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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!

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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.

DSC_0128Apparently, 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 DSC_0695plane.  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:

‘I didn’t climb Everest, but I touched it with my heart’

Then there was the splendorous Annapurna range with orange tips at sunrise (Jaffa cakes??) worth getting up at 4:30 for.

These are but a couple of things from my brilliant adventure.  I won’t bore you with more right now. Soon though.  Off now to find cake.

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Little white ones

Its taken me a long time, but over the years I have come to realise that pretty much everyone spends their working lives ‘blagging’.  From the moment they put pen to paper to write their first CV to the moment they give their retirement speech.  Politicians might call it ‘spinning’, others might call it ‘white lies’ or ’embroidering the truth’.  Come on, admit it, you’ve done it.

Just a tweak here and there on exam grades perhaps.  Or a ‘yes of course I’m very experienced with that programme’ said confidently at an interview, when inside your saying ‘what the..!’ And somehow asking for a raise can feel more morally acceptable if you add one or two additional skills that you’ve acquired since starting.

Yes, you know you have.

My own blagging comes into it’s own at conferences and meetings.  I generally dread the things.  Making small talk with strangers is not my forte.  Nonetheless, I’ll stand and chat, nodding sagely at appropriate moments, filling in gaps with a ”oh yes, dreadful’ or ‘yes, that’s what I’ve been hearing’ without having the first clue about the subject, and hopefully, without the chattee catching on to my ignorance.

When I told him this, my ex-boss and friend, who is a high profile professional, confided in me that he only has a very vague idea about some of the subjects when he’s chairing conferences, and another, very high profile colleague has been known to nod off on stage when chairing, wake up, and then carry on as if nothing has happened. You just need the ‘front’ to do it.

A lady I know owns a successful antiques dealership. She knew nothing about dealing in antiques when she started, but she told me

‘I just said I was an antiques dealer and people believed me, so I was’

Of course, I’ve been blagging for a while about being a writer.  Ok, I blog. I write short stories. I have self-published poems on a poetry website that lots of people say they enjoy.  I’ve done a creative writing degree. I even wrote a radio play that the BBC only just rejected – they gave me a really good critique! (I’m very proud of that! Anyone that’s submitted anything to the BBC will know what I mean) but I haven’t been paid for anything yet.  One day…

My latest blag is listing myself as a ‘Social Media Consultant’.  Fair do’s, I am doing exactly that for the company I’m working for, but only because I can use Twitter, and Facebook, and Linked-in, and Pinterest, and WordPress, and all the other social sites.  It’s not rocket science.  Let’s face it, most nine year old’s could do it with their eyes shut.  But still, I suddenly find myself spending an awful lot of time marketing the company through these sites, having never done any marketing in my life before.

But, do you know what?  Having blagged my way in, I now find that is exactly what I am.  I’m learning on the hoof.  Gaining knowledge and experience rapidly. In a round about way, I’m even being paid for writing.  Just the tweets and blogs and stuff, but it is still writing. After all, I do have to think creatively about what to write, and sometimes that’s no mean feat.

And that is why all the best people blag.  It pushes you to do new things, to find ways of picking up skills fast. To achieve more than you thought you could.

Of course, I’m not condoning it – entirely.  We should all be truthful.  But if a little bit of embroidery on your CV can get you a job that you know you are capable of when otherwise you would be at the bottom of the pile (obviously, you have to have some confidence that you can pick things up quickly) then perhaps it’s not such a bad thing to do. Is it?

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Wouldn’t Chips be Good?

IMG_0223So, it’s going to become a requirement for all dog owners to have their furry friend microchipped.  Quite right too. Our dog was chipped when we got her from the RSPCA and knowing how barmy she is, it’s comforting to know that if she manages to get herself completely lost, she’s got a chance of getting back to us.  But I’ll bet there are a lot of folk out there who are whinging about it nonetheless.

