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Beam me up

Just back off me hols.  Yep, we’ve had a wonderful couple of weeks in Kerala, India.  Splendid grand hotel with wonderful staff (The Leela, Kovalam), yummy food, fantastic pool, and beautiful scenery.  Who could ask for more.

Me.  I could.

Like everyone else I love being on holiday.  Not a care in the world, the only decisions to be made is whether to lie by the beach or pool, or what to choose from the buffet that won’t add on immediate pounds and make your wobbly bits even more wobbly when you lurch on to the sunbed in your cossie.  I don’t even mind getting a bit burnt here and there, or even being covered in bites that keep me awake.  What I really don’t like about holidays though is the getting there and back.

Despite being fairly well travelled, I still loathe airports.  The endless queuing. Firstly. to book in.  Will we get nice seats? Together? Will we get seats? (The last question being the direct result of being victim to the scandalous overbooking that apparently all airlines undertake.  We were fortunate that through bribery that particular airline managed to persuade some other passengers to relinquish their seats to us.  Others in our group weren’t so lucky.)

Then of course you wave your bags goodbye, wondering, as they trundle off, if they’re ever to be seen again, and if so, will they be in one piece.  We always pack spare keks and swimwear in our hand luggage… just in case.  I figure, at least, if I have swimwear I’ll be able to sink myself in a nice cool pool while I’m waiting for the rest of my carefully chosen accoutrements to arrive.

Through into departure lounge via the queue for security.  I always beep.  Why do I always beep? No idea.  I take off my belts, bangles and shoes, but still I beep.  Is it my underpinnings, being of the wired variety? Do other ladies that have wired underpinnings beep?  Surely I’m not the only one.  Suffice it to say, I beep, so I need patting down by a severe looking security woman.

After patting me down and finding nothing, one unfortunate woman in an airport in Nepal, chose to search my handluggage.  Poking about with her bare hands she managed to find a very squishy manky banana in the bottom that I had completely forgotten about.  I will never forget her look of disgust as she pulled it from the bag.  She didn’t search further, just waved me on.  That’s the ticket!!

Anyhoo, eventually through security.  There is the interminable wait.  There’s only so many times you can walk round the shops in a departure lounge.  Who buys stuff in there anyway?  I’m always puzzled by the luggage shops. Isn’t it a little late for that?  So we sit and people watch and eat uninspiring sandwiches until we are given the gate number and cheerfully told it’s a ten minute walk away.  En masse down the walkways, rushing as if they might leave without us when we know we’ve still got more than another hour before there’s even a chance the plane will be fully boarded.  I’m worn out before we’ve started.

Then there’s the almighty rush to board.  Everyone pushing and shoving, fighting for space in the overhead lockers.  Only then can you claim your seat.  You know, the one next to the very big person/very chatty person/snorer/dribbler/drunk/weak bladdered…the one in front of the kid whose up for spending the next five hours kicking the back of your seat whilst either whining or screaming.  The one with the air hostess who believes in service with a sneer, not the nice one who works the other side of the aisle.  God I hate planes.

Then take off. I still white-knuckle at every take off.  I try to go to a happy place, honest I do, but there really isn’t one that can include those scary engine noises and the sicky feeling as the earth drops away.

Settle in, get into a film maybe, and the food comes.  The little tray of horrors. Everything crammed on it like a jigsaw with spillage.  You eat what you can and are stuck with the table down across your knees when the bloke next to you decides he ‘needs to go’. Great.  If anyone has found a way of successfully dealing with that scenario please let me know.

Meal time over, you try and nap.  It really is impossible to get comfy in a plane seat.  Try as you might, your legs are never right…. straight out under the seat in front and your bum falls off the not wide enough seat. It’s not wide enough widthways to curl up either.  You try some sort of in between thing with your head propped on your hand, and, despite the kicking in the back, just about manage to nod off, when the bloke next to you wants another wee.  Shouldn’t have had that third beer should you mate.

Eventually, the pilot lets you know that you’ll be landing shortly, but first we have to go ’round and ’round for half an hour because there is a queue.  Who’da thought it?

Despite the warnings to ‘remain in your seat with your belt buckled’ everyone unbuckles and stands up the minute the wheels touch the ground, and there is the usual push and shove to get off the plane.

