The truth is, we're all suffering from a severe case of 'Jubilee-ation'

As any writer worth their salt is, I’m always very conscious of my audience when I write these articles. What is interesting to the people of Sussex? What do they care about? What do they spend their days doing? Sometimes it takes me hours of head-banging to bash through the writer’s block and think of something that I hope you may find vaguely interesting/amusing/surprising (delete as appropriate). Thankfully, this month there was only one thing I could really write about and you would had to have been in the deepest darkest corner of the thickest rainforest in the world to have missed the Jubilee celebrations.

I’m not the biggest royalist in the country. Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not anti-royalist but I don’t honestly give them much thought. I vaguely remember having the royal wedding on the TV in the background as I cleaned the house and I’ll admit to offering a cursory glance to the magazine pages covered in images of the Duchess of Cornwall. The insightful critiques into what she’s wearing and whether she’s too young for skin-coloured tights are vaguely engaging every now and again.

Despite my apathetic approach to our royal figureheads I couldn’t help but suffer from a surprisingly overwhelming feeling of national pride as the Jubilee weekend rattled on. While it wasn’t all down to the image of the Royal Family in their finery, that was certainly partly responsible. You’d have to be made of stone to not give massive kudos to an 86-year-old woman who spends three hours standing in the pouring rain on a boat while the wind blows about her only to find she still has energy to dance a small jig when the orchestra offers a rousing nautical piece at the end.

So yes, the Royal Family, and especially the Queen impressed me this weekend. I left the Jubilee holiday a little more pro-Royalist than I was when I arrived. Watching Camilla and Kate have a giggle while they compared how cold their hands were with the boys was nothing short of a heartwarmingly, natural moment that any family could have enjoyed.  It was clearly an event that every royal in attendance was very proud to be a part of. Even more clearly, they were very proud of their wife, mother, mother-in-law, grandmother and grandmother-in-law respectively.

And of course, we were proud of our Queen. So proud in fact that we came out in our hundreds and thousands to stand in the rain and we weren’t nearly as covered as the Queen. We didn’t have our own royal barge with a canopy to shield us from the worst of the weather. Oh no! We resorted to Union Jack umbrellas and anoraks and wellies in the way that only the British know how. 

www.itv.com

We kept on smiling as raindrops poured their way down our face and neck and into our socks and shoes. Drenched to the bone we lined the Mall and the Thames and laughed our way through it waving flags and cheering. For a nation that’s known for moaning and whinging we maintained stoic cheer in the face of weather that seemed intent on ruining the day. But let’s be honest, we wouldn’t have enjoyed it nearly as much if it had been sunny. It wouldn’t have felt like Britain and it wouldn't have given us a chance to show off our unfathomable ability to have even more fun in the face of adverse weather conditions.

We are a strange and confused nation; of that there is no doubt. If it had been gloriously warm, as it was the week before, we would have complained about the heat. Every single one of us would have suffered mild to severe sunburn because we simply don’t know how to deal with the sun.  We would have drunk ourselves into a stupor because that seems to be the rules when it’s warm enough to drink outside. And worst of all, British men would have taken their tops off and you know what? It’s never the men that you wouldn’t mind seeing with their tops off, it’s always the ones that should keep their torsos firmly under wraps.

We don’t like picnicking unless we have to dig holes to prop up five umbrellas and create makeshift waterproofs out of black bin liners. The beach isn’t nearly as much fun unless you spend half your time chasing beach balls as the British wind blows them away and on the same theme, sandwiches aren’t as tasty unless the aforementioned wind has blown a decent dose of sand into them – it’s worth noting that we are the only nation that insists on eating on the beach. Bank holiday weekends are always, without fail, preceded by a week of beautiful, sun-drenched weather that will inevitably break as we all leave work for the long weekend. We enjoy forging out fragments of fun despite the fact that the British environment never seems to play along.

And that’s not all. Us Brits as a nation have a variety of weird and wonderful traits that other nations find dumbfounding. For example, our national love of a queue is discussed the world over. We are the only nation in the world that will actively and happily wait in an ordered and measured queue without wondering why we’re doing it. While this is part of our British genteelism it doesn’t stand us in good stead when we travel to faraway lands. A friend of mine recently got back from China. It was only while she tried to queue for food that she realised her British upbringing had left her ill equipped for the regular wrestle that other nations revert to instead of a queue.

If you come from a country that isn’t part of the Commonwealth, cricket will be a complete mystery to you, as will cucumber sandwiches. It will make no sense that a roast dinner can only be eaten on a Sunday and there’s no reason for this, it just simply is. You’ll also, quite rightly, wonder at our need to sit and eat outside when the sun shows its pretty little face, even though it’s still only 14 degrees and we’re all shivering because we’re wearing shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops when we should be rugged up and inside watching Coronation Street or Eastenders. Oh, and while we’re talking about those shows, only the British can make long-running entertainment out of the most depressing storylines set in the two most poverty-stricken, fictional areas of England! Afternoon tea is an indulgence that only we can justify and don’t even get people started on fish and chips.

Please don’t make the mistake of taking this as criticism. It’s the complete opposite. This is a celebration of all that is British and all that the Jubilee weekend stood for. As a nation we talk a lot of grumpy rubbish and rabbit on about how lousy our country is, how useless the Royal Family are, how boring the endless rain is and how we wish we lived somewhere else but it’s all a big fat lie. The weekend showed how, in reality, we can’t help but be proud of our nation in all its rainy, windy, crickety, sandy-sandwiched, topless and hairy gloriousness. 

ryostoncartoons.com

First published in Sussex Local (July 2012 edition) www.sussexlocal.net

Is Your Summer Holiday Worth It?

I know the weather says otherwise but summer is finally here. It’s not given us much to work with though. Between droughts and dying gardens and floods and rain-drenched weekends, we’ve had little to inspire our summer groove. There is, of course, one thing that we can always rely on to inspire the happy vibes…the summer holiday.

Booking our summer holiday gives us that one moment of peace in our otherwise hectic lives. It doesn’t even matter where you go on holiday. Yes, we’d all like it to be a 5* retreat in Hawaii with a 24/7 kids club and an adult only pool, with personal waiters and on-tap cocktails, but honestly, a tent in Cornwall is often just as welcome. With statistics showing that more of us than ever will be opting for a ‘staycation’ this year there’s every chance that our holiday will be drenched in rain. It doesn’t matter. Lots of books, a good glass of wine, a roaring fire (and a great nanny) is just as much a holiday as bikinis, beaches and tan lines. Right?

Once your holiday is on the calendar you rest easy knowing that, no matter how bad things get, the summer holiday will make it all ok. You spend hours staring longingly at the week you’ve marked out as ‘HOLIDAY’ in your diary. You wish your life away hoping that every meeting and work day, every evening filled with kids and ironing and washing up will fly by. You would give a kidney if you could press the fast forward button to get to departure day more quickly. Instead, the powers that be make us work for our summer holiday. The stress involved in getting you and your family to the actual holiday means that by the time you get there, you’re not just tired and stressed on a normal level, you are so tired and stressed you can’t even remember your own name.

It starts about a week before departure day. You get your holiday clothes and your kids’ holiday clothes together and you wash them. You may even put them in a suitcase. It doesn’t matter. For reasons unknown to you, your kids will make sure those are the clothes they wear. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell them, they will wear them and you’ll have to rewash them...twice. It’s just a fact of life. Oh, and they’ll be bored of those clothes by the time they get there and they’ll officially ‘have nothing to wear.’

You assemble the passports and then forget where you’ve put them. When you find them you realise that your kids’ passports have expired. Nothing less than a last-minute trip to the passport office in London will solve this problem. Do you have time for this? No, of course not. You don’t even have time to book a wax, download a book on your kindle, or buy a new toothbrush mostly because you’re too busy washing clothes time and again.

Then come the travel arrangements. In your desire to book a value-for-money holiday you decided, in your infinite wisdom, to fly out of a London airport because the flight was cheaper. It doesn’t matter that you live two or more hours away. It made sense at the time. Now, you realise your flight is at 7am and all of a sudden, those two or more hours start to mean a hell of a lot. “It’s fine,” you think, “I’ll just book an early train.” Great idea, except that there isn’t a train early enough. You either need to book a hotel for the night before, pay for airport parking or sleep in the departure lounge. The cost of a hotel and the parking means that you save exactly nothing on your ‘cheaper’ flight and taking the kids to sleep on the floor of the airport is tantamount to sticking white-hot needles into your eyes so…you spend the money on a hotel.

Who cares? You don’t go on holiday to save money. You go on holiday to save your self and your soul. You cling on desperately to the optimism and decide that nothing is going to ruin this holiday. You laugh in the face of the early morning (aka middle of the night) get-up, even though your kids and your partner are in a mood as dark as the night you’re surrounded by. Despite the lack of sleep and the extortionate airport hotel bill (the kids found the chocolate and the soda in the mini-bar) you get to the check in area with a smile on your face and your whole family present and correct.