Actually, it’s made me wonder how far off we are from us humans being micro-chipped. Sounds a bit radical doesn’t it? But, surely its going that way.

Now, a lot of people in this country are completely opposed to identity cards. I can’t see the problem really – I already carry a photo driving licence with me, and lets face it, with our use of credit and debit cards ‘big brother’ abounds.  ‘They’ can already see the last time I bought loo roll, where I bought it, and how much I paid.  There are cameras on every corner in town (for all the good they do) and they can even be used to shout at people if they espy any one misbehaving.

Yep, we’re all monitored.  Get over it, it’s only going to get worse.  I actually don’t mind at all.  I’ve nothing to hide and have a clean conscience.  I think a micro-chip in my arm might be a jolly good idea really.

I could carry all my medical records around with me in safety.  All the fuss that is currently being made about on-line records would be solved.  Ambulance crews could carry a scanner and they’d instantly know my blood type and any drugs I’m taking.  Bob’s yer uncle.

We wouldn’t need to carry our credit cards we could pay with a wave of our arm – no fear of anyone pinching my pin!

My house would be fitted with ‘home scanners’ so that any uninvited guests would be scanned and their details recorded. If I had my way, they’d automatically get tazered big time at the same time. That’d teach the buggers. (you may guess from this that I’ve been burgled once or twice and have some serious security neuroses).

We wouldn’t need keys or pin numbers or passports – all those things we forget so regularly.  It’d be great!

Ok, so I’m on a flight of fancy. I might be going a bit far and it certainly won’t happen in my lifetime.  Maybe one day though.  So if you’re a rogue or a villain reading this, you’d better mend your ways a bit sharpish matey!!

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As time goes by

I can barely say it out loud, but I’m facing one of those big birthdays this year.  You know, one that ends in a  fat ‘ol zero. In my case, if you were counting your fingers you’d have had to go on to your second hand. Yep 60.  Big fat 60.

Of course, I’m not really 60, I’m really about 23.  Well, that’s how I feel (most days… Sometimes I feel 103).     The funny thing is, that I’m not thinking ‘my god, I’ll be 60 this year’, no, I’m thinking ‘my god, I’ve been eligible for saga holidays for ten years already’ and worse ‘my god, in ten years time I’ll be 70’ .  And the one sure fire thing about getting old is that ten years is most definitely not as long as it used to be.

I remember, in my youth, seeing a science programme where James Burke talked about the ‘relativity of time’.  And its true.  We all know that the ten minutes at the end of a working day can seem to drag on for hours, and yet, ten minutes lie-in under a snuggly duvet flies by in what seems seconds. Time can drag when you’re bored or race when your busy.

I can be blissfully unaware of time passing when I’ve nodded off on the sofa (a sure sign of advancing age, or perhaps too much partying??), waking up not knowing whether I’ve been asleep for five minutes or two hours.  Often the TV channel has been changed and I don’t realise it until half an hour later when I say ‘where’s that baddie bloke gone?’ and am told that that film had finished and we’re way into the next one now.

The other time when you are blissfully unaware of time, or anything else for that matter, is under anaesthetic.  They can move you about, prod you with instruments, cut you open and sew you up again, and you know nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  No pain. No discomfort. No timescale.  I comfort myself that that’s what death must be like.  A void in which you are unaware.  Completely.

Going back to the year’s going faster, I found this explanation on the Naked Scientist website, and although I agree with the main reply, I think the far more likely explanation is discussed further down in the responses, and it tally’s in with what James said all those years ago.  A year now, represents a 60th of my life, whereas when I was 10 it was only a 10th. Little peeps are almost living in dog years compared to me.

Well, I guess doing nothing so time goes slower is not really the answer.  Rather, I should cram as much in as I can.  Don’t waste a single minute and try and fill the next thirty years with wonder.  I listen to the Chris Evans show on Radio 2 in the mornings, and every day he speaks to a child who is doing something for the first time that day.  The next day he speaks to the same child and asks them to mark their new experience out of ten.  Almost without exception they say something like ‘a gazillion and twenty five’ even if its something as mundane to me as a swimming lesson. That’s the sort of enthusiasm I want to regain. Of course, its much harder to find new experiences when your older, but I’m going to do my best to be Adventurous, Brave and Curious.