For our trip to India, there was a three hour wait before starting again on another plane.  What can I say, it was great to arrive, and even greater to eventually see my luggage clunking on to the carousel.  It was also great to forget the prospect of the return journey, if only for a while.

So yes, I would ask for more.  I would ask for one of those machines like they have in Star Trek, that will beam me to my destination (with my luggage!) in the time it takes to say ‘chicken or fish’.  Come on, this is the twenty first century, surely someone has invented it by now?

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I need support – or – feeling discomboobulated

Love ‘em or loath ‘em, on the whole, we ladies have to wear bras.  They strap us in, bolster us up, and, not putting too fine a point on it, stop things, well, bobbing about.

I was in Marks and Sparks the other day when there was an announcement over the tannoy reminding us that there was a ‘Bra Fitting Service’ available in the lingerie department.   Well, since I was there to buy some underwear (well, why else would I be there…can’t afford the food..), and I was feeling pleased with myself for losing some flab since last time I bought such items (ok, that was some time ago as the tired old once-white scaffolding I was wearing at the time would testify), so I thought I’d take advantage of their most kind offer to reassess my size.

I picked the chosen confections from the rack in the size I thought I probably was, and stood and waited at the door of the fitting rooms.

‘Have you made an appointment’ ‘Linda’ asked.  I knew she was Linda, because she was sporting a fetching name badge telling me that she was the ‘fitting assistant’.

Well to be honest, I had no idea that you had to make an appointment.  They didn’t mention that on the tannoy, and crikey, I only wanted a quick measure up.  Anyway, Linda said they could fit me in if I would care to wait a few minutes.

Eventually, she showed me into the changing room, and told me to whip my blouse off.  The measuring took place under unforgiving lights which made my flesh look like risen dough. Fortunately I didn’t have to remove my underwear so some dignity was retained.  Just.

She gave me the verdict.

‘Ah, you’re in between sizes’

Well, fancy that.  Who’d a thought.  I’m not average…

Having immediately discounted my original choices, she went off in search of the perfect item.  She brought back half the shop.  All different sizes and shapes.  Good grief, did you know that you can be a different size according to what shape the ‘cup’ is? Or that it’s ‘dangerous’ if the wires sit too far round the side and your boob isn’t fully wedged in there?  What the hell does that mean? Dangerous!  Thanks to Linda I now have instilled in me a morbid fear of ill-fitting bras.

I must have tried on dozens.  Some were too squishy, some made me look like a ship in full sail, some were too baggy (Linda took her life in her hands when she told me that ‘older people lose their muscle tone up there’. She was darn lucky I didn’t show her exactly what muscle tone I’ve got in my right hook, I can tell you) some made me flob out over the top, some moved about when I swung my arms over my head.  Who knew I was such an odd shape?

I was feeling quite discombobulated (boobulated?? I was going to say deflated but that wasn’t the case at all), when she eventually bought one in that vaguely fitted.

‘Ooh I like that one, that’ll do’ I said, a little bit too overenthusiastically.

She stood there, hand on chin, sucked her teeth like a mechanic inspecting your tyres

‘No, it’s too tight. I’ll get you the next size’ and before I could object she disappeared through the curtain.  Needless to say the next size up replacement was way too big.  Ho hum.

It took another few abortive attempts before she bought me that same bra again.

‘I’d picked up the wrong size before’ she admitted.  ‘This one should be better’.

By then, I could only just about manage a tight-lipped smile. I’d been trying on bloomin’ bras for the last three-quarters of an hour, I was having this darn thing whether it fitted or not.

It was, of course, about three times the cost of the one’s I originally picked up and, miraculously, it was the same size as those.  Who needs a fitter?

After I’d paid for my mega fitting bra, I went to another shop.  Their underwear was on special offer.  I bought two bras without trying them on.  They fit perfectly.

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Brave writing

 

Let your passion show!

Rafa Nadal letting his passion show!

Oh, I know I could improve my writing.  I even know how I could improve it immediately.  I’ve done the course, I know the answer, trouble is I’m chicken.

All writers have to think of something to write about, and yes, most can probably pull things out of thin air fairy easily.  What doesn’t come so easily to some of us is the being brave bit.  Being brave with our emotions, exposing our feelings, putting our head above the parapet.

