The Tale of Count Fox and Princess Rox

There once lived a raven-haired maiden, Princess Rox, in the Land of Grey Skies. She enjoyed eating chocolate, drinking coffee and reading books. She had many friends and went to a number of balls each month but her favourite thing was really to sit in her room and eat sweet treats created by Mr Benjamin and Mr Jeremiah confectioners, while paging thruogh the latest fashion catalogues.

It was arranged that she was to wed the Duke of Dutchland. He seemed a kind enough man and while she was not displeased by this prospect, she wasn't wildly excited by it either.

One day, after Chapel, she and her friends retired to partake in the ritual to honour the patron saint of coffee, St Arbucks. That day, a young adventurer, Count Fox, joined the group. He had recently returned from the land of Gerrah and enthralled the group by regaling tales from his travels.

While Count Fox had enjoyed his expeditions, he was now quite keen on finding a wife. Having searched for her from Africa to Arabia, he still had not found her. That day, Princess Rox caught his eye but his friends warned him she was already betrothed and heartbreak would ensue if he pursued her.

Now Count Fox was a gentlemen and as a courtesy he merely admired Princess Rox from a distance. Count Fox tried to forget her but it was made all the harder by chance meetings at social gatherings, when boarding carriages or browsing at the market. Poor Count Fox fell more and more in love with the maiden against his will.

One day, the Duke was due to arrive in the Land of Grey Skies to visit Princess Rox. But it seemed that luck was on the side of Count Fox and the road by which the Duke was to travel was badly damaged in a rock slide. The Duke had to turn back toward his home with no way of now reaching the maiden.

Count Fox realised this was his one opportunity to win the heart of Princess Rox. He invited the maiden to dine with him and decided if the maiden added salt and pepper to her food, he would declare his undying love. If not, he would remain silent and continue his solo travels around the world.

Princess Rox arrived looking as beautiful as the Count imagined she would. He accompanied her to the dining hall, not wanting to waste any time with pleasantries. He showed her to the table as the servants unveiled a feast suited to the occasion.

The maiden made light-hearted conversation as the Duke sat anxiously awaiting the start of the meal. Finally, she picked up her cutlery and the Count lost heart, assuming she had no intention of seasoning her meal. But then, the maiden replaced her cutlery on the table and reached for the salt cellar. Her gesture was enough to persuade the Count to declare his feelings and before she could pick up the salt, he grabbed hold of her hand. As their eyes met, he hurriedly told her how he felt about her and watched as her expression went from confusion to delight in a matter of seconds. She had secretly been admiring the Count from the first day they met and was delighted to learn of his affection.

They became the greatest of friends after that evening and married after a time of courting. Princess Roxaccompanied Count Fox on his travels but eventually they settled in a lovely home in the Land of Grey Skies and had a family of their own.

Many may have seen this as the end of the Count's adventures. But in truth, meeting Princess Rox and sharing his life with her was really just the start of the greatest adventure of both their lives.

Did they live happily ever after? Of course they did.

Photo credit: Miranda Roos Photograhy

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.

believe for better

Where are my priorities?…children are dying…I can make a difference…it’s too overwhelming…I can’t change the state of the world so why try?…I don’t need most of the things I buy…where do I start?…there’s too much need…STOP!
Everyday we’re confronted by the reality that there is great need in our world. Most of us switch off, just like you are probably doing right now. Images of starving Africans, children rummaging in rubbish dumps in India and the poorest trying to salvage their meagre belongings from flood waters; it hurts too much so I send up a prayer and hope that someone else will not just feel compassion but act on it.
Yet, there IS SOMETHING that can be done. I recently heard a talk by Hugh Evans, CEO of Global Poverty Project. I suspect you have images of a middle aged man who became disillusioned by his day job and decided to use his accumulated wealth to make a difference. You’re wrong. Hugh is twenty-eight years old. My age. Hearing him speak made me wonder, ‘What have I done with my life so far?’ Hugh has accomplished many things to date but, in short, he truly believes that we can see an end to global poverty in our lifetime. And now so do I. It sounds idealistic but I don’t believe that it is. We have enough food to feed the world one and a half times over. Shocking, isn’t it? Heart-breaking, really, when you see current footage of Somalia where two-hundred-and-fifty children are starving to death everyday. Everyday.
Enough said. If we are to believe for a better global future, we need to start moving. Today’s step: find out more at GPP online. It can and will be done. What part will you play?