July 29, 2013 by rebootingkaye

Distractions Distractions

Sorry. I know I’m a bit tardy with this post. I’ve been a bit, well, busy. Busy-ish. I couldn’t really tell you what I’ve been doing all this time, just living I guess. But you know how it is, things get in the way of writing sometimes.

Of course, they shouldn’t. When I gave up work I was determined I was going to write regularly, and start earning a bit through it if I possibly could. Well that hasn’t worked out has it? It started off ok, stories were flowing, rhymes formed in my mind in the way other people’s minds form intelligent thoughts. But then I started doing other things. Cooking. Sewing. Crochet (am I someone’s granny for goodness sake?) and now….THE GARDEN…

Well, to be fair, I’m not actually doing anything at all in my garden, but the landscapers are, and I find it very, well, distracting. Even though they are busy working, bricklaying, pulling up, digging down, doing other stuff with big tools, even though they’re not spending they’re time peering in my windows, (and no, they haven’t got their shirts off), it does feel like I’m living in a goldfish bowl. And they’re noisy. Drilling, banging, concrete mixing, radio playing, electric something or other using…always with the noise..

Hah! The noise. The neighbours are getting a bit of their own medicine. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’re not that bad. They are nice people. A nice family. A nice family who are a lot richer than us. A nice family who’ve got a pool.

Have you any idea how noisy kids in a pool can be? They screech. They splash. They shout. It’s never just a couple of them either, always dozens (at least it sounds like dozens) and the pool is right alongside our boundary, so we hear it all in glorious surround sound. Well, we did. We now have fence. BIG fence. MAN fence. And we’re hoping that it will bounce the sound back their way a bit.

Did I mention they have a jacuzzi too.

You’d think that would be quieter. A grown up thingy. Well, it is a grown up thingy. They certainly use it in the (very) late evening/very early morning. We know ‘cos of the giggling and the chinking of glasses.

Now, I’ve never really wanted a jacuzzi. They make me wrinkly, and the chemicals make my eyes sore. However, I have always, always, wanted a pool. I love swimming. I love the feel of the water slinking over my skin as I pull myself through along using otherwise rarely used muscles. I love to float (floating is my special skill… once in Tobago I was floating in the sea and a tiny girl came up to me and said ‘how’d you do ‘dat? Did Jesus teach you do ‘dat? I had to answer honestly ‘not directly’) or dive under the water and experience the other worldliness of it all, even in the local leisure centre swimming pool (top tip, never wear goggles in a municipal pool, it’s quite revolting what you can see in there). And I have been swimming there weekly for a while. For once using old age to my advantage. You see, they have an ‘over 50’s’ session, where everyone is wrinkly and odd shaped, everyone swims sensibly up and down, and no-one shouts. Almost perfect, but still not as good as having your own pool.

The irony is, that our garden is plenty big enough for a modest pool. And the amount the make-over is costing us would easily be enough to get one installed. Hang on a tick…just going to tell them to stop…Stop what they’re doing..what they’ve been doing for the last three weeks, stop with the landscaping, the bricklaying, the deforestation…stop….put me in a pool instead..!!

Nah, not going to happen is it.

July 8, 2013 by rebootingkaye

The truth about Balls – for Cinderellas everywhere

Every now and then we get invited to a dinner and dance or a ball.

‘ooh, how lovely’ I hear you say. Yes, the chance to get myself dolled up in a posh frock used to get me excited. Now, as a cynical, grumpy old woman, you’ll just hear me sigh and moan at the thought.

For a start, these ‘do’s’ are usually work related. The ‘Celebration Dinner’ or the ‘Awards ceremony’ during a conference. You’ve already had a day of smiling nicely, and all you really want to do is go and sit in a bar with your chums and a bottle of wine. The reality however, is that you get less than an hour to get yourself sorted and ready for an evening of torture.

You have a quick shower, then attempt to do your hair with one of those stupid hairdryers you get in hotel rooms. You know, the one’s where you have to hold the button down to keep the air flow going. What air flow there is – they invariably have the power of a fly flapping it’s wings past your ear. Consequently, hair isn’t that of a tennis girl-friend (how do they get hair like that?), more of the not-so-fashionably tousled variety. You put ‘
product’ on to try and tame it. It looks like its been dipped in grease and sticks out at right angles. Hair should not have corners, should it? Ho hum… on with the dress…

You will have chosen a suitable posh frock to wear. A nice posh frock, I have found, invariably needs some pretty mega underwear to make it look half decent on me. Strapless bra that digs in, and has potential to slip either up or down, and make you look squashed in funny places. Big keks. Big, big, keks. Big keks that hold you in so much you go cross eyed, and feel sick if you eat so much as a stick of celery at the dinner – neither can you go to the loo quickly, so can’t drink too much either (I have discovered though, that a certain brand of big keks has a special gusset that kind of opens so you can do what you need to without taking them off – who knew??? It’s made me look at red carpet celebs in a whole new different way). The dress is long…bit too long, need high heels. You’ve bought a beautiful new pair, that make you feel a million dollars. You’re tall, you’re elegant, you are a Cinderella look-alikey, you’re held in, and your feet bl***y hurt.

After tidying up the make-up you’ve smudged inadvertantly at some point of the getting ready-ness, you totter off, clutching your clutch bag, which you will have mislaid by the end of the evening. Arriving at the reception you grab a glass of free champagne and swill it down. Then you grab a second. You immediately regret that second one. It’s ok now, but the first glass of wine with dinner is going to mix with those darn bubbles and send you giddy fairly swiftly. Never mind, you are charming, though wish you could remember the names of the people you don’t recognise at all who seem to know you quite well.

Then there is the dinner.

You are sat at a round table with some eight other people, none of whom you have anything in common with, except perhaps the woman opposite, who you think you might get on really well with, but you can’t actually hear anything she’s saying, because the enormous table decoration separates you. Instead, you’re stuck with the slimey Mr I Am sitting next to you for the evening. Have another drink.

There’s the food to negotiate. Soup for starters. Eating soup daintly is a knack I’ve yet to learn. Then there’s the chunk of meat for main, and who thought strips of pasta was a good idea – are they having a laugh? Slippery and sloshy with sauce, guaranteed to slither down your chin. Pudding is so often that little row of three teeny tiny same but different things. One is so so, one is revolting, and the third is the smallest one, that is delicious and you wish you could have just had a big portion of that. Then there’s the coffee…..don’t get me started…see previous post…!!

Speeches. Oh hoo bloomin’ ray! Does anyone, ever like the speeches. Sure, everyone laughs politely, claps a bit, but really we are all wishing we could get to the bar (the wine on the table went very early on). Awards to be given out. Endless awards, with endless photos to be taken. By this time, I am nodding off, possibly with a bit of dribble coming out of the side of my mouth. Then the ENTERTAINMENT. A misnomer. Need I say more.

Of course, there is always the disco at the end. Dad dancing at it’s finest! It does liven everyone up a bit though, and I actually start enjoying myself. Of course, it’s enjoying myself with the abandonment of more than enough glasses of wine enjoying myself. Heaven knows what I look like. My shoes, taken off discreetly during dinner, lie abandoned under the table, I’m tripping over my frock and trying to shimmy despite my big keks, and slippy bra. Doubt anyone else remembers anyway, and it’s giving me the chance to bitch about everyone else’s odd choice of clothing for the evening. I wonder why that woman’s boobs are such a funny shape – could it be her bra?
Oh god, it’s a mirror…

June 14, 2013 by rebootingkaye

The best laid plans

Apologies to my armies of fans who are waiting on tenterhooks for my next words of wisdom.

Ok, though I do like to kid myself occasionally, I know I neither have armies of fans nor words of wisdom to divulge. But I do owe apologies, at the very least to myself, that I’ve been a bit tardy in writing on here lately.