My family, especially my own childhood, is ripe with entertaining and bizarre episodes, certainly enough to fill a book, but when I put them down on paper it feels like a betrayal. Not only that, but bringing them to the surface and turning them over to reveal the juicy bits can be quite painful, so I inevitably end up deleting or destroying what had the potential to be something much deeper than some of my other drivel.

I envy other bloggers who write impassioned pieces about society or current affairs.  I wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole.  Of course, like them, I have strong views about many aspects of this modern world, but to voice them in public?  Goodness me, I might get some dodgy feedback, disagreement, or, heaven forfend, unfollows.

Now, I do understand it’s good to start, and take part in, debate.  But I’ve always been a cissy on that front.  Always nodding agreement rather than saying what I really think.  I guess I’m not alone there. In fact there’s a weekly column in the Guardian Magazine called ‘What I’m really Thinking’ which proves to me that many of us choose the polite path. And quite right too.  It would be very wrong to spend our lives being absolutely open and frank about every little thing. But with writing, well, somehow we know that brutal honesty, that opening of the soul, is really what produces the best results.

Almost from day one of our writing lives we are told ‘write about what you know’, and so often that leads to dreary kitchen sink drama.  Perhaps they should start telling us to ‘write about what you’re passionate about.  Tell it like you think it.  Let rip. Let it out. Shout about those irritations. Use your Rafa Nadal fist pump and give it some welly when something truly wonderful happens.  Be brave with your recollections, reveal all, even the hurty bits.’

I’m quite sure all that would make for a better read for you all, but I guess I’ll not be doing it just yet.  I’m still a wimp.

P.S.  By the way, while I’m being honest, I’m wondering now if this whole post wasn’t really just an excuse to use a picture of Rafa Nadal!

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A good sport?

Oh dear, I suppose I’m going to have to do it…write about sports that is.

Anyone who knows me, even remotely, must know that I am, and always have been, rubbish at all and every sport.  I have been told that I ‘mince’ rather than run.  I can’t throw for more than a couple of feet in front of me.  I can’t catch (crummy hand/eye co-ordination).  I can’t kick (but then I am a girl..).  You may as well forget anything that involves a bat or a racket (crummy hand/eye co-ordination again...).  I can’t jump or skate or ski or do anything else other people seem to do with ease and dignity.  Even my bike riding is pants – can’t take my hands off the handle bars without falling off.

Well, you get the picture.  Sports is not my thing.  It’s why I like yoga.  Lots of standing still and laying down. I can just about manage that.  And, and this is a big AND, it’s not competitive (usually,- though I gather there is something called competitive yoga growing in the US, which sounds conflicted to me).

See, not only do I not like playing sport, I don’t much care for that competitive ethos.  It seems to me that for every winner there are a hell of a lot more losers.  The odds are agin’ us being winners. Who wants to expend that much energy to forever have regrets that you were just not good enough.  Certainly not me.

I do, of course, enjoy watching some sporty type thingys.  I really enjoy a bit of brutal rugby union. The thump of the scrum and the ball floating in a perfect pass.  The slow tension of cricket – The stupid names ‘silly mid-off’ ‘googly’.. and the strategy of the spinners and slow bowlers. I especially enjoy the limited over matches, where it really comes down to the wire. Then of course, there is tennis.  The gladiatorial matches between two great players can be epic, but I’m afraid the crushing one sidedness of many of the early matches in a tournament can really be a turn off.

And that’s about it. That’s about the measure of the sports I’d turn on my TV for, and half the time I only turn it on for the highlights even then.

When I was a kid (some time ago now) we used to religiously watch the wrestling on our black and white TV on a Saturday afternoon.  My mum, my dad, my nan, my sister and me, we knew all the wrestlers, and the referees names.  Knew their skills and weaknesses, knew the names of the moves.  Believed the whole shenanigans was real.  We would all cheer when our favourite baddy thumped three times on the mat to ‘give in’  and booed when they cheated and threw themselves on our favourite goody when he wasn’t looking.  Now that was entertainment.