Check in goes OK. Sort of. You have to practically stand on your hands to stop yourself from slapping the silly grin off your husband’s face when he pretends he’s lost the passports. The kids start playing British bulldogs with the luggage trolley and it turns out – rather annoyingly – that your husband was right. You did pack too much stuff and you probably didn’t need that extra three pairs of shoes. Begrudgingly you pay the extortionate excess baggage payments while shooting a look at your smirking husband that says something along the lines of, “If you want to make it back from this holiday alive, don’t say a word.”

Next comes security. You’ve been smart. You’ve already put your liquid stuffs in plastic bags. Your kids haven’t and your husband hasn’t either but you’re still maintaining an unfailing sense of patience and optimism. Nothing is going to ruin your holiday mood. You’ve waited for it. You’ve worked long and hard for it. Even if you have to leave the rest of your family in a cell, you are going to enjoy this holiday. Then they take your very expensive eye cream. “But it’s in a plastic bag!” you declare desperately. “Yes madam, but it’s over 100ml. I’m afraid I’ll have to dispose of this.” You know they’re not going to dispose of it. You know that very expensive eye cream is going straight into their bag on a direct, non-stop trip to their bathroom cupboard. Damn them. But, who cares, right? You’re going on a fabulous sun-drenched holiday. Keep the eye cream!

It’s at this point that you may get a false sense of optimism. You’re on the home straight right? What can possibly go wrong? Well, let me tell you – a LOT can go wrong at this point. Don’t take your eyes off the kids. They’ll get lost, or arrested. Don’t let yourself, or your partner drink too much. You don’t want your kids to be the only one’s sober enough to get on the flight. Hold on tight to your boarding pass. They are slippery little suckers and very easily lost. Trust me. I know this. I also know that they don’t just reissue a boarding pass. They make you buy a new ticket. It doesn’t do much for harmonious family relations let me tell you.

You finally make it to the gate. You’re all on the plane. You may or may not have been delayed. At this point, it doesn’t matter. You’re so fried you could eat your own arm off with anxiety. You simply want to put your headphones on, crouch in the corner and rock backwards and forwards until it’s all over. It wouldn’t be so bad if you still didn’t have to negotiate the extortionate cost of the sandwiches and drinks that your kids will order on your budget airline, only to see them throw it all back up when they develop tandem air-sickness. You’ve still got to navigate a foreign transport system to get from the airport to your hotel; it was hard enough when you did it in your native language. You may be on the edge of a nervous breakdown and you may be wishing you’d booked a week at The Priory instead, but trust me, it will all fade away when you take that seat on your sun lounger, order a cocktail, open your book and relax.

That is, until your youngest slips on the side of the pool on the first morning and breaks his wrist.

Enjoy your holidays. It’s all worth it in the end.

Initially published in Sussex Local

New Year Re(solutions)

Let's not beat around the holly bush: 2011 has been a rough year. There isn't a person in the country who hasn't felt the squeeze in one way or another. More than ever, we are feeling the need to take control of 2012 and make sure that it's well, just a bit better. What quicker way to start than by grasping at that age-old tradition of New Year resolutions?

This wouldn't be a bad place to start if, of course, it was not widely understood that we very rarely manage to stick to our resolutions much into February (February? More like January 3rd.) In preparation for this article I did some research. Reading scientific psychology journals is not normally my thing, but it’s amazing how lost you can get reading about what pathetically weak creatures we really are.

Out of those who make resolutions 52% are confident of success and a whopping 78% of us fail. I don’t know about you but 78% seems like a lot to me. I’d hate to think that was representative of our willpower and personal strength as a nation. In fact, I’m so anxious for that not to be the case that I’m desperately seeking for some other reason to explain our apparent weak-willed fecklessness. The only thing I can think of is to lay the blame at the feet of the ritualised tradition itself.

Making New Year’s resolutions is a difficult game to negotiate successfully. You've spent the best part of December telling yourself that you're allowed to eat what you want and drink what you want and spend as much money as you want. You've basically gorged on self-indulgence. You've spent the whole month training in self-satisfaction and greed and come New Year’s Eve you're at the top of your game. Psychologically and physically, you've never been so good at denying yourself nothing. You can't remember a time when you were ever hungry, or without a headache. You've barely slept, you've done very little work and you may not be able to pay next month's bills but it's ok because December doesn't really count. You'll worry about it in January . After all, that’s what the New Year is for isn’t it?

You've spent a month spiralling out of control in so many ways that the opportunity to wipe the slate clean is a very seductive one. I think we genuinely believe that there is some sort of magic attached to the New Year. The prospect of January apparently imbues us with a super-hero complex. We suddenly believe that all the things we’ve spend the last year doing badly and, in fact, the last month doing spectacularly badly (no exercise, drinking, smoking, overeating) are suddnely within our resolute control. The problem is that we are so overwhelmed by indulgence at the end of December that we have an almost psychotic need to get back in control.

The problem is, it's a little like going cold turkey. The success rate is dire and there’s a sense that we’re not really doing it for ourselves. Like addicts, we are being forced into rehab before we’re ready. We’re doing it because we think we should and we all know how well that works out. We even make the same resolutions! There’s no personality in our resolutions. None of really make achievable resolutions. We don’t sit there and say to ourselves, “This year, I’m going to stop picking my toenails and leaving them on the coffee-table,” although I’d be eternally grateful if my husband did. No, we all make these resolutions that are about a)changing whole facets of your personality b) overcoming an addiction of some sort or c) something we don’t really care about but think we should e.g. vegetarianism for example.
In fact, we are so uniform in our resolutions that none of the top ten resolutions came as any surprise at all. In fact, play a little game with yourself. Before you read on, get a pen and paper and write down what you think the ten most popular resolutions are. I guarantee you’ll get at least eight of them and you’ll probably get all ten. That in itself is a little depressing...right?

So, you’ve got your list...read on.

1. Spend more time with family and friends
Now, I don’t know about you but after the Christmas period resolving to spend more time with my family is not top of my list. I love them but I also like to remain sober some of the time, avoid arguments and flatulence from the oldest/youngest and exist in harmony with my kin. This generally requires that our relationships are conducted from a safe distance. Say, 200 miles?

2. Fit in Fitness
While the alliteration is certainly appealing, the reality is that January is the worst time to start exercising. It’s always nut-crunchingly cold which rules out cycling/running/walking, at least with any sense of enjoyment and while gyms are sure to have very alluring deals in place to exploit our unfounded sense of optimism they are generally money-grabbing companies that offer you nothing in return except sore muscles and maybe a verruca or two.

3. Tame the Bulge
Good luck with that. Your fridge will be stuffed full of left over Christmas cake until at least March and those Cadbury’s Roses tins take a remarkable amount of time to get through. Let’s not even mention the Terry’s chocolate oranges and Ferrero Rocher that are inevitably lying around. Yes, you can tell yourself that you’ll put them away until next year. If it makes you feel better.

4. Quit Smoking
As a on-off smoker myself, I can tell you with absolute certainty that there isn’t a smoker in the world that wishes they didn’t smoke. They may not admit it to you, or even to themselves but trust me, in one way or another, this is a resolution that every smoker makes every day of the year. January 1st is no different.

5. Enjoy life more
What’s the alternative? Be bloody grumpy about everything and make a concerted effort to hate life? This is what we call a no brainer and probably something that everyone should resolve to do EVERYDAY.

6. Quit drinking
Yes. You’re right. You should. But you won’t.

7. Get out debt
I will when you do, Cameron.

8. Learn something new
Here’s something: New Year’s resolutions don’t work. Start yours in February. January resolutions are so 2011.

9. Help others
A very worthy resolution and one I find hard to mock without incurring all your wrath but still...let’s get the absence from family, the lack of exercise, the ever-expanding waistlines, the smoking, the misery, the drinking and the debt out of the way first. Once that’s done, I’ll be more than happy to help little old ladies across the street.

10. Get organised
How many diaries/journals have you got lying around that you haven’t touched since January? I rest my case.

How many did you get right? Depressing isn’t it? On that note, I shall leave you with some totally unfounded and unscientific advice to help you be successful in your resolutions.

1.Don’t make them...at least not on January. Wait till the Spring. If you’re looking for new beginnings they don’t come much better than ones that promise sunshine, warmth and the cricket seasons.

2.Make them small...instead of saying I will never eat anything but salad and fruit again try, I will try not to have fish and chips unless it’s a Friday. Or unless I’m really sad.

3.Don’t tell anyone. This is good for two reasons. Firstly, it takes the pressure off. People won’t be constantly asking you how you’re doing or worse, trying to sabotage your efforts. Secondly, when you fail no one needs to know about it.

Good luck people and Happy New Year.

Originally published: www.sussexlocal.net

Backseat Teachers

While I ate my lunch today, I was astonished to hear the four hags on Loose Women discuss classroom management like they knew what they were talking about. And while I'm at it...the response in the papers and across TV media to the story about students putting their thumbs up instead of their hands has been nothing short of infuriating.

