The Comment Tree

Am I A Feminist?

2011-10-09T16:48:00.000+01:00

I often hear women asked, "So are you a feminist?"

Personally I wouldn't know how to answer that question, mainly because I don't know what the genuine meaning is anymore. It has been blurred to extremes, from the "I will never cook for a man", to "Beyonce can crotch-dance in her hot pants because girls run the world". Say what? I can't make much sense of it anymore. To me, feminism means standing up for our right to be on an equal playing field with, and treated with the same respect as men. Ensuring women have the same opportunities as men, and the same freedom of choice.

So am I a feminist? I'm not sure. I know many strong, intelligent women doing good things for our gender who say they would not call themselves feminists. While on the other hand, many of those who consider themselves one often fall into one of two categories:
1) Feminists who hate men; and
2) Feminists who attack women.

I get why men are seen as the enemy. Misogynist language and sexist behaviour is a huge part of the problem, and it needs to be tackled. But don't forget, this doesn't just come from men. We do it to ourselves and we do it to one another. But the man-hating kind of feminists seem hell bent on creating lines to read between, convinced that everything has sexist undertones and I don't see the good this does. We need to tackle the behaviour, not the gender. After all, women are not the lesser sex, but neither are men. If we want men to respect us we need to respect men. Equal playing field, remember? At the end of the day, misandry is just another form of sexism, and how can feminists be taken seriously if they themselves are the very thing they're fighting against?

Then - and this baffles me - there's the type of feminist who attacks women. In particular women who bake cakes or wear dresses or like to leave the house in a full face of make up to go get a pint of milk. So? We should be celebrating the fact that a woman can do whatever the hell she wants with her life. Marry, not marry, procreate, not procreate, start a business, not start a business, bake a cake, or go down the shop and buy one. The woman-bashing feminist wants no bar of domesticity, and seems to believe a woman who gives up her career to play housewife, or spends her days making muffins might as well get down on her knees and let a man walk all over her. Get out of the kitchen, you're holding back our gender! But why should anyone conform one way or the other? This is about freedom of choice, and telling a woman to wear trousers, choose career over children and order a takeaway is not the answer. Let them bake cake.

It's these two angry definitions of feminism which make it hard to decide whether I am a feminist by name. But I do believe in women's rights. I am proud to be from New Zealand, the first country where women were given the right to vote. I believe both men and women have a part to play in holding us back (and it's nothing to do with kitchens). I also don't think enough young women are aware how much choice they now have. I want more female role models who are celebrated for their actions and their words and their talents - not for their appearance. And I don't believe the overtly-sexual nature of women in entertainment makes any sort of statement about girl power, because all it is doing is fueling the concept that women need to be sexually aggressive in order to be considered strong or powerful. That's what I believe.

(And I like to bake, but I don't because I'm terrible at it.)

So don't bother asking me if I'm a feminist, because to answer that I'd have to know your own personal definition of the word. I can tell you that I think women can do more to make themselves heard, and that one doesn't have to act like a man - nor a nubile temptress - to do so. Just use your voice. Your voice.

If that's still not clear, then this video (while centered on America) expresses everything I believe in.

Miss Representation 8 min. Trailer 8/23/11 from Miss Representation on Vimeo.

No Such Thing As Road Tax

2011-09-22T23:07:00.002+01:00

Photo by akatori

Tonight BBC News featured a story about a group of cyclists who were protesting for safer roads. They were calling for 20mph zones to be implemented in London, to slow down traffic and prevent casualties for those on bikes. I have my own thoughts on that - (more in a moment) - but what struck me was the level of bile in the responses coming through to the BBC. All but one viewer had a venomous opinion of cyclists. One person used the term "self righteous cyclists" while another woman complained that cyclists don't pay road tax, and therefore should not even be on the roads. She argued that "the roads are for cars", and only cars should be on them.

Firstly, in regards to the news piece: the idea of slowing down traffic seems to be another case of tackling the symptoms, rather than the root of the problem. The core issue - which few seem to be addressing - is the general attitude of drivers towards cyclists, and in many cases, of cyclists towards drivers. Demanding drivers slow down is only going to exacerbate the problem. I honestly don't think anything will improve unless there is a way to segregate cyclists and drivers with separate paths. In other words, car-free cycle lanes, and bike-free roads. If only this were possible! Instead we must continue to share the road.

As for the anti-cycling BBC viewers and their comments, I have to say one thing.
THERE IS NO ROAD TAX.
Road tax was abolished in 1937. Yes, 1937! Winston Churchill did away with it as he figured that "it will be only a step from this for them to claim in a few years the moral ownership of the roads." It's interesting that despite scrapping the road tax, this is still happening.

These days every taxpayer contributes to the upkeep of public roads. That means cyclists too. Yep, we all pay our share. What drivers pay is actually a vehicle excise duty, which focuses on Co2 emissions. It has nothing to do with roads. Or cyclists. So please stop taking it out on us.

At the end of the day it's important to get the facts right before building a battleground. We all pay for roads, and we all must share them.

Don't believe me? More helpful info here: http://ipayroadtax.com/

Cycling to Paris

2011-07-30T21:58:00.000+01:00

I cycled from London to Paris on my wee bicycle this July and have created a separate bike-themed blog HERE which covers all the two-wheeled adventure.

Of course, don't forget to tune back in here for everything else!

Gold Stars For Grown Ups

2011-06-22T21:45:00.007+01:00

Life gives you little reminders in funny ways.

Today I got one in a queue.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that people in queues do not want to be queuing. In fact I think it's safe to say that anyone who has ever stood in a queue has not been happy about it. This evening I was in my third queue of the day: after the Underground ticket line, the Post Office, I was now standing zombie-like in the supermarket. I only wanted some milk, and the shortest line had three people in it. As anyone would agree, that was THREE PEOPLE TOO MANY.
As I waited, the checkout lady seemed to operate in slow motion and my mind sunk deeper into a pit of impatience. I watched the checkout staff distract one another with conversation. Why did they have to chat? The man in front of me had a little girl and I watched as she played peekaboo with the checkout lady. I smiled, but in my mind I wondered how long this was going to go on for.

And then AT LAST the man took his change and was turning to leave, when the checkout lady asked the girl, "Have you been good?"

The little girl stopped to consider the question.

"Yes! I-I-I....I got a gold star!"

The checkout lady smiled at her. "Did you now?"

"Yes! I got.... three! Three stars."

The queue stared at the checkout lady, waiting, watching.

The father stared as his daughter wondering what to do.
At the same time the little girl stared at the checkout lady, waiting for a response to what she clearly felt were notable achievements.

And so the checkout lady said, "Goodness! Was that today?"

Proudly, the child replied, "Yes... But also..."

And she counted out on her little fingers, staring up at the ceiling as she worked it out.
"Monday.... and then... and then... and yesterday..... and...... and..... TODAY."

"Well!" said the checkout lady, ready to wrap this up but not really knowing how.
The father looked nervously at the growing queue.
But everyone was looking at the little girl, who clearly had more to say on the matter.

"Cos.. cos... we get gold stars..." continued the girl, "but you have to be good!"

And so, the conversation reached its conclusion.
The relieved father led his daughter away, and everyone in the queue was smiling, looking a little dazed. Like they'd all experienced a moment of clarity.
The checkout lady gave me an apologetic smile as she scanned my milk.
"Well hey," I said to her, "One should always be proud of one's achievements."
"Oh yes, " she replied, "A gold star is a big deal at that age."

Then she added to herself, "I'm still waiting for mine!"

You know what?
We don't get gold stars anymore; nor do we give them out. That's because we're adults - we don't really need a sticker to acknowledge when we've done well. Or do we?
Unfortunately (being adults) we're all far too coy to shout about our achievements. That's kind of depressing, don't you think? Given we surely achieve a heck of a lot, being grown ups and all? We're so busy worrying, scowling, getting stressed, getting distracted, welling up with impatience in queues... what about the good stuff? What about that great feeling of accomplishment? The fact we are here! Doing what we do! Making life happen! Why do we forget about that?

Next time you do something you're proud of, freakin' well shout about it! TELL someone!
Even if it is the supermarket checkout lady.

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Feel free to give yourself a gold star and shout about something you did that you're proud of in the comments. Anything at all! SHARE IT!
I'll go first.

The Shaken City

2011-03-16T21:02:00.008Z

I landed in Wellington, New Zealand, just 6 days after the massive earthquake which rattled Christchurch so violently that the ground literally turned to mulch. I was in the country for a wedding but the timing felt very poignant, and it was a relief to simply be closer to home amid such devastation. The official death toll is at 166, and given the entire country's population is a mere 4 million, that's a significant blow and one which is felt throughout New Zealand.

My second night in New Zealand an earthquake hit Wellington, where I was staying, although I was so wiped out by jet lag I slept right through it. My dad, in the next room, said he felt the whole house rock backwards and forwards. It was not a massive quake, and it caused no damage but it was a reminder that something like this can happen anywhere, any time. Meanwhile, Christchurch was being hit by several aftershocks, which further threatened recovery operations. A third of the city was going to be bulldozed. Whole suburbs were going to have to be demolished, and rebuilt somewhere else. Can you even imagine such a thing? It was hard to mould this information into a fathomable, realistic shape within my consciousness.

There was a video which was being shown around the world the day after the quake, which featured a man being rescued from the rubble, groaning in pain. On that day, that small piece of footage touched something in me and made me cry. After that video went out the rescued man, a Christchurch baker, disappeared and nobody - not even his family - could find him. By the time I reached New Zealand I discovered via the national newspaper that he had been found... and that he had died in hospital from his injuries. It is small portions of the disaster such as this which are somehow easier to digest, and therefore break my heart.

Even those who were fortunate not to have known someone hurt or killed or left homeless by the quake are feeling the strain. As Christchurch's population flees the damage and spreads itself out across the other major cities including Auckland and Wellington, the demand for jobs, flats, and education in these places has skyrocketed. Trying to rent a flat may come down to bidding wars. The country's financial situation is under strain as billions of dollars is required from somewhere to rebuild the country's second biggest city. This year's Rugby World Cup, the international event expected to bring in huge revenue to the country, is now having to relocate its matches as bringing thousands of tourists to Christchurch is not going to be possible.

Of course, what made it so wonderful to be back in New Zealand while all of this was going on was that I got to experience that incredible community spirit that bonds the whole country. The news covered Christchurch above everything else, telling stories of generosity, kindheartedness, loss, sadness and the mind-boggling damage. There were interviews with people who gave suggestions on building makeshift toilets, strangers who were giving out food to families, and TV presenters encouraged support and sent their wishes to the city during every programme. 80% of newspaper coverage was focused on the quake. Every little shop, pub, school or church in every town across New Zealand were hosting fundraising events, offering profits to the city's recovery, or showing their support through positive campaigns. You could not walk down a street, open a paper, watch TV or listen to the radio without feeling an invisible pair of arms embracing everyone and pulling them close in this time of devastation. I have never felt this anywhere else - I accept this might simply be because New Zealand is my homeland, and perhaps others would say the same community perspective is found in their home country as well. All I know is that New Zealand might as well be one big city, because we're all in it together.

My thoughts also go out to the people in Japan, who I know are dealing with something so incredibly awful on such an enormously bigger scale.... but I will not forget Christchurch, who still need our help and support.

To donate to the Quake Appeal - click this link to the official site.

What A Mug!

2011-03-16T19:54:00.000Z

I still don't know whether this is one of the most amusing marketing errors I've ever come across, or simply a very, very clever sales idea, but this advertisement by Guangong Enterprises for a Will & Kate Royal Wedding mug has caused me much amusement this week. What's so funny about it? Well, look closely.

[click to go to the website]

A part of me hopes this really is just a glaring oversight, while the cynic in me has begun to wonder whether someone is putting out a product with a difference, in the hope that it will bring them more sales. Mind you, so what if it is? It's very clever - I know I would be far more likely to buy this mug over a more accurate one. Whereas a proper Will & Kate mug causes eye-rolling and reeks of chintz, with this version from Guangdong Enterprise, at least I would have a jolly good chuckle every time I made a cup of tea.

The Big One

2011-02-22T21:06:00.003Z

I grew up in a little town called Eastbourne, in Wellington - the capital city of New Zealand. As a child I learned all about my country's curious geology and I knew that the country sat on two separate tectonic plates. I knew that there is a major fault line in the earth's crust which runs directly down the centre of New Zealand like an underground spine. I knew that it was this fault line - part of the Pacific Ring of Fire - which created our volcanoes, caused geothermal geysers and boiling mud pools.

New Zealand's fault line

I also grew up in the knowledge that New Zealand has a propensity for earthquakes. Schools taught us all about them - we would practice drills where we all curled up under our school desks, peering out at our classmates to see if anyone had carelessly left a foot or a leg exposed. As children we were both scared of and excited by the whole idea of a major earthquake. Wellington was supposed to be particularly prone to quakes, and my class was regularly informed that given the position of the city, and with only two main roads heading north, if a big earthquake struck we would likely be trapped. For this reason we learned about stockpiling food and water. We learned that in an earthquake one should brace oneself in a steady door frame or under a sturdy table. The children in my class would watch black and white footage of the major earthquakes, including New Zealand's most renowned one: the Napier earthquake of 1931, which killed 256 people and flattened the city like a pancake. Afterwards, the teacher would flick the video off, stand before the class and tell us solemnly: "The Big One is well overdue."