What was the last ‘new experience’ you had?

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Fast but not that fast #2

So, we are on our third fast day.  Its actually ok.  If we get peckish we have a cup of fruit tea or oxo to take the edge off, and we really look forward to our light evening meal.  I think its doing us good already.

I looked in the mirror the other day and thought ‘blimey my skin is glowing nicely’.  Ok, I’d been out for a walk in the snow, which does tend to give you rosy cheeks, but my skin really did look clear and bright.  I can’t say I’d ever noticed any such thing before. I’m feeling quite energetic too – actually got the wii zumba out yesterday, something I usually think about doing but refrain from as being one of those things that may very well be the death of me.

It’s not all down to the fasting either.  The strange thing is that, although we really can eat and drink what we like the rest of the week, we have started eating healthier all the time.  We’ve eaten couscous and lentils, chickpeas, salads, great quantities of vegetables and fruit, with little or no meat.  In fact we’ve only eaten meat twice for over a week.  And no we are not vegetarians, nor are we ever likely to be.

Chris has even snubbed bread and biscuits in favour of a plate of couscous. (my world is upside down!)

Of course, there is a down side.  There is always a down side to everything.  The downside to the 5:2 fast diet is that the days seem endless.

Even when I’ve been really busy, I’ve always tried to stop and eat some lunch at some point.  At the weekends we’ve always sat down and gorged on a good lunch (though we don’t go down the traditional roast route as a rule) and then needed a rest afterwards – often in fact, a nap. Sunday lunch can take upwards of two hours – and that’s without the time spent in the kitchen cooking the thing.

This Sunday we sat and drank a cup of oxo, which took approximately five minutes. Not being over full our bodies don’t demand a shut down to digest, so no need of a nap.  I guess we ought to be pleased that the weekend seems longer. After all, we’ve always complained about them going quicker than weekdays.  But all the same, I miss that break.

Otherwise, so far, so good. I don’t know yet if its leading to any weight loss, but at least I feel better about myself.  Of course, I can’t guarantee we’ll stick with it for months, but I think maybe for a few more weeks. After all, one of the great things about it is that I can look at all the food in my kitchen, and know I can eat what I like tomorrow.

Only a few more hours left….

 

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Fast, but not that fast

The day my husband weighed himself happened to coincide with the day this article appeared in the Saturday paper.  It was tucked away inside the ‘real’ paper, not the magaziney supplement, so I didn’t see it (gloom and doom in the real paper, food and fashion in supplement – no contest!).  However, he did and I was presented with it, and told ‘we should try this’.

Now, my husband has never, no, absolutely never, dieted before. He has occasionally, after visits to the doc decided to ‘do a bit more exercise’ to keep his blood pressure down, but that is usually short-lived.

‘We should definitely give it go’ he said waving the paper in my face and sounding surprisingly enthusiastic.

Now the article, for those of you who can’t be bothered to read it, is by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, who is a ‘celebrity’ chef.  His recipes are all about fresh produce and usually heaps of meat and cream. Yum. In this article though, Hugh is extolling the virtues of the 5:2  Fast diet.

No, not fast, like you lose weight quickly without any effort whatsoever fast.  No.  Fast like you don’t eat anything at all for whole days fast.  Two whole days a week to be exact.  They shouldn’t be consecutive and you can eat 500/600 calories depending if you are man or woman.

To say I was surprised by my husbands enthusiasm for the idea would be an understatement.  This is a man who eats a full roast dinner and then has a ‘doorstep’ of bread to fill him up.

Nonetheless, we have started our joint dieting journey.  We decided that Sundays would be a good day to fast. He doesn’t have to grab something on the move (usually a pasty and sandwich) like he does on weekdays, and its easier for me if we are suffering together.