Now I know that is all it was.  It wasn’t sport, it was acting.  Perhaps that’s why I liked it so much. It was non-stop action, albeit carefully choreographed and rehearsed (I’m sure there will be many who object to that description, but its as I understand it).  Perhaps that is why I find other sports so, well, dull, in comparison.  In a real match or game, there are deathly lulls and gross injustices.  The best man doesn’t always win.  Outside factors contribute. The weather, the state of the pitch, an awkward bounce, injury, the list is endless.  Now for some that might add to the excitement, but for me, it feels unfair.  A brilliant cricketer getting out ‘for a duck’ for instance…’give him another go..go on..he can do better than that.. he just missed that’s all, give him another go…’ but it doesn’t work like that.  He just gets to wander back to the pavilion with his bat under his arm and his bruised ego heavy on his shoulders.

Guess it’s time I mentioned the elephant in the room… football.  For some reason football has taken its place in my soul as the most reviled and hated of all sports.  I despise football.  The overpaid little boys that spend their youth kicking a ball from one end of a pitch to the other. Try as I might I fail to see that as being worth the gdp of a small country for each match. The fans are loud and ridiculously partisan with seemingly no acceptance of the opposing teams skills. The clubs charge the fans extortionate amounts for related goods – have you seen the price of football shirts??? Its a disgrace.

Okay, I know I’m in a minority, and most people will be too busy watching the world cup to read this.  I know football is supposed to be our ‘national game’ I’m supposed to love it.  I’m afraid I don’t. I hope the best team wins.  I doubt, from what I’ve heard, that it is going to be England.  Predictably though, I won’t be watching.  After all Wimbledon starts next week….!

 

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For the love of IT

A long time ago in a land far far away, well a couple of hundred miles, I discovered a great love – passion even, that was to change my life completely forever.

As the seventies drew to a close I was fortunate enough to get a job in a major publishing house, and even more fortunate to become part of a team working on the Electrical and Electronics stream of publications.  These included all sorts of weird and wonderful titles, the like of which you might see at the end of  ‘Have I got News for You’.  Of course, at that time, our systems were not computerised.  As a Production Executive I had to log everything in handwriting in huge, difficult to manage log books, and design the layout of each issue of each publication using paper and glue (Cow Gum – could get us all high pretty quickly if we gave it a chance!).

Anyhow, it was during that time that I was given charge of the publication that was to plant that seed of love in me – Computer Weekly.  Computer’s were pretty new fangled and of course it was pre-windows, so I imagined such things were out of my reach, but because of the nature of the magazine I was able to get my hands on a machine in the editorial department every now and then, and use some spurious reason to get one of the team to show me how to do something or other.  All very basic MS DOS stuff, but I really looked forward to those short sessions where I could use a keyboard and something on a screen happened.

But before long, I became a mum, and that job fell by the wayside, and although I continued in magazine production I was no longer involved with the computer industry in any way.

We moved ‘up North’, the kids grew, I needed a job, but by the time of the mid-nineties it was clear that employers were increasingly looking for some IT skills in their new recruits.  So I signed up for a scheme that had been set up locally and set about gaining an NVQ (National Vocational Qualification) in Information Technology.  Oh, how I loved it!  It made sense. It clicked. It was an epiphany for me.  Had computers been around at school when I was a kid I would have actually been good at something, instead of bad to so-so at everything.  I progressed easily and quickly.

Despite being very strapped for cash, we invested in a shiny new computer as a ‘family’ Christmas present one year, and I was able to find my way around it and teach my daughters a bit too.  I landed a job, initially working from home, running a small membership organisation.  And the rest, as they say is history.  The organisation grew and grew, I became, through necessity, and to my delight, involved in everything from building databases, designing and managing websites, finance programmes, document production and everything in between.  And as it was a committee-led national organisation, everything was done ‘virtually’ so there was no IT support to rely on.  I quickly learned how to solve problems and keep clunky machines moving.  The more challenging the problem the more I loved it.  I found I have a very natural, gut response to computer’s that give me grief – you shall not defeat me!!  And generally they don’t.  Tsk…that’s probably the kiss of death, I’m waiting for my screen to freeze now..

Anyhoo, now I’m retired, my love affair with my laptop, ipad and phone is still as strong as ever. I am an addict. !  I thought that nothing would delight me more than finding new ways of using them be it a fantastic website or a useful programme.  Facebook, Twitter, Linked-in love ’em all!

But I’ve found a new outlet for my passion.

Recently I noticed an advert in a local magazine for volunteers to help out as Tutors teaching older people IT skills.  And for the past month I’ve been going along to the classes and sharing some of my excitement and enthusiasm.  It’s hard work.  Some have very little in the way of keyboard skills.  Some are a bit better, but find it all very confusing, and some are downright scared.