Despite the very terrifying notion that we were waiting for a disaster which was running late, it was volcanic eruptions and tsunamis which concerned me the most. The idea of having a wall of ocean or a sea of lava coming at you seemed so hopeless to me, and by comparison an earthquake was less frightening. I knew you couldn't outrun a tsunami - we learned that in school - but if an earthquake struck you could at least get into a doorway. I would have nightmares about trying to outrun rivers of volcanic lava, and when walking along the beach I would mentally plot the best routes into the hills in case I ever happened to see a tsunami rise out of nowhere.

Eastbourne beach

Besides, I was used to earthquakes. In Wellington there are regularly little tremors, and on a couple of occasions, there were bigger ones which rattled the ornaments in my room and got everyone excitable. Yet the Big One we were warned about never felt like a realistic threat. Then adulthood arrived, and I left Wellington, and then eventually I left New Zealand altogether. In the UK earthquakes are a foreign concept. Apart from those opportunities where I could share my own knowledge with fascinated Brits at dinner parties, earthquakes were no longer something I thought about. The whole threat of the Big One had been archived in the recesses of my mind.

And then in September the Christchurch earthquake happened. The second biggest city in the country (bigger than Wellington), Christchurch suffered widespread damage. The quake surprised everyone in its ferocity, but amazingly, wonderfully, not a single person was killed. It was one of those moments when everyone counted their blessings, and pulled together in what was a truly scary situation. Yet just as everyone was getting over the shock, and focusing on recovering from the damage, today's major earthquake hit. And it looks like the Big One.

Just 3 miles beneath the surface, it was big enough to completely demolish buildings, turn ground into liquid, and create absolute destruction. Of course I say these things because I read the news, but actually, I can't even imagine it in real life. At least 38 people are confirmed dead, but the toll is expected to be a lot more grim as rescuers search through the rubble of the city. Even the beloved Christchurch Cathedral - New Zealand's Notre Dame - was toppled and broken, a rather poignant symbol of how much this city has been hurt. A quake like this is something which not even I, as a New Zealander, can comprehend.

Christchurch Cathedral, before and after

The one shining light through all of this is knowing that New Zealanders are hardy folk, and that kiwis know how to pull together. We are a country that is so far from everyone else that we are used to seeking help from one another. After all, when one part of New Zealand suffers, every New Zealander - across the globe - will grieve. I saw this happen at the time of the Pike River Mine disaster last November, when 29 men lost their lives, their bodies unable to be recovered. I didn't know these people, or their families, and I'd never even been to Greymouth, yet I shed real tears for them. It broke my heart. Other New Zealanders around the world spoke of their own heartbreak. Those are the moments you feel so far from home.

My heart breaks again today for Christchurch, and my thoughts go out to everyone who has been affected. I feel grateful that I am flying home to New Zealand in a few days for a wedding, because right now I want to give my homeland a hug, and to stand on my native soil.

Kia kaha, Christchurch, we are all here for you.

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More information:

A relief fund is still being set up, but in the meantime the New Zealand Salvation Army
are accepting donations. Click Here To Donate

To share information on those missing or people who have been located, Click Here.

For more information on how to help, or for those who are in Christchurch Click Here.

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A Short Scene From The Underground

2011-02-10T22:28:00.003Z

It's 6.15pm on the London Underground. The Circle Line.
Two young lads are sitting side by side at the end of a Tube carriage, and having a passionate discussion. The lad wearing the beanie is confidently advising his companion on what he knows about the world. His mate listens, clearly fascinated.

I am sitting across from them. Though I am pretending to read, for the journey home, I am their audience.

Beanie: Like, prostitution for instance. It would be so much safer if it was legal. I mean, if somethin' is happening and you can't stop it, isn't it better to make it safer?
Hoodie: Yeah.
Beanie: I think drugs should be legal too.
Hoodie: Well...
Beanie: Nah, like hear me out man. Think of heroin addicts, yeah? They die because they take bad heroin. If the government gives it to them, then it's safe. If they're gonna do it, then why not control it?
Hoodie: True.
Beanie: I mean, you know weed? Most of that shit is sprayed with glass. Actually sprayed with actual glass. Like, dust. So when you smoke it, that glass goes into your lungs.
Hoodie: Shit.
Beanie: Yeah. So they should make it safer, and regulate it, yeah? Like, tell people the dangers, and stuff...
Hoodie: Like smoking?
Beanie: Yeah, like how smoking gives you cancer... so tell 'em what's what and they take the risks on themselves. But controlling it will make it safer. That's what they do in Amsterdam, and they doin' alright.
Hoodie: Hey, does your mate still live in Amsterdam?
Beanie: Nah. He lives in Germany now.
Hoodie: Yeah? What's he doin' there?
Beanie: He just smokes weed and spins decks and shit.
Hoodie: [laughs] Cool.... so does he like living in Germany?
Beanie: Nah, he says he wants to move.
Hoodie: Why, what's wrong with Germany? [incredulous] There's good food in Germany!
Beanie: He wants to live in America. Better money for beats.
Hoodie: [considers something] Y'know ya can't get done for speeding in Germany. There's no, uh, y'know, speed... Um, no like, speed... Y'know. You can drive however fast you want. I'd like to live in Germany.
Beanie: If I could live anywhere it'd be Japan.
Hoodie: Why Japan? Technology and shit?
Beanie: Nah, it's not that, it's like, they have no crime. It's a really safe place.... I mean, except if you're a woman.
Hoodie: [nodding] Yeah.
Beanie: Statistically, Japan has the lowest crime rate in the civilised world.
Hoodie: Yeah, 'course.
Beanie: Also it would be one place where I wouldn't have to learn a language.
Hoodie: You speak Japan? I mean.... like, Japanese?
Beanie: Nah, but you know, 70% of Japan speaks English.
Hoodie: Wow.
Beanie: And they have no dairy products.
Hoodie: Nah?
Beanie: Nah. And you know, like, how Britain is like, one in ten people have cancer? In Japan it's like, one in ten thousand.
Hoodie: Wow, serious? And that's from no milk?
Beanie: Yeah man, I'm telling you. Like, when you take the milk from the breast, that's it, that's all you need. And like, if you really can't live without it, drink soya milk.
Hoodie: Oh. So is that better?
Beanie: Yeah, soya milk has less fat for one thing. It's more natural. 'Cos see, normal milk is from an animal, and soya milk is like, from the seed of a plant.
Hoodie: Yeah?
Beanie: Yeah, soya has loads of vitamins and nutrients as well. And it has way less fat.
Hoodie: Like how?
Beanie: Like, if this much milk had eleven grams of fat, the same amount of soya would have, like, two.
Hoodie: Wow. Does it taste the same as milk then?
Beanie: Sort of. It's fruitier. Like.... let me describe this. [thinks] Ok, imagine herbal milk.
Hoodie: Uh, yeah. Yeah.
Beanie: It's like that.

Ignore The Anonymous

2010-12-01T22:09:00.001Z

Bloggers - how often do you get anonymous and abusive comments posted on your blogs? And to the rest of you - how many times have you read an article or blog post and found a nasty comment posted by "Anon"?

Those kinds of comments, I've learned, are called "trolls". Fitting really.
I read about this on the New York times website, after the article (written by one of their own staff) was shared by Facebook.

It's an excellent piece (which reveals some truly horrendous stories) and it reminded me that I have wanted to write a blog post of my own on this subject, after witnessing these kinds of comments on some of my favourite, highly-respected blogs.

Trolls are easy to spot. As soon as you come across an aggressively rude, no-holds-barred comment, you can almost guarantee it will have been posted under a pseudonym or (imaginatively) "Anon". I'll read the comment, look to the poster name, and that's usually when I'll roll my eyes and think, "Ahhh of course. Loser."

It ticks me off, not because of what has been said, but because of the anonymity of it. The fact that the is person is hiding and taking no responsibility for what they've said.

It harks back to the age-old retort, "If you've got something to say, say it to my face."

It seems that when you can hide behind online anonymity, you can get away with being unsociably rude or just plain mean. There's that tantalizing freedom of being able to manipulate complete strangers, speak your harshest views and hurt people, without repercussions. Basically, you can be an asshole without people thinking you're an asshole in real life. You can have your bitchy cake and eat it too.

It's a shame, because anonymity is helpful in many ways, and it also allows people to share experiences, advice and stories which are helpful or positive, but which they may not have shared without that invisible armour. We need the option to remain anonymous because - to a huge extent - it allows us to protect ourselves... but it also protects the trolls. So "Anon" has now become the pen name for bullies who want to have their say but are too cowardly to admit to it.

The way I see it, if someone has such a strong opinion about something, then why won't they stand by that opinion? If you believe in something so much, why not claim ownership of your words? I'll tell you why - because these people are either cowards who are scared of repercussions, or they actually just don't have confidence in their own opinion.

Either way, it's the same reason: fear. Fear of people disagreeing with them. Fear of backlash. Fear of being disliked. Fear of being found out.

I have had people disagree with my views on this blog, but I'm delighted to say that, to date, everyone who has expressed their views has taken ownership of them, which gives me the opportunity to consider their points in a reasonable way. (I know I don't post often, but readers, I appreciate that!) At the end of the day I would much prefer someone to wholeheartedly disagree with my perspective and open up a debate than to attack my views from behind a pseudonym.

Not that I'd be bothered if they did. The simple truth is, anonymous comments don't deserve any acknowledgement, because they have no foundation. Nothing to support them. They're posted in fear, and there's nobody real there to back them up.

So if you come across a troll comment in future, just laugh and remember those words were posted by some gutless little person at their computer, who doesn't believe the words enough themselves to actually represent them.

And to the real people posting real comments out there, in agreement or otherwise - I salute you.

Thirteen Miles

2010-10-14T10:28:00.010+01:00

Running? Moi? Get outta here. Running, as far as I've always been concerned, was something crazy people did - the kind of people who swim outdoors in winter and eat raw eggs. I wasn't one of those people. I've always hated running.

Yet, because I hated running so much, I always wanted to run a half marathon.

I like a challenge.

Look, I'm no athlete, but I believe there's nothing more exciting than discovering how far you can go under your own steam. I once raced up a Munro and then cried when my legs gave out just below the summit. I got to the top though, and when I did, I felt absolutely amazing. It's that feeling which is worth all the pain and the slog.

Then in May this year, I heard that the brilliant Muireann (aka Bangs and a Bun) had signed up for the London Royal Parks half marathon.
"That girl hates running even more than me," I thought. "Cripes, well if she can do this, I have no excuse."

So I signed up right there on the spot, and took a place with the charity Scope, who strive for people with disabilities to fulfill their potential. I like that idea a LOT. That's what life's about, no? Discovering one's potential?

I know that to some people thirteen miles is a cinch. Just like there are countless people who can cover several Munros in a single day. But to me, this was a personal challenge, and frankly, that's the best kind of challenge to undertake. Muireann's amazing efforts and training updates inspired me to work at this, and my Twitter followers egged me on and helped me raise £550 for Scope. I really don't think I would have made it without the incredible encouragement of the online community.

And so, after sixteen weeks of training, the day had arrived.
This is how it went.

______________________________________________________________

I was standing in a crowd of thousands, donning my least attractive ensemble, and wondering what on earth I was doing there. Look at me, pretending to be a runner! Pffft. Yet I was excited, I couldn't deny it, and nervous energy was zinging through my whole body like electricity. Muireann stood next to me, tapping on her phone and showing me some of the supportive messages sent to the both of us via Twitter. I had to laugh. Good grief, people are awesome. I took a deep breathe, briefly wondered what I was in for, and put my earphones in. My goal time was two and a half hours. I had absolutely no idea if that was even realistic. I had never run thirteen miles before. Ever.

Then the crowd slowly began to move and we crossed the ever-looming start line. We were OFF!

Immediately I decided this was awesome. I loved it! The vibe! The energy! The crowds! I could keep this up. I was having fun!!!

(This feeling lasted for approximately 2 miles.)

Muireann quickly moved ahead, spurred on by her amazing running friend Charlie, as I got stuck into a steady rhythm of my own. As the masses passed through the park, a rather stocky photographer raced alongside us, trying to get the attention of one runner in particular. After a lot of running and yelling, he finally got his photo, then stopped and, hands on his knees, struggled to catch his breath. We runners couldn't help but chuckle. No sympathy from us, mate! We have a LONG way to go!

Racing in that rainbow river of people, we passed Big Ben just as it struck 10am on 10/10/2010. I grinned like a lunatic. I took a moment to absorb the fact that I was running in the middle of the road on Westminster Bridge. When would I ever be here again? I made sure to drink in the views on both sides. Oh London, you beautiful wench.

I felt on top of the world.

About 45 minutes in, racing along the Embankment, I felt a stitch coming on and realised I had increased my pace too much. Oops. I already had a pre-ordained tactic for avoiding a debilitating stich, which was to walk for 30-seconds or so to catch my breath. So I did just that.

However, at that precise moment, I found the world's jolliest girl jogging alongside me.
"Come on now, keep running!" she pipped.
Her encouraging smile was brighter than the surface of the sun. I couldn't help but admire her motivation. I smiled back. And wished she would go away.

All the water I drank, coupled with all the nerves meant I took the opportunity for a loo break. It was a pay toilet and there was a poor race attendent handing out 50p coins to each runner. Times like this I wish I was a bloke, and could join the vast numbers marking their territory all over the streets of London. I must have lost a few minutes queuing for the Ladies'. But then, the best thing about the loo stop was the chance to have sit down. (Yep. I said it.)