Sunday morning we both had a small banana and a cup of tea for breakfast as part of our allowed calorie intake, and then nothing except clear drinks until the evening.

We didn’t starve.  It was actually fine.  Who’da though it?

In the evening we were ready for the rest of our calories and had smoked fish with veggies and couscous.  It was possibly the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.  Small but perfectly formed.

Apparently this diet is going to slow down ageing, as well as lose fat.  On top of that there is no washing up for a whole day.  I save electricity.  I save on food. There’s very little tiresome cooking involved.  And you get to eat and drink all you like on all the other days. Sounds great.

We’ve decided Friday will be our next Fast day.  I’ll let you know how it goes, in the meantime, I’m off to the fridge –  must be time for a snack!

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Apply Yourself

I have a wii. I know I’m an oldie and probably shouldn’t be allowed.  But I do.  It’s mine.  I bought it for myself. I bought it a few years back with the wii-fit thinking that it would only take a couple of months before I would be sylph like and full of energy.  Like wot the advert said I would.

Now, its fair to say it took some time for me to master any of the basic activities, but the one that, to my dismay, still defeats me every bloomin’ time is the skateboarding.  Why can’t I do it?  It can’t be that hard.  Just put the board sideways, scoot with your foot, and lean backwards or forwards to steer.  Bob’s yer uncle. Easy peasy.

Nope.  Doesn’t work for me.  I cannot, cannot, steer the thing. My little mii crashes into the fences, goes the wrong way, misses the obstacles, whilst big me is floundering backwards and forwards and cursing.  Nil points. Nada.

Coz is a whiz at it.  Without any effort at all she’s on the thing, and her mii is waving its arms in joyful victory at the massive score she’s attained without a hiccup. So it’s obviously not quite as impossible as it feels to me it is.

I can ski.  Ski jump. Fly. Hula Hoop. March about and all the other stuff with varying degrees of success, but the skateboard is my nemesis.

I’ve never tried a real one, perhaps I should, you know, to get the hang of it a bit.  But frankly, given the virtual experience, I’d probably break my neck.

Actually, I’ve just thought of the other thing that I really, really, can’t do – Baseball.

Sport is not my thing in the real world.  I’m not competitive and am generally rubbish at all and every team game.  I can’t run, throw or catch. I wish I was better, but I’m not.  I’ve come to terms with it and am happy to leave it to others to do.  But how I wish I could hit that virtual ball.

I’m always ‘a little late’ or ‘a little too early’ (I can hear the derision in its words). I know I’m cackhanded in real life, but in the virtual world too?  That’s rubbing salt in the wound.

I wouldn’t mind, but after all this time of trying, I’m still not sylph like, not even virtually!

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Busy doing nothing

‘Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans’

John Lennon wrote these words in his song ‘Beautiful Boy’ and of course, he’s absolutely right.

I’ve got myself a bit of a new job.  Just getting into it, so can’t yet comment on whether it is completely tedious, wonderful, or just meh.  What is, however, immediately apparent, is that I will be expected to attend some meetings.

Meetings are a fact of working life these days.  In my experience most meetings consist of people talking the talk, usually in circles, for hours on end, making a few wishy washy decisions, going home in gungho mood, and then forgetting the whole thing.  In reality nothing much gets achieved apart from a bit of back slapping, bit of naval gazing, bit of ‘thinking outside the box’, and perhaps a bit of ‘horizon scanning’. Could all  be done by email or telephone conference, would save me the two hour trek to London on the smelly train and then back again on the even smellier, rush hour, train.

Of course, there is the lunch.  Usually some curly sandwiches with unidentifiable fillings. Sometimes there is fresh fruit.  Which would be great if I were not such a messy eater who always, always, gets juice down her chin, on her top, on her papers. Worse still… sticky fingers on my ipad. So no, I don’t bother with the fruit.