I don't know whether you know this or not, but teachers don't just make stuff up. A great deal of time during teacher training degrees is taken up with learning about classroom management. And let me tell you, classroom management is a science. Oh, of course, it didn't used to be. It used to be very black and white when kids knew that if they didn't behave, or if they spoke out of turn, or if they didn't engage, they would get the slipper or the cane or have a blackboard duster thrown at their head. It was easy then. It was easy when the teachers had all the power because they ruled through fear and loathing. But that, my liberal friends, is no longer the case and I'm not suggesting for a minute that it should be.

I'm pretty sure, and please correct me if I'm wrong, that those of you whinging and complaining and huffing and puffing in a 'how ridiculous' display of exasperation are pretty against going back to the Dickensian days of beating and battering. So, how about you let teachers i.e. the experts, get on with it?

Yes, raising hands in class has been around forever and it's never done any harm - so why change it? If we were to stick to that theory we'd still be washing kids' mouths out with soap, sending 14 year olds down the mine and washing our teeth with twigs. Raising hands in class does still work but in a lot of schools it can actually be very disruptive. With class sizes rising and rising (most primary school and secondary school classes are at 30+ these days) it's not very useful to have the majority of those kids waving their hands in the air, straining to be the one picked and combining their hands up with monotonous and persistent calls of, 'Miss!', 'Miss!', 'Miiiiiiiss!' which is basically shouting out with your hand in the air.

On top of that, we all know that in reality, there's probably only about 10 of those students that typically raise their hands. The rest sit there either,

a) wondering what's going on
b) fiddling around with something they're not supposed to be fiddling about with (but they can because they're hidden behind a sea of waving hands)
c) desperately hoping that no one picks them

Putting your hand up can be quite exposing. There are lots of children who may be much happier raising a thumb - who are you to say?

Hands in the air is a very out-of-date teaching method and more and more you find schools that are encouraging alternative methods. For example, and please tell me if you think this is crazy, but there are a lot of teachers using their classrooms to develop conversational skills in classes - skills such as turn taking for example. I know I've sat in training sessions, meetings etc., as an adult and managed to conduct conversations amongst large groups of people without having to raise our hands. Is it that unthinkable that we should try and teach our children to do the same thing? Thumbs up instead of hands up forces children to look around, to consider other people, to see whether someone else has something to say in a way that hands straight in the air doesn't.

And let's face it, kids need to be entertained. If I had a class full of over-excited primary school kids, desperate to please teacher in the first few weeks back I may try to come up with some original, engaging idea that avoided the whole straining hands and screams of 'Miss!'. The kids may actually be enjoying the challenge, they may even think it's quite fun. Heaven knows, any teacher can attest to the fact that kids are always eager to play the painful classroom game 'Thumbs Up Heads Down'. If you're not a teacher, you won't know what that means....which sort of nicely brings me back to my original point.

Those of you with no knowledge of the creativity and originality and thought that goes into managing a classroom full of children should really think twice before you criticise those who spend day in and day out trying to think of creative, original and thoughtful ways to educate your children. Perhaps if children were taught to respect teachers and education and rules and other people then teachers wouldn't need to keep inventing new and magical ways to keep children engaged. I wonder...how do we fix THAT problem?

The Rules of Engagement

So far, I’ve resisted writing a blog about weddings and all the preparations that go with it. I suppose this is for no other reason than I am certain I’ve got nothing new to say on the subject. You only have to type ‘wed’ into Google and already you’re inundated with a thousand pastel-coloured, shabby-chic styled links all promising to show you how to make your day the most romantic/stylish/grand (delete as appropriate). It’s only now, a mere three weeks away from the big day, that I wonder if perhaps there is something to say that maybe, just maybe, no one ever really wants to mention.

The fights.

Planning a wedding is the single most stressful thing you can do. Fact. I know that ‘moving house’ always sits rather regally at the top of those ‘The Most Stressful Things You Can Do’ lists but that’s only because they don’t want to admit that something that should be heartwarming, family-oriented and drowned in gushing love, could actually be so damn difficult at times. Even, the usually unflappable, darling-of-the-nation, Kate Middleton, apparently resorted to her old habit of smoking just to get through April and Kim Kardashian has come out in a rash! And I'm willing to bet it's all because of the fights.

I don’t care how close you are to your family. I don’t care how perfect your love is. I don’t care how secure you are in your relationship and how amenable you are on a daily basis. The simple fact is that planning a wedding is an exercise in diplomacy and peace negotiations on a scale similar to that required of world harmony. Everyone involved, I repeat EVERYONE, changes when faced with a wedding to plan. Parents, brides, grooms, in-laws, children, bridesmaids…everyone has an idea of what they want the wedding day to be like.

This transformation in people isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes otherwise grumpy parents becomes balls of candy-floss in the face of taffeta, rose petals and bunting. Best men, who previously struggled to get themselves out of the house in the morning, suddenly turn into event organizers of the highest caliber. But mostly, people look at this once-in-a-lifetime event and decide that, for the first time, they’re going to stand their ground. And then the fights begin.

Initially it’s harmless. It may just be the odd throw away comment said in ‘jest’ that evaporates as quickly as it emerged leaving the echoed resonance of a very serious point flapping its wings behind it. It may be a gentle case of emotional blackmail coloured in those unmistakable passive-aggressive tones : “Well, darling, you know your grandma, who’s not very well at the moment, would be heartbroken if you didn’t get married in church.” Whatever it is, the initial incidents appear harmless, often so subtle, that you don’t even realize it’s happened at all.

But as the pressure builds so does the tension. People no longer bother with the veiled comments. It’s just said out loud. Gentle emotional blackmail becomes outright down and dirty: “Well, that was your grandma on the phone. She’s not coming unless you get married in her church, wearing her old dress. In fact, she'd rather die.” (Brides resist the urge to say they choose option B). Mothers decide to tell brides that they don’t think they’re marrying the right person three weeks before the wedding. Fathers refuse to wear what the rest of the bridal party are wearing, followed up with the ultimate power play: “…and darling, just remember who’s paying for this.”

Before I continue, I want to make clear, that these examples are not from my own experience of wedding planning…well, not all of them. They are, however, real-life experiences from friends who have already travelled this road.

But even all of this is nothing compared to the fights that weedle their way between you and your other half to be. The pressure of organizing the wedding, the financial hardships, the management of peace negotiations between two otherwise magnetically opposed families soon takes its toll. The bride worries about whether all this planning is going to come together on the day. She worries about whether everyone will be happy sitting where they are placed (they won’t be). She worries about whether everyone will have a good time. Do the bridesmaids hate their gowns? Have they chosen a venue too remote and difficult to get to? Will guests talk in muted whispers about the amount of money it’s cost them to get there? The groom worries about the enormity of the event. He wonders if they’ll ever be able to scrape back the savings afterwards. He worries about messing it up at all. He worries he can’t dance and isn’t that good at speeches. He worries about his father-in-law. He worries about his father. His mother. Her mother.

Because the simple fact is, you’re setting yourself up to upset a lot of people amidst an event that is defined by emotion, relationships, love, belonging and drama and as we all know in life…very few of these things are governed by logic, reason and rationality. With logic, reason and rationality already out of the window, it’s a difficult starting point.

The fights between the bride and the groom don’t manifest themselves in things regarding the wedding. You don’t argue about the seating plan, or the flowers or the speeches or outfits. The fights are secret spies sent out by the patron saint of marriage to give you the final test right up until that moment that you say ‘I do.’ You fight about staying out too late when normally it isn’t a problem. You fight about who has the car and who takes the tube when normally it’s a logical choice. You fight to defend family members that you don’t even, on a normal day, much like. The end of each fight ends with the same words: “This wedding is putting a lot of pressure on both of us”.

And it’s true. As far as wedding planning goes, we’ve probably had it fairly easy and the majority of it has been a fun and memorable process. The practical arrangements all fell, mostly, into place. There have been family members that have said the wrong thing, resisted certain ideas and, in some cases, been outright difficult. But just because it hasn’t been a bear fight from beginning to end doesn’t mean there isn’t any pressure.

But in the end, it comes down to this. Never once during a pre-wedding fight have either of us ever questioned whether we want to marry each other. The fact that the fighting has increased in the run up to the wedding hasn’t made us consider whether we should in fact be getting married. We are being tested and to be honest, we are passing with flying colours but bugger me, it’s exhausting.

So, it’s ok to hate this bit. It’s ok to get to a point where you wish you’d just booked the registry office down the road and got it over and done with. It’s ok to wonder if it was all worth the trouble. It’s ok to wonder if this is how it’s supposed to feel. And, it’s ok to fight…just as long as you get to make up afterwards.

Hen Do or Hen Don't?

I ask you one simple question: is it possible to have a 'classy' hen do? Is there anyone out there who has been to a 'classy' hen do? The reason I ask is that I'm just over 72 hours away from my very own pink, fluffy hen do and all I can hope is that it, well, isn't pink and fluffy.

It's not that I'm against the tradition. In fact, I'm really looking forward to it in all its girly glory but I can't help but worry about certain elements. I've been quite 'bridezilla' in my demands:

- NO strippers
- NO sashes
- NO overt willies

When I say no to 'strippers' I mean exactly that. I don't care if they don't go 'the whole way'; if a man who has been paid to remove any item of clothing comes within 15 feet of my party I will remove my fabulous four inch heels and run as fast as I can home. When I say no to 'sashes' it's really because pink won't go with my outfit and when I say no to 'overt willies' I am mainly referring to real life ones, ones that are attached to a headband or ones that are inflatable. I don't mind little ones made of ice to put in drinks and I don't really mind straws resembling funny boysticks but I definitely don't want people to look at me and have 'willy' be their first thought.

But, having said all of that (and really believing it), can you have a real hen party without those things? If you don't have those things, isn't it just another normal, drink-fuelled-girly-get-together? And if it is just that, is that ok? If I insist on a hen-cliche free day am I shooting myself in the traditional foot and doing myself out of what is effectively a rite of passage?

I did go to a PG hen party once. It was lovely. It was in the garden. The sun was shining. There were lots of girls in pretty dresses and a fair amount of champagne, but in the end it felt like a garden party rather than a memorable send-off into the wild lands of marriage. There was a Mr & Mrs Quiz but the most risque question was, "Who would Boris say was the best cook?" (names have been changed to protect identities). It did all feel a bit like I was babysitting a 12 year-old's birthday. We left the party feeling a little hard-done by. Alright, we didn't want a stripper to make us eat a banana covered in squeezy cream from between his buttocks, but we would have liked to watch the bride do it.

So I'm left in a dilemma. Do I hope that my hens have ignored all my requests and indulged in sashes, feathers and cocks on headbands? Or, do I forge ahead with my plans for a hen party that Audrey Hepburn would be proud of? Well, I suppose in the end, it doesn't really matter. It's all about giggling our way through the day and if it takes a few naughty words and some willy-shaped props then that's what it takes. Who cares what other people think? I'll get what I'm given...and knowing my sister, it will be a day to remember in one way or another.

Valentine's Day: Leave it or Love it?

So, Christmas is over. January is done. We’ve settled into a new year and after the festive mayhem we can, in February, finally relax. Right? Wrong. On February 14th Valentine will once again rear his saintly head and millions of people will go out and buy cards and maybe flowers and chocolates. Some may even splurge a load of cash on fancy restaurants. Men may flash their credit cards and buy expensive jewellery and maybe even diamond rings. Flower petals will be sprinkled in baths, a chorus of champagne corks will be heard popping across the nation, girls and boys will count their anonymous cards dropped lovingly into letterboxes all over the world and bedsprings will be put to the ultimate test.

I say this. I’m guessing at a lot of it as most of my friends won’t even admit to valuing the day at all. Ask anyone about Valentine’s Day and you’re met with stony-faced cynicism and well-rehearsed replies about how Valentine’s Day is nothing more than a money-making exercise designed to steal from the poor and give to the corporate rich. They’ll go on passionately about how you should show your love for someone everyday not just when Hallmark tells you to.

The non-believers are so vehement in their tirade against Valentine’s Day that I really believe they mean it. I’ve struggled to find anyone who’s willing to buy into it or who is, at least, willing to admit that they buy into it but some of them must be fibbing. There are 25 million people in the UK that send cards. Over half of the entire UK population spends approximately 1.3 billion British pounds in Valentine’s related way which means at least half of my friends are telling porkies. And, when you think about it, what actually is the problem with Valentine’s Day?

Ok, so I’ll admit it’s commercialized and it’s forced upon us and it gives people an opportunity to start ripping us off but isn’t that just like Christmas, and Easter and Halloween? I suspect that those who celebrate Valentine’s Day at the very least believe in love. When you compare this to those who celebrate Christmas, I’m not certain as many of them believe in God, a point perfectly illustrated when my two-year old nephew very sweetly said to the local vicar at the Christmas Eve carol service, “I know what Christmas is all about. It’s about the birth of Santa Claus.” Cue embarrassed shuffling from the family.

Does Valentine’s Day really deserve all this bullying? If you can, for one moment, ignore all those bellowing against it then think about this: I tell my fiancé I love him at least once a day but, in the midst of our hectic lives do I get the chance to make him feel special? Do I always have time to block out every other little mundane detail in our life and really make the time to sit down and exist completely in our own little love bubble? No, if I’m honest I don’t. Neither does he. And, neither does anyone else. Yes, we may have an opportunity to do it more than once a year, but if for some reason we don’t, then thank the lord for Valentine’s Day!

Look at it as a gift. It’s a day given to us to reassess. Just like Christmas day it provides us with an opportunity to stop and look at the person lying in bed next to them, or sitting opposite them at breakfast and remember all those feelings that existed between you before bills and mortgages and children and careers and everything else got in the way. Unlike Christmas day, it was excommunicated from the religious calendar back in 1969 so you don’t even have to feel any guilt or hypocrisy about sitting in a church (for the first time that year) celebrating it. You don’t need to spend a fortune on it; it doesn’t need to be grandiose and over-the-top because at the end of the day it’s about making time for each other and in this world that is something I get the chance to do less and less.

Its origins endear it to me even more. While it’s unclear exactly which early Christian martyr named Valentine (there were quite a few apparently) was being honoured with the celebration, it is clear that it was initially a religious festival. As with everything, the decline of religious belief means that hugely embroidered and often totally fabricated stories have emerged to underpin its non-religious existence. My favourite though is the tale that is most common in modern folklore.

Valentine was a priest in the days of Roman Emperor Claudius II. While everyone else was spilling blood in the coliseum, and building enormously successful roads and drainage systems, Valentine was working on a more benevolent and gentle cause: one in the name of love. Claudius II had decreed that all young men must remain single believing that a successful army and strong soldiers could not be made up of married men. While his logic is somewhat questionable, it was the law and that was that. But, behind the sexually frustrated scenes of the Roman army, Valentine was performing secret marriages allowing young men to marry their sweethearts. Now, I’d like to tell you that love won out and that Valentine showed Claudius II the error of his ways, but I’d be lying. As with most Roman stories, this one ends in jail and death but from his death sprung the beginnings of what we now know as Valentine’s Day – a celebration, all over the world, of the love that Valentine fought for. As to whether my tale is true…I don’t know. It could be a load of codswallop for all I know, but when has truth and logic ever mattered? Don’t even get me started on the Christmas story.

It would, of course, be impossible to discuss Valentine’s Day without discussing the impact it has on those without someone to share it with. In recent times, the day has developed it’s own alter ego and is known amongst those unattached as Singles Awareness Day. To my knowledge, those who are single deal with it in one of three ways. Either they gather all their friends together and have a good time regardless, or they sit in front of romantic movies and cry their socks off lamenting the lack of respective boy or girl or they ignore it altogether. To some extent it’s a case of greener grass. If there was a day celebrating singledom, you can bet your platinum wedding bands that attached people all over the world would secretly wish that they could be part of that, if only for the day.

At the end of the day, what harm does Valentine’s Day do? It’s not as if everyone dresses up as the undead and knocks on strangers’ doors begging for food only to mete out their own form of torturous punishment if, heaven forbid, they happen to have run out of sweets. It’s not also as if everyone ignores the lack of logic between chocolate bunnies and Jesus rising from the dead and eats themselves into a sugar-coloured stupor.

Valentine’s Day is simply about taking time to show someone that you love them. In some ways, that makes more sense to me than any other holiday. So, I’m standing up for Valentine’s Day and defending it in the face of cyncism and stoney-faced hostility. Plus, I’m a sucker for the underdog.

This article was first published in Sussex Local magazine www.sussexlocal.net

iLoveFilm.com

I love film. I'm not promoting a new way of approaching film rental, I'm simply stating a fact. I love film. One of my new freelance enterprises is through a company called FILMCLUB (www.filmclub.org) and if you have never heard of them then you must go and see what they are all about. Funded by the Department of Education, it works tirelessly to set up film clubs in schools across the nation. Why? Well, simply put (and I whole-heartedly agree with them) they believe that providing children with access to a wide range of films is one of the most mind-opening, knowledge-enhancing, tolerance-building things that we can do.

Somebody asked me that impossible-to-answer question today: what is your favourite film? Well, if you will imagine for a moment that I have about 10,000 children, it's a little like asking me which one is my favourite. First of all, it changes all the time. I'm a big fan of the Coen brothers but pushed to decide on just one? Fargo. No, The Big Lebowski. Wait, no, I meant, No Country for Old Men. You see? I can't answer that. And, if I left it at the Coen Brothers, I'd be lying. That's my "cool" answer. Don't get me wrong - I HEART the Coen Brothers but my less cool (and just as honest) answer would have to be Top Gun. I know that's not cool or hip or trendy or even slightly respectable but it's more to do with the associations that I attach to the film.

I remember watching Top Gun for the first time when I was about ten. I'd just been allowed to have a TV in my own room (ah, the luxury!) and it was on waaaaaay past my bed time. I had to turn the volume right down because I didn't want my parents to wake up, so I had to sit about three inches away from the screen trying to hear everything. I remember laughing at Goose's wicked one-liners, and 'fan-gurling' over Tom Cruise (that was before I knew any better) and thinking this was possibly, just about the best film I'd ever secretly seen. For the first sixty minutes, time stopped, the world ceased to turn and absolutely nothing else occurred beyond the four walls of my bedroom.

Then (excuse the spoiler) Goose died.

I think that was the first time in my life that I'd been emotionally torn apart by a film. From the moment the opening credits had rolled and Maverick had been told that if he didn't behave he'd, "be flying a plane full of rubber dog sh*t from Hong Kong" I had fallen in love with Goose. I think it was the first film I'd seen where they didn't all live. I had a Dorothy moment: I suddenly realised I wasn't in Disney anymore. I was heartbroken. I cried and cried and cried and then cried some more. I remember feeling real grief for about two days. It haunted me. Then my mum took me to see Philadelphia and I realised I wasn't going to last long in the cinematic cut-throat, heart-wrenching world unless I manned up a bit.

Since then favourite films have come and gone. In the early days, Labyrinth and The Princess Bride stood on a pedestal way to high for any other film to get near. Later, Teen Wolf and Major League took over and now? Well, that brings us back to where I started.

The point I wanted to make is the importance of films, all films in our lives. I was lucky enough to have a father who was passionate about films and who took me to the cinema and exposed me to films that I otherwise wouldn't have had the opportunity to see. I vividly remember him taking five minutes in the car park after watching a film at the movie theatre. He would write the title of the film in his diary and give it a certain amount of stars out of five depending on how good he thought it was. We would discuss what we liked and didn't like about it and then we would negotiate a star rating between us. What's even better is that I would bet both my legs that he's still got all those diaries. I'd love to go through them one day and see what we decided for various films. I'm pretty sure that my early choices (Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure or Mr. Nanny) didn't rate very highly on my Dad's scale. Now though, he steals all my DVDs and calls me after each one to dissect it.

And, at the heart of it, that's what FILMCLUB is all about. Even if kids don't have dads to take them to the cinema and get them talking about it afterwards and even if kids watch films they don't like, or that make them sad, FILMCLUB provides them with an opportunity to access those films. They can still go home and tell their parents all about it and that's a conversation that they otherwise wouldn't have with their parents. It's an opportunity for them to have opinions that aren't coloured by curriculums or exams or anything else. Films open their eyes to worlds, cultures and experiences that they may have only seen in their hazy dreams. Films make kids cry. But they also make them smile and laugh and stare in wonder at what the world has to offer us.

If you are a parent, or a teacher or an aunt or you simply know any kids...ask them if their school runs a FILMCLUB. If they don't direct them to the website www.filmclub.org or tell them to go to school and demand that their teachers go to the website. I promise you, they'll never look back.

Mission: Christmas

I realise that my Christmas blog has landed in your cyber inboxes a little later than expected. There is a reason for this. I need time. I need time to recover. I need time to sleep and to get home and to realise that, despite how it feels, life will eventually return to normal because Christmas in my family is an oxymoron. At times it is sweet and full of laughter and eternally heart warming but at other times it is stressful and shouty and overwhelmingly full on.

At this point in the year, when it’s still so close and so raw, I only remember the stressful, shouty and overwhelming bits. As the new year starts to gather speed and winter’s dawn starts to encroach on our peaceful summer of sleepiness, I forget all that and I happily put on my rose-tinted glasses and I remember only the sweet, laughter-filled, eternally warming moments and I genuinely can’t wait for December 25th. But at this point in the year I feel the total opposite.

And don’t let anyone tell you that it’s just one day. It’s never just one day. It starts in September. It’s generally my mum that kicks it all off. She’s the one that makes the first phone call and presses the big, red, metaphorically flashing button that says: START CHRISTMAS. And she asks the question that Jimmy and I dread: “What are you two doing for Christmas this year?” And so it begins.

“We have to talk about Christmas.” I say to Jimmy seriously.
“Well, at least she left it until September this time. Last year it was July.”
And he’s right. It was.

Once the negotiations and peace talks are out of the way and our eight-day Christmas timetable is finalized we try to relax. We need to. We need to reserve energy, to catch up on sleep, to take vitamins, to hydrate and to learn the art of packing a capsule wardrobe because with presents for three families, there isn’t a lot of space left in the car for such things as clothes.

And so, the ultimate Christmas challenge begins: 8 days, 1,034 miles, 6 different beds, 45 parcels, 4 counties, one suitcase, a dog, a cat and two adults who are guaranteed to fight like children the whole way around. The only other people who try to complete such a gruelling and exhausting journey are the ones doing it to raise thousands of pounds for charity with people cheering them on and patting them on the back and offering rousing speeches when you don’t think you can go one mile more. There is no such support team on Mission: Christmas.

The first stop this year was my parent’s house. We thought it would be nice to relax before the big day. We thought it would be nice to stay in one place for more than a night or two, to settle and chill out and prepare. And it was. For a while. Then Dad started hiding the remote control so that we couldn’t interfere with his TV viewing pleasure. I checked the Radio Times and realised he’d highlighted what he wanted to watch. The system was one of “first come, first served”. He, I was reliably informed, was the “first come”. I was more than welcome to highlight my TV choices for the festive period (in a different colour of course) and if it didn’t clash then I was more than welcome to watch it. If it did then his “first come” trumped any arguments of fairness that I tried to promote.

It was in the middle of one of these TV based arguments that it hit me. I simply said the words, “But Dad, that’s just not fair,” and I realized that no matter how old you get and how unfair your Dad is being, you can’t say those words in any context without sounding like a teenager. Immediately he saw his advantage, “Stop being so childish Cat.” And I was defeated. There was nothing I could say and that is the problem with going home as an adult. They won’t let you grow up and you can’t help but revert a little. You will always lose. So, I ate all of his Ferrero Rocher in a silent protest. And then I felt sick.

The big day finally came. I still have the mental capacity of a six year old and so I’m awake at 5am and because I’m at home and I have reverted to a teenager I know that I won’t last the day without getting over tired. There will be tears before bedtime. I try to sleep. I really do but in the end I give in and at about 7am I get up to discover my mother is a woman possessed. She’s drowning in mince pies and canapés and Christmas cake and turkey sauces and gravy and pigs in blankets and crackers and she’s only got half a head of rollers. I offer to help. She tells me the most helpful thing I can do is to stay out of her way. She’s not being mean. She’s probably right so I retreat to the living room where the only thing in the whole world to do is to stare at the presents under the tree that I won’t be able to open for hours. And hours. And hours.

(Remember at this point, I’m still straddling the mental capacity of a 6 year old and a teenager).

Jimmy finally wakes up. At 11am. And takes an hour to shower and change. Mum and Dad want everyone dressed for present opening. At our house, there’s none of this ‘presents in pyjamas’ idea that I’ve heard about and secretly dream of. Each of us has a pile of presents in front of us. Dad skips his turn a few times. He’s got loads of presents but he wants to be the one left with presents when the rest of us have all finished. Mum says she loves everything but I’m pretty sure she’ll exchange it and Jimmy is just pleased he got a remote control helicopter for Christmas. I don’t have very many presents, not after I opened most of them earlier.

Presents done and the second bottle of Champagne (well, fizzy wine) opened we patiently await the arrival of my brother and sister and their families. My Mum has figured this out by now. She tells them to arrive at 12pm knowing that they are always a least an hour late. When they defy all tradition and actually turn up on time she’s thrown into a catering-coloured frenzy. The canapés are accidentally burned, the meal won’t be ready for ages and there aren’t even any Ferrero Rocher to munch on because someone ate them all, but no one is admitting to it. We open more champagne and sit down for the second round of present opening.

The lunch is fabulous. It always is, apart from the pigs in blankets that are forgotten about and left in the Aga to be cremated. Last year it was the Yorkshire Puddings. Next year it will be something else but rest assured, something will always be forgotten. We munch our way through a veritable feast of outstanding food – the fruits of my mother’s kitchen-based nervous breakdown – and wash it down with wine and merriment. We pull crackers and tell rubbish jokes, and pick on Dad a little for the food that he’s left in his moustache. My two-year-old nephew keeps us highly amused with his funny sayings and cute face. We tell everyone we love them and for about two hours we totally forget about the TV arguments and the presents that we’ll exchange and the burned canapés and the stolen Ferrero Rochers. And it’s amazing.

On Boxing Day everything goes back to normal. Dad and I squabble about the Radio Times. He’s seen through my plan of trying to Tippex his yellow highlighter out. Mum refuses to cook one more thing so we pick mindlessly at turkey, bread, cheese and Christmas cake all day. Jimmy spends the whole day playing with his helicopter. The dog poos on the kitchen floor and I’m pretty sure I can make out wrapping paper, string and Ferrero Rocher wrappers. And so we pack up and leave and we trek to the M1 for the next stop in the Home Counties.

We still have two Christmases to go and it’s not even nearly January. Already the thought of more turkey makes me want to gag and I think I’ve been a little drunk for about three days straight. I’m exhausted. I’m suffering simultaneous sugar highs and sugar lows but in four days time it will all be over. Then it’ll be New Year’s Eve and with that will come a hangover and a brand new January 1st. Then by January 4th I’ll be back at work and life will, once again, return to normal. The days will get longer, the weather will warm up and the snow will melt.

Now, where have I put my rose-tinted glasses?

Start Living. Stop Stressing.

BLOG ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE SUSSEX LOCAL (NOVEMBER ISSUE) www.sussexlocal.net

When asked to do an article for November, the usual things pop into your head: bonfire night (yawn) or Christmas (not yet). Stress isn’t a topic that jumps to the forefront of one’s creative imagination. However, November is the month of National Stress Awareness Day, the theme of which is ‘Start Living – Stop Stressing’.

On first hearing that theme, I wondered if a Northerner had written it. Seriously. It’s got a touch of the ‘pull yourself togethers’ about it. I’m allowed to say that; I am Northern and in general, unless you can see something physically going wrong with someone, it’s considered easily fixable through bloody-minded determination. My mother’s favourite saying as I grew up was, “Pretend you’re a pair of bathroom curtains and pull yourself together.” She said that over the phone to me once when I was ill at school and I tried to listen, I really did, but the pneumonia that was growing in my lungs eventually won out. No matter how much Northern grit you try to muster, there are some things that you can’t just get over and stress is, interestingly, becoming one of those things.

It can be a difficult thing to talk about though for all sorts of reasons. I grew up in a small village in one of the most idyllic parts of the Yorkshire Dales and stress wasn’t something that was given much truck. The same went for depression and anxiety. It simply wasn’t considered real. You went to the doctors because your leg was falling off, or because all of a sudden your heart had stopped. You didn’t go to the doctors because you were feeling a bit stressed. If you did, you certainly didn’t talk about it. And if you did talk about it, you’d be the butt of everyone’s drunken joke in the local pub for about eighteen months until the next exciting thing happened.

Thankfully though, mindsets are changing but it’s taking some time. A lot of people still don’t understand that stress is a recognized medical condition and in fact it has been for seventy years. The term ‘stress’ was first coined in a biological/psychological context way back in the 1930s. Even then it was defined as, “the failure to respond appropriately to an emotional or physical threat, whether real or imagined,” and I think it’s the idea that the ‘threat’ can legitimately be something that someone else can’t see or can’t see any logic in, that’s important. We have to be more open-minded about the reality of this condition. Just because we can’t see it, or touch it doesn’t mean it’s not horribly real for someone and that’s exactly the point of National Stress Awareness Day this year on November 3rd.

So, what is stress? When I started researching this article that was the first question I asked myself and found that it was quite hard to answer. So, I turned to any writer’s trusted research tool: Facebook. I posted a status requesting help. I asked them a) what stress is b) what makes them stressed and c) how they de-stress. It didn’t take long for a common theme to emerge: “Stress is when my actions towards a situation don’t have the desired effect” or “Stress is feeling out of control,” or “Stress is not being understood”.

Stress, it seems, according to my very sophisticated survey (sarcasm noted), seems for many to be caused by a feeling of powerlessness. We all know how that feels. No matter how organized or obsessive you are about planning time, or workloads, or kid’s schedules, or whatever it is, there is always the knowledge at the back of your mind that something, out there in the ether of inevitability, can and might always get in your way and mess it all up. Most times, it doesn’t; a lot of times it does. We have no control over this and therein lies the truth of what they discovered in the 1930s: whether it happens or not (i.e. whether the threat is real or imagined), it is there and when we consider the nature of our lifestyles today it’s no wonder we are in a constant psychological battle with those things beyond our control.

Because, we are the ‘have it all’ generation. And we do. Thanks to the iPhone, email, Facebook and lots of caffeine from Starbucks, we can manage marriages, kids, careers, social lives, holidays, kid’s clubs, yoga classes and we can find time to watch films, read books, even indulge in hobbies such as knitting (it’s uber cool now to knit by the way) or aromatherapy and run marathons for charity. It is no wonder that, when our lives are packed to the privileged-brim, there’s simply no room for things beyond our control to get in the way. If they do, our whole Noughties lifestyle comes crashing down around our shabby-chic interiors.

The reality is that stress is becoming more and more common. In 2008-2009 over 400,000 people were experiencing work-related stress in this country, and that’s only the people that went to their GPs. Worringly, if ignored, stress can easily morph into much more long-term diseases such as depression and anxiety. Reassuringly though, stress can be easily tackled once you admit defeat and drop all those balls your juggling. Whether you walk away from a stressful situation for an hour, a day, a weekend, a week or a year it will help. Invariably, the world is not going to fall apart if you simply stop and take a step back but your psychological world might if you don’t. And this is where I apologise to those lovely people at National Stress Awareness Day. I was, I admit, initially dismissive of your theme. But, at the end of the day, they’re right. Stress, thank goodness, isn’t depression or anxiety, and it is possible to ‘stop’ it before it turns into that ball of anxiety that’ll sneak in when you’re least expecting it and take up squatter’s rights in your chest. Walk away from it. Laugh in the face of it. Turn your back on it, indulge in some knitting but for goodness sake don’t let it overwhelm you.

Start living. Stop stressing.

Naughtie Spoonerisms

With all the hoohah in the press this week regarding James Naughtie’s slip of the tongue, it got me thinking about how what we say can get us into trouble. Not that I think Naughtie should be harangued for his mistake. It was only ever a matter of time before someone slipped up on that potential spoonerism. In fact, it’s possible they only made Jeremy Hunt the Cultural Secretary to see how long it would be before somebody did the inevitable.

As an aside, I remember an ICT lesson at school one day where the teacher had us use a programme that switched the first letter of your first name with the first letter of your surname. Most were fine. My double-barrelled name confused the programme somewhat before it settled on Fat Kitton. Faye Tucker was in more serious trouble.

Of course Andrew Marr, who looks like the kind of naughty schoolboy that keeps half eaten gob-stoppers in his blazer pocket even though he’s 51 (ish), relished the opportunity to repeat the word on air at which point he reminded me a little of a teacher. We always got a small sense of satisfaction at being able to swear at a kid under the pretence of repeating back to them what they’d said e.g. “What was that you just said under your breath? Did you just call me a f***ing b**ch? Straight to the headmaster’s office.”

Amazingly, Naughtie’s not the only one. Home Office Minister Nick Herbet was also at it: “I don’t accept that these are cuts,” he did not say. I wonder if there’s actually a bet going on amongst the old boys. Who can say the C-word and get away with it. Well, as far as the BBC are concerned, nobody. Andrew Marr and James Naughtie have had to issue public apologies and I can only imagine that a lot of people in the BBC Complaints department are racking up a lot of overtime just in time for Christmas…all happily funded by the TV license fee.

But, long introduction aside, how often do our loose lips get us into trouble? From the wayward wife who calls out the wrong name at key moments, or the harassed teacher that calls a child by the wrong name on parent’s evening or the Labour minister who refers to a colleague as a ‘ginger rodent’, the potential for disaster is huge (at least one of those should know better). We never know when our feeble, mortal brains are going to let us down, turn their backs on us and sit back and watch while we stand there humiliated and embarrassed. When you think about it like that, it’s amazing any of us speak before we think…let alone the ones whose job it is to speak out loud.

But before I go…here are some other spoonerisms that James Naughtie could have said...although I still think his is the best.
• The acrobats displayed some cunning stunts.

• Sir, you are certainly a shining wit.

• He fills her soul with hope.

• It's the Tale of Two Cities.

• Have you brought your sleeping bag?

• She is sure pretty.

• Have you seen her sick duck?

• Oh, the suffering of purgery on my soul!

• He's not a pheasant plucker.

• She showed me her tool kits.

• He's a smart fella.

• A hot pie would make me happy.

• Fire truck.

Turning up in life...

As I sit on a train to Paris, having just left Amsterdam, I’m struck by how funny the world is. If I were to personify the weird and wonderful workings of the world, I would make the world an old man, in a Disney kind of way. I would give him benevolent eyes, a hearty laugh and a twinkle in his eye. He would always have Werther’s Originals in his pocket and he would slip a pound coin into your sweaty palm when your parents weren’t looking. It appears I’ve turned the world in Santa Claus. Well, I suppose that’s not a bad thing.

But I digress.

The fact is, is that we try so desperately to control everything. We try to control where we live and where we work and who our friends are and what clothes we wear and how thin we are and what the colour of our hair is, or what the colour of our walls is but the reality is that we are so busy trying to control the small things that we absent mindedly forget about the big things. And it’s those big things that my imaginary, Santa-Claus type man bends to his own will.

I live by two principles:
1. Listen to the universe.
2. Turn up in life.

I think the reason I’m writing this now is because, for a long time, I forgot to do those two things. But, as I sit in first class on a train zipping between fabulous cities as part of my new career I realize how lucky it was that, after 5 years of succumbing to what was easy, I suddenly decided to listen to the universe and turn up in life. If I’d not done those two things then I wouldn’t be here. I’d still be stuck in a classroom, getting Repetetive Strain Injury from marking the same grammatical errors (always apostrophes and semi colons) and saying the same things (tuck your shirt in, throw your gum in the bin etc) wondering what it was like to work with grown ups.

It’s funny that we believe that we have control over our destiny. We don’t. We work with what we’re given but don’t ever doubt for a second that we are ‘given’ things. That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t work hard, or try to do the best we possibly can to make things happen but in the end we have to believe that whatever happens, whether it’s good or bad, if we learn to adapt the best possible outcome will always emerge. I fully believe that.

So my message is short and sweet but honest. Even the worst moments are there to allow us to shine. Believe in the overall power of goodness. Never let the worst moments drag you down. Measure yourself by your ability to keep going and keep making good decisions even when it seems like your walking backwards through mud. And always, always turn up in life.

Tzuke Tour Blog...London

If you’ve never been to a gig at Union Chapel in Highbury & Islington then I can only urge you to do so. Like staying out all night or dancing in the rain, seeing a gig at Union Chapel is one of those things you must do before you die. OK, it may be a little quieter than you’d expect but you know what? When you’re in a church that beautiful, you don’t mind. The light in that place is nothing short of magical and just when you really start to believe that the shadows are alive, invariably the end of the gig arrives. And what a sad moment that is.

It’s sad at the most regular of gigs, but when the gig ends with a song like Judie Tzuke’s ‘If’, the house lights drag you back to reality kicking, screaming and as in my case, more than a little tearful. And I wasn’t the only one. Every man in the room was welling up and if they weren’t then they were dead inside. Based on Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem of the same name, the song is heart-wrenchingly, achingly beautiful and worthy way to finish what is fast becoming a very special tour.

What’s great about these shows is that everyone on stage can’t stop smiling. There’s a genuine understanding that they are creating something special. Every musician on stage gets their moment of wonderful glory and frankly, Judie just looks chuffed to bits to be there. And the audience are certainly happy that she’s there. Standing ovations aplenty, the audience shouts out requests and conversations ensue. It’s as if we’re all holed up in Judie’s garden having the best time of our lives. And I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure that Judie was dancing.

Tzuke Tour Blog...Bristol

I’m a lucky girl. I mean really. Don’t think for a second that I take things for granted. Like tonight for instance…after several failed attempts, I finally was able to get myself to one of Judie Tzuke’s shows on her Moon on a Mirrorball tour. That, in itself is exciting but to find not just one Tzuke but three Tzukes on the bill (the lovely Bailey supports and, along with her sister Talulah, they both do incredible backing vocals on their mum’s set…more on that later), plus the delectable David Saw as support was almost a Christmas, birthday and a bank holiday rolled into one.

When Bailey approached me about maybe coming to some shows and perhaps writing some blogs about the tour (it was a very relaxed agreement!) I was initially hoping to come to them all. Alas, real life intervenes and work builds up and lives come crashing down around your ears, and suddenly the best laid plans and all that…but it turns out that, for a blogger, this was probably the best day I could have decided to rock up, armed with a laptop and a tray of twelve doughnuts.

Indeed, they almost didn’t make it to Bristol at all. Between a dangerous high-speed blowout on the motorway, flying spanners and mystery illnesses, it was nothing short of miraculous that a note was even played. Now, I’ve never had a blowout but it is one of those weird anomalies that does haunt me at moments when I look down and realize either my speedometer is broken or I’m breaking a lot of rules (ok, laws). The simple possibility of it is enough to scare me witless, and I can’t imagine what it would be like to manage in a splitter van.

But Neil, the man with magic in his driving hands pulled super life-saving skills out of the top drawer and pulled them to safety. I wasn’t there at this point, but I’m assured that what followed was some spinning spanners heading straight for the leading lady and a lot of boys trying to loosen and lot of nuts for a long time. Finally, it was the strength of guitar man Graham that won the wheel over, followed by a lot of murmurs something along the lines of, “Yeah well, I loosened it.”

But against all the odds they arrived safely in Bristol where I met them happily esconced in a little dressing room waiting for Wagamamas (other Japanese food stores are available) and what a happy bunch they all are. Now, you may think it’s all glamour on tour but it’s actually just good fun. Both Bailey and Judie are washing their hair in the sinks, the dressing rooms are too small to swing the proverbial cat, the boys are doing each other’s hair (I won’t name names) and even this blogger is happily dragged in to help out with ironing. Because that’s what this lot is all about. It’s about touring around singing great songs with your mates…and for at least four of them, your family.

As far as tours go, I can’t think of one I’d rather be on. Maybe it was the near-death experience that brought them all to such high spirits, but I don’t think so. I have a sneaky feeling that this is just a great tour to be a part of. Or perhaps, it’s the fact that they get to play some of the most wickedly vibey and lovingly crafted songs written this side of the sixties.

Because, when you look back over Judie’s back catalogue there are some quietly unbelievable tracks. Songs such as Sportscar, Sukarita, Joan of Arc and Vivien are nothing short of outstanding and tonight were outstanding enough to get the whole venue on it’s feet applauding what was nothing short of a bloody brilliant show. Now, us Northerners aren’t supposed to cry; it’s part of the contract you sign but at least three songs put my eye make-up at risk. She’s simply a bit legendic (forgive the neologism…I couldn’t think of a better word) and every flaming well bit as good as she was back ‘then’…if not better.

And the crowd definitely thought so – especially the girl dancing her socks off in the back row. But this isn’t a review, it’s a blog and it’s nearly over. It’s just hard not to write about how wonderful it was because, it was.

Now though, they head back to London for a well-deserved day off before hitting Union Chapel in Highbury & Islington for the all-important ‘London show’ on Thursday night. If you’re around on Thursday and you haven’t got any plans then that’s the place you need to be. In fact, even if you have got plans and even if there was a tube strike, and your house was burning down and your cat had just died…it’d still be worth getting there. I can’t wait to get back.

Remember September?

The month of September means different things for different people.

If you’re under the age of sixteen, it’s usually a month of mourning. Those long hot summer days of bike riding, beach fun and extended curfews suddenly come to a painful end as a new school year wraps its tentacles around your wrists and ankles. Gone are the long summer evenings spent in the park and the lazy extended lie-ins where every day is a Sunday.

If you’re a parent, your reaction is the ying to your child’s yang. While they sulk and moan, you’re jubilant. Finally, no more stressful child-care negotiations! No more careful sidestepping of parental politics as little Johnny’s mother takes great pains to keep track of how many times she’s looked after your child compared to the number of times you’ve taken little Johnny off her hands! The world can finally return to normal. Peace reigns.

However, before the calm must come the storm. By mid July Tescos are advertising their Back to School range. John Lewis has run out of school shoes and the only pencil case in WHSmith is ‘so not cool.’ You naively thought it was only a pencil case. In fact it’s a ticket straight to the bottom of the playground’s social hierarchy if you get it wrong.

If you’re anything like my mum was, it’s not until the penultimate day of the school holidays when you finally feel you have the strength to do the ‘back to school’ shop, and that’s only because you know you can’t put it off any longer. When I was a child, my mother would carefully scrutinise all of last year’s equipment deciding what would need replacing and what could survive another September. I was obviously of the understanding that everything needed replacing. How could I, in all seriousness, turn up to school with the same backpack as last year? And my favourite line? “Mum, everyone else will have a new one.” My mum wasn’t a big fan of this friend called Everyone Else.

Eventually we would leave to brace the town centre. The penultimate day of any holiday is a Saturday, which is scientifically proven to be the worst day for school shopping. Dad would have retreated long before we left the house to the safety of ‘anywhere else but here’ and it would be mum and I setting out together with our very own clear, and very different agendas regarding what we were going to come home with. We would both return exhausted; some battles she would have won, some she would have lost but I would finally be ready for the first day back, and usually with a new back-pack as a trade off for the shoes with a heel that I couldn’t have.

School shopping is the Roman equivalent of the coliseum for parents and children. As you traipse from shoe shop to bag shop to stationers to sports shop, there are fallen parents all around. You carefully step over them, realising with impending doom that your fight is still to come. You start to save strength, become defensive and soon enough, usually around the school shoe area, the fight erupts. Other parents and children stop to watch your fallout – school shopping is most certainly a spectator’s sport - and before you know it, it’s a gladiatorial bloodbath.

The children stop and stare, silently rooting for the little girl who’s desperate for the school shoes that are actually trainers. Every parent has the same, valid argument: “But the school letter said very clearly that you weren’t allowed to wear trainers.” Every child responds in the same way: “Mum, they just write that. No one ever tells you off and anyway, Everyone Else wears these exact ones.” It’s funny how Everyone Else seems to be every child’s best friend. You quickly realise that this is not the time to try and start lecturing your child on the benefits of being an individual. Individual is a very dirty word at that age.

And perhaps this is where the heart of the school shopping tension lies. Perhaps, as adults, we underestimate the impact that these things can have. I am by no means condoning giving in to every child’s back-to-school whims and demands, but maybe they’re trying to tell us something, something that even they don’t fully understand and could probably not articulate. As people for whom school is a long-distant memory, are we occasionally a little dismissive of the importance of these things at that age?

Children can be cruel. Fact. I used to be a teacher and I have witnessed this cruelty first-hand. In their microcosmic environments, they fall into a social hierarchy, which appears worryingly natural. In reality, this hierarchy often has little to do with what shoes they are wearing or what bag they are carrying, but given half a chance a child will pick on anything if they want to hurt…and comments about appearances can sting at that age.

The battles children fight with us then, on the back-to-school shop, are less about how much they actually like what they want you to buy but more about how much other people will like what you buy for them to wear around. Perhaps this is their way of defending themselves in what is basically the educational equivalent of a dog-eat-dog world. And as long, as parents, we are sure we have armed them with the substance and personality to be a good person as well, is there anything actually wrong with being a teenager and wanting to fit in?

We do the same thing. If we want to look the part and have people take us seriously in a big meeting at work, what do we do? We dress for it. We put on our sharpest suit that we know we look great in. Add the perfect shoes that we spent ages trying to find and finish it off with the perfect bag/tie (delete as appropriate). Appearance in this sense isn’t superficial; it’s essential.

This is only what kids are doing they just don’t know it. They want to walk into the first day back at school feeling confident and looking the part. The only difference is, they have to get through us to do it. And, in the eyes of parents, a great suit seems more valid than choosing a great pair of Kickers, but in their world it’s the same thing.

And it is a different world. Trying to relate their experience to our own is useless. Not only do we look back on our school days with tinted glasses, schools are a different ball game. School is exhausting. The demands are enormous and the social rules endless. Kids can never fully escape school with the explosion of Facebook and Bebo. If you get anything wrong at school, you can be sure it’s all over the internet before tea-time. They walk a fine line of social acceptance that’s extremely hard to navigate. I’m not saying it’s right or fair, but it’s reality.

So perhaps the irony is that school shopping could turn out to be one of those silent gifts to parents. Children will never tell you honestly about what happens at school, but if they’re unhappy or nervous or insecure, you’ll probably be able to tell when you go school shopping. Bearing this in mind, maybe giving in on the cool bag, or the cool shoes isn’t the end of the world.

This article originally appeared in Sussex Local magazine http://www.sussexlocal.net/

Cage fighting Swedish Style

There are certain experiences in life that change us. This change can be temporary or permanent. Travelling the world alone at eighteen, for example, induces a permanent change, often for the better. There are, however, certain situations that we find ourselves, in which it is necessary to adapt our outlook on a more temporary basis in order to survive. Taking the bus home at rush hour in the rain, sitting in traffic jams with family, listening to political speeches: these all require an element of adaptation without which we would simply lose our minds.

If any of you have ever taken a trip to IKEA, you’ll know what I’m talking about. In fact, if IKEA had been around when Dante was writing Inferno, he would have renamed the Seventh Circle of Hell the Market Place. Everyone one of us needs to work ourselves up for a trip to IKEA. It takes training – mostly mental and emotional – and by god, does it take stamina.

As soon as a trip to IKEA is booked into your schedule, the necessary transformation begins immediately. Everybody knows the secret to success is preparation so you start The List. IKEA forces even the most chaotic amongst us to be organised and The List is often divided into separate rooms under which items such as ‘overhead light shade’, ‘small rug’ and ‘organisational unit for corner of bathroom’ (there’s no name for that, but you know IKEA will make one and call it something like MKALTOBOOBS) go. It goes without saying that you must have space at the side of every item to clearly list the aisle and location numbers as you want around the Swedish merry-go-round of masochism. You don’t want to get those locations mixed up otherwise, by the time you get to the self-help area and your sense of humour is half way home and your patience got up and left somewhere near the soft furnishing area, you’re liable to cry publicly and loudly if you can’t find your new lifestyle accessories. So you construct The List. You might even copy it out neatly before you go.

Then there’s transport. You certainly can’t get the bus to IKEA, or the train, or any mode of public transport unless it comes with a boot the size of Luxemburg. I don’t care if you’re only going for a garlic crusher, you’ll need a boot the size of Luxemburg. No one, in the history of IKEA, has ever, I repeat ever left IKEA with the one thing that they went for. Nor has anyone left for less than £100. If you have, don’t bother writing about it at the bottom of this blog, unless you scan in your receipt to prove it because I simply won’t believe you.

Once you’ve figured out how to get there, you’ve got to decide when to go. Unless you’re into self-harm, you rule out Saturday and Sunday straight off, followed by any Bank Holiday if there’s one looming. Ideally, you want to be able to go early in the morning on a weekday but that requires taking a day off work. “That’s a bit over the top,” you might say. Well, it depends on whether you think wearing a seatbelt is over the top, or not leaving matches with your toddler; it’s basic health and safety. If, however, a day off from work is not feasible, then an evening will have to do. Usually 7pm onwards is the best option but it only leaves you three hours so you’ve got to be prepared to be focused, fast and unflappable. Oh, and get a good night’s sleep, don’t go with your boyfriend/girlfriend and, whatever you do, don’t go on an empty stomach.

So you’re there. You park (easier written than done). Your heartbeat is a little faster than usual, there may a sweaty palm or two on the horizon but the adrenaline is kicking in and as soon as you walk through those sliding doors you know what needs to be done. You’ve already been cut off by a family carrying thirteen boxes that are six feet long and you watched an old man moved unfeasibly quickly to get the last trolley which he technically snatched from your grasp. In fact, you realize that all your manners must go out of the Swedish-designed window.

Shopping at IKEA is a little like cage fighting: there are no rules and you do what you need to do to survive. No more Mr. Nice-Guy. You make no concessions for children; they are simply planted there by ambitious parents to slow you down. By the time you get to the market place, you’re elbowing people out of the way to get the last set of IKEA Maaaaaaasbrogen glasses. A couple is fighting in the corner and a sadistic smile spreads across your face. Who’d be stupid enough to go to IKEA with a partner? Ha! Rookie error.

Once you’ve established your territory, a trip around IKEA may start off well, until of course they run out of the one set of curtains that you want. They tell you they’ll have more in tomorrow. “But my IKEA trip is today! It’s impossible for me to come back tomorrow!” you wail. The thought of having to return is already bringing you out in a rash. You move on. The trolley starts filling up. It gets harder and harder to navigate. You scrawl your aisle and location numbers down. You start to sweat. You can’t keep track of what you’ve got and what you haven’t got. You add in an egg-slicer because who doesn’t need one of those? You try to focus but aren’t those fairy lights pretty? Oooh, and those candlesticks would look great on the mantelpiece. By this time, it doesn’t matter that those things are not on the list. You’re like a child in a sweetshop. You’re in a blue and yellow coloured frenzy. You’re overdosing on lifestyle choices that weird Swedish boffins have created for you in a warehouse somewhere in the land of meatballs.

You emerge into the somewhat ironically named self-help area totally spent. You take a few moments to regroup before you head off into the maze of fifty feet high shelves. You balance a number of heavy boxes precariously on top of two trolleys. You’re on the home straight. You can feel it. You’re stronger than you’ve ever been. You’re lifting boxes from location 71 as if they’re no heavier than a box of cornflakes. You’re lumping them on the trolley and speeding off to the next aisle. It’s 9.30pm. You’ve got time to spare. The queues aren’t too bad. You don’t even care about the astronomical bill; you’re just pleased to be out of there. All the stress and pain that you felt somewhere in the middle is obliterated now by the excitement of taking it all home and transforming your life into an oasis of style and harmony (that will look like everyone else’s oasis but you silence this thought). It doesn’t matter than it’ll be 11pm before you’re home and you’ve got work tomorrow. You’re going to go home and make it all nice. Sigh. Of. Relief.

Beware. I urge you to enjoy this moment while it lasts. This moment is very shortlived.

Seconds after the high, the downer sets in. You get the car but you can’t park it in the loading area. Bad. You can get everything in except the oversized mirror so you have to queue to get it delivered. Bad. You get home and remember that you’ve got to put all the bloody stuff together yourself. Bad. You realize you only got one box of two instead of two boxes of two and you without half of your chest of drawers. Bad. You only realize this when you’ve exploded all the screws, pieces and instructions all over the floor. Bad. You’ve got to go back to IKEA all over again to get the other box. Really bad.

Basically, this is not a nice experience. No one enjoys a trip to IKEA. You might think you do but, like deciding to have a second child, you only do it because you can’t remember the pain. It’s exhausting, stressful, and costs you a fortune, and potentially a relationship. So why do so many of us do it? Well, I’ll tell you why I do it…because the meatballs are so damn good.