Back on the route, I felt truly alive, and excitedly waved to the people watching from Embankment bridge.

After mile four my ankles began to ache but I just stopped to rotate them a bit and carried on. I'd have to just ride out the discomfort - it was early in the race and I guessed - correctly - there would be more to come.

I kept up the pace and pushed on... I was feeling good my friend, feeling good. Naturally it was about this point that I was overtaken by a man in a tiger suit. The feeling I was being slightly mocked quickly made way for amusement. Hard not to giggle with so many ridiculous costumes in the fray - including two chaps carrying a giant fish.

I wasn't in a costume, but I did have vest with my name on it. Scope encouraged their runners to write their names on their tops so people could yell out to them as they ran by. I wasn't certain this would actually work, but decided if anything, it's probably helpful to wear a giant name tag, in case I went insane with exhaustion and got lost in a forest somewhere.

Then I heard it. A cry from the sidelines. "GO CLAIRE! YOU CAN DO IT!" I did a double take to discover perfect strangers were egging me on. THAT was brilliant.

I raced past Buckingham Palace, grinning like a maniac and wondering if all of this was really happening.

As time went on the pain in my ankles subsided and moved upwards, to my shins and calf muscles. I stopped, did some stretches and gave them a massage. Come on legs!! Let's work together on this!

It was a while later, as the route took us back through Hyde Park, that I saw one of the most incredible sights. There were people handing out Percy Pigs. I grabbed up a handful and spent the next 10 minutes hoping like hell nobody I knew would recognise me as I gorged on candy like a starving pack animal. My entire being was buzzing with joy (and a pre-emptive sugar high).

Oh Percy Pigs. You glorious sugary gelatinous swines of joy.

A little later, still on a Percy Pig high, I looked around at the crowds, the supporters, the sun sparkling on the Serpentine, and my whole being burst with happiness. (And sugar). I ran past the Scope tent and they all whooped and yelled and cheered my name. "COME ON CLAIRE!" I grinned and waved my arms in the air. YES!! I felt SUPERFANTASTIC! I saw some little children holding out their hands and without a second thought I high fived them all. YEAH! Then, noting their expressions of uncertainty, it dawned on me that perhaps they weren't high-fiving just anyone - that more likely, their mother was just behind me. Realising I may have just high-fived some stranger's kids, I sprinted off at top speed. I overtook swarms of people in an instant. Apparently mortification is an excellent untapped source of energy.

A little while later a kid with a giant foam hand was definitely high-fiving everyone. I knew it was safe. I high-fived that kid with GUSTO.

As the route twisted and turned through Hyde Park, I began to slow. By the ninth mile my right leg started to give up. Running on it really hurt - enough to slow me down significantly. I stopped, stretched a bit, ran on, but was capable of nothing more than a limping stride. I struggled to run ("Sod the pain!") but after each short burst was limping again - I imagined I looked a bit like a wounded animal. Although, there were quite a few wounded animals around me. A lot of people hurting. And at this point I was passing a few people being treated by ambulance staff, including a couple of unconcious runners being given oxygen.

I was still standing - I can do this!

My original plan had been to stick with the pre-established pace I'd trained for - which could keep me running for long periods quite happily - and then speed up and sprint the last mile or two. What I had not anticipated was how much pain my joints would be in. As I stumbled down a tree-lined path past the mile 11 marker, the Royal Albert memorial looming up ahead, I knew my original plan would be thwarted. I was in no position to sprint. Disappointment set in, and I tried once again to go faster, but continued to be slowed by the pain in my leg. I gritted my teeth, and set into a quick-limping hobble, pushing on towards the finish.

I cursed my leg. My stupid leg. Oh leg, why have you forsaken me?!

Suddenly up ahead, the finish line loomed. The crowds of supporters were dense on both sides, and everyone was cheering each runner down their final path to glory. This was it! This was what I came here for! All this work! All this time! One way or another I was going to make it!

I guess I had something of a Cool Runnings moment. Because out of nowhere, I sprinted. Grimacing, I raced my way towards the finish, and I made it, in 2hrs 44mins 14 secs. My whole body hurt, yet crossing the line felt amazing.

(And then I felt like I was going to throw up, and I had to have a sit down).

____________________________________________________________

So. Am I going to go out an run a marathon now?
No. And you can all stop bloody asking. I hate running.

But I might do another half marathon. I'd like to see if I can better my time.... as I say, I do like a challenge....

Idris Elba, Lend Me Your Ear

2010-10-09T12:53:00.005+01:00

Dear Mr Elba.

Out of all the classy broads you must come across in your day to day life of absolute coolness, I'm sure you remember Muireann? Your Valentine's Day phone date? She of saucy voice and fabulous hair, of dry wit and sparkling sass? Oh, well I guess you haven't seen her hair, but do stick with me here, Mr Elba, because here is your chance!

Bangsy (as she is known to me, but you can call her "Honeybun") is running a half marathon tomorrow. Impressive, no? That's thirteen miles you understand. THIRTEEN MILES. Almost 22kms!

*pauses for effect*

I realise you run half marathons in your sleep, and you eat criminals for breakfast and all, but this is kind of a big deal for most of us. AND to top it all off, Bangsy inspired ME to run it as well. Thirteen miles. Big deal. Like I said.

Because of Bangsy, I've now raised over £500 for the charity Scope, and on a more personal note, have discovered that running more than a mile will not, as I have always maintained, equal instant death. It's all very exciting, and I owe it all to our gal.

So I ask you, Mr Elba, if you're around Hyde Park could you come down and cheer on Bangsy? (I'm sure she wouldn't turn down a quick sports massage either, but I appreciate you're a busy man.) This is where she'll be. And, tragically, if that's not a possibility and you have some Cool Undercover Business to attend to, then maybe you could at least send a motivational tweet to @BangsandaBun?
(That's "Honeybun" to you).

Sincerely,
Claire.

The Good Shoes

2010-08-23T21:31:00.012+01:00

I received a very special gift for my birthday this year. A meaningful one. It was a material gift, yes, but it was what the gift stood for, and where it came from, that meant so much.

I'm hardly going to bore you by discussing my finances, but I will just say that I don't have any disposable income these days. Since going freelance I'm working my butt off to get the rent paid, and that's about it. I've also been hunting for a day job but as yet have not been successful. So when my papa sent me a crisp note in my birthday card, I knew I would treat myself to something.

Unfortunately, I could only get one thing on that big mental shopping list in my head. I mentioned this on Twitter, as a completely throwaway, meaningless comment. I mentioned the shoes I really wanted, but which I would have to forgo in lieu of a new bag. (I'd wanted a new bag for a long time, but then I also don't own many decent pairs of shoes... heck, even the investment of my birthday money required careful consideration!)

Then I got a message from someone on Twitter. Someone I have a great deal of respect for, but whom I had never met in real life. The message I received completely took me by surprise.

This person offered to buy me the shoes.

Naturally my first question was, "But why would you want to do that?"

Their response? They knew about my struggle with the job hunt. They saw my determined optimism. They knew "how much little pick-me-ups can mean and what they can do for morale."

The genuine kindness of this gesture took me aback. I mean, we live in a world of "each for themself". How can someone be this generous?

I wanted to do something in return. Give them something. But they were having none of it. They insisted that the warmth of having done something good for someone else was payment enough. That they were once on the receiving end of a good deed and were now delighted to be able to pass it on.

I have to respect that. It's not hard to be generous but it actually takes a lot of guts. And if it makes that person feel good, then even better. So (partly still in shock) I accepted the offer of the birthday shoes.

Sure enough, the shoes arrived a couple of day later. Despite my stupidly big feet, they fit like a glove. I absolutely love them, but all the more for the kindness that had brought them to me in the first place.

I am not going to name the person who sent them to me, because I don't want them to feel uncomfortable about their generosity going public (plus they might start getting inundated with requests for shoes....). However, I hope they read this, and understand that they have inspired me. I will take the steps in these shoes to make someone else smile.

And you know what? It's not hard to find opportunities to make someone's day. I now keep thinking about all the countless things one can do, and that list really is endless. I intend to pass on the kindness, and I also hope this would be passed on again, until everyone's days are a little brighter.

The great thing about good deeds is that they are contagious. If we all did one little good deed every day, imagine how far they would spread!

So for my birthday this year I was given the gift of shoes, but also the gift of inspiration. A reminder that even the smallest good deeds can mean so much. I won't forget it. Especially when I wear my new favourite shoes.

Runner, Interrupted

2010-08-05T18:27:00.026+01:00

When people travel abroad, and change their existential status from "locals" to "tourists", several other fundamental traits change with them. For instance, the ability to dress conspicuously.

In a city at home, people will wear normal clothes, carry a handbag or wallet, and on a rainy day take with them an umbrella or jacket. In a city abroad, the logic of dressing normally is forgotten, and strutting around in rubber shoes, plastic ponchos and carrying a money-belt is all the rage. I do not get this. Umbrellas pack up small. There is no need to walk around like an drowned, crumpled ghost who needs directions. Also, you CAN get comfortable walking shoes which are not fluorescent and made of rubber. They're called trainers.

As for the money-belt... well, lifting your shirt every time you want to buy a sandwich is hardly the epitome of security. The money-belt is the travelling equivalent of a burgler carrying a sack with a dollar sign on it.
Some subtlety, please.

More concerningly, when people travel abroad they immediately lack spacial awareness. You know - the ability to walk amongst other people without bumping into them. This goes out the window the moment somebody steps onto foreign soil, and leads to a constant lemming-esque pinball effect of people in ponchos. I don't feel I am being unfair when I say that tourists will walk in every direction except the one they are facing, and that there is always an appalled look thrown at anyone who tries to pass through a group of tourists who have lined themselves across the entire breadth of the footpath. (Oh, and note to tourists: when taking a photo of someone which requires standing on opposite sides of a busy pedestrian route, please just take the photo. Don't take a second, or a third...) Awareness, please!

However, I have been a traveller for much of my life, and I am willing to be forgiving - heck, even patient - when it comes to dealing with tourists in my (now) home town. It is easy to become cantankerous and unsympathetic, especially in a city like London, where locals operate on warp speed, and exist in their own bubble. Yet no matter how patient one is, the fact is it can be very difficult for tourists and locals to co-exist in the same space. After all, there are (apparently) over 70,000 tourists in London every day.

The source of my personal chagrin, though, is that the majority seem to congregate on my running route.

It wasn't long ago that I was convinced I'd never be a runner. Running was against my religion. I was allergic to running. If I ran, I would immediately die. But I am also someone who likes to discover my limits (and not just of my patience, eh tourists?) so I started to go for the odd jog. It was the best way to exercise for free, and once I got going it was actually OK. I could actually do it. Running didn't cause instant death. Sometimes (sometimes) I even enjoyed my little bursts of running mania. It felt free and liberating to move quickly on my own two feet, the wind in my hair and music in my ears.

So then, inspired by the awesome blogger, and former anti-running ambassador BangsandaBun, I signed up to run the Royal Parks half marathon this October. This meant, of course, that I would now have to get really serious with my running. My schedule requires me to run for anything from 25 to 55 minutes, five days a week. For sixteen weeks. Clearly I was insane to sign up to something like this, but I'm doing it for charity, (and a charity for people who are physically disabled at that, so if I ever whine about my legs hurting I will obviously be struck down by lightning).

The best route for running in my area is along the river, in a circuit which crosses bridges and takes in City Hall, the Tower of London... all the beautiful sights and fresh riverside air. (As fresh as it gets in the city of London). There are no parks nearby, and running into the busy city is a nightmare. The riverside provides a tranquil space to run. It's also perfect in its flexibility of distance - if the run needs to be longer, I further my route for a few extra bridges. Simple. It is almost the perfect runner's route. Almost.

Tourists.

Oh tourists, I don't hold it against you that you want to congregate outside the major attractions of London. I don't. I wish you well, and I wish you the greatest day of your life taking all those photos of Traitor's Gate. But please, please, can you just look where you're going? It's not a big thing, just try to turn your heads in the direction you're walking. Take a quick glance before you suddenly change direction. And please don't give me an angry, shocked look when I am forced to pipe, "Excuse me!" if your family is taking up THE WHOLE FOOTPATH.

All the stopping, starting, dodging and weaving not only destroys any sense of rhythm & flow and makes the run that much more difficult, but I've come close to injuring my knees trying to twist and duck (yes, even duck) to avoid colliding with a directionless tourist. So, sadly, a while ago I gave up on the riverside route, and found another one through the uneven, cobbled backstreets of Wapping, stopping at every corner and driveway to check for cars. It's ok, and it's better than running into the city centre, but it's not ideal.

Needless to say I was ECSTATIC to hear talk of a runner's lane on the south bank. Cancer Research UK were launching "the world’s first urban running lane, an obstruction-free space for runners in the Capital." The lanes would be in place only for today as a pilot scheme, aiming "to give inner-city dwellers the chance to run uninterrupted by pedestrians and cars, just like a cycle lane. If the lane is successful the charity will look to roll it out nationally."

So this afternoon I went to test them out. There were two lanes, outlined clearly in smooth white lines, right in the middle of the Queen's walk, from the HMS Belfast to Tower Bridge. It looked very promising indeed.

However, I immediately noticed one problem.

Tourists.