While I’m on the subject of lunches at meetings, I should mention the horror that is the ‘standing up buffet’ that you get at conferences.

So it’s a hot lunch, usually ‘coronation chicken’ (or ‘sicky gloop’ which is my far more accurate name for it), rice, and a bit of limp salad. You are left holding a plate, your knife and fork, and a glass of cheap wine.  There is nowhere, nowhere, to sit, and you are supposed to be ‘networking’ with what might be important contacts.  How the hell are you supposed to eat without spilling something. Beats me. Sauce drips down your chin, you chase individual bits of rice around the plate until they fall over the edge on to the floor, the wine slops out of the glass, and It really is quite amazing how far a cherry tomato can travel when its mis-forked.

So anyway, back to my original beef.  Meetings.  How much more could we get done if we didn’t have meetings to attend.    Half the time, we are all so busy meeting up that there is no time to do the real work. We end up ploughing through emails in the evening, and catching up on paperwork at the weekends, leaving us no time for living our real lives.  You know, the one that we go to work to pay for.

So John if you’re listening,  these days perhaps the words to your song should be – Life is what happens to you while you’re busy being stuck in meetings.  That’s very sad don’t you think?

 

 

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The Bob Curse

Ha!  I bet you thought this would be about a bloke (probably a dark gypsy Bob) who spat at me in the street and threatened catastrophe should I not buy his wife’s lucky heather.  Well, no.  Sorry, it’s not about Gypsy Bob.  It’s about haircut bob.

I’ve just returned from the hairdressers.  Most women return from the hairdressers feeling wonderful.  They have glossy shiny, shimmery locks that they can toss carelessly in sunny locations.

I have come home with wet sticky hair.

‘It’s your own fault’  I hear you, and the hairdresser cry.

I complained. Yes I did.  Sorry.

What is it about hairdressers that they completely fail to understand it when I say

‘I don’t want it ending it up in a bob, just loose and casual.  Sticky outy instead of sticky inny.  Just scrunch dry it – it will be fine’.

I did, I said all that to her.  I did. I swear it.

So what’d she do.  She bloomin’ cut it in a bob.  She dried it in that big brush, big hair, taking forever, drying that hairdressers seem specially trained to do.  Then she straightened what she’d just done.  Then..

Then… she curled it with the straighteners.  I looked like bloomin’ Shirley Temple.  Who wouldn’t complain.  M’eh.

To be fair, my hair, being fine and straight, is inclined to look like its cut in a bob whatever the hairdresser tries to do.  Sometimes its a long bob, sometimes its short.  Even with layers it will hang straight down given the slightest encouragement with a brush.  Nobody else in the world seems to have hair that is just so very, very boring.  I have pictures of myself from an early age with a bob.  Sometimes even a bob with a big blue bow.

The bob I had in those days was (truly) the result of my mum putting a bowl over my head and cutting round it.  A curved fringe….nice.

So…this morning, instead of accepting the inevitable, I told her.

‘I look like a five year old’ I said (lets face it, she wouldn’t know who Shirley Temple was), and put my hands in the offending mop and zhoozhed ( don’t know if this is the correct spelling of zhoozhed, but do let me know if you know different).

‘Do you want it diffused’ she asked

‘eh?’ I responded with my usual eloquence.

‘I’ll spritz it’  For those unfamiliar with the technical terms, that means spraying it with water.

So she did.  She spritzed it, until it was dripping wet around my shoulders.  She’d already stuck half a ton of mystery product on my hair which didn’t take kindly to being dampened. Nevertheless, I zhoozhed it again. Goodness knows what the other victims/customers thought.  Let’s hope they were thinking

‘Blimey, I wish I could be that self-assured and rebellious’

Though it was probably more like

‘What does she think she looks like?’ whilst feeling sorry for the young bint that was doing her best to drown me.

Actually, now I’m home and have tweaked it, it looks ok. Sticky outy in a tousled sort of damp way.

Just like I wanted.