Yesterday, one lady was sitting staring at her screen looking very glum indeed.  I asked her if she needed some help.

‘I hate it’ was all she said.

‘What do you need it for’ I asked.

‘I’m on a church committee and they keep sending stuff to each other, and they want me to write newsletters and things and I can’t. I feel like a twerp’ she said, almost in tears.

I was able to give her a pep talk and show her where we were up to in the class and she was so much happier at the end.   I told her I was the complete opposite of her.  How I loved how I could do practically anything on here – heck, I can even do sums.  Me!  Doing maths!  Well, of course it’s not me, its my spreadsheety friend.  I hope I can pass on some of the love to at least some of the group and that they learn, like I did, that IT is there to help. It’s a whole world of wonderfulness – not just the internet, but just being able to look at photos easily, keep a christmas card list, write a journal, keep track of your money, keep notes (love Evernote!) oh, and of course, do sums……

I realise, that, in my age group at least, I seem to be in the minority.  Lots of people find the whole concept frustrating and unfathomable.  I feel privileged that it makes sense to me.  Its not that I’m clever, its just how my brain works.  I’m a lucky one.

 

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Me, the poser

Downward facing dog

Downward facing dog. Not me. If you think I’m going to put a picture up of my efforts you are much mistook!!

Sooooo, since Christmas, in addition to my weekly 90 minute class, I have religiously been doing at least half an hour’s yoga practice every day.  My husband leaves home at about 7:20 in the morning and by half past, I’ve started.  Usually I use one of the standard classes in the Yoga Studio app on my ipad – either intermediate or if I’m feeling ambitious, advanced level.   Its a good, though sometimes challenging, way to start the day.

karnapidasana ear pressure pose

Karnapidasana – Ear Pressure Pose. This is not me, this woman has no tummy….

With all that stretching and bending you would think that by now I would be ready, flexibility wise, to join Cirque Du Soliel, but sadly not.  Ok, I’m probably much more bendy than some others of my age, but my left knee still lets me know quite clearly when it’s over flexed in Fire Log or Head of the Cow, my badly feet make Warrior a lot more challenging than it should be (have I mentioned I’ve got Plantar Fasciitis – it’s a right pain!), and my tummy, though somewhat diminished through over a year’s worth of 5:2 diet, still gets in the way in Ear Pressure Pose (lie down, lift into shoulder stand, drop into plough with your feet behind your head, and then bend your knees and push them against your ears – it’s not pretty, at least not when I do it) and I admit my composure isn’t all it should be when I attempt it – I’m not sure you’re supposed to giggle so much!

Crane Pose - Bakasana

Bakasana – Crane Pose. Also not me…! I doubt I look this good, just as well I can’t see myself!

I guess an hour every day might produce more results, but nonetheless I have felt a massive improvement one way or the other.  Yes, I am a lot more flexible, and my balances have improved in leaps and bounds (can one balance in a leap or a bound…no didn’t think so, but you get the gist).  The real mega improvement though, has been strength wise.  I can hold the plank position for, well, what seems like ages, but is probably no more than a minute or so – much better than the 10 seconds I used to  manage though.  Even better, I’ve been practicing hard and can now, to my delight, get into Crane and hold it for a bit.  Ok, still only seconds rather than minutes, but I’m impressed with myself anyway. Carry on this way, and I may end up like Madonna who’s arms were once described as ‘like dog chews’!!

I’ve probably said it before, but yoga is the one exercise regime that feels like its doing me good rather than killing me off.  I feel like I can achieve anything, and because it is progressive can find some improvement with practically every session.  When I finish I can feel every muscle and sinew, so I know I’ve still got ’em and have not turned to putty just yet.  And without wishing to sound all new age, and arty farty, it’s good for the soul too, a bit of inwardlooking meditation or mindfulness really does give your mind a rest from problems and hum-drummery (no, I don’t think that’s a real word either, but hey, I like it).

Pigeon pose

Pigeon with forward fold – nope, still not me. Though I love this pose even though its a bit hurty!

Oh, and the other thing, all those Downward Dogs and Pigeons with Forward Folds are really good at stretching me ol’ feet, and the faciitis is slowly getting better.  Win win I’d say.