Despite the lanes being described as "obstruction free", the tourists were dawdling all over these lanes like nobody's business. Which, ok, is fair enough - one can hardly expect everyone to clear the road at all times. The frustrating thing was that when runners came flying down the lanes, almost none of these people moved. They continued to stand around in a state of incomprehension.

Nevertheless, I pushed through the crowds and tripped over strollers, finally getting my groove on along the track, smiling as other runners passed me in the other direction in the second lane. This felt pretty nice!

Unfortunately it wasn't long before I saw a couple ambling towards me, side by side, one in each lane, dragging luggage behind them. Clearly, somewhere along the line, they had got the impression that these were special lanes for people with wheelie-suitcases. As I ran towards them, I gave them my best "Um, you might want to make some space there," look but they simply stared at me blankly. So I had to lurch around them.

The lanes were shorter than I would've liked - only 1km all up - but this was just the pilot scheme after all. Once they ended I continued through the throng of people to the next bridge, turned around, and ran back the way I had come in order to give the lanes one last go. Coming back was more successful. There seemed to be a few more runners on the track this time, and while there were still a few incognizant people strolling up and down like it was their own personal red carpet, most of them quickly moved out of the way. (Perhaps my violently urgent expression scared them off.) I only had to dodge one man, who didn't seem at all perturbed by the speeding people running straight for him and didn't budge an inch. (No awareness! None!)

Overall, though, this was the best run I had ever had along the south bank. It was also the first time I had run continuously along the Queen's Walk riverside path without stopping. In fact, I got such a good rhythm going, I ran faster than usual, and even OVERTOOK ANOTHER RUNNER. A MALE runner. A FIT male runner.

This was real progress, and I loved it.

Olympic and world gold medallist, Christine Ohuruogu tries out the world’s first urban running lane, an obstruction-free space for runners in the Capital

I would love to see London bring in more running paths within the city. Given how many runners there are here it would benefit a lot of people. I know some will think this is a case of runners being demanding elitists, but that's not true. People run for different reasons: for better health, for better fitness, for stress-relief, for a personal goal, or for a charity event - and in my case, all of the above. It is not only difficult to train if you are dodging people and continually stopping, but it's hard on the body. Having a space where one can run without people getting in the way, or without getting in the way of others would be an improvement for everyone.

I say bring on the running lanes! Space for everyone!

Maybe then it will be easier for tourists and locals to co-exist after all.

_____________________________________________________________

NB: If anyone wishes to sponsor me in the Royal Parks half marathon, in aid of Scope, please visit this link!.

Real Is Not A Size

2010-07-29T15:27:00.020+01:00

The equalities minister Lynne Featherstone has declared that Christina Hendricks, star of the TV series Mad Men, should be a "role model" for women and the fashion industry to aspire to.

In her (absolutely admirable) mission to combat the unhealthy ideals encouraged by the beauty and fashion industries, Featherstone is battling the "unrealistic stereotypes" of stick-thin models in magazines and advertising. And in the process, Featherstone has singled out the buxom, size 14 Hendricks as having the ideal female figure. "Christina Hendricks is absolutely fabulous," says Featherstone. "We need more of these role models.”

I find this a particularly interesting statement to make. Without question, I believe that we need to create more positive and realistic role models for young women. Overtly skinny models are blamed for encouraging a negative body image, and I think that they do create a dangerous ideal for girls. However, holding up the figure of Christina Hendricks as the ideal body is actually just as risky. With her waspish waist and large bosom, is her figure any more attainable than a wispy model’s? I feel that while heralding Hendricks as the perfect body will bring a sigh of relief from the naturally curvaceous girls - who have previously strived for a lithe figure they can never have - suddenly there are new impossible goals for women without curves.

In truth, society might be trying to make things better, but its view on body image is still skewed. In trying to change the attitude that “skinny = good”, it has merely flipped to “skinny = bad”. This is an entirely unfair perspective as of course, many women are naturally thin, and suddenly they are supposed to feel bad about themselves. It’s exactly what the “skinny = good” perspective has been doing to big girls for years. I appreciate what Lynne Featherstone is trying to achieve here, but this is not improving our ideals, it is merely switching them around.

Everyone loves to declare that women come in all shapes and sizes. So why is nobody accepting this fact? The media frequently discusses “real women” to describe anyone size 14 and up. How unfair is that statement? So women who are lean or petite are not real? So they are somehow bad people? I am not of a thin build, but if I were, I would be feeling pretty bad about myself right now.

Creating any “ideal” is going to cause body criticism somewhere else. It creates a divide. For example, I am big-chested and I find it a troublesome feature: as well as trying to find clothes that fit well, a large bust also draws a lot of unwanted attention. Yet society's "ideal" includes big boobs, so I don’t feel I am entitled to complain. In effect, I am wary of discussing how frustrated I am with my excessive bosom, because excessive bosoms are the desire of anyone who hasn’t got them. Any comment I make about being lumbered with their size is misconstrued as bragging... and I am inundated with remarks that I’m lucky and should “show them off” more. Yet on the flipside, small-chested women who discuss their desires for bigger boobs will receive nothing but empathy. This is what happens when you set a single ideal: everyone is expected to want the same thing.

I know naturally slim women who complain about feeling boyish and who long for curves. They too seem reluctant to talk about it, as if skinny women are expected to feel grateful somehow. Why are we unable to celebrate more than one shape? Why must we choose a "side"?

Skinny is only a negative thing if someone is unnaturally so. Just as curvaceous figures are only negative if unhealthily so. I believe if there is to be any ideal it should simply be a healthy, happy version of every woman’s own individual figure. There should be no negativity about a certain shape. The reason we are so unsatisfied is because we are all SO different, and trying to fit ourselves into an ideal is completely disasterous. It sets women against each other, turning critical eyes towards fellow females, and against ourselves.

If you have a body like Christina Hendricks then enjoy it. If you have a body like Keira Knightley, then enjoy it. Whatever it is, your figure is your own. Embrace it. Be healthy and happy. There is no perfect dress size. The term "real women" should refer to women who are real, whatever shape that might mean.

It Could Be Worse...

2010-07-21T14:58:00.006+01:00

After years of working hard to reach this point, I now work for myself as a freelance writer. I took a huge leap of faith to get here, and I have come further than I had hoped I might. It's been an exciting and rewarding period of my life.

The time has now come, however, for me to go back to a day job in addition to my writing. I've got the proverbial ball rolling, and now I need to keep it going while still paying the rent. Unfortunately, the search for a sub editor/copywriter or similar journalistic/media role has been extremely difficult in a competitive industry where demand well exceeds opportunity. Lately I have found the effort poured into my applications is wearing me down. My confidence has taken a knock, and I feel stuck in a financial and motivational rut.

So it was rather refreshing to come across an email from my last major non-media role, back when I was a receptionist/secretary/office lackey. Those were the days when the idea of being commissioned to write an article seemed like an impossible dream. Any career frustrations I might be suffering from right now seem tiny in comparison to the real, scream-into-a-pillow career rut I was in back then.

This email represents a typical day in my old career life.
It might just be the best dose of perspective I could ever get.

* This is a real email; names of all but myself have been changed

------------------------------------------------------------

From: Jones,Steve
Sent: 24 October 2007 13:29
To: Morris, Audrey
Cc: Jackson, Tim
Subject: Gents toilets

Dear Audrey

I would be grateful if you send round a plumber to fix the Gents toilets. It would appear that some members of staff are having problems flushing them which leads to unpleasant surprises on a daily basis.

Thanks very much.
Please feel free to contact me should you need any assistance.

With kind regards

Yours sincerely
Steve Jones

Corporate Finance

------------------------------------------------------------

From: Morris, Audrey
Sent: 24 October 2007 13:37
To: Jones, Steve; Nelson, Claire
Cc: Jackson, Tim
Subject: RE: Gents toilets

The toilets are maintained by the landlord and any problems should be reported immediately to the help desk. Claire please do this now.

------------------------------------------------------------

From: Nelson, Claire
Sent: 24 October 2007 13:42
To: Morris, Audrey; Jones, Steve
Cc: Jackson, Tim
Subject: RE: Gents toilets

Hi Audrey,

I have actually reported this twice recently (the previous time was just last week).

However, on both occasions after repairmen have come to take a look, I was told by facilities that the flushes do work, but that they take a couple of seconds to flush when you hold them down. Apparently as they are not actually faulty, they are not replacing them.

However, I can speak to them again.

Claire

------------------------------------------------------------

From: Morris, Audrey
Sent: 24 October 2007 13:44
To: Nelson, Claire; Jones,Steve
Cc: Jackson, Tim
Subject: RE: Gents toilets

Please explain the problem to them in detail so they can properly resolve it.

If special instructions on flushing are necessary, they should be clearly posted for users...

------------------------------------------------------------

From: Nelson, Claire
Sent: 24 October 2007 13:53
To: Morris, Audrey; Jones, Steve
Cc: Jackson, Tim
Subject: RE: Gents toilets

I have explained this to them thoroughly Audrey, and apparently it is just a matter of holding the flush down.

But as I said I will talk to them again and push the matter toward a better resolution if I can.

Thanks,
Claire

7/7: Five Years On

2010-07-07T08:40:00.002+01:00

Five years ago today, I was a wide-eyed New Zealander who had been in London for only two months, and was still a stranger to the city. I was living in Cricklewood, London, and had just started temping as a travel consultant in Tower Hill. I didn't know many people, and would regularly email home from the internet cafe across from my flat. I was relishing the strangeness of it all, and it was a wonderfully exciting time.

Then the bombs went off. This is the actual email I sent home that day.

-----Original Message-----
From: Claire Nelson
To: Home
Sent: Thu, Jul 7, 2005 9:41 pm
Subject: A very strange day.

A series of bomb attacks on London's transport network has killed more than 30 people and injured about 700 others.

Thank you for those who have sent me texts and emails - yes I'm safe and well, although it has been the most surreal day.

This morning I got on the tube as usual, changed at Westminster, and stood packed shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other commuters. I had my headphones on, and thought how ridiculous it is for people to be squashed in like this but that I was somewhat used to it now. Then, just before we were to pull into Tower Hill station, the train suddenly stopped. There was silence. (Well, I was listening to T-Rex, but only very quietly). The thing is, I started to feel a bit panicky. There was no reason to – this sort of thing happens all the time – but I did, and I felt silly for it. There was no announcement from the driver initially, and it started to get really really hot. Sweat started to trickle down my face.

I took my headphones off and looked around me. People were all looking very uncomfortable. I held a cold drink in my bag to my forehead and wondered how long I could stand the heat before I went crazy and smashed a window. I decided I would not be the first to wuss out! Then the driver announced that there was a power surge which had caused the signal failure, and we would be up and running again shortly. And we were.

As we all stumbled out of the station at Tower Hill there was a barrier up stopping people from coming in. It was raining, and outside there was a large crowd looking furious. An old lady pushed past me into the station. “Sorry ma’am, you can’t come into the station,” said a security officer. I thought there must have been a problem with the line. I didn’t think it was anything serious. Why would I?

I got to work late, and was left to man the phones while the others had a meeting. A man called to speak to the boss in our area and when I said he was in a meeting he said “Well let him know there was a bomb at Liverpool St Station.”
Really?
Then calls started coming in from colleagues’ family members and friends, checking that they were alive. When the team came back they were all shocked by the news, and suddenly no one could do any work. We managed to get onto the news websites and found out what had gone on. More bombs had gone off. One of the girls I was working with said she would have been at Liverpool Street except she decided to go swimming this morning, and she was pretty shaken.
All morning we had more and more updates, and each time it was worse. Suddenly it was luchtime... the morning had gone so quickly... but no one took their breaks. We had even been told at one point not to leave the building, although we knew other places had sent their staff home.

The mobile networks had been shut down so no one could reach anyone else. The rumour behind this was that the bombs had been set off via mobile (as the Madrid bombings had been). I had emailed most of you before I really knew what was happening but once I realised it was serious, I was so relieved to get emails from a lot of you. I thought, “What are you lot doing up so late!” But it made me feel really cared about, so thank you.

I left work early, at 4.40pm, and didn’t arrive at my doorstep until 8:15pm.
That has to be the longest commute of my life! It involved a 2 hour walk from Tower Hill to Euston station – one of the only stations to be open, and from there I could catch a mainline train to Kilburn Park – not quite home, but somewhere in that vicinity. The underground was closed completely, and all inner-city buses were suspended. People were worried about getting home and many were booking hotels or arranging to stay with friends. I couldn’t do either, so decided to leg it.

When I left my office building and came out into the bright sunshine of the street, there were hundreds of people, most of them in suits, walking the streets with maps. Everyone I passed seemed to be talking about finding a way home. A big shaven-headed fellow walking near me looked at me and shook his head.
“Chaos, innit?” he said.
“Bit like that.” I replied. Then he asked me for directions. I had a lot of people asking me for directions, probably because I was clutching my A-Z rather desperately.

From there, my walk inevitably took me past Aldgate, Liverpool Street and Kings Cross Stations, each of them a target of the bombings. I passed Aldgate first, being close to Tower Hill, and saw it was blocked off in every direction. There was a tent outside the station amongst the ambulances, which must be for taking care of the injured, or perhaps the dead.

It was hard to work out a route home on my A-Z as so many streets were cordoned off with tape and police officers. People were wandering all over the place, looking bewildered, following other people, but not exactly knowing how to get home. It was like mice in a maze. The roads had mostly been closed off so there were very few vehicles about... just a few taxis and a lot of police cars & ambulances. I wandered down Bishopsgate, past Liverpool Street. This had been the street I spent my lunch hours wandering along a couple of weeks back when working for the European Bank. If I had still been working there then I would have definitely been at Liverpool Street Station at 8:49am when the first bomb went off in the tunnel there. I can't let go of that reality but I feel a bit sick to think about it.

All the shops in the area had long been closed, and the windows were dark. People filled the footpaths, wandering in a mass exodus towards the station, which to my surprise had just been reopened. A crowd surged in through the entrance. There was no way in hell I was going back into the underground today – I didn’t even contemplate it. I bought a paper outside the station, which was packed full of dramatic headlines, and carried on.

The weather was off and on all day. It was getting really hot, and I was sweltering. I didn’t really know where I was going, but tried following my map along main roads to keep it easier. I overheard a man telling someone on his phone that he was heading to Euston station so I followed him for a bit. He was wearing an olive green suit so it was easy to tail him.

Passing Kings Cross a little later was unnerving. It is such a large station, and a bit of a landmark, but the streets all around were closed. Even little side streets with small hotels along it were closed. Police stood at each street entrance and were giving people directions for detours. Looking down each street you could see the station looming at the end of it, no sign of damage to the outside, but looking rather dead, as if you could sense the awful scenes inside it. That may sound silly to you but it gave me the shivers.

Cherry pickers with camera men on the top stood at the ends of some of the streets, getting close ups of the station. It had started to get cold when I finally reached Euston station. Total madhouse – again, entrances were cordoned off nearby, camera crews were setting up all over the place, not to film the station but to film other scenes close to it. I didn’t stop to see what they were filming, I just wanted to get home.

*[I later learned I had just walked past the scene of the bus bomb at Tavistock square]

I spoke to a nice ticket man who confirmed that yes, my travelcard would get me on the Silverline to Kilburn Park. But what the nice ticket man didn’t tell me was that Kilburn Park station was not open today. It was weird enough getting on the train after what went on this morning. There was a general sense of unease in the air. Strangers on the train were all talking to each other about conflicting information they’d been given regarding stations and which ones were open. But then we were off, and it wasn’t until I ended up in [?] that I realised this train wasn’t any use to me. I stood on the platform, feeling rather deflated. It started to rain and I was currently carrying the world’s smallest umbrella. I really wanted a cuddle and a cup of tea at that point. Instead, I got directions from a rail representative, and caught a bus back towards home. It took two more buses actually, before I arrived in Cricklewood.

I wanted to crawl into bed and read a book but the sun has come out again and it's still light. There is a strange energy in the streets, and I can’t stop thinking about today. I keep thinking that I shouldn’t be so dramatic, it’s over, and that’s the end of it, I have lost no one and nothing, and I am grateful for it.
But then every few minutes the enormity of it all sinks in a little and I feel a bit shaken. I am sure by tomorrow I will feel normal again.

I might even go back on the underground in the morning... I really don’t fancy that walk again.

Lots of love,
Claire

Grow Up Lindsay

2010-07-07T08:37:00.012+01:00

Lindsay Lohan has been sentenced to 90 days in jail for violating her probation.
In 2007, Lindsay Lohan pleaded guilty to being under the influence of cocaine and two counts of drunk driving and one count of reckless driving. She has since breached the terms of her probation, and missed the meetings she's agreed to.

Yet what HAS she been doing all this time? In May 2009 she was fired from a film she was meant to be starring in. In autumn 2009 she worked on the film Machete, and in September 2009 she became an artistic advisor for fashion brand Emanuel Ungaro, which received a "disasterous" reception, according to sources, and she left the brand in March 2010. She was a guest on Alan Carr's "Chatty Man" chat show in March this year and made a TV appearance on Double Exposure in June.

Oh, and she has apparently been swanning off to the Cannes Film Festival, and trying to save the children.

Busy girl, huh?

No.

No, Lindsay, you were not too busy to meet the terms of your probation. They were pretty simple, really. You were irresponsible and you could have killed someone. Just because you are a pretty celebrity, doesn't mean the law does not apply to you. BE AN ADULT.

Lindsay has been let off lightly once too often. At her hearing in 2007, she was sentenced to four days imprisonment and 10 days community service. She was also ordered to pay fines and complete an alcohol education program, and was given three years probation.

However she only spent only 84 minutes behind bars before being let out, apparently due to "overcrowding and the nonviolent nature of the crime".
Lucky girl.

THEN she missed a probation hearing in May because she was apparently "stranded" in France (*coughcoughCANNEScoughcough*) because - according to her lawyers - her passport was stolen. I know you can get an emergency passport within 24 hours, and it should be especially easy if you have the cash to flash to get it done. So that's no excuse.

As a result, Lindsay was fitted with an alcohol-monitoring bracelet, which TOTALLY clashed with her designer gear. This prompted her to post a message on Twitter: “can CHANEL please help me out by getting me some stickers to put on my scram bracelet so that i can at least wear a chic dress?! maybe!? x”. Nice try Lindsay. Do the crime, do the unfashionable time.

Of course being stuck in France is one thing, but as for the alcohol education courses she was supposed to attend, she didn't complete them on time and missed several meetings. According to Lindsay she thought she could do two one week and then miss the next week if she had to work. She says, after her sentence, that "it confused me because I was there thinking it was ok that I had missed those classes... had I known differently, again, like I said I would have made sure that I was in town each week and I would have balanced my work around that..."

THAT'S WHAT YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE IN THE FIRST PLACE LINDSAY.
It's a court order, not a party invitation. You have to be there, or else there are consequences.

No it's not nice to witness the misfortune of others - but she has brought this on herself. She is 24, and must learn to take responsibility for herself like the rest of us have had to. She can't cry her way out of this.

Her parents have hardly helped her cause. I find it grotesque that Lindsay's mother Dina Lohan is a TV celebrity simply because she rode in on the wave of her daughter's fame. She's launched a career of having famous daughters (Lindsay's younger sister is now becoming a pop singer) and Dina even signed up to a reality show, "Living with Lindsay Lohan". I've seen that show, and it made me feel sick to my stomach with the fame-hungry HORROR of it all. It starts to make a bit of sense that Lindsay is coming off the rails so young.

Following the jail sentence, Dina's reponse was: "It's not fair to do this to my child."
Actually, Dina, Lindsay did this to herself. And you also kinda brought it on.

Don't blame the law, nobody asked Lindsay to break it.

Free the children

2010-07-04T16:21:00.000+01:00

I feel sorry for the children of today. It sometimes seems as if they have so much more than the previous generations, but the sad truth is, they don't have it easier at all. Having cellphones, email and fancy toys might be one thing, but what they are missing out on is the freedom to be children.
I was reminded about this issue today while reading the Sunday Times, where I learned that two children, aged eight and five, cycle to school every day on their own. Because of this, their school is threatening to report their parents to social services.

Social services? You have GOT to be kidding me!

This 1-mile commute to school may have become a source of consternation to the school and other parents, but it has also become a unwitting protest for the few freedoms children are given. Ignorance and intolerance from adults seems to be at an all-time high.

Case in point, a quote from the headmaster of the school:
"If a school feels a child in their care is at risk, they have a legal responsibility to notify the local authority. Is an eight-year old responsible enough to come to school with a five year old and take responsibility when it comes to crossing busy roads? What would happen if the five year-old has a tantrum?"

This is a frustratingly narrow-minded attitude. If a child of eight is not given the opportunity to act responsibly, then they will never learn to be responsible. To mature and develop a child needs the freedom to grow. The same goes for a child of five; and why would a child throw a tantrum while they were cycling? If they did, how is this a threat to themself or their older sibling? Kids are pretty good at dealing with their younger siblings when they need to be. It is a shame that this headmaster undermines the potential of the children in his care.

However, more crucially, this is another example of ways in which families are being damanged by the bureaucracies supposedly set up to protect them. Misguided interpretation of laws can only lead to misguided reactions. The Department for Children, Schools and Families allows schools to play the social services card at the slightest whiff of risk, even if it prevent parents from raising their children the way they feel is best. Why does a headmaster get to decide what is best, over a child's own parents?

After all, we're not talking about child neglect, or child abuse, or lack of parenting altogether. This is about a normal happy family, and the quest for a decent, healthy childhood. It's a bike ride to school, one mile, where they pass by busy roads but cross only where a lollipop lady is on duty. Why social services need to get involved (when there are plenty of children out there who really ARE in danger, and nothing is being done about it - but I digress) is beyond me.

The mother of these two children, Gillian Schonrock, says:
"The benefits to our children far outweigh the potential risk from 'stranger danger', road traffic accidents and other factors."
Their father adds, "We wanted to recreate the simple freedom of our childhood. We would love it if our kids could just pop around the corner to see their friends, but that's totally out these days. These days children live such regimented lives. They can do nothing unless it's planned."

I completely agree with these parents. And this makes me suspect the headmaster is laying down the law to appease other worried parents, who cannot fathom a child going out in their own. The fear of some is forced to become the concern of all, and this is what drives the greatest threat to us all - 'the Nanny State'.

It's unfair to wrap children up in cotton wool. It offers no benefit to the child - in fact, trying to avoid any possible risks does more harm than good.
Taken from the article again:

Frank Furedi, professor of sociology at Kent University, said he had been contacted by dozens of parents in a similar situation. He believes the state is steadily encroaching and that excessive protection of children harms their development: "The irony is that the measures these parents took actually protect the children by developing resilience and resourcefulness through facing challenging situations."

I cannot imagine the physical, burning need a parent has to protect their child. But going overboard to protect them from one thing (paedophiles, dangerous drivers) can automatically cause new, and less obvious dangers (lack of confidence, distrust in other people, emotional neediness, and inevitable rebelliousness).
I personally think the latter should be more of a concern than perverts and kidnappers. For as long as a child grows up with a fear of danger and a suspicion of others, then they will never truly develop into someone open to relationships and prepared for what life throws at them. And this is damaging.

The key to a child's development is not in trying to keep them away from risks, but through giving them the opportunities to overcome them.

I feel very strongly about this, because I was lucky enough to be given the very freedom the Schonrocks are trying to give their children. And I have never doubted this gave me the strength and the confidence I needed to be who I am now.

My own childhood was full of freedom.... and yes, even some risk-taking. My parents trusted me to be responsible and I did my best to withhold that trust. In fact, my younger brother and I were the same ages as the Schonrock kids when we used to cycle to school by ourselves.
If my parents were worried about this, they did not project those fears onto me. We were educated about stranger danger and road safety, but once equipped with those lessons we were set free to enjoy ourselves. Of course I could have been hit by a car, or followed by a strange man in a mac, but the fact is I wasn't. And if I had been?
Well, what if I had choked on my dinner one night and died?
How far does one go to protect from the "what if"s?

Nobody can deny that the times have changed. Yet I think the only marked difference between a childhood today and a childhood 20 years ago is that parents have become more afraid. They are more suspicious. More likely to take their children under their wings and not let them out to fly. The Schonrocks seem to be in a minority of parents who are not letting their worries overcome their children's need for independence. It's very easy to believe that these days there are more bad people, more violent encounters, more bad drivers. But these things have always been there. What has changed is the level of our mistrust, and the extremity of our precautions.

Perhaps my views stem from living in a different place, rather than a different time.
I grew up in New Zealand, where paranoia was not so abundant. When I was eight years old my biggest fear wasn't drunk drivers or paedophiles. I was more scared of earthquakes, tsunamis (and big spiders). At school we would practice earthquake drills and told time and time again that "The Big One" was years overdue. Our teachers told us to stock up on canned food and bottles of water in case of emergency.
As far as I was aware, ANY MINUTE NOW the entire country could be shaken to its core and everyone's homes destroyed. THIS was my biggest fear, and given that it was out of my control, I learned that I just had to get on with life. Take precautions, but don't stop living. As a child that's an incredibly liberating lesson to learn. If only more adults would realise that too.

You cannot control the things you are afraid of, and letting them prevent you - or your children - from living life is, in fact, the greatest danger of all.

Me, age 8, and my brother, age 6, cycling to school in 1990:

* [original article from the Sunday Times by Kevin Dowling]

Whining and Wine - SATC2

2010-06-30T23:23:00.000+01:00

Last week I went to Sex & the City 2.

I am a massive fan of the TV series. Largely because it started out witty and clever, and offered an excitingly different style of television series. Then later, because it was a form of escapism... and despite it's subtle slide away from relationships and towards fashion, I had fallen into a vicarious friendship with the characters.

I want to clarify that Carrie Bradshaw irritated me from series 2 onwards. I understand that as the lead character, everything tends to revolve around her, but Carrie really did think the world orbited her Manolos. Not only was her selfishness towards her friends rather frightful, but she was a terrible girlfriend. Case in point...

Sick of being dicked around by the commitment-phobic Mr Big, she dates the attentive Aiden, who adores her - for reasons which are not clear. He takes her to his country cabin, to which she wears high heels, and screams when she sees a squirrel. They have nothing in common, but he's so good to her that she complains to her friends that her relationship has no problems.
("What was wrong was, for the first time in my life, I was in a relationship where absolutely nothing was wrong. Nothing but calm seas and blue horizon as far as the eye can see.")
So then she cheats on Mr Perfect with Mr Big. They break up. Then, when Aiden finally gets over her, Carrie sees him again, asks him out, and they get back together. In time he proposes but despite not wanting to marry him, she says yes. Then treats him like dirt because she resents having to be engaged.

However, The Problem with Carrie Bradshaw is a whole other blog waiting to happen. Suffice to say, I am not a Carrie fan. I loved Miranda, for her realistic combination of cynicism and emotional fragility. Samantha, for being (especially in contrast to Carrie) an incredibly loyal and unselfish friend, and for her brutal honesty. Charlotte for her hilariously prim and sweetly childlike optimism in happy endings.
The series ended with a wonderful overview of where each of the central characters had ended up, and all of them seemed happy. It was nice.

Then there was the movie.

When Sex & the City: The Movie came out, everyone was curious to see what it was going to offer. Fashion - undoubtedly. Yet I am disappointed that fashion has become its focus. What of the characters?

Quick overview of the first film:
Carrie is now a richer version of her TV self, dating uber-wealthy Mr Big, (who tells her she makes him happy, but doesn't write her poetry, the bastard.) They decide to get married, if he agrees to build her a walk-in closet, and she becomes so wrapped up in the fashion and frenzy of their upcoming wedding that she forgets about her husband-to-be. Oh yeah, that guy. The commitment-phobe she spent six series chasing. He feels neglected. Neither of them talk about this, of course. Mr Big sulks outside the wedding, drives away, changing his mind just too late enough to run into his ditched bride who deigns never to speak to him again. The whole world has now ended.
Miranda is still working hard as a partner in a law firm, married to the ever-likeable Steve and struggling to look after their one kid with the help of their Ukranian housekeeper-slash-nanny. The sex has gone out of their marriage, as these things do. Neither of them talk about this, of course. Steve has an affair. Miranda leaves him, and they juggle custody of their son. She is not allowed to be dramatic about this though, because Carrie has a crisis.
Samantha is now living in LA with her younger movie-star boyfriend. He's away a lot, so they only have sex fifty times a month, and her extremely high-profile PA job doesn't require her to do very much. She feels constrained by her new life waiting around for a man. They actually do talk about this, because Samantha doesn't beat around the bush (excuse the pun). Overall, Samantha is bored, and misses her carefree days of easy sex in New York. This is her big crisis.
Charlotte doesn't have a crisis. She is wealthy enough that she no longer works. She is married to the adorable Harry, who worships her, and they live in their massive apartment with their really cute adopted daughter. The writers tried to be fair though, so in one scene Charlotte poops in her pants.

Everything works out in the end though - Carrie gets back with Mr Big when he sends her poetry. Miranda gets back with Steve after they talk things through. Samantha breaks up with Smith and is now free to sleep around. Charlotte gets her pants cleaned, and has a baby.

All in all the first film was fun - ridiculous in parts, and disappointing in others, yes (for all Jennifer Hudson's charms, she felt too much like the token young/black/not-a-twiglet character) - but fun. I even cried when Steve announced his affair, because I care about these characters, y'know? The movie ended with an even bigger, shinier bow than the series had, and that, we all thought, was the end of it.

It wasn't.

When it was announced they were shooting a sequel, I knew things were really going to go downhill (although clearly none of the character's jowls or bank balances). What tricky problems could they come up with now that everyone was living happily ever after? How far fetched were they going to have to go?
At the end of the day, there is little point in exhuming the corpse of a horse and continuing to flog it, because it can't go any further. Really.

Yet, the release of Sex & the City came and went, and the reviews were predictably divided between "OMG loved it THE FASHION!" and "I want to throw up in my mouth at this visual pit of shallow overconsumption."

The trailers revealed that the four women go to Abu Dhabi, all expenses paid, for reasons nobody is really sure of, except it was more convenient to set the movie there. Apparently releasing a movie about rich women in America during the recession was a bad idea, so they went somewhere they could get away with expensive and over-the-top fashion. I guess that makes sense... but did anyone stop to consider the plot? And, you know, the characters? The ones draped in the expensive and over-the-top fashion? I began to feel afraid.

The reviews started coming in, and statements of disgust were showered all over the internet. I heard stories of Samantha throwing condoms in the marketplace and screaming "I have sex!" Of Mulsim women throwing off their burkhas to reveal couture. Of Charlotte crying because her life is too hard. Of Miranda quitting her job to become a stay-at-home mother. Of Carrie whining about being married. That Aiden comes back. And something bad happens.

Despite my hesitation, I knew I would have to see this film eventually, and so I did. I went with my best friend, and the decision to get blotto on wine before (and during) the movie seemed like a good idea at the time. I felt it would at least allow me to not take it all too seriously. Right? The only problem with this plan was that it resulted in my inability to see straight, and for most of the movie I had to close one eye to stop seeing two of everyone.

So if my judgement is slightly skewed, or I get facts wrong, this is why. That's my disclaimer and I'm sticking with it.

Sex & The City 2: The Overview

(Spoiler alert: although really? are you that worried?)

The film opens with quick flashbacks to how each of the characters looked when Carrie first met them all those years ago. It was disappointing that, with all the CGI available these days, they were happy to let us pretend they didn't all look like middle-aged women in 80's get-up. (I suppose to be fair, the film budget was set aside purely for the designer labels, rather than special effects). Oh, but it was a bit of fun, I guess. I did have to laugh at Miranda's appearance.

The girls are getting together to buy a wedding gift for someone from Bergdorf Goodman. This particular scene offends my intelligence. There, I said it.
It OFFENDS MY INTELLIGENCE AS A HUMAN BEING.

The foursome walk up to the registry desk to buy a gift for what we discover is "Carrie's-best-gay-friend" Stanford Blatch's wedding. I guess there is meant to be some sort of suspense here about who he is marrying, and lo and behold, he's betrothed to "Charlotte's-best-gay-friend" Anthony Marintino. In case this is lost on anyone, Charlotte squeals, "Her gay best friend is marrying MY gay best friend!"

If you haven't watched the series, I shall take a moment to clarify that Stanford and Anthony spent the entire series HATING EACH OTHER. Their rivalry was deliciously bitchy and completely believable and I loved it. Yet here we were, shopping for their wedding gift.

At this point, standing in the store, Miranda asks the question that is on every intelligent person's mind -
"How did this happen? I thought they hated each other?"
THANK YOU Miranda. Thank you for asking the question we're all wondering ourselves. However, you would think that someone would have asked this before this point? Perhaps when they got the invitations? Or when they discussed meeting up to buy the wedding gift?
The writers are not even trying.
This is proven further when Samantha answers Miranda's question with,
"It's like musical chairs: the music stopped, and they were the last two left standing."
Really? Is that how it works? Because frankly, this OFFENDS MY INTELLIGENCE AS A HUMAN BEING!

The gay wedding goes by with gay cliche after gay cliche, and everyone making snide remarks about potential cheating. Ah, love. Then Liza Minnelli appears, because apparently, if there is this much gay energy in the room, Liza has to show up. (Miranda's words, not mine).
She sings Beyonce's 'Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)' which was.... interesting. And kinda fun. I can't really knock Liza. She did her best. Word of warning, though - Liza doing a Beyonce requires a two drink minimum.

Back to New York, where the real plot begins - ie. everyone's lives are now so much more stressful and problem-filled than ever before!

Life in Carrie & Big's world continues in a haze of dripping wealth; Carrie continues to go to the shops in full designer garb. It's their two-year wedding anniversary, and Carrie gives Big a vintage Rolex (because what else do you give the man who has everything?) Then Big presents Carrie with her gift, which is a flatscreen TV, so that they can curl up in bed and watch old movies together. Carrie is visibly appalled.
"A piece of jewellery would've been nice," she says.

Overall, Carrie feels stuck in a married rut, and hates the fact that Big just wants to stay in with her, eat takeout food and watch TV.
Carrie: "It's become all about the couch and the take-out."
Stanford: "Count your blessings. Remember when you couldn't even get him to sleep over?"
THANK YOU Stanford. I've always liked you. I'm sorry they married you off to your arch nemisis.

Carrie doesn't discuss her concerns with her husband though, or suggest things they can do together. She sulks, and spends a weekend at her old apartment (yes, they keep her old apartment as a spare) writing her column.
[Tangential question: can anyone really keep a job writing a column about sex after 20 years? Columnists? Editors? Your thoughts?]

Life is tough for Carrie Bradshaw

When she gets back from apartment number two, Big admits he liked having the house to himself - no doubt because he was free to watch TV without Carrie whining - and suggests they make it a regular thing.
Carrie: "So you're telling me that you want two days off a week from me?"
Big: "You know.. so I can watch TV, do all of the shit that bugs you."
Yes Carrie, so he can get some space from all your whining.

Carrie takes it personally. And as usual, she doesn't discuss it with Big, she whines to her girlfriends.
Of course, her girlfriends all have Major Issues of their own.

Miranda, the kick-ass lawyer, has had her views at work cast aside one too many times and she's fed up. Rather than change firms, or - as the Miranda of old would have done - stand up for herself, she takes Steve's suggestion and quits her job altogether. To be fair, I can understand this because I've been there myself, and like all Miranda's plot-lines, hers is actually the most realistic. Although apparently Steve's bar is making a KILLING because money doesn't even seem to be an issue.

Charlotte is struggling to be a mother to her two kids, despite a team of hired helpers, and has also just employed a nanny who for some reason doesn't like to wear a bra. And she SHOULD wear a bra. I spent a lot of the movie shaking my fist at the screen and yelling "WEAR A BRA!!" whenever the nanny came on screen.
I am not sure why Charlotte hired someone who dresses so inappropriately in the first place, or why she didn't just have a quiet word to this person she has hired to take care of her children. Most likely she is too stressed out trying to handle those few snatched moments where she actually has to look after the children by herself and they vie for her attention. This is shown in the scene where Charlotte is baking with the two girls, and Lily puts her dirty hands on Charlotte's skirt.
"AHH! My vintage Valentino skirt!" screams Charlotte, and then hides in the pantry in tears.

I like Charlotte, and I want to try and sympathise with her struggle, but I just can't. Not even when she says, for the sake of the viewers, "How do people without hired help do it?" I don't know Charlotte, but they probably don't wear vintage in the kitchen. This entire scenario INSULTS MY INTELLIGENCE AS A HUMAN BEING.

Samantha, meanwhile, is struggling with menopause. Well, by struggling, I mean fighting against it like ageing is the scourge of the devil. Which, according to this film, it is. She pops so many pills and has so much botox, and spends a large part of the film ranting and raging against anyone who dares question her age-appropriateness. It just sounds like insecurity to me, and I wish she would just grow old gracefully.
When she looks at a skin-tight dress in a store, the shop assistant asks,
"Isn't this dress a little young for you?"
Clearly that shop assistant deserves a slap upside the head - although she was only saying what we were all thinking. Samantha replies,
"I am fifty f***ing two and I am going to rock this dress."
Well, fair enough, and I want to back her up (sisterly support and all),
but just because you say it, Samantha, doesn't make it true.

Samantha gets a PR deal which involves flying to Abu Dhabi all expenses paid. This includes bringing the other three girls (I need to know someone in PR who gets these kinds of opportunities. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?) and given how stressful their lives are these days, they all agree to go.

While in their first-class luxury in-flight sleeper pods, they all deal with the shitty hands life has dealt them:
* Carrie reads a negative review about her latest book in the New Yorker - it effectively tells her to stop whining. THANK GOD.
* Samantha has her hormones confiscated at customs and as a result loses her libido. THANK GOD.
* Charlotte starts worrying about her husband running off with her bra-less nanny. COME ON!

With problems like these, I'm amazed they haven't all committed hari kari by the time they land in the United Arab Emirates.

At the resort, Carrie talks to her manservant (yes that's right) and learns that he only sees his beloved wife every few months because he can't afford the airfare. The next bit irked me incredibly. Carrie then tries to EMPATHISE with him by comparing it to her husband wanting some space once a week, which means she has to go hang out in her spare apartment.
[Cue more shouting from me at the cinema screen, and some violent popcorn-throwing.]

At some point, the girls all go into the desert. They ride camels. Charlotte falls off the camel because she's trying to talk on her cellphone. I shout at the screen some more.
They meet a man named Rikard ("Dick") Spurt - which is bad enough, but Samantha nicknames him, "Lawrence of my labia."
I regurgitate popcorn and wash it back down with some more wine.

The girls go to a nightclub, and Samantha wears spikey things on her shoulders. They sing karaoke, despite this actually going against all four character types... none of them would sing karaoke. Are you kidding me?

Afterwards Dick Spurt asks Samantha out, but she turns him down to hang out with the girls, (although she gives him her card and the offer of a good time the following night, natch). As he leaves, Carrie praises Samantha's sacrifice of (yet more) easy sex. Samantha says of her friendships with the three women,
"We had a deal. We're soulmates."
Wow. She gave up an easy lay? What a soulmate!
THIS INSULTS MY INTELLIGENCE AS A HUMAN BEING!

The girls all go out into the souks of ~~Morocco~~ - I mean, Abu Dhabi. (It was filmed in Morocco as they couldn't get filming permission in the real Abu Dhabi. Maybe it's just me - I was in Morocco only a couple of weeks after they filmed there - but I can't help but see Morocco all over it.)
Anyway. There Carrie bumps into Aiden, the man whose heart she has trampled on more than once, and for reasons which are not clear, he is happy to see her. They even make dinner plans. The other girls learn of this and try to tell Carrie it's a bad idea. As usual, Carrie ignores them and meets Aiden where they complain about how mundane married life is. They kiss.
The details are hazy because I was onto the second half of the bottle of Pinot, but suffice to say, this is bad news. Carrie then panics, and calls Big to tell him what happened. A part of me couldn't help but think this is her trying to play the jealousy game with the husband who has neglected her for the television.
[Another part of me yelled this at the screen.]

Meanwhile, Miranda and Charlotte have a heart-to-heart about the difficulties of motherhood... it wasn't too bad, and it didn't want to make me throw popcorn, but it did make me shout, "YOU HAVE HIRED HELP AND YOU DON'T WORK!"

Meanwhile, Samantha has a date with Dick Spurt and is caught being intimate with him on the beach and, this being Abu Dhabi, she's promptly arrested. The Sheik, who had been funding the whole trip, called off the PR deal and withdrew all the perks. The girls were now destitu... no, wait, they were wealthy in Abu Dhabi. Sorry, no sympathy.

As they prepared to leave, Carrie realised she'd left her passport in the souk. Amazingly it was still there when they went to find it. (No comment). And hey, since they're in the souk, Charlotte decides she should get some last minute presents for the family. Shopping for bags, they are taken into the back of a shop and pressured into making a purchase.
For reasons I can't remember (*cough* wine haze! *cough*) they decline, and leave. However, one of the shopkeepers thinks Samantha has stolen the bag she is carrying and they chase after her. They grab her bag and the contents spill onto the ground, including her standard collection of condoms. The men in the street take offense and start yelling.
Samantha says, "Yeah, I have condoms! I have sex!"
Fair enough, Samantha, although I don't know that any of the locals were surprised by this revelation. I do have to say that this scene was in no way as offensive as everyone had made it out to be.

With the men in the marketplace enraged, the foursome make a quick exit, but are beckoned down an alley by some burkha-clad women. There they meet some Muslim women who reveal that under their burkhas they are wearing modern, fashionable clothing. This wasn't shocking to me either - Muslim women DO wear modern clothes under their burkhas. They have pride in their appearance too, you know. Does this mean they all want to be like Americans? No! Ladies like a bit o' pretty, is all. No matter where they're from.

The foursome escape the souk by borrowing some burkhas to wear. And before too long, the women are safely back in the land of the free - good ol' recession-hit New York. Carrie goes home and finds that Mr Big has got rid of the offending Black Diamond flatscreen, and replaced it with a black diamond ring. Ten points for style, Mr Big.
Now Carrie has the jewellery she wanted, she is happy and the crisis is over.

Charlotte's crisis is solved when she realises her bra-less nanny is a lesbian, and therefore her husband won't run off with her. What a relief!
Miranda does the smart thing and finds a new job where she is appreciated. What a relief!
Samantha.... well, she does what she's always done. Fighting old age and having sex.
Carrie deals with the daily grind of her two apartments, rich husband, new diamond ring, and accepts that watching movies isn't so bad after all.

I wish I could say the same about this movie.

It was a bit of fun, it was entertaining - but mostly because I was lacquered - and, frankly, I don't ever need to see it again. I know it's not a film I'm supposed to take seriously, but as a fan of the TV series, I would at least have liked it to have kept some of its original wit and reality. Instead the humour was predictable, the characters cartoons of themselves, and the plot completely unrelatable. Don't the writers realise that this is what made the series so popular? That women could relate to the characters?
I'll stick to watching re-runs of the TV series. I shouldn't have to get drunk and wake up the next day with popcorn in my bra in order to be entertained.

(Not at the movies, anyway).

[NB: Apologies to anyone who attended the same screening as me and therefore had to witness my shouting and popcorn-throwing first hand. I can only hope you agree it was justified... or that you joined in - admittedy, my wine haze prevents me from remembering if you did.]

Nothing To Lose

2010-06-23T11:43:00.000+01:00

In 2009 I happened upon a documentary about an Englishman who, rather unusually, cycled from Alaska to Argentina on a tandem bicycle. On his own. The really compelling part, however, was that he would pick up strangers along the way to ride in the second seat. For once, I thought, there is an adventure tale that I can feel something for. This was an expedition about people - the physical challenge was secondary to the bonding of strangers and cultures. There was no segregation of possibilities between myself and some hearty sportsman breaking a world record by climbing a mountain barefoot at record speeds. (I haven't really heard of anyone doing this. Although am sure it won't be long.)

I was so taken by this journey that I kept an eye on what this Englishman was going to do next. His name is Dominic Gill, and as it turns out, his next project was going to be even more incredible.

So incredible, in fact, that I wanted more people to know about it. I spoke to Dom Gill and pitched an article to a silly number of publications, but nobody seemed interested. I'm used to pitches and proposals being ignored, but this time it made me feel disappointed and frustrated in equal measure. "Don't ignore this one," I pleaded silently. Yet ignore it they all did.

All I want to do is tell this story, however, so if I have to do so here, on my blog, then so be it.

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THE DOM & ERNIE PROJECT

Ernie Greenwald, a 74-year-old from California, is going to fulfil the dream of a lifetime by cycling across the America he’s never known. It is no easy feat, but in this case it will be a far greater challenge, because Greenwald has lymphocytic leukemia.
Travelling with him is British adventurer and film-maker Dominic Gill, who proposed the idea to Greenwald after a chance meeting in 2006. Despite his condition, or perhaps in spite of, Greenwald accepted. As Gill explains, “Ernie wants to prove as much as possible that life is for the living. It’s almost as if he’s woken from a dream and thought ‘I’ve got nothing to lose’.”

Together Greenwald and Gill will travel coast-to-coast across the USA on a two-seater bicycle, taking in the country that Greenwald has lived in his whole life and never had the chance to explore. They will discover a variety of landscapes and culture, and hope encounter some good old American hospitality along the way.

Gill, 29, previously cycled a tandem bike from Alaska to Argentina for the documentary and book Take a Seat, inviting the people he met along the way to fill the second seat and join him in his adventure. It was on this journey that he met Ernie Greenwald, whose days as a keen cyclist were, it seemed, well and truly behind him, but who overcame his hesitation and took the opportunity to get back in the saddle.

They met while Gill was stopping for refreshments in the quiet concrete city of Lompoc, central California. Local resident Greenwald, a cycling enthusiast, was studying the tandem with some interest.
“He didn’t look like a keen cyclist anymore,” admitted Gill, but he offered Greenwald the opportunity to ride with him the next day. Greenwald’s hesitation was followed by the explanation that he had to stay and take care of his ailing wife. This might have been the end of their encounter, but 20 minutes later Greenwald came back and accepted Gill’s invitation. The next morning Gill and Greenwald cycled the 60-odd miles to Santa Barbara in the sultry Californian heat.

While physically it was tough, Greenwald enjoyed the challenge. It was not until later that Gill learned the sorry truth: that Greenwald’s wife had died six months before, and on top of that he was also suffering from chronic lymphatic leukaemia (CLL). Yet Greenwald relished his time on the tandem. Gill says it was as if Greenwald realised that he “could wallow in self pity or take an opportunity of a lifetime.”

Since this chance meeting, Gill could not forget Greenwald’s story. So he came up with a particularly edifying plan for his next adventure. “I contacted Ernie and asked if he would ride across America, if I facilitated it,” explains Gill. “He said he trusted me, and agreed.” And so the Dom & Ernie project was born.

Gill and Greenwald will set off from Santa Monica Pier in Los Angeles, on June 26 2010, cycling through the bottom of Utah, Montana, the Mid-west and across to the Eastern coast where they will finish in New York City. On the way they hope to take in Death Valley, the bright lights of Las Vegas, the wild grandeur of Yellowstone National Park, “windy” Chicago, and North Dakota.

The two will be cycling a Pino Tour bike from Hase - a semi-recumbent tandem. The special features of the bike include the position of the gears and steering rod at the back, rather than at the front, as on a typical tandem. This allows Greenwald to ride in front whilst still being the stoker’s position (which is normally at the back). The Pino Tour also has a freewheel mechanism which allows Greenwald to stop pedalling when he gets tired, and Gill to carry on cycling.

The two cyclists will also be accompanied by Greenwald’s RV, in which he currently lives alone with his two small dogs. As well as the benefit of carrying their gear and supplies, this will make the journey physically and emotionally easier on Greenwald.
“By taking the RV he has his bed, his dogs, nothing changes,” explains Gill. “And anything that gets Ernie across the States on a bicycle is good with me.”

Physically, Greenwald will have to be carefully monitored. Due to the cancer limiting his blood cells he gets very short of breath. He also has an erratic heart so has to take medication and therefore feels the cold.
“Ernie will struggle,” admits Gill. “But I will also struggle. I will be carrying about 70% of Ernie’s weight. However strong Ernie is, his upper ceiling is low.”
Greenwald’s oncologist has agreed to be at the end of a phone if needed, and there will be tests every month for his blood cell count and check his metabolic level.

Gill says the Dom & Ernie project is not a test of Greenwald’s physical endurance, but an opportunity for him to explore his country. “This is not about bravado, it’s about showing people adventure is for everyone. Ernie wants to give as good as anyone else gives.”

The Dom & Ernie project hopes to raise donations for Livestrong & the Lance Armstrong Foundation, which provides support for people suffering from cancer across the globe.

While this challenge is largely about Greenwald fulfilling the dream of a lifetime, Gill also has his own additional motivation for taking the journey.
“I want to change the misconception that the world is out to get you. We’re going to the most fear-filled nation, and I want to prove that if you stick your neck out, you won’t get your head chopped off.”

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SINCE THE ARTICLE....

Of course, this is not the whole story. In late May Ernie's health took a sharp drop and since then he has been in and out of hospital, and has had to undertake a brief course of chemotherapy.

LATEST UPDATE

Just yesterday, Dom made the announcement that Ernie would not be able to make the journey. At least, not the whole journey, and not yet.

"I have just been to see Ernie in hospital. I have decided that he's not going to make the journey... maybe a portion of it, but not all of it."

I cannot begin to imagine the disappointment Ernie will be facing. One can only hope he will be strong enough to undertake at least part of his goal. However, it seems that now the project is going to become something special for even more people. The journey that Ernie has hoped to undertake to inspire others may become their own journey.

"During a visit to see Ernie in hospital two days ago, he said in no uncertain terms that the show must go on, if not with him, with other willing volunteers."
Dom is now looking for anyone with any ailment or disability which may have prevented them from completing a cycling journey or other physical challenge - or simply anyone who wants a "pick me up" - to take Ernie's place in the stoker's seat for a while. It's Take a Seat part 2, but with a greater goal.

Can you help?

- Do you have a friend with a disability that prevents them from getting outdoors as much as they would like?
- Do they live anywhere approximately on the Dom & Ernie cycling route ?
- Would they be excited about the prospect of a cross-country cycle journey on a tandem?
- Would they be happy to talk to a hand-held camera on the bicycle (held by Dom)?
- Would they be prepared to camp if all equipment was provided by way of a support vehicle (that can also be used to travel in should a problem arise)?

If the answer is yes to all of these, Dom would love to hear from you or them. He says "Being fit and strong is not necessary (I can take up the slack) but being prepared to cycle for 2 to 20 days and being up for the challenge is.The Dom & Ernie team are currently trying to source funding to ensure their riders have return travel to their start point."

"The journey - with an almost confirmed departure date of Wed July 3rd 2010 - has the potential to not only make an incredible story but provide and inspirational example to those that are striving to get out and achieve something in the face of adversity. We are all hoping that Ernie, the inspiration behind the project, will be well enough to undertake a stage of this journey, but for the time being will be relieved as and when he makes a full and speedy recovery. In the meantime, help us find others will to give adventure cycling a try - no previous experience necessary! Can you help us keep this dream alive?"

You can contact Dom Gill via the project's Facebook page, and to learn more about the project, visit www.domandernie.com. Please spread the word, and let's show Ernie, and Dom, and everyone involved, absolute support.

"Only those who will risk going too far can possible find out how far one can go."
~ T.S.Eliot

London Snapshot: Broadway Market

2010-05-04T16:57:00.000+01:00

Although I've been in London for five years, and lived on the East side of London for three of them, I have only just been to Broadway market for the first time. Shame on me, I know, because anyone who knows East London is as familiar with this place as an old friend. Admittedly it's not the easiest place to get to - you're better off by bicycle - as the nearest Tube stop is a decent 15 min walk away, but this makes it a safe haven from hoards of tourists. It's practically the anti-Portobello road. Broadway market is jammed with locals and regulars doing their weekend shop and meeting friends. It has a fantastic atmosphere, avoiding the usual pretentiousness of other markets.

Food:

For me at least, the question in the forefront of my mind is always, "What can I eat?" I arrived at Broadway market hungry, and ready to treat myself. (Hell, I'd earned it).

There was such a tantalising selection of food stalls, and the prices are much more reasonable than I would ever have expected. After browsing the Jamaican hot pots, the vegan curries, the homemade pies, the burgers, the cheeses, pestos, olive oils... and many other mouth-watering delights, I settled on a classic falafel wrap, which at £3.50 was better than you could ask at your standard chain cafes, and unquestionably greater!

Whoops, but I'm allowed dessert too, right? It's been a tough week... and it's hey, it's Saturday! Again, there were plenty of sweets to take your pick of. Everything seemed to have its own eclectic style - one stall had heart-shaped chocolate tarts with intricate birds stencilled on the top, while another stall had owls made out of shortbread, with almonds for beaks. Frankly, I am amazed I managed to resist most of these things. I had definitely earned some sort of reward....

My friend had recommended Violet's cupcake stall. While I do love cupcakes, I feel that since London was first hit with cupcake fever, it's all got a little out of hand. And I was also tempted by a dark chocolate brownie I had sampled a few stalls down...
But in the end I was won over by Violet's cupcakes - solely because they make them in miniature. It's the perfect size! For 80p it was impossible to say no, and the flavours were refreshingly offbeat. I chose a "rhubarb and rosewater", with pale pink frosting, and while I couldn't say it tasted wildly like rhubarb (or rosewater for that matter) I do know it was very good. (So I got another one).

One to note.....
One of the most iconic food stores on Broadway is Fred Cooke's jellied eels shop. Apparently Fred was selling these gelatinous delicacies on Broadway Market as far back as 1900, and then opened the cafe you see today. I imagine this place has seen a hell of a lot - oh if the walls could talk! From hungry shepherds stopping in for a bite while bringing their flocks through the City of London, to facing the risk of bombs and world wars, it's been around a bit. Fred Cooke’s grandson, Bob, is now in charge, keeping the jellied eel tradition alive. I don't care much for the fare myself, but am glad it's here.

Shopping:

With appetites satiated, it's nice to walk about and peruse! This is East London, which means you can find your fair share of the creative and the edgy: old records, photography books and art.

Personally, I love old stuff. I enjoy the nostalgia of old things. The romance. The idea that in the "olden days" life was slower and more care was taken in everything that was made, done, said... call me old-fashioned (ha!) but I love that concept. It's why I love markets in the first place.

There are plenty of old things to be bought at Broadway market, including vintage. There was an especially good second-hand clothing stall there, and I even managed to find shoes in my size! Yep, they were second-hand shoes. But they were £5.

Whether they really were vintage or not, they are very old fashioned and they were orange. I had to have them.

Wandering around there was a lot to browse: a fabric store with long rolls of gorgeous silks and floral cottons along its walls, and jars of buttons in the window; crates of fresh flowers; new jewellery made from old watches; handmade soaps and hand lotions; fancy hats; pet accessories; children's clothes; and bicycles. (I even bumped into a friend of mine there, selling her own bicycle which was bought in an instant). I realised later that what was absent here, in comparison with other London markets, was the usual collections of London souvenirs and Union-Jack trinkets catering to tourists. It felt remarkably refreshing.

One to note.....

I am not a sweet tooth (*cough* apart from the occasional mini-cupcake *cough*) and I would almost never eat sweets these days. (My dentist has seen enough of me in my lifetime as it is, and sugar gives me a headache!)
But like I said before, I love old-fashioned things, and there are few places more fun than an old-fashioned sweet shop. London has a few of these around, and Brewode's Cornucopia is one of them. Nostalgia overload! The colours! The jars! The memories of childhood sugar-highs! The disbelief that so much pocket money was spent on this stuff back in the day!

I popped in there with a couple of friends and was kindly bought some popping candy, which I hadn't had since I was a kid. Standing out in the market, it was one-two-three and the whole packet goes in the mouth! I felt like I was 10 years old all over again... amazing what exploding sugar crystals can do.

More from Broadway Market:

There are plenty of other highlights. The Cat & Mutton pub is cool, although I think The Dove is even better, with a fantastic selection of foreign beers and ciders. There are some excellent cafes and many other shops and stalls not even mentioned here. Basically, if you ever get a chance to visit on a Saturday, I'd recommend spending the whole day there. It's a great little slice of London.

Jumping in Puddles

2010-05-04T15:53:00.000+01:00

VIDEO: Hoppípolla - Sigur Ros

Hoppípolla is Icelandic for "jumping in puddles". Oh how I used to love jumping in puddles! Was there any greater thrill than the moment of impact? Feet hitting water, and seeing it fly with a satisfying SPLAT? The thing is, I still love to do it now, but I never have the appropriate footwear, nor do bystanders accept it any longer if I do. These are excuses though, aren't they? After all, as a child it didn't matter what shoes I had on: getting one's feet wet was a small price to pay for the exhilaration of making that rain water fly! And if bystanders ever were to click their tongues in dismay, it mattered not... their presence went entirely unnoticed.
So what happens to us when we grow up? Why do we stop playing the way we used to? Is it really maturity, or is it just fear? I think we worry about what people will say. We worry about having soggy shoes.

Children of yore, it's time to throw mature caution to the wind, and go back to jumping in puddles. Get your feet wet!

My Life In Tea

2010-04-28T15:52:00.000+01:00

This morning a box arrived to my flat. I signed for it, and brought it inside, and only then did I wonder what it was. It was, I soon discovered, a "cheer up!" present from my brother in New Zealand. There are few gifts more special than one that is given for no other occasion than to make you smile. Which this one was sure to do: my brother had sent me a box of a selection of fine teas.
Those who know me know how much I love my tea. Yet it's more than just a drink; it's something I have grown up with, and wherever I have travelled to, it has been a part of that journey.

Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage. ~Catherine Douzel

CHILDHOOD TEA
When I was quite young, about eleven, I would work in my father's shop, helping serve customers, unpack stock, (and most of the time make a nuisance of myself) but I also made the obligatory cups of tea. I remember then that my own cup of "builder's tea" would require plenty of milk and a large heaping of sugar. Often when I had gulped the last of the liquid there would still be a layer of sugar at the bottom of the mug.

As a teen I refined this syrupy recipe into, specifically, a splash of milk and two sugars. Or, "two and a moo," as I liked to say. By the time I reached 20 I had removed the sugar and replaced it with a single, questionable, artificial sweetener. Looking back it was clear I had so much to learn about tea.

ENGLISH BREAKFAST
Then I moved to England, where tea as I knew it began to change. I still drank it every day, but I moved from "builder's tea" to English Breakfast. I had not yet developed my knowledge of teas beyond this staple, however, and while at one of my many jobs in London a colleague asked me to order some Earl Grey tea for the office. I distinctly recall raising an eyebrow and asking,
"Who on earth likes Earl Grey?"
"I do!" he replied. He was just as shocked that I didn't appreciate the Earl as much as I was shocked that someone would want to drink something that tasted like dishwater.

Something changed. Maybe it was the natural change that came with my slowly becoming Anglicised? Maybe I just developed further my sense of taste? Whatever it was, I soon became an Earl Grey drinker. And with it, I developed a fascination and thirst for the plethora of teas from all parts of the world. Tea became a passion.

BABINGTON'S TEAROOMS

The first time I had Earl Grey with lemon was, strangely, in Rome, at the gloriously decadent Babington's Tearooms. This fantastic place was founded in 1893 by two English women living in Italy, to create a simple sanctuary where homesick Britons could drink their tea and read the papers. Babington's sits at the foot of the Spanish steps, and it was here that I brilliantly decided to make the switch to lemon. This was also around the time that I realised the great flavours to be found in loose leaf tea, rather than in a teabag. It finally and completely opened the door to my truly appreciating good tea.

TÈ DIFETTOSO
Ironically, Italy was also the source of the worst cup of tea I've ever had. On the side of Mt Vesuvius, having zig-zagged around the slow ambling tourists and then being denied any decent trekking routes at the top for lack of a guide, finding a cup of tea felt like a matter of life and death. The refreshments truck on the volcano offered a variety of things, but tea was not one of them. Asking for some tea with milk was met with a strange look, and resulted in a cup of microwaved milk and peach ice tea. Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised - Italians are all about coffee.

TEA IN THE OUTDOORS
Most of the time the best cups of tea have followed some sort of hard phsyical slog or weary day. A particularly memorable cup of tea was had in Scotland, in a wild stretch of moorlands outside of Inverness. Having walked all day, there was some surprise to discover a hand-painted sign on the side of the path, which read, "TEA".
This sounded great, but from where?
Some ambling off the path lead us to another sign reading "REFRESHMENTS", and behind it a corrugated-iron shed, a large crudely-constructed cage housing barking huskies, and a caravan. I couldn't help but wonder whether we we about to be captured and fed to the dogs - who had gone mental at the sight of us - when a tall, wild-looking bearded man came out to greet us. His name was Rory and he was a crofter, tending to the lands, who had not left the area for his entire life.
"Not at all?" I asked him.
"Why would I?" said Rory, stretching his arms out at the view. "I have all I need!"
He brought us some fantastic tea, (made to perfection by Rory who obviously cared about a good cup) which we sat and drank in his wild, overgrown garden.
"Just kick the chickens out of the way," said Rory.
It was one of the most surprising and inspiring tea stops of my life.

MINT TEA
In Morocco I experienced the renowned mint tea; a heady liquid stuffed with bright green mint leaves and sweetened with cubes of sugar. It was the warmth of it that tuned me into the frequency of Marrakech. I think one of the things that has always drawn me to Morocco is the role of tea within its culture. When you arrive anywhere you must have tea! If you begin a conversation you must have tea! And to accept tea from a stall-holder in the souk was to enter into a haggling game, during which the tea continued to be poured as long as one wished to bargain.

"You want some tea?” Mohammad asked, looking hopeful. This was his chance to really push the sale. We accepted. Now the haggling would begin.

Mohammad left his stall to organise the tea, and came back with tiny stools for us to sit on. Amusingly, his own stool was between us and the door. The tea tray was placed on the floor, and the strong, sweet minty tea was poured into three glasses.
We made a toast, and discussed the popular subjects of football and Marrakech, but eventually it was time to get down to business.
- (from my blog, Two Weeks in Morocco)

WHISKY DU BERBER
In the Saharan desert I watched my nomad friends brew notoriously strong gunpowder tea leaves in a ceramic pot on the fire. They would pull a ludicrously large rock of sugar out of their pocket, break off half of it and put it into the pot. Tea (known as "whisky du berber", or "whisky of the berber") was the ceremony around which the rest of the day revolved. If you had reason enough to stop in the desert, then it was worth making tea for.

"Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company." ~Author Unknown

One night in the desert, our camels had run away and our guides had been gone all day to find them. When the sun set, Ben and I were still alone, and so were forced to make ourselves a fire. Here I had a chance to try and make the tea as I had watched the nomads prepare it before. Yet it proved to me what I had already suspected - that for every kind of tea, there is an art to making it.

In the light of the headtorch I filled the little grey teapot with water and placed it on the fire. Once it boiled I opened the box of gunpowder tea, and scooped in a heap of the bitter black stuff. Thinking back to when I had seen Barack make it, I let it stew and then added a handful of sugar cubes. Tasting the tea, it was still terribly bitter, so I added another handful of sugar. It seemed there would be no room to add any more.

Just as I was tasting it again, we heard a voice.
“Barack??” we called out into the dark. The moon had not yet risen, and there was no light except for the fire.
And then we saw a small dot of light moving towards us.
Barack had found his way back to camp, using his mobile as a torch. We each grasped his hand in warm greeting. Barack slumped himself down beside the fire.
“Tea?” I offered him. “It’s nearly ready.”
I was delighted to be able to offer our guide some tea, but it was still bitter.
Kindly, Barack drank the glass I offered him anyway.
“Is good!” he lied.
“Some more?”
He declined, and we laughed.
“Is no good!” I grinned.
“No no, c’est bon!” he assured me.

THE RITUAL OF TEA
Someone who appreciates really good wine, and the ceremony of sourcing it, pouring it, and tasting it, will understand the importance of doing the same for tea. Of course, such a person will usually go somewhere with a really good wine list and cellar. For tea-drinkers, there is The Ritz! Ben and I were given the fantastic gift one year of afternoon tea at The Ritz hotel in London. (Frankly, anywhere that has a tea menu automatically piques my interest). There were more cakes and miniature sandwiches than any person could possibly eat, but more tragically to my mind, there were more teas than I could ever try in one afternoon. Darjeeling! Lapsong! Assam! Jasmine! Oolong! Where to start? And how to finish?

Actually, perhaps the greatest part of the Ritz experience was the heavy silver tea sets. It made the ceremony of afternoon tea all the more decadent and detailed. In the same way that the nomads took the time to make the tea just the right way, pour it just the right way, and serve it specifically to tradition, with their chipped glasses and fire in the sand; the Ritz hotel in London also gave time and attention to doing things right.

Everyone has their rituals. For me, the ceremony of tea is a comforting ritual, the way that the ceremony of prayer is a comforting ritual for the religious. Of course I'm not a religious person, and on Sundays I don't go to Church - instead I pick up the Sunday papers, make a pot of loose-leaf tea, and say a happy little hallelujah.

There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea. ~Bernard-Paul Heroux

Sexy Baby

2010-04-14T15:51:00.000+01:00

Good news for concerned parents: cheap rag-makers Primark have withdrawn their padded bikini tops for little girls, after being given some stick about it in a tabloid newspaper. (First of all, I find it interesting that a publication which stakes its popularity on including pictures of topless women should suddenly take the moral high ground... but I digress.)

Sure, so all the 7 year old girls who wanted to enhance their cleavage will be disappointed, but at least now they can get on with doing what 7 year old girls are supposed to be doing - playing games, collecting stickers and not knowing what cleavage is.

(To be honest, there is a little matronly part of me which wonders whether pre-pubescent girls really need to be wearing bikinis anyway... largely, it's harmless enough, but why the need to suggest they have boobs before they even have them?)

My question is: who makes this stuff? Who actually designs children's clothing with "sexy" in mