what now?

It took four years, a lot of self-discipline and a significant amount of chocolate but in May I completed my degree. Twelve years after finishing school I can finally write 'BA hons' after my name (would it be weird to write it all the time?). I can now officially claim to be qualified for everything and nothing at the same time, along with almost every other person who has ever completed an arts degree. Yet, despite the few useful applications of Shakespeare to any career, I have gained so much from my studies. I feel like a different person to the one who embarked on further study four years ago; I questions more, debate more and stand up for the things I believe in. I see the world in a whole new light and don't simply take everything at face value. And I realise I still have so much to learn.

If I'm honest, the end of my studies has left me in a bit of a limbo-state. Now that I have accomplished the very thing I have been working towards for so long, I feel the pressure to come up with a good answer to the question everyone keeps asking: 'What now?'
In order to escape the strain of having to think about the future, I have spent the summer distracting myself with constant activity. On Thursday, I had a meeting in the city to talk about how to end extreme poverty (or at least contribute in my own small way). Afterwards, I decided to stop in at the National Portrait Gallery to ensure that I was definitely filling every moment of my day.

The gallery's walls are lined with the faces of famous individuals from time-gone-by to the present day. There are portraits of kings and queens throughout the ages, politicians and religious figures. I dutifully stopped at the recent portrait of the Duchess of Cambridge and considered how much her life too has changed in the last few years. There are also pictures of those who are less famous, such as the socialite Ottoline Morrell who looks as if she would kill you with just one look if you crossed her. One of my favourites is the heart-warming portrait of the children's author Beatrix Potter; she is standing in the farmyard, her chubby cheeks aglow, looking exactly as someone called Beatrix should. As I ambled through the impressive Statesmen's Gallery I began to think about my own place in history. As well as housing pictures of those who have made their mark, throughout the gallery there are portraits to be found of those who might be seen as ordinary people. Yet, if they are so ordinary, how did they make it into one of the most famous art galleries in the world? Because no one is simply ordinary. We all have the potential for greatness. Any one of us can achieve something remarkable, something worth a portrait hung in a building just off Trafalgar Square.

It seems, as much as I try and escape the question 'What now?', it is waiting for me at every turn. Either I can run from it, or I can meet it head-on. I just need to remember that I am made for a purpose - as we all are - and that there is a plan for my life. I don't have the answers but I do have the will and a degree that has equipped me with very useful 'transferable skills'. It is time to face life...and remember to smile. Because you never know when someone might want to paint your portrait.

thirty years in the making

Today I blow the virtual dust off roxblurb to reflect on a milestone. While I am still trying to absorb the shock I thought it might be therapeutic to share the news that this week I turned thirty years old.

I’m just taking a moment to let that sink in.

Thirty.

I can no longer say I am in my twenties; I have almost been out of school longer than I was in it; and I think I might actually be starting to look my age. *gasp*

Such an occasion calls for some serious musing and this is what I have been doing over the course of the last week. Being faced with the prospect of a whole new decade has the potential to provoke anxiety about the unstoppable nature of time but I must say I’m feeling quite content at this point in my life. I’m thankful for my wonderful husband, we have a fantastic community of people around us, I am three months away from completing my degree and I have a lunatic of a dog who sleeps on my head at night. What more could I want?!

Yet I know that I am blessed and fortunate and the things I regularly take for granted are the very things that millions of people around the world lack. I was born into privilege and I had no say about that. What I can control is what I do with that.

Over the course of the last few years I have felt a real stirring to stop ignoring the 25% of the world who suffer on a daily basis. I have come to realise that life is far more satisfying when I am focussing away from my own little world and looking further afield to where I can make a difference. So, that is what I plan to do with the rest of the life, whatever that may look like.

I feel incredibly grateful for the way in which my faith - sometimes strong and at other times weak - has carried me through plenty of upheaval and been the reason for much delight over the last three decades. It is everything to me. It is who I am.

With all its ups-and-downs, excitement and boredom, joy and pain, if the last thirty years are anything to go by, and variety truly is the spice of life, the coming years are set to be taaaaast-y! Many people have told me that the thirties are good because you finally discover who you are. I can't say I turned thirty and all of sudden I realised who I am meant to be; that has been thirty years in the making.

emsworth - historic town of values

I'm sitting in the car with the windows down. While the breeze causes mild havoc with my newly acquired 'Curly Sue' hairdo I am distracted by the sound of passers-by crunching along the pebble beach. The ocean is glistening beneath a clear sky and I am embracing every moment of the first sunny day in weeks. The dog is fast asleep on the backseat after a long walk along the sea front, complete with some token seagull-chasing.

In order to better endure my husband working away from home, I am trying to accompany him when I can. This week we are staying in a B&B in Emsworth, Hampshire. These days I tend to judge every village I visit by whether or not I could live there. I am inclined to think this is reflective of my 'small town' upbringing and the longing for a quiet life, surrounded by lots of dogs and attending weekly sewing meetings or bookclub. I was born to be a granny. While my experience of many villages is that the residents can be a bit cliquey or aloof toward strangers, I have been pleasantly surprised by the welcoming nature of the Emsworth community.

One of the many disadvantages that arise as a result of a dog that suffers from acute separation-anxiety, is that dinners while away from home are limited to dog-friendly pubs. The Coal Exchange in Emsworth was recommended to us and on arrival it is pretty clear that this is the village local...and has been for a long time. I had forgotten that English pubs such as this one still exist; low ceilings, slot machines, people all know each others' names and if you ask for a receipt you get a handwritten one from a receipt book. Yet, rather than stare us down for being strangers who hail from the 'big smoke', the locals were friendly and warm. Fox also remarked on the evident respect that seems to exist between young an old; a trait so long gone in the bigger cities. This morning, as I strolled along the promenade, I lost count of how many times people said 'good morning' to me. So lost in my habitual solitude I was rather taken aback the first few times I was greeted. Even the postman appeared to enjoy his job...which makes a nice change from our grump who prefers to throw letters at residents rather than post them through the slot in the door.

So, while the sun shines down I am embracing a bit of the quiet life, breathing in the sea air and feeling encouraged that there are still places where common courtesy prevails.

dante days

It has been so long since I last blogged that I feel a bit overwhelmed by my choice of subject matter. My blog used to be where I would come when I had a few moments to spare. I would write about some exciting experience or jot down an update on goings-on in my world. These days, 'spare time' is a past luxury which has been replaced by critical essays, domestic chores and dog walks. Additionally, committing to a weekly post on my small change blog has meant that, until recently, roxblurb has been lying dormant on a lonely server somewhere. That was until Fox lovingly compiled all my roxblurb posts into a book for Christmas. Therefore, I feel such a labour of love deserves the granting of a request that I post a more recent update than August last year.

The most significant alteration to our lives since my last post is the adoption of our puppy, Dante. Our intention was to go and 'view' him after seeing a picture of him online and then come home to make a balanced and logical decision. We arrived, took one look at his little face, paid our deposit and collected him three days later.  I would love to report that his docile and independent temperament, that first attracted us to him, has endured. It hasn't. Instead, he is hyperactive, overly-friendly, totally disloyal, demanding, chewy and suffers from acute separation anxiety. If you think I am kidding about his desperate need to be close, let's jump to 11pm in our household. That's our bedtime. The moment the lights go out, Dante makes his way to his favourite sleeping spot: my head. If we try and banish him to the kitchen, where he is supposed to sleep, he yelps so loudly we fear he will wake the entire neighbourhood, never mind just the neighbours. So there are three in the bed. 

My once leisurely days now consist of epic battles of tug-of-war, fetch, feeding, cleaning up puppy-poop and a minimum of two walks. On these walks I am often found to be running across Wimbledon Park screaming 'Dante!!! Nooooo!!!' as the dog hurtles toward a toddler who is just the right height to accept a thousand puppy kisses planted on the lips. Simple activities such as cleaning are now a matter of strategic planning. If Dante is anywhere in the vicinity, the mop weighs 4.5kg more than it should due to the added attachment of a dog. Our carpets are wrecked, I had to replace most of my wardrobe thanks to holes caused by puppy teeth and I can't remember the last time I had an entirely peaceful night's sleep.

Yet, for every one menacing trait, he possess ten lovely ones. He is cuddly and lovable. Four days after we brought him home, he attracted a horrible stomach bug. At 2am in the morning, I was so worried that we would wake up to a dead puppy that I went and slept on the kitchen floor to be close to him. I will never forget that tiny little creature looking over at me, using what little strength he had left to climb onto my chest and subsequently falling asleep in my neck. Fox likes to point out that Dante and I have a 'special' relationship. I think it started that night. After my head, my lap is his second favourite place. He is getting a bit big for it to be entirely comfortable but he persists. As I type, he is sleepily flopped over my legs like a rag doll, twitching occasionally as he dreams of chasing a bird or being chased by a barking Jack Russell. 

The postmen love him. We have two and they both enjoy delivering parcels because they get greeted as if they are the most important person in the world as soon as the door opens. And it's not just them. Dante will go to anyone. This is why I say he is disloyal. Keeping him beside me on a walk is nearly impossible. Every new person who comes within range is lavished with kisses and nibbles and most likely a nice muddy smear down the front of their trouser legs. It is almost always a stress taking him into public places but still I endure and treasure those few incident-free outings. 

He is gorgeous. I have had strangers stop me in the street to ask if they can take a picture of him. Going for a walk always takes longer than necessary because people want to know what breed he is or have a little pat. 

I no longer have use for an alarm clock. Instead I am woken by sloppy kisses and gentle bites which I have come to interpret as, 'Wake up sleepy-head. Don't you know it's breakfast time? Sheesh, what's a dog got to do to get service around here?'

I love watching Fox interact with him. He pretends to be the tough-guy but I know better. Let's just say I'm not the one who first allowed Dante a taste of sleeping in our lusciously comfortable king-sized bed. When Fox arrives home I worry that Dante might spontaneously combust, such is the reciprocal scene that takes place at the front door.

Nothing scares him. Poor pup had to undergo the loss of his manhood on Tuesday. You would think that a return to the vet would induce fear and loathing but not our dog. Instead he runs through the door, wagging his tail (which in turn causes his entire body to follow in a wagging motion) greeting all the staff as if he couldn't be happier to see them. I've never known a dog with such enthusiasm for life. Yet, he has his moments of quiet where he will happy sit and stare out of the study window, watching the passers-by.

So we persevere through the bad times carried by the many good times that have been and in anticipation of those that are still to come. Now, five months on, we wouldn't trade him for anything. Our Dante days have only just begun. 

a danger to myself

Poor roxblurb has been a bit neglected since the launch of 'small change' and I thought it was time I returned to blog about something trivial. In the spirit of being able to laugh at one's self (post-trauma), I have two incidents of bodily harm to relate which occurred last week.

A new gym recently opened in our area and, always a sucker for a bargain, I simply couldn't pass up the opportunity of a dirt-cheap gym contract. Patting off six months worth of dust from my workout attire, I arrived at the gym with a keenness that can only be mustered in one who has not done any exercise for a significant period of time. My plan was to gently phase myself back into my fitness regime with a leisurely jog on the treadmill and perhaps a short cycle, while I read Henry Fielding's Joseph Andrews. While innocently filling my water bottle at the cooler, one of the instructors invited me to a 'warm-up' kettle bells class which he was running in the next five minutes. In my enthusiasm I agreed, with little prior knowledge of what such a class might entail. Within minutes I was handed an eight kilogram weight and had orders barked at me to lunge, lift and crunch with only ten second breaks in-between. Half an hour later I was sprawled out on an exercise mat, unable to muster enough strength to lift myself off the floor. For the next two days I was not just aching, I was mostly incapacitated. At one point, Fox had to carry me up the stairs because it was simply too painful for me to climb them myself. I have not been back to the gym since then and am currently undergoing a course of self-motivation just to put on my gym shorts.

If that wasn't enough physicality for one week, I decided that the Bank holiday weekend was the best time for us to redo our kitchen and bathroom floors. Ten hours later, after ripping up three layers of flooring in the kitchen alone, I began to wonder which side of the family I should credit with my unsound mind. Yesterday, I begrudgingly started on the bathroom while Fox, very willingly, opted to do the necessary trips to the hardware store. At one point, perhaps due to fatigue, maybe carelessness, there was an incident with the stanley knife, my thumb and a vinyl tile which resulted in me passing out. Fox arrived home to find me leaning against the kitchen cupboard, pale as a ghost, with blood smeared across my face. Not pretty. I have a ridiculous phobia relating to blood on the fingers which has contributed to many similar incidents. I have been unable to look at the wound and Fox's insistence that I need to disinfect it is responded to in a manner reminiscent of a five-year-old having a splinter removed.

You will appreciate then that today I have decided that I am a hazard to myself and the safest place for me is at my computer, blogging. I would make myself a cup of tea but the risks involved are just too high. My bottle of water will do just fine for now.

electricity is current headache

Is it just me? Can anyone else’s experience in dealing with electricity providers be associated with having teeth pulled out minus anaesthetic? I want to vent. I want to relay every sorry detail of every frustrating telephone conversation I’ve had with ‘customer services’ over the last four months.  
But I won’t. No one else should have to suffer the agony of what I have experienced as the result of one seemingly simple decision: changing energy suppliers. I read those words and I shiver. And I am resolute that it will never happen again. My blood-pressure, stress levels and general health and wellbeing are worth more than a few pennies saved over the course of a lifetime. 
I have made approximately ten phone calls and had conversations with different EON representatives each time. Every newly received letter brings me closer to weeping as I consider that another fruitless call will have to be made, the situation re-explained, only for me to be told something different. Sometimes I’m lucky and I talk to someone friendly; other times I get the guy who simply hates his job. Those are not good days. How is it that we now live in a world where I can be held emotionally ransom by a headset-wearing, compassionless individual whose sole ambition is to ruin my life (or at the very least my day)? I want to scream down the phone, ‘Can you not understand my pain and frustration? Do you have a heart? ARE YOU NOT HUMAN TOO?’ Then I realise I haven’t even been put through to a real person yet; I’m wasting my anxiety on a recorded voice. So later, I sit and I simmer and then I blog. Because that is how we cope in an impersonal, technologically evolved world. And the irony is that I have to keep pursuing this ludicrous situation because I need electricity to keep my laptop alive, which enables me to write rather than combust. 
Maybe I should come to some agreement with the electricity provider whereby they deal with my query and in return they are entitled use some of the energy produced by my rage. But that would mean making another phone call…and I just can’t do it.

let the sun do the smiling

It is the biggest, saddest looking dog in the world. It clearly takes after its owner, who wears terribly slovenly clothes and boasts a head of unkempt hair. They seem to spend their lives walking around and around the park. But then, maybe they think the same about me. They’re a stark contrast to myself and the others who seem delighted that the sun is beaming down on London for a third day. It’s impossible to deny the endorphins brought on by a rush of Vitamin D, replenishing a tank that has been emptied during the long winter months. Once again, I question how it is we all manage to get through the dreary days and long nights, the cold, the grey skies. It is surely in expectation of a day like today. 
I feel Fox may start to question my commitment to my studies when he returns home to find me an even deeper shade of pink than when he left for work this morning. It is perfectly acceptable to study in the park!
During my hours of solitary study, my only companions are Dickens, Austen, Shakespeare and their fellow literary ‘greats’.It is therefore advantageous that I am not at all distracted by those whom I may encounter in the park: children playing and the ‘cool kids’ returning from school; friends kicking a ball around; dogs chasing other dogs…owners chasing dogs, chasing other dogs; runners, joggers and those who make walking seem like a chore; guys and girls revealing their pasty bodies after months of hibernation, all in the name of a tan; and the quirky little man with his melancholy dog. And it is this pair whom I regard the highest, for they remain true to themselves, come winter or summer. It would seem that their mantra is, ‘Why smile when the sun can do it for you?’ Good for them. As for me, I just can’t keep the smile off my face.

what next?

The last couple of weeks have been a bit chaotic. Moving home always measures pretty high up on the stress-o-meter. Once we had marginally recovered from the anxiety of having the moving truck packed but technically not yet owning our new property, we had to contend with a broken shower, no hot water in the bathroom and a malfunctioning oven. But it was okay because we had a new flat and we had each other. Momentary bliss proves to be just that when, attempting to pull out of one of the terribly awkward parking spots in our new street, I managed to knock over a parked scooter...into a parked van. You simply wouldn't believe me if I tried to describe the damage to the scooter while myself and the van got off with one scratch between us (and it's not on our car). As much as I love our new flat, this week I am content to leave it in the hands of the refurbishers while Fox and I retreat to Mom's to keep an eye on the resident delinquent while "Granskies" jets off to Australia to meet her first grandchild, Abby Rose.
Living with a teenager is keeping me consistently amused as I try to decipher the string of latest slang that pours forth out of his mouth, coax him into eating a meal with a nutritional value higher than that of Sam's Chicken and make requests through his permanently closed bedroom door. This morning I had to chuckle at the state of panic when his desire for independence backfired, leaving him standing in his boxers cursing at the injustice of having no dry jeans to wear. (Aaz, on the off chance you are actually reading this, I'm sorry I'm such a cruel sister but it was very funny. Don't worry, Des also has me as a sister...she can sympathise with you.) Thankfully, I'm not too old to remember the days when adults knew nothing, my friends were my world and everything was too much effort.
So, as I turn my attention back to Virgina Woolf and fall under the spell of Mrs Dalloway's London, I think of my own London where there is just never a dull moment.

relocation, relocation

I’m staring at an empty bookshelf and marvelling at the towers of boxes surrounding me. I arrived in the UK six years ago with one suitcase and it has now taken me three full days to pack our possessions in preparation for our move tomorrow. It’s hard to believe that we have lived here for more than two years in our first little flat as a married couple. And when I say little, I mean little. Hence, the upgrade.
Nostalgia makes me sentimental. That’s until I recall the nights of surround sound thanks to the neighbour upstairs, or the constant cigarette fumes from the people beside us and let me not neglect the granny downstairs who blasts her opera music every time our washing machine goes into spin cycle. Despite all that, I’m going to miss this place. So many hours of DIY to make it our own, Fox’s ingenious rewiring, trips to home stores to find the perfect mirror or lampshade and there is, of course, the world’s most expensive tie-backs (long time blog devotees might remember the dedication that went into making these). We’ve really made it ours over the years and it’s hard to let go.
But then, I am looking forward to a full-size fridge, my own study and a balcony where I can keep the live, potted Christmas tree which I have refused to let Fox leave out for the council to turn into compost. Hey, at least we don’t have to buy one this year! There are all new streets to learn as we cross the border from SW15 to SW18 (albeit only by one mile) and new locals to explore.
Farewell, Harwood. We have done all we can, outgrown the space you offer and now leave you in the hands of another who I’m sure will cherish you as much as we have. Farewell, Putney. It is perhaps you I will miss the most, with your crazy high street, convenient transport links and your all-round good reputation. However, we’re just down the road so I will see you often for walks along the river and dinner in your eateries. But it’s time to say goodbye…

stop this train?

Every New Year I write about my total aversion to the whole notion of resolutions. This year I will leave it there and allow the aforementioned to represent my distaste toward this self-defeating practice.
The start of January does, however, afford the opportunity to reflect on the year gone by. My theory is that Earth is spinning faster every year. I know there is a scientific flaw in my argument but the alternative, that I am simply letting life run away with me, is far less satisfactory. A number of my elderly relatives have relayed the same message: the years only go faster as you get older. I have to agree that the last few years seem to blend into each other with little distinction, other than the obvious milestones such as new jobs, studies and, of course, marriage.
There are times when I wish I could just press pause. As John Mayer puts it (more than five years of blogging and this is the first time I have quoted him?),”Stop this train, I want to get off and go home again”. So why do I feel like life keeps speeding along without giving me a chance to catch up? Perhaps I feel like I might have been more, done more, achieved more by this stage. And I don’t think this is negative. I feel it’s important to have a sense of dissatisfaction in order to keep moving forward, to continue reaching for what may seem unattainable but really just takes some determination. I think trying to exploit each moment for what it’s worth is too much pressure but cherishing the potential of a lifetime can go a long way.
So, while the world keeps turning and I continue to work it all out, I propose a New Years toast to making it count.

festive resolutions

I find it hard to believe that another Christmas has come and gone. All the build up to this one day and then the presents, food, phone calls and just as quickly it's all over and you spend Boxing Day trying to recover full functionality of your overindulged body. It's the same every year and every Boxing Day I vow to do it differently next time. Not that I haven't loved Christmases gone by, it's just that I wish I could get my act together to start shopping earlier for presents, not spend as much, try not to eat myself into a semi-coma and do more for those who are less fortunate. I haven't done it yet but 2011 is my year for Christmas change!
Take my mom, for instance, who left her shopping to Christmas eve this year (sorry to 'out' you Ma) and I ended up with two right hand gloves. I loved them but she insisted on returning them to the store. On my side, I sent presents all across the world, only to discover yesterday that half of them never arrived. Gutted. I probably should have listened to the lady at the post office when she warned that I had missed the last posting date. I just thought she was trying to make more money out me.
When it comes to lunch, why did we think it necessary to have two roasts, a mountain of vegetables to rival Kilimanjaro as well as two desserts and other snacks? There was so much food we didn't even realise that the Yorkshire puddings had been left in the oven to become the casualties of Christmas lunch.
This year, in my attempt to 'have a Christmas with a difference', I researched helping out at a homeless shelter for the day. I'm sad to say that I was very quickly deterred by the health and safety training and pages of rules and regulations. Perish the thought that one could simply turn up and serving dinner to the needy! I know we need systems in place but I also had a moment where I feared we may be suffocating ourselves in our cotton wool world.
All of this said, we did have a really lovely Christmas this year and let's be honest, the funny stories and traditional chaos is a large part of what makes Christmas special. I just hope that in all the protocol I can stay true, not just to myself, but to the meaning behind it all. It's not just about going to church, but why we go to church. It's not just about a baby in a manger but about who that baby was and is. And as long as I keep that at the centre of it all, who cares if my Boxing Day resolutions are never realised. As long as I remember to rejoice through it all.

mani-pedi mayhem in nyc

I’ve wanted to come to New York for as long as I can remember. Having watched countless episodes of Friends and Sex and the City I feel like I know the place already but there’s just no substitute for being here in the flesh.
I’ve crossed the East River via yellow cab, visited the famous Serendipity cafe and meandered the streets of the Lower East Side. However, my highlight thus far is, undoubtedly, my $20 mani-pedi experience.
My close friend and tour guide, BB, insists I join her at…uuhhmmm…I think it is just called ‘Nails’…for a bargain manicure and pedicure. Harbouring a strong dislike towards people touching my feet, a pedicure has never been on my list of enjoyable experiences. Nevertheless, the disapproval I receive when suggesting I simply have a manicure leads me to agree to the full works and I am ushered to a massage chair by a somewhat militant beautician. As I sit back to enjoy my pamper session I start to feel a fierce thumping on my back. I swear the chair has grown arms and is targeting every stress induced knot from my shoulders down. As I shift to distribute the pain and fight with the controls, the beautician dips my toes into a boiling hot spa only to realise her error when my foot emerges ruby-red. I maintain my composure until she comes at my sole with a pumice stone, at which point I began to giggle through the torturous, ticklish pain and wrench my foot away from her. I’m subsequently shunted to a manicure table where my finger nails are attacked with a file and my cuticles hacked away at viciously. I only register the extent of the damage when I notice my friendly manicurist painting over my very own blood. Secretly wishing for the process to end soon I’m manoeuvred to a nail dryer which seems to take longer than expected and is switched onto ‘heat’ mode. No prizes for guessing what sort of pain this inflicts.
As we gather our belongings to leave the manager checks my nails and on conclusion that they are not satisfactorily dry, she begins to wrap my toes in cling film. Yes, just like you would do to leftovers.
We leave the salon in fits of laughter marvelling at the cling film sticking out the sides of my shoes and I am overwhelmed by a strong nausea induced by the massage chair releasing toxins, from stressed muscles, into my system. Unfortunately the wrapping efforts are futile too and the polish smudges irreparably.
All that mayhem but…you know what? I would pay it again. Because that sort of entertainment is simply priceless.

blank canvas before me

I’ve shut down my computer one last time, packed my few personal belongings into a Tesco bag, hugged my colleagues, some of whom have become dear friends, farewell and let myself out of the building with a sense of finality. It’s the end of three years of hard work, much banter and laughs and a job that I genuinely loved (most days, like any other). I’m not even entirely sure why, but I know this is right. For months I have felt a restlessness that I need to start making space in my life, rather than simply trying to cram in as much as possible while still finding just enough time to eat and sleep.
Having bucked the trend and skipped university to dive headfirst into adulthood I’ve often felt like I missed out on a stage of life. Instead, I thrived on my freedom and by the time I thought I really should further my studies I knew I wanted my independence more. One year led to nine and here I am, years later, deciding it is time to further my education. Thankfully I have a wonderfully supportive husband who is happy to be adult enough for both of us while his “student wife” obtains her degree and bakes delicious treats when she is procrastinating.
As excited as I am, there is a part of me that naturally wonders who I am without a full-time job and the ensuing responsibility of being paid to use my time constructively. I guess I’m about to find out.
While I am allowing myself a dose of sentimentality, I am also giddy at the thought that before me is a blank canvas and between the Great Commissioner and I, I think something really beautiful could be created.

nothing like a strong cup of coffee

I wake up perky. It’s my first week no longer working full time and rather than waste my day having a lie-in I jump out of bed to make myself and hubby a freshly brewed cup of Cuban coffee. He is naturally surprised that I am even approachable at this time of day, never mind having caffeine which is at the top of my “Things that are Not Good for Me” list. I feel privileged to have the day open to possibility and I want to make the most of it by having a constructive day. Like a good “house wife” I send Fox off to work with a packed breakfast of healthy fruit (he’s already had a slice of homemade banana loaf), switch on morning TV and tidy up the flat. Next I assess my to-do list and start to tick things off one-by-one. As the morning progresses I find myself becoming more and more excited about my productivity.
By 10.30am, as I am energetically getting ready to leave the flat I realise I am having mild heart palpitations. Thinking that it must just be the adrenaline of such efficiency I head off to run my errands without further thought. I walk as fast as my pint-sized legs can carry me (nothing unusual there) and by the time I reach the high street both realisation and regret dawn simultaneously. Caffeine.
Perhaps my morning “treat” wasn’t a good idea, especially as I haven’t had any coffee for weeks…maybe even months. As the day unfolds I become more anxious and determined about everything I have to get through. After I am told that the kitchen trolley we want from Cargo is discontinued I go into overdrive. I have to have that trolley. I start calling different stores until the lady in Wimbledon agrees to let me have the display model at which point I literally beg her not to sell it to anyone else before I can get there to buy it.
I’m about to rush off to Wimbledon when I suddenly feel very, vey tired. Maybe I’ll just sit down and read for a bit. I pick up a book called “The Fingerprints of God” and all of a sudden the idea of creation and the Trinity all starts to make complete sense. I feel drugged. Ten minutes later I crash. I don’t wake up for an hour-and- a-half at which point I have to drag myself from the couch and convince my body that the gym is just what it needs. But on the way I suddenly fear I might have a heart-attack. Perhaps it is just my subconscious’ way of trying to avoid the treadmill but I can feel my heart beating in my chest and I panic that I am going to pass out mid-run and have to be carried out of the leisure centre on a stretcher. Wow…caffeine has turned me utterly neurotic in the space of nine hours.
I think I can finally understand how and why Castro started the revolution. After drinking Cuban coffee every day, perhaps I too might do something as significant as he.
Sheesh…I wouldn’t really know but I suspect Speed ain’t got nothing on that stuff. I think I’ll just stick to herbal tea.

run routine rox run

I’m not a runner. I never have been and despite everyone telling me that once I get into it I will love it, I have been training for a few weeks now and I can confidently say I like it just as little as when I started. This whole training regime (I use the word “regime” here very loosely) has, however, got me thinking about what is involved with success. While I’m more likely to gasp for breathe after just 2km on the treadmill and then hide my glowing face as I retreat to my locker, I marvel at the men and women who manage entire marathons – an idea that is simply inconceivable to me. Having paid a couple of visits to the recent Wimbledon tournament and enjoyed watching some world-class players, as well as being confronted with endless weeks of football, I’ve observed these sportsmen’s determination and passion with some interest. What we seldom see is the discipline and routine involved with getting to this level. What sacrifices do these athletes make in order to excel…to be the best? And what could I achieve if I was as committed and disciplined? Unfortunately I have little will to apply such fervour to my running; instead my goal is to run my allotted 10k on Tuesday without my body failing me and hopefully raise some much needed funds for HOPEHIV’s work in Africa.
I have, nevertheless, been inspired to try and maintain more of a routine lifestyle. This idea always used to strike me as predictable and even boring, but more and more I can see the benefit. I’ve started by trying to wake up at the same time everyday. This may seem like an insignificant detail but is actually a major achievement for someone whose alarm clock is usually their husband lovingly placing a cup of tea bedside them and bravely nudging them until they start to show signs of life. My mornings are usually a blur of moodiness and fumbling around for about an hour when I feel I am awake enough to face the world. Now, since setting my alarm to the same time everyday, I actually feel ready to face the day quicker than usual.
I’m really coming around to this idea of structure. Perhaps I just need to persevere with the running and maybe I’ll be a marathon runner yet. Or perhaps I should just stick to what I enjoy and commit to routine blogging; it’s less strenuous and I don’t lose partial use of my legs for days on end.

boom boom boom

I have decided to drive us to the movies. Most outings where I am behind the wheel have an inevitable episode where Fox feels the necessity to raise his voice in a moment of sheer terror but this has already occurred on this trip so I feel I am through the worst.
On arrival, I pull up to one of those ridiculous stay-in-your-car-while-the-machine-spits-a-ticket-at-you contraptions where you never quite judge the distance appropriately and end up dislocating your shoulder in an attempt to reach far enough. However, having survived that, it is the moments post-ticket retrieval that prove tricky. As the boom lifts I begin to stress because I am in neutral with the handbrake up and I’m aware that pulling off requires my full concentration. In my stress I manage to pull forward just enough so that I am directly underneath the boom…and stall. Yes, I have stalled in the perfect position for the boom to come down and crush our (but mostly Fox’s) car. Extreme panic now sets in and I glance over at Fox who very helpfully has his face in his hands and has shirked all responsibility as an instructor. I try to take a deep breathe and forget that any moment now our car will require serious repair work and attempt to restart the engine. Unfortunately, I have now put the car into third gear and forgotten about the handbrake. I stall. Again. The anxiety now begins to overwhelm me and I start to shake like a leaf and mistakenly glance in my rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of an Indian family in the car behind me all gesturing wildly with arms everywhere. A faint mumble about first gear and handbrake ensues from Fox who has started to return from the dead.
What feels like two hours later and purely by miracle, after my fourth attempt, I manage to roll forward and the engine finally kicks in. Oh the relief, so pure that I can almost taste it.
Fox has now come out of his tortoiseshell and instructs me to pull into one of the ten disabled bays where he will take over. Very helpful at this stage, thank you.
In case anyone is wondering, the booms do, in fact, have sensors and will not come down on your car while you are still under them. And anyone who said that learning to drive is fun has clearly never stalled under one of them.

date to diarise

It’s reached that time of they year again when I start booking things into my schedule for next year but find myself at a loose end because I have nowhere to write them. While still reeling from the shock that it is almost time, once again, to see the year out with fireworks and a rendition of Auld Lang Syne, I marched myself off to WH Smith to pick out my 2010 diary.
Before me was an overwhelming array of colours and sizes and I started to feel daunted, aware that this is a very important decision. As my husband quite rightly pointed out, once you’ve chosen a diary you’re locked into a year long commitment. Oh, the pressure!
I was forced into deciding by process of elimination. The day-to-a-page A5 diaries are so appealing yet I know full well that they are totally impractical for my already, unnecessarily full handbag. The teeny little pocket diaries too are impractical unless you simply never go out or see anyone. I like to see my entire week at a glance so that is easy but I also need enough space to cross out and write lists if necessary. Naturally, it must be pretty but not too girly as a diary says a lot about a person and I like to keep an air of sophistication about myself (sorry Winnie the Pooh diary…you know I’d have chosen you if I never had to take you out in public). I like a slimline diary and almost opted for simply buying the same one I had this year but there is probably some truth in variety and spice etc. The extras are rather important too – place for notes, addresses, a tube map, important dates, personal details (although I have been warned not to fill in this section due to recent increases in identity fraud – be warned!).
In the end, I went down the functional route and opted for a thin little mauve number with a handy pink elastic and all the essentials. Its extra features are limited but, understandably, you can’t have it all in a handbag diary. It’s not outrageously gorgeous, but nice enough to look at for a year.
And the first date that’s going into it? “Buy diary for next year”

hello world - this is me

I’m currently conducting an experiment to prove that the more makeup I wear, the more I become reliant on it (I’ve just lost all my male readers so I’m now free to sound as girly as I want) by going one week without any gloop plastered on my face.
Pre-experiment observation has led me to believe that I look terrible without makeup (despite Fox’s insistence that this just isn’t the case). I have noticed that the last few times people have said to me “You look really tired” are the very times when I have decided to go sans Mac Face and Body and take on the world au naturale. At this point, as a gentle digression, may I point out that telling someone they look tired is never a compliment, regardless of the sincerity behind it; you might as well say “Sheesh, don’t you look rough?!” and be done with it.
When I was hit with dreaded swine flu a few weeks ago I didn’t wear makeup for an extended period and that was purely because I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow, let alone cared much about my general appearance. By the end of the week I was actually reluctant to return to my makeup-everyday ways as the mascara and eye-liner induced bags had faded and my skin was generally glowing from the opportunity to receive actual oxygen.

Having gone two days now without any mask behind which to hide my blotchy skin and sleepy eyes I can’t say it has been as hard as I had imagined. I can even rub my eyes without worrying that I have streaked black across my face. It has also forced me to pay more attention to my hair and clothes (I’m after a more carefree look, not a couldn’t-care-less look!) and I feel the need to smile more to appear bright and alive.
So, if I’m looking a little pale and sickly over the next few days, please don’t suggest that I might want to consider iron tablets. Rather, take a good look at my bare face making a rare and limited appearance and marvel at my dazzling smile as I try and divert your attention.

(If you are a guy other than my husband and you are still reading this, well done.)

finally getting myself into gear

After too many years of riding shotgun I’ve finally decided that it’s time to take control of my independence. So, I’ve signed up for driving lessons. I must just establish that the last person who attempted to teach me to drive (my ever-patient stepmom) ended up with a rather large gash in the side of their car thanks to a pillar jumping out of nowhere in a basement car park. After that little scare I figured that public transport really wasn’t overly tedious and a drivers licence was deemed an unnecessary luxury.
However, a looming trip to South Africa, sans husband i.e. no chauffeur, where the public transport infrastructure is somewhat skeletal, was all I needed to finally get my rear “into gear” and just do what I’ve been saying I will do for the last 8 years.
On Friday I undertook my first lesson with Michael and I’m inclined to think we are going to get along quite nicely. The spare controls on his side of the car fill me with great confidence and he doesn’t appear the least bit fazed when police cars pull out in front of me, grannies cross the road at their leisure totally oblivious to the learner who is still using the clutch as a break, irritable drivers pull up impatiently behind me as I “creep and peep” at intersections and don’t take gaps unless I can’t actually see another car on the horizon. Overall I was rather pleased with how much I remembered and an hour into the lesson I was chugging along (“a little slower on the clutch, remember…”) Putney High St as Michael disapproved vocally of bus drivers who had the audacity to pull out in front of his pupil.
Now, the next challenge is to convince my grandfather that I am capable of driving the car when I’m back in Port Elizabeth in September. Why do family have this habit of remembering things you wish they would forget? You see there was an incident, when I was much younger, where my grandfather’s scooter ended up in the hedge…with me in the drivers seat. Maybe I don’t have the best track record but I do have determination and that’s got to count for something. Perhaps a licence at the very least.

the land of socks

There is a land where lost socks go. No matter how much exploration is dedicated to discovering it, this place will never be found by humans. I imagine it is a very colourful world where no two socks are the same. Because this is not a land for pairs but rather odd socks that have escaped a life that would otherwise be spent on someone’s smelly foot. They have abandoned their other half to lie useless in a sock draw. Sometimes, if two socks of a similar colour and style have been deserted by a partner, a loving human such as myself will try and pair them together. Perhaps not a match made in heaven but it surely beats facing the unthinkable when the next spring clean comes around. Some may even find their way to the Jolly Gardeners on a Sunday where they can be made into sock monkeys and then sit gathering dust on bookshelves until the novelty wears off and they end up in the rubbish anyway. There just isn’t much hope for those who are left behind.
But those who live in the Land of Socks have no cares for such afflictions. They go undisturbed and possibly see their days out until they disintegrate to their initial state of lint.
The reason I have been thinking of this place is that I was faced with somewhat of a “prodigal sock” moment last night as I lay in bed, reading my book. Try as I might, I was unable to even out a lump in the sheet and after deciding that it was not going to go away, I delved deeper to investigate. Imagine my surprise when out came a white gym sock (clean) from between the mattress protector and the sheet. I had been looking everywhere for that little rascal! Perhaps the Land of Socks hadn’t been all that it had imagined or maybe it decided at the last minute that it didn’t want to go and clung for dear life to the sheet during the spin cycle.
I gladly reunited my gym socks and thought of those in Fox’s drawer that lie discarded in the hope that their partner might materialise one day too. I think it is probably too nice in the Land of Socks.