet since about 1976, and I was only born in the eighties. But this time it’s serious. This time I’m accompanying my Ryvita, thrice (honestly!) weekly runs and those infamous yoga sessions with two extra measures: lymphatic drainage massages and I-Lipo sessions. And in a few months’ time I’m going to possess a svelte figure that Britain’s Next Top Model would be proud of.
I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …
On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all.
‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off.
A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.
Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting…
So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …
I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …
On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all.
‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off.
A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.
Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting…
So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …
Thursday 15 September 2011
Happy Ever After ... ?
There is a Facebook group called ‘Disney ruined my love life’. You may read that and laugh. But then you may read it again and think, ‘hang on a sec … so did Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and Bridget Jones and Julia Roberts …’ I could go on.
The media fascination with ‘happy ever after’ has left us spoilt by the notion that to be in love means grand gestures, fireworks and immaculately timed orchestral crescendos. Not to mention endless nights of fervent love making complete with mind-reading synchronicity and simultaneous orgasms from the offset. Or maybe I just speak for myself.
Real relationships are not perfect, because real people are not perfect. We all know too well that that first time together is awkward and fumbly, and that even after years of practice a night of passion can result in a knee to the eye or some unexpected sound effects. And as for dropping off curled up in each others arms? Forget it. Bones are hard and people are wriggly.
It’s no news flash to say that it’s the little things that make a relationship special - having someone who makes your coffee just right, takes out the rubbish when it’s raining and remembers to buy milk - but it can be easy to forget to value - or indeed to carry out - such gestures, and all too tempting to hold on to adolescent fantasies. Maybe occasionally we should take a reality check on our expectations. And anyway, let’s be honest - would you really want someone to come flying in through your window at midnight, fresh from Carpet Right, declaring their undying love for you? I’m pretty confident that if Aladdin were to try that in my flat he would be tied up and handcuffed before he could even blink (by the police!). Maybe not quite the romantic ending I’ve daydreamed about, but at least now I’m a realist.
The media fascination with ‘happy ever after’ has left us spoilt by the notion that to be in love means grand gestures, fireworks and immaculately timed orchestral crescendos. Not to mention endless nights of fervent love making complete with mind-reading synchronicity and simultaneous orgasms from the offset. Or maybe I just speak for myself.
Real relationships are not perfect, because real people are not perfect. We all know too well that that first time together is awkward and fumbly, and that even after years of practice a night of passion can result in a knee to the eye or some unexpected sound effects. And as for dropping off curled up in each others arms? Forget it. Bones are hard and people are wriggly.
It’s no news flash to say that it’s the little things that make a relationship special - having someone who makes your coffee just right, takes out the rubbish when it’s raining and remembers to buy milk - but it can be easy to forget to value - or indeed to carry out - such gestures, and all too tempting to hold on to adolescent fantasies. Maybe occasionally we should take a reality check on our expectations. And anyway, let’s be honest - would you really want someone to come flying in through your window at midnight, fresh from Carpet Right, declaring their undying love for you? I’m pretty confident that if Aladdin were to try that in my flat he would be tied up and handcuffed before he could even blink (by the police!). Maybe not quite the romantic ending I’ve daydreamed about, but at least now I’m a realist.
Just Say No....!!!
There are countless unspoken rules and regulations around dating and relationships, yet we repeatedly insist on learning from experience before concurring that we should have listened to the voice of reason. Even if that did come from our mum.
Here are just a few of the many lessons I have learned from my colourful (chequered?!) relationship past of when it’s best to Just. Say. No. (Not that I would listen to my own advice … )
When you hooked up in a club last Saturday Sitting across the table from someone you were dry humping down the local joint last week is painful. Unless you’re only after one thing, but then I wouldn’t bother with the courtesy cocktail.
When his accent is too strong for regular conversationIf early conversations are peppered with ‘what?’ ‘huh?’ and ‘sorry?’ before ignorant assent, followed by your worrying if you’ve just declared allegiance to the far right, then the relationship will be a struggle.
When you’re more into him than he is into youYou will send too many text messages. You will Google him regularly and you will find a reason to be outside his office at 5.30 on a weekday. It’s really not healthy.
When you are as mismatched as cheese and vinegar crispsNo matter how intriguing it may seem you know it’s not going to work. Otherwise it would have already been invented.
When he’s questioning his sexualityJust wait until he’s figured it all out. Take my word for it.
When a blast from the past appears on FacebookWhenever that ‘hey, how’s it going?’ message pops up on screen, no matter how long after the ending of a relationship, it’s best to quickly hit ‘delete’. It finished for a reason.
When he’s a Latin salsa instructor and you’re on your gap yearNeed I say more? (Though it was great fun whilst it lasted…)
Holiday Romance v. Domestic Bliss...
Early holidays with your other half are exciting and magical: someone’s on hand to slather on your sun lotion and you can cuddle up on the balcony late into those balmy evenings, sipping fruity cocktails and making plans for the future. Plus, of course, there’s a whole new arena for those extra curricular activities. But it does put paid to one rather integral part of those precious two weeks spent out of the office and lazing around the beach - the Holiday Romance.
My alternative to the above example of domestic bliss is little less clichéd. A number of us would willingly trade our blossoming life long relationship with John, complete with three star all inclusive featuring live entertainment and overpriced giant sunglasses, for a fortnight hurtling around on a moped with Darius, slurping from lemons fresh off the tree and skinny dipping in shallow waters sparkling with luminescent algae. We’re flattered when Darius tells us that we are ‘different from the others’ as, after all, he’d know; he really understands women.
What did you opt for this summer? I’d like to say that I went for the former, that I’ve finally traded my meaningless and shallow existence for something more heartfelt and real. But, unfortunately, that’s not the case. I had a fantastic two weeks with José the barman, though I was happy to return to my desk and continue with the search for my John. Because no amount of pina coladas and star gazing with the locals can beat that first blissful holiday together. I’m not waiting to hear off José and I’m not booking my next flight out; I won’t make the same mistake again. Because at the end of the day two weeks off life with Darius is great, but there’s nothing quite like having your own John, waiting on the sofa with a cuppa at the end of an autumn day.
My alternative to the above example of domestic bliss is little less clichéd. A number of us would willingly trade our blossoming life long relationship with John, complete with three star all inclusive featuring live entertainment and overpriced giant sunglasses, for a fortnight hurtling around on a moped with Darius, slurping from lemons fresh off the tree and skinny dipping in shallow waters sparkling with luminescent algae. We’re flattered when Darius tells us that we are ‘different from the others’ as, after all, he’d know; he really understands women.
What did you opt for this summer? I’d like to say that I went for the former, that I’ve finally traded my meaningless and shallow existence for something more heartfelt and real. But, unfortunately, that’s not the case. I had a fantastic two weeks with José the barman, though I was happy to return to my desk and continue with the search for my John. Because no amount of pina coladas and star gazing with the locals can beat that first blissful holiday together. I’m not waiting to hear off José and I’m not booking my next flight out; I won’t make the same mistake again. Because at the end of the day two weeks off life with Darius is great, but there’s nothing quite like having your own John, waiting on the sofa with a cuppa at the end of an autumn day.
Monday 29 August 2011
Summer in the City
Summer in the City
We love summer in this country. From that moment in March when the first warming rays appear until sometime in October when we finally have to accept that winter has returned to our shores we are in its feverish grip. And not only do we experience summer as a season, but also Summer as a state of mind.
Regular summer involves living our everyday lives against a temporary backdrop of warmer temperatures and a bit of extra sun, maybe moving out of the lounge to the beer gardens when it gets really warm and on occasion walking instead of taking the train. But Summer is about total immersion.
Us Summer worshippers are easy to spot. For eight months of the year (Summerites like to push the boundaries of conventional summer) we develop separation anxiety if we are away from a park for longer than half a day, become incredibly sensitive to sunlight, develop phobias around encasing our feet in leather or pvc and live on a diet of sausages, Pimms and houmous. For Summerites the calendar says it is July and therefore it is Summer, regardless of meteorological deviation. It’s really that straightforward.
I myself am a self-confessed Summerite, but do you qualify with me? It’s easy to find out; just answer the questions below:-
In the past seven days have you …
- worn shorts and/or flip flops for at least a portion of five days?
- taken to substituting your regular drink for one or more of the following - Pimms, cider (bottled) or lager (if this is not your usual tipple)?
- eaten enough baguette and guacamole to wonder whether you are single handedly supporting the French and Mexican export markets (what do you mean the guacamole in my local store doesn
’t actually come from Mexico?)?
- gazed with longing at your cosy winter boots as you slip your blistered feet into yet another pair of ornate flip flops that just don’t live up to their comfort expectations?
- spent at least one evening sitting in a beer garden, covered in goose pimples yet appalled at your mate’s suggestion to go indoors (Indoors?! But it’s Summer! Have you forgotten the rules?)?
- Eaten your lunch in a park under that big tree that just about shelters you from the elements?
- Spent a night lying awake wondering if you are going to get food poisoning from that chicken that was still frozen despite its char-grilled disguise?
If you answered ‘yes’ to four or more of the above then you, like me, are officially a Summerite. Congratulations! It’s a great club. And the fantastic news is that we still have over three months left of Summer, despite what the cynics might say. Get out there any enjoy it!
We love summer in this country. From that moment in March when the first warming rays appear until sometime in October when we finally have to accept that winter has returned to our shores we are in its feverish grip. And not only do we experience summer as a season, but also Summer as a state of mind.
Regular summer involves living our everyday lives against a temporary backdrop of warmer temperatures and a bit of extra sun, maybe moving out of the lounge to the beer gardens when it gets really warm and on occasion walking instead of taking the train. But Summer is about total immersion.
Us Summer worshippers are easy to spot. For eight months of the year (Summerites like to push the boundaries of conventional summer) we develop separation anxiety if we are away from a park for longer than half a day, become incredibly sensitive to sunlight, develop phobias around encasing our feet in leather or pvc and live on a diet of sausages, Pimms and houmous. For Summerites the calendar says it is July and therefore it is Summer, regardless of meteorological deviation. It’s really that straightforward.
I myself am a self-confessed Summerite, but do you qualify with me? It’s easy to find out; just answer the questions below:-
In the past seven days have you …
- worn shorts and/or flip flops for at least a portion of five days?
- taken to substituting your regular drink for one or more of the following - Pimms, cider (bottled) or lager (if this is not your usual tipple)?
- eaten enough baguette and guacamole to wonder whether you are single handedly supporting the French and Mexican export markets (what do you mean the guacamole in my local store doesn
’t actually come from Mexico?)?
- gazed with longing at your cosy winter boots as you slip your blistered feet into yet another pair of ornate flip flops that just don’t live up to their comfort expectations?
- spent at least one evening sitting in a beer garden, covered in goose pimples yet appalled at your mate’s suggestion to go indoors (Indoors?! But it’s Summer! Have you forgotten the rules?)?
- Eaten your lunch in a park under that big tree that just about shelters you from the elements?
- Spent a night lying awake wondering if you are going to get food poisoning from that chicken that was still frozen despite its char-grilled disguise?
If you answered ‘yes’ to four or more of the above then you, like me, are officially a Summerite. Congratulations! It’s a great club. And the fantastic news is that we still have over three months left of Summer, despite what the cynics might say. Get out there any enjoy it!
Upward facing dog position? Yes please ...
Upward facing dog position? Yes please ...
Last week I finally achieved one of my lifetime ambitions. I did a hand (ok, head) stand and gracefully allowed my legs to fall past the 180 degree mark and land in a beautiful arc which I held with the discipline of a natural gymnast. Well, pretty much. (I don
’t like to big myself up or anything … )
I had long since given up on ever reaching this goal, settling instead for the usual - getting a degree (check), buying a house (hmm), finding the perfect man (less said about that the better), writing a novel (check), locating the perfect pair of winter boots (still in progress) and watching every episode of ‘Friends’ 300 times (well on my way to achieving that one). Yet despite everything I’ve always felt that something was missing.
At school I’d practice my, ahem, flips, religiously alongside my more athletic counterpart who could spend hours whipping herself backwards and forwards in a hypnotic trance. But I could never get beyond the back-flop, inevitably resulting in an extremely painful winding followed by a watery ‘I’m fine’ kind of smile, masking my fear that this time I really had given myself permanent paralysis. Hence the eventual evaporation of my enthusiasm.
Until, that is, I found yoga. I saw attending classes as something of a rite of passage into proper young professional lifestyle, but my fear of irreversible contortion delayed commencement for as long as possible. Then one lazy Sunday, after a horrific lunch at Auntie Bev’s involving a grand misunderstanding (on my part) and praises for the upward facing dog and legs up the wall positions (her part), I decided it was time to get initiated.
And that was how, six months later, I found myself in the inverted position (another element of Auntie Bev’s conversation now making itself clearer), with my head full of blood, my veins full of adrenaline and my legs commencing their fall. But don’t go thinking it was simple; I did experience all those crests and troughs that come with the journey to the top, from the futile air kicks and unexpected forward rolls to the emergency trips to casualty (ok so it wasn’t that extreme). But it was all worth it in the end.
To avoid complacency I’ve already set myself a new target. By Christmas I am going to be able to stand in a statuesque one legged pose for at least thirty seconds. And I thought my twenties were supposed to be easy!
Last week I finally achieved one of my lifetime ambitions. I did a hand (ok, head) stand and gracefully allowed my legs to fall past the 180 degree mark and land in a beautiful arc which I held with the discipline of a natural gymnast. Well, pretty much. (I don
’t like to big myself up or anything … )
I had long since given up on ever reaching this goal, settling instead for the usual - getting a degree (check), buying a house (hmm), finding the perfect man (less said about that the better), writing a novel (check), locating the perfect pair of winter boots (still in progress) and watching every episode of ‘Friends’ 300 times (well on my way to achieving that one). Yet despite everything I’ve always felt that something was missing.
At school I’d practice my, ahem, flips, religiously alongside my more athletic counterpart who could spend hours whipping herself backwards and forwards in a hypnotic trance. But I could never get beyond the back-flop, inevitably resulting in an extremely painful winding followed by a watery ‘I’m fine’ kind of smile, masking my fear that this time I really had given myself permanent paralysis. Hence the eventual evaporation of my enthusiasm.
Until, that is, I found yoga. I saw attending classes as something of a rite of passage into proper young professional lifestyle, but my fear of irreversible contortion delayed commencement for as long as possible. Then one lazy Sunday, after a horrific lunch at Auntie Bev’s involving a grand misunderstanding (on my part) and praises for the upward facing dog and legs up the wall positions (her part), I decided it was time to get initiated.
And that was how, six months later, I found myself in the inverted position (another element of Auntie Bev’s conversation now making itself clearer), with my head full of blood, my veins full of adrenaline and my legs commencing their fall. But don’t go thinking it was simple; I did experience all those crests and troughs that come with the journey to the top, from the futile air kicks and unexpected forward rolls to the emergency trips to casualty (ok so it wasn’t that extreme). But it was all worth it in the end.
To avoid complacency I’ve already set myself a new target. By Christmas I am going to be able to stand in a statuesque one legged pose for at least thirty seconds. And I thought my twenties were supposed to be easy!
Online dating
Online dating? Ooh, controversial...
Online dating. What are your thoughts? A great way to meet people in a technological world? Or just for desperate freaks who lack social skills? A quick way to separate the wheat from the chaff? Or yet another measure to ensure that by 2030 nobody will actually have to talk to anyone else? The possibilities are endless …
But whatever your opinion online dating is live, and it’s big. New sites seem to spring up daily and it’s no longer taboo to mention you’re going for a drink with someone you met on screen. So I decided to give it a go.
I dabbled in a few sites before I committed for a month and created my profile.
Then I waited excitedly, with my laptop perched on my knees, for the man of my dreams to click that button and start the romance of the century. I sat for three days before accepting that my love life had hit a whole new low.
So I set myself two challenges. I was to contact at least five blokes per day,
and I had get my subscription fee back in the guise of meals and drinks. Then I could deem the experience a ‘success’. And if none of those 150 guys got back to me? Well, I’d happily regress into teenage mode and declare them all losers.
My index finger took over and started clicking and a few days later I began to reap my rewards. I told myself to avoid unfair dismissal, but it’s not easy when you’re receiving messages such as ‘I have a big fantasy for girls like you, we could have lots of fun … let’s meet ... ’ or ‘You are JUST the girl my mum would love! Come to my weekly family lunch this Sunday, 12 Copse Hill for 1.30,’ or ‘I think we could have something really special. Here is my mobile number xxx, and my land line xxx, and my office number xxx, and my parent’s, in case you can’t get hold of me xxx, and my home e-mail is xxx, work xxx, and private xxx.’ Private? What’s private? In the world as I know it ‘private e-mail’ and ‘home e-mail’ would fall into the same category.
I trailed through every message to find the one that held promise and right at the end (of course) I hit gold! CityMan483 presented as a nice guy with a good job, a sense of fun and an intriguing glint to his gaze. He introduced himself and suggested meeting up for a drink, which I agreed to readily. Then came his reply. ‘Great, I’ll look forward to it. Can you bring a bobble hat?’ Sticking with the open-mindedness I responded by saying that I felt it wasn’t really bobble hat season but would wear a distinctive royal blue top so I would stand out. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that I have a thing about girls in bobble hats and I think you’d look great in one. Don’t worry if you don’t have one, I have a hot pink number that would really suit you. I’ll bring it with me.’
And that, as I’m sure you can imagine, was the end of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to my ‘refresh’ button. I’m sure that at this very moment Mr Right is steeling himself up to click that link, and I wouldn’t want to miss that magical moment for the world …
Online dating. What are your thoughts? A great way to meet people in a technological world? Or just for desperate freaks who lack social skills? A quick way to separate the wheat from the chaff? Or yet another measure to ensure that by 2030 nobody will actually have to talk to anyone else? The possibilities are endless …
But whatever your opinion online dating is live, and it’s big. New sites seem to spring up daily and it’s no longer taboo to mention you’re going for a drink with someone you met on screen. So I decided to give it a go.
I dabbled in a few sites before I committed for a month and created my profile.
Then I waited excitedly, with my laptop perched on my knees, for the man of my dreams to click that button and start the romance of the century. I sat for three days before accepting that my love life had hit a whole new low.
So I set myself two challenges. I was to contact at least five blokes per day,
and I had get my subscription fee back in the guise of meals and drinks. Then I could deem the experience a ‘success’. And if none of those 150 guys got back to me? Well, I’d happily regress into teenage mode and declare them all losers.
My index finger took over and started clicking and a few days later I began to reap my rewards. I told myself to avoid unfair dismissal, but it’s not easy when you’re receiving messages such as ‘I have a big fantasy for girls like you, we could have lots of fun … let’s meet ... ’ or ‘You are JUST the girl my mum would love! Come to my weekly family lunch this Sunday, 12 Copse Hill for 1.30,’ or ‘I think we could have something really special. Here is my mobile number xxx, and my land line xxx, and my office number xxx, and my parent’s, in case you can’t get hold of me xxx, and my home e-mail is xxx, work xxx, and private xxx.’ Private? What’s private? In the world as I know it ‘private e-mail’ and ‘home e-mail’ would fall into the same category.
I trailed through every message to find the one that held promise and right at the end (of course) I hit gold! CityMan483 presented as a nice guy with a good job, a sense of fun and an intriguing glint to his gaze. He introduced himself and suggested meeting up for a drink, which I agreed to readily. Then came his reply. ‘Great, I’ll look forward to it. Can you bring a bobble hat?’ Sticking with the open-mindedness I responded by saying that I felt it wasn’t really bobble hat season but would wear a distinctive royal blue top so I would stand out. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that I have a thing about girls in bobble hats and I think you’d look great in one. Don’t worry if you don’t have one, I have a hot pink number that would really suit you. I’ll bring it with me.’
And that, as I’m sure you can imagine, was the end of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to my ‘refresh’ button. I’m sure that at this very moment Mr Right is steeling himself up to click that link, and I wouldn’t want to miss that magical moment for the world …
I just want to swing ... my first trapeze lesson
'I just want to swing …'
Why, for the fourth time in a year, am I finding myself perched thirty feet above ground on a rickety plank, my life held in a pulley and my brain castigating my eyes every time they dare to glance downwards? Oh yeah. Because I signed up for a flying trapeze lesson.
Having spent childhood idealising about running away to become an acrobat, and adulthood harbouring a suppressed fantasy along not dissimilar lines, you may think that finally getting a chance to live that dream would leave me on top of the world (no pun intended). But there
’s an important thing
to remember about fantasy - sometimes it should remain just that.
The first time I didn’t really need the bar. My fingertips clung on for about five seconds after hurling myself off the platform, complete with a wail to rival an air raid. I proceeded to career into the safety net in a mesh of haywire legs and sticking out arse, with rope burns bubbling up under my arms.
My second attempt wasn’t much more successful, but at least I was finally able to accept that I hadn’t missed out on a glittering circus career through failure to exploit a raw talent. At take off I was more Quasimodo than Spellbound and apparently ‘didn’t trust enough’ in the slip of a girl who was perched at the top, there to support my weight and allow me to lean over at a diagonal with my chest out, bottom in and head up, before releasing me to daintily jump off the platform and swoop in a graceful arc through the balmy summer’s evening against the backdrop of the setting sun. My lack of confidence was through no disrespect to Harri, it’s just that I’m not the slightest build out there and despite her rippling muscles and obvious competence I do have trust and dependency issues (though it’s not the time or place to go into that right now).
But after a stern self-recrimination (including a reminder that Harri is not my ex-boyfriend) I became encouraged to let my defences slide and put my trust in the professional. On my third attempt I did as I was told and stood tall and proud, head up and shoulders back, Harri taking my weight from behind as I waited for the ‘hup’ command to jump. Success!
‘Legs up! Legs up!’ Shouted Harri’s partner in crime from the floor. ‘Legs up! Hook onto you knees! Like the others!’
Hook onto my flaming knees? Who the hell did he think I was?
‘I just want to swing!’ I shrieked back, much to the amusement of the more advanced class stood off to the sidelines, all lithe limbs and sculptured physiques. And swing I did, until my bingo wings gave up on me once again.
But I leave you with a shock - on my fourth and final turn I managed not only to launch myself off without belly-flopping yet again, but also to backflip off the trapeze and land (relatively) gracefully in the net! All that stuff I said about fantasy remaining in the mind? Forget it! And what I said about accepting that I hadn’t missed out on a hidden career opportunity? Well, I’ll leave you with that as a cliff-hanger… (I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist…)
Why, for the fourth time in a year, am I finding myself perched thirty feet above ground on a rickety plank, my life held in a pulley and my brain castigating my eyes every time they dare to glance downwards? Oh yeah. Because I signed up for a flying trapeze lesson.
Having spent childhood idealising about running away to become an acrobat, and adulthood harbouring a suppressed fantasy along not dissimilar lines, you may think that finally getting a chance to live that dream would leave me on top of the world (no pun intended). But there
’s an important thing
to remember about fantasy - sometimes it should remain just that.
The first time I didn’t really need the bar. My fingertips clung on for about five seconds after hurling myself off the platform, complete with a wail to rival an air raid. I proceeded to career into the safety net in a mesh of haywire legs and sticking out arse, with rope burns bubbling up under my arms.
My second attempt wasn’t much more successful, but at least I was finally able to accept that I hadn’t missed out on a glittering circus career through failure to exploit a raw talent. At take off I was more Quasimodo than Spellbound and apparently ‘didn’t trust enough’ in the slip of a girl who was perched at the top, there to support my weight and allow me to lean over at a diagonal with my chest out, bottom in and head up, before releasing me to daintily jump off the platform and swoop in a graceful arc through the balmy summer’s evening against the backdrop of the setting sun. My lack of confidence was through no disrespect to Harri, it’s just that I’m not the slightest build out there and despite her rippling muscles and obvious competence I do have trust and dependency issues (though it’s not the time or place to go into that right now).
But after a stern self-recrimination (including a reminder that Harri is not my ex-boyfriend) I became encouraged to let my defences slide and put my trust in the professional. On my third attempt I did as I was told and stood tall and proud, head up and shoulders back, Harri taking my weight from behind as I waited for the ‘hup’ command to jump. Success!
‘Legs up! Legs up!’ Shouted Harri’s partner in crime from the floor. ‘Legs up! Hook onto you knees! Like the others!’
Hook onto my flaming knees? Who the hell did he think I was?
‘I just want to swing!’ I shrieked back, much to the amusement of the more advanced class stood off to the sidelines, all lithe limbs and sculptured physiques. And swing I did, until my bingo wings gave up on me once again.
But I leave you with a shock - on my fourth and final turn I managed not only to launch myself off without belly-flopping yet again, but also to backflip off the trapeze and land (relatively) gracefully in the net! All that stuff I said about fantasy remaining in the mind? Forget it! And what I said about accepting that I hadn’t missed out on a hidden career opportunity? Well, I’ll leave you with that as a cliff-hanger… (I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist…)
Lymphatic drainage anyone?
I‘m going on a diet. That’s not really news - I’ve been on a diet since about 1976, and I was only born in the eighties. But this time it’s serious. This time I’m accompanying my Ryvita, thrice (honestly!) weekly runs and those infamous yoga sessions with two extra measures: lymphatic drainage massages and I-Lipo sessions. And in a few months’ time I’m going to possess a svelte figure that Britain’s Next Top Model would be proud of.
I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …
On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all.
‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off.
A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.
Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting…
So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …
I‘m going on a diet. That’s not really news - I’ve been on a diet since about 1976, and I was only born in the eighties. But this time it’s serious. This time I’m accompanying my Ryvita, thrice (honestly!) weekly runs and those infamous yoga sessions with two extra measures: lymphatic drainage massages and I-Lipo sessions. And in a few months’ time I’m going to possess a svelte figure that Britain’s Next Top Model would be proud of.
I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …
On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all.
‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off.
A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.
Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting…
So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …
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