Savasana - corpse pose

Savasana – Corpse Pose. Ok, not me, but I’m really, really, proficient at this one, and a picture of me in this pose would look very similar I promise you!

Well I’m off to practice my favourite pose – Savasana (corpse pose) for a bit. After all, it is the bit at the end that we all like best, don’t we?

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Where do flies go in Winter?

Happy New Year everybody!  Hope you had a happy and cosy Christmas.

Sorry, I’ve been away for a while, not literally, just, you know, away from my blog.  Not making any excuses, sometimes there are more important things in life than writing on here ya’know.  I’ve been busy having a good time with my lovely family – eating, drinking and being merry.  Piling on the pounds.  But now I’m back on the 5:2 wagon to try and lose said pounds, and am going to get down to my blog again to focus my jellified mind…

This last couple of weeks have been somewhat dominated by errmmm… small critters. I was going to say insects, but that’s not technically correct (Ha! I’m not giving any smartiepantsies the opportunity to lecture me if I can help it!).  Doesn’t seem right at this time of year though does it? One would think they’d all be hibernating somewhere out of sight in January.  Where do fly’s go in Winter? I’ll tell you later, but first the Cave debacle.

Creswell CragsWe are lucky to have a wonderful prehistoric site quite local to us called Creswell Crags its a pretty limestone gorge dotted with caves where archeologists have found artefacts dating back 80,000 years.  It is also the home of some Ice Age wall art – the oldest in Britain.  There is proof that Bears, Lions, Tigers, Hyenas and Mammoths have all walked through the gorge at some time in the past.  Its fascinating.  We thought we’d do a tour of the caves.

We were provided with hard hats with lamps on the front (very fetching) and followed a very nice chap into the cave where he was telling us about all the exciting finds, and letting us hold flint arrowheads and stone tools etc.  We were in a very low part of the cave, and had had to keep our knees bent to stand up (all eleven in the group, including me, banged their heads on the ceiling at some point) when the nice chap grinned, looked at the group, and said ‘and how are you all with spiders?’

Well, those of you who know me know that I suffer from quite extreme arachnophobia and despite my best efforts I started to panic at even the mention of the darn things.  It got worse as he shone his torch to the ceiling to show us the large shiny brown Boris’s (and Boris’esses it turns out…. he told us how to tell the difference…ewww…who cares…) that were dangling from webs that were attached to said low ceiling.  Yes, that one. The one where my head had been.  Where probably the hood of my coat had been, which was probably now full of ’em.  I was sure my back was covered in them, Indiana Jones style. (incidentally, somewhat pleasingly one of the children, an eight year old boy, who was busy pointing and saying ‘oohh..there’s another one, and there…’ was called Harrison. It didn’t make me feel any better at the time though.)

‘Are you alright’  asked nice blokey, shining his torch into my pink sweaty face.  He’d heard my rapid breathing. ‘Er no…’

‘Its’ all right they’re slow moving’ Bless, he was trying to cheer me up. Ewww…

He took my arm. ‘I’ll show you something really wonderful, you’ll really like it. It is spider related, but really lovely, you’ll like it’ he coaxed.

I was practically curled up in a ball trying not to touch any surface, I was struggling with tears (it was really enclosed and dark, and I am a wuss) so with great, really really great, reluctance I let him lead me to a dark corner. He shone the torch up in to a gap in the rocks

‘get your head up here’ he said yanking me forward (‘noooooooo’ I thought) ‘Isn’t it beautiful, like a christmas decoration?’

‘Noooooooooo’ I thought again. It was a bloody nest. A bloody Spider’s nest.

‘There’s thousands of little one’s in one of them’ He said, grinning. Not sure if he wasn’t just being mean now.

Frankly, I couldn’t get out quickly enough. Palpitations and sweaty palms, brushing myself down and ewwwwwwing went on for about half an hour after we’d got out into the fresh air. The trauma of it is still affecting me. It’s why I had to write it down.

It’s silly. Phobia’s are silly. Irrational. Daft.  A grown woman should be able to get over herself.

I can’t. It’s both a mental and physical revulsion/fear and I’ve been trying since childhood to control it.  I’m a bit better these days, and can catch small blighters in my catcher contraption.  I would never kill them, and I hate it when someone squishes them on my behalf.  I just wish they would be as fearful of me as I was of them, as people keep telling me they are.  (they are not. They would not come into my house if they were.  And those ones in the cave didn’t run away and hide when they saw us coming, they just stared haughtily at us.)

Anyhoo, I promised to tell you where flies go in Winter.  In my loft it seems.

We have suffered an infestation of Cluster Flies.  Never heard of ’em? No, neither had we until a couple of weeks ago.  Apparently, they like to sunbathe on white, southfacing walls like ours, and when the sun goes in they crawl up under the eaves and snuggle down for winter.  If it’s nice and cosy, they invite all their friends round.  Gazillions of their friends.  I gather that if you leave them they will go away in the Spring.  We chose to use special smoke bombs on them.  They’re all gone now.  Sorry flies.

 

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The routine trap

It seems that, despite my best efforts, I have fallen into the routine trap. Monday is writing and catching up on correspondence, bill paying etc day, Tuesday ironing and housework, Wednesday swimming and long walk day, Thursday shopping and yoga, Friday winemaking and gardening.

Hmmph…that wasn’t supposed to happen.  I naively believed that when I left work, I would leave all routine behind.  But no, the alarm still goes off and I still get up at the crack of dawn so that we can breakfast together before my husband goes off to work for the day.  The dog still needs walking first thing in the morning else she gets tetchy. There is still washing up to do, the bed still needs making.  But hey ho… that’s fine.  Actually come to think of it, a good routine can be a very fine thing.

When my twin girls were born they were a bit on the small side, at least one was, so they spent two days in in the special care baby unit.  I wasn’t able to visit them, let alone feed them, so through necessity the nursing staff fed them like clockwork every four hours. Consequently when they were returned to their excited mummy they were absolutely and resolutely in a four hourly routine. It was great.  None of that feeding on demand, which frankly, would have been a nightmare, for me.  Nope, they woke up at the same time, got fed at the same time, and slept at the same time, giving me some much needed rest in between.

It also meant, that as they grew up they instinctively knew what ‘mealtimes’ meant. They weren’t snacking because they ate regularly, at the right times.  Now, I know that ‘feeding on demand’ is the big thing these days.  Babies cry, you feed ’em. But I have a theory…

I believe that maintaining a feeding routine right from the word go, could be the answer to the twin (though diverse) pandemics of fussy eaters and obesity.

I have heard children (and adults) described as ‘grazers’. They just spend all day popping bits of food into their mouths, but seem unwilling to sit down to a ‘proper’ meal. ‘Course not. They’re not hungry.  It seems to me, that if they have been fed every time they’ve felt a bit, well, peckish, since they were born, then they really wouldn’t know what an empty stomach feels like.  I’ve seen kids crying that they’re starving, and being given a packet of crisps to keep them quiet, even though lunchtime is nigh.  Wouldn’t it be better to push them to go without a little bit longer? If they were really ‘starving’ surely they would be more likely to appreciate a plate of healthy food?

As adults we all feel ‘peckish’ or what my nan used to call ‘fanciful’ sometimes (I frequently fancy a bar of chocolate, and no, I’m not necessarily hungry), but hopefully we recognise that that is all it is and don’t necessarily indulge those cravings.  We mostly are fortunate enough not to be starving, but if we don’t eat between meals, we are more likely to properly recognise hunger.

As you know, I’m following the 5:2 diet, and whilst sometimes it does test my willpower to go without lunch, the lightness of an unusually empty stomach is energising and pleasing in its own way.  I feel ‘cleansed’ by giving my tummy a bit of a rest, albeit only for 12 hours or so. And the light meal I have in the evening after my fast is the best meal of the week. My tastebuds, starved of stimulation for a day, are exceptionally receptive to the nuances of the herbs, spices and flavours of any and all foods (‘cept jelly and coffee obvs!!)

Anyhoo… I fear I’m straying off subject. What I’m trying to say though, is that allowing myself to fall into a routine, in both daily life, and eating, I’m giving myself the pleasure of anticipation, be it knowing that the ironing will be done and dusted for the week once Tuesday morning is over, or that I will enjoy a delicious meal at the end of my fast.  In the words of John Lennon ‘life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans’ so teaching ourselves, and our children, to appreciate a daily routine of mealtimes and work, together with down time (not to mention a bedtime routine for kids), should ultimately make us more content surely?