You may remember, that this blog was supposed to be about my life as a newly freed-from-employment lady. When I left my job I had three and a half months of glorious freedom that I could write about, and I promised myself I would post at least once a week.

Then I picked up a couple of little contracts working from home, which have taking over my life a bit recently. Not that I’ve minded. I’ve met some lovely new people, both real, and twitter folk, surprised myself by writing about fashion accessories (like I know…), and had fun building databases, and finding IT solutions for stuff – what can I say, I am a geek.

Now though, it’s all slowing down. My little social media contract has come to an end, and I’m down from three to just one day a week for the other one. Slowly, I’m beginning to get used to having a bit more time again. It’s great. But I have to agree with the old cliche, I don’t know how I had the time to work.

I will never be a fantastic housekeeper, cleaning is soul destroying – you do it and five minutes later the dog has walked across the newly hoovered carpet with paws that have come directly from digging through to Australia (only a little bit of an exaggeration I assure you), but anyhow, my home has never been cleaner. I’m tidying and polishing, chucking stuff away willy nilly, and generally going all housewiferly. Who’da thought?

I’ve also got into sewing, not only making cushions, clothes, and tablecloths, but cross-stitching and crocheting too. My tidy home is being taken over by craft paraphanalia. As with all things, I’m a bit rubbish at all those things – far too impatient, but I’m learning and enjoying, and feel as if I’m growing a bit too. And it does tear me away from my beloved laptop, which is probably a good thing, as I could easily spend all day, everyday, sitting tapping away in a little imaginary world of my own, which I realise probably wouldn’t be at all healthy.

Of course that doesn’t mean I’ve given up writing all together, but just been busy doing other stuff lately.

Like volunteering. I applied to the local hospice as soon as I left work, I thought it would get me out of the house, and working in a team, all that sort of stuff, as well as helping me to be a useful member of society. Well, they didn’t have a permanent regular position open, so I’ve been doing odds and ends of admin for them. Now, guess what? I’ve got a project going for them. I’m working from home. Building a database. And a spreadsheet. On my laptop. Hey ho…

p.s. No, I’ve not been gardening. Our lovely patch is awash with weeds as it waits to have its makeover. And that’s another story…!

May 23, 2013 by rebootingkaye

Power to the Pink Parade

I was one of those sad kids last left in the line-up. I couldn’t (and still can’t) run, throw, catch, jump or hit a ball with a bat, or racket, or my foot. I am categorically, pants at sport. It’s ok though really, ‘cos I haven’t got a competitive bone in my body either.

However, in June I will be doing the ‘Race for Life’ in aid of Cancer Research UK. Last year I did the 5k with a friend, and this year I’m upping my game to do the 10k with one of my daughter’s for support (or to carry me…). Of course, you will have guessed, I have no intention of doing any actual running, but I’ll walk as fast as I can. Last year Net and I did run the last bit, the bit where people were watching and cheering, and I think we may have fooled one or two into thinking we were capable of running the whole thing. My body knows different though.

I have to be honest, 5k isn’t that bad. In fact, it felt almost like cheating, as I regularly walk the dog that far anyway, which is why I decided to go the whole hog and attempt the 10k this year. It could be a mistake. An over-estimation of my motivation. We’ll find out soon. Whatever happens though I know it will be fun to be part of.

Its heartwarming to see thousands of ladies, all dressed up in pink, most, like me, who don’t do ‘that sort of thing’, going for it en masse. Huffing and puffing our way round the course, chattering, encouraging, moaning, groaning… and, in a sad reflection of how pervasive this diabolic disease is, each of us have, pinned to our backs, our own story of encounters with cancer. Most, like me, are running in memory of family or friends that they have lost.

So, I’m in training. Long walks, with an occasional 30 second burst (most I can manage) of jogging for good measure. I’m looking forward to it in a quite nervous sort of way, and am hoping to raise just a little bit of awareness and maybe a bit of money for the wonderful work Cancer Research do. Have a look at their website, and if you’d like to support them you you can do it through my sponsorship page here.

The event takes place after my birthday, so I’ll be a very proud pensioner when I finish!! Oh yes, I’ll finish…it may take a while….

May 13, 2013 by rebootingkaye

It’s all a matter of taste

‘Can’t eat ’em. Don’t like the look of ’em!’ the checkout blokey said to me at the supermarket the other day (yes, it was an older gentleman on the checkout, we’re very pc ’round these parts ya’know). He was referring to some mussels that I’d bought for our tea. I love mussels, funny looking bits an’ all. In fact I like pretty much most sea food, although on further discussion with said blokey, we decided whelks were overall a bit too chewy, unless you’d got the odd half hour or two to eat them.

I’ve always thought you shouldn’t be put off of trying anything by the way it looks. Seafood in particular can look a bit, err, shall we say, challenging (come to think of it, so does a lot of my cooking… you should have seen my summer pudding the other day. The special effects team from ‘Bones’ would have been proud). It got me to thinking about likes and dislikes, foodwise, though.

We all have things we don’t like. I have two brothers-in-law (brother-in-laws?? well, you know what I mean). Even though he’s 50 and should know better, one of them won’t touch any veggies except the odd teeny bit of a carrot, and is a proper carnivor, the other one doesn’t like meat all that much, much preferring to pile his plate with the green stuff. My little niece rejects practically everything she is offered, except sweet things and…. black olives. How weird is that? My daughter’s wouldn’t touch olives until they were in their twenties. They seem a grown up sort of taste.

Is there such a thing though? We tend to give children bland uninteresting food, or sweetened stuff, or things in funny shapes – alphebetti spaghetti etc and then wonder why they are fussy. I never did make different food for my children, they had what we had, and on the whole they ate it…curry’s, cous-cous, stir-frys, chilli – olives were one of the exceptions. We didn’t give them much in the way of sweets (I know, I’m a cruel mother) but they are thanking me these days as, at the age of 26 they are still filling free, and they are open to trying all types of food both here and when they are in foreign parts.

Personally, there are two things I really don’t touch (three if you count coffee…see previous posts). Steak and jelly.

I have had an aversion to steak since seeing my dad’s plate graced with a whopping piece of meat that was oozing blood – he liked it rare. Put me right off it did. I’ve no doubt that if I tried it again now, I might like it, as long as it was cooked gently and not too chewy. I just can’t be bothered to try. However, jelly is a different matter.

Apparently, when I was just a few months old, my mum tried giving it to me as one of my first steps towards solid food. I spat it back at her with contempt. It was revolting then, and it is revolting still. All jelly. Strawberry, blackcurrant, orange, that gelatin stuff that holds the fruit together in flans, that grey wobbly stuff that makes a perfectly good pork pie into something totally inedible for me. Any of it. All of it. Yuck. Don’t know why, just, well, yuck.

My mum always insisted we had jelly and blancmange at my birthday parties. I used to look at the hideous wobbling monstrosity, and was often tempted to push it from the window sill where it sat setting in the sun, but the thought of gobbets of the ghastly stuff splattered across the garden path, and me probably having to clear it up, stopped me. The blancmange was equally bad by the way. Basically thick milky jelly. Yuck, yuck, yucketty yuck (to paraphrase Hugh Grant in Four Weddings).

Anyhoo, next time you invite me ’round, remember, I’ll eat most things, but for goodness sake don’t serve jelly, you might get it spat in your face.

April 23, 2013 by rebootingkaye

Tea for me please #2

Reading my last post back, I noticed that I failed to mention that although I don’t drink coffee, I am, in fact, a tea connoisseur. Even I didn’t realise that until after I’d written it. Perhaps it was when I counted the different teas I have in my cupboard. Twenty. Yep, twenty different teas. There’s the bog standard fairtrade everyday tea bags (I like Diplomat ones from Aldi by the way!) and then there are packets of:

Camomile, Peppermint, Pomegranate & Raspberry, Cranberry & Raspberry, Fennel, Masala, Ginger, Selfridges Afternoon Tea, Boh tea from Malaysia, Tetley’s Earl Grey, Jasmine, Kiptagich Highland Tea from Kenya, Darjeeling, Fairtrade organic Breakfast tea, Sarawack tea from Borneo, a packet of herbal tea from Sri Lanka, Fortnam and Mason’s Orange Pekoe, Pure Ceylon from Sri Lanka and Highcrown BOP from Sri Lanka.

A fair selection I think you’ll agree. Some of them have been hanging around in my cupboard for a while, but I’ve tasted them all. Many are brought from distant shores and remind me of holidays.

I’ve sipped a thick sweet black tea in a make-shift corrugated iron cafe by the sea in Turkey. Warmed up with Jasmine tea after nearly being frozen to death, even in the brilliant sunshine, on the Great Wall of China.

The mint tea in Morocco was served from tiny silver teapots into little glass cups, in a sweetsmelling and peaceful courtyard tucked away behind the exciting and exhausting madness of Jemaa el Fna and the Medina’s.

Recently I had my first taste of Masala tea in India. The slightly curried warmth of it will always remind me of collapsing by the pool at one of the fabulous hotels after a full-on day of exploring the mosaic cities, wonderful palaces and extraordinary rivers that make India such a fascinating and wonderful place to be.

Ginger tea was taken on a rooftop terrace in the sunshine, while contemplating the world of people wheeling around the brilliant white Boudhanath Stupa in Katmandhu, Nepal.

Without a doubt though, the best cup of tea I have ever had, was after a very long and arduous journey in a jeep up into the mountains of Sri Lanka. We’d travelled through rising seas of tea plantations, lush and green, dotted with women in colourful sari’s plucking the leaves. We were hot and sticky when we eventually stopped to visit one of the factories. The manager there greeted the four of us (me, husband, two 14 yr old daughters) warmly, and took us to one of the fields where we learned about the bushes and their growing habits, and the different types of tea. We then saw the tea itself in different tubs depending on quality (always look for Orange Pekoe!) and were told, somewhat disconcertingly, that the tea bags we get in England are made of the equivalent of the sweepings from the floor!

After the, fairly brief, tour, we were shown into a beautiful, fan-cooled room, where there were huge soft sofa’s that we were ashamed to plonk our grubby selves on. We did nonetheless, and sat and enjoyed the comfort after the bashing around we’d had in the jeep. Tea was served to us by a beautiful young Sri Lankan lady dressed in an simple orange sari. She poured from a proper teapot, into proper china cups. The tea was black, and untainted by sugar. It would be impossible for me to describe the flavour, but I would say that it was exquisite, subtle, and refreshing. To top it all it was served with a slab of perfect chocolate cake. I was in heaven.

Of course, as well as my travels, tea reminds me of a nice cup of tea with my mum after a hard day at school, and all the time’s when I’ve come home from work feeling grumpy and a cuppa has made me feel better. Some of the tea’s in my cupboard have been bought for me by my daughter’s when they have been on their travels (Malaysian BOH, and the Sarawack from Borneo for instance), which makes me proud and happy too.

So yep, I admit it, I’m Kaye and I’m a Tea-aholic!

April 11, 2013 by rebootingkaye

Tea for me please

For the first time ever yesterday, I went into a Starbucks on my own. Actually, I’m not sure that I’ve ever been in a Starbucks at all before, so it was a new experience for me. I’d like to say here and now, that I won’t be going back. Nor will I be venturing into any other ‘coffee shop’.

For a start I don’t drink coffee. Tried it a few times, but just the smell makes me feel slightly nauseous and lightheaded. Last time I drank coffee was at a dinner party some 20 years ago. We’d just moved in to a new house, and were invited by kindly neighbours who were, frankly, ordinarily a little too posh for the likes of us. We didn’t know any of the other four couples there at all. It would have felt very unsophisticated to ask for a cup of tea instead, so I took the coffee served in tiny cups at the end of the meal, and tried not to turn my nose up at it as I drank it.

Pretty much instantaneously, I felt my head swim, things went a bit blurry, and I felt the need to excuse myself to head to the loo to slosh some water on my face. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the floor on their deep-pile carpet with my head between my knees, having passed out cold. Very sophisticated. They all thought I was drunk. I wasn’t, which was apparent by my swift recovery. But once they realised I was sober as a judge, everyone made a big fuss, and a doctor was called. I felt a right twerp. All I wanted was a cup a’ rosy.

Anyway, I’ll never know whether it was the coffee that made me faint, it doesn’t seem to have that effect on anyone else, but I haven’t drunk it since.

So, anyway, I was hanging about, very bored, waiting for a train yesterday, and thought I’d get myself a cup of hot chocolate (I can’t abide tea in plastic cups). Starbucks was the only place in the near vacinity, so I braved it. Oh, the smell. Do you know (I expect you do) that they have a pile of coffee beans, just loose on the top of some machine….eewww….! All I wanted was a cup of hot chocolate, but I had to make decisions about what size/type, and I also had, for some unfathomable reason, to tell the girl my name. Then go and queue for my drink.

It was ok. Lukewarm for hot chocolate, even without the pile of cream I was offered. I had to sit on a primary school sized stool at a bench table. Can’t say I enjoyed it. At all. But it killed some time – all of five minutes, mostly queueing.

I am, I admit, slightly jealous of all those other folk happily ordering their fancy named beverages. Knowing the difference between a latte, a macchiato, cappacino and espresso, not to mention the different versions of them. I do still feel very unsophisticated compared to those who sit with friends slowly sipping something frothy, or people who rush about clutching enormous plastic cups of something or other that they seem to need to just fuel them through their day (they must be loaded too – have you seen the price of those things??? And why don’t they need the loo all the time???) However, I have learnt in my old age, that the one thing that makes anyone seem sophisticated is their being able to ask for what they want with confidence and ease, and without embarrassment.

So these days, if I’m coming ’round to your house, put the coffee maker away and make sure you’re stocked up on tea bags – you know that’s what I’ll be asking for.

March 26, 2013 by rebootingkaye

Eyes Right

I’ve been to the Opticians today. I loathe going to the opticians. It’s hard. I can’t do it. Those tests

‘which is best number 1 or number 2?’

Which is clearer red or green?

I’m never quite sure and terrified I’ll end up with a dodgy prescription because I am quite hopeless at telling which is best. They look the bloomin’ same – blurry. Probably ‘cos I haven’t got my glasses on. And, by the way, I can, sort of, read the third line, but I have to squint and concentrate and that probably isn’t good on a day to day, hour by hour basis.

Then there’s the looking up, looking down, looking left, looking right, look up to the right, look up to the left, look down to the right, look down to the left.

Ok, I admit it, when you’re invading my space and peering into my eye with a brilliantly bright light I find it extremely difficult to tell my left from right. There’s no need to get tetchy.

If the test wasn’t bad enough, I have to brace myself for the humiliation of choosing frames. To make it even more painful, it’s a two for one offer. I have to choose two flaming frames.

Now what is it with frame manufacturers? All the frames come in one size. Don’t they know we all have different sized heads? I tried on practically every pair in the shop, and the one pair that I actually liked, and thought suited me were ‘too wide’ for my teeny tiny head. Or so the glam assistant, who hadn’t been out in the blistering wind, and who had had time to apply make-up this morning, told me (she didn’t actually say I had a teeny tiny head, but that was the gist).

As I tried more on, it became increasingly apparent that I have a pin head. Smaller than average, with ears that are set on wonky. My nose is slipperier than everybody else’s and my eyelashes are freakishly long. Dark frames are ‘too heavy’ for my tiddly features, and light ones make me look ‘washed out’. Round frames make me look like an owl, square one’s like a (badly) computer generated robot.

For a while glam assistant seems quite sympathetic. But an edge in her voice starts setting in and she disappears to ‘find my file’ and presumably kick the cat. She comes back with one of her colleagues who shakes her head and says

‘Too wide.’ reasonably sympathetically when I show her my frames of choice. ‘How about these’ Nope, too blingy. I don’t do bling. Too Edna Everidge.

After a further hour and a half of this fiasco, I eventually make a decision. Two pairs. One quite plain and boring, the others purple with somewhat peculiar thick arms.

We go over to the seats where they measure and dot, and do things I don’t understand, to get the varifocals right (oh, yes. I’m also so ancient I need varifocals – my god it’s depressing).

‘Are you happy with them?’ she asks.

I pout churlishly

‘not really. I like the other ones. The ones that are ‘too wide’.’ I am aware I sound like a sulky schoolkid.

‘Shall I get them?’ She asks.

‘Yes please’ She may as well have offered me a giant bar of chocolate. Hooray, I’ve got my own way (I am undoubtedly an overage brat).

The said frames are adjusted. They feel comfortable. They feel like they fit fine. I think they’re ok. Glam assistant starts agreeing they look ok.

‘If you like them, then go with them’ I can almost hear her muttering ‘be it on your own head’ under her breath.

I discard the boring pair and buy the too wide one’s for a humungus amount of dosh. I get the purple pair too. Just in case. When I get them I’ll be able to either wear a pair that don’t fit properly ‘cos their too wide, or a pair I don’t like much. At least I’ll have a choice, lets hope I didn’t fudge the tests!

March 8, 2013 by rebootingkaye

A very cakey holiday

So here I am back from my little trip. Two weeks holiday. Gone in the blink of an eye.

I’ve been to both India and Nepal in that time and seen some breathtakingly wonderful things. Also some breathtakingly weird ones.

The Taj Majhal. You know the Taj Mahal don’t you. I did. I knew what it looked like, what it was for. I knew the backstory. I’d seen Princess Diana sitting on a bench all lonely. I’ve seen it on TV documentaries and in magazines. I knew it. I knew what to expect.

Apparently, no I didn’t. The Taj Mahal is possibly the purest most perfect construction I have ever had the privilege to set eyes upon. It was misty on the morning we visited. The whiteness of its marble glowed through the gloom, ghostly and ethereal. A perfectly iced cake. The size of the thing is overwhelming…yes, monumental. Up close, the marble glistens with colours and striations unimaginable from a distance. To think that the main building was designed and built in just eight years. Puts our cathedral builders to shame. I’ve already told Chris that I’m expecting an equally impressive memorial. He’d better get cracking.

You emerge from the visit feeling as if you’ve been to another dimension, especially given the melee of people, animals, vehicles, etc that meet you at the exit. Cows, pigs, monkeys and Camels amongst the motorbikes and rickshaws.

Everything in India seems to be done in the open. Haircuts, shaves, dental work, shoe mending, clothes sewing, cooking, eating and all manner of ablutions (don’t even ask) done at the side of the road for all to see. Now, this wouldn’t suit us all. Not me anyway, I like my privacy (and safety), but our lovely local guide assured us that

‘India is fun to live in, no health and safety rules and regulations. You can do what you like, when and where you like. You can drive anyhow you like. Everybody gets on and goes about their business as they like’

Well, doesn’t sound too bad. And I witnessed an extraordinary acceptance, by most individuals, of life and living and their place in the world that we in the West just don’t have. This may be to do with religious belief – Hindus and Bhuddists both believe in reincarnation and that this life is just a path to the next. I’m sure we could learn more than a little from both.

Nepal was different. Calmer, less cows in the road.

I didn’t really know the meaning of magnificence until I saw the mountains there. Everest from a teeny tiny plane. Just sixteen of us, all with window seats, all invited to the cockpit to view the vista from the front. The mountain range went on and on.. glistening below and beside us. More icing. More cake. (I must have been hungry a lot – everything looking cakey). I now am the proud owner of a certificate to say I’ve taken the Everest flight. Ok, not quite the same as climbing the thing, but as it says on my bought-on-the-plane-never-to-be-worn tee-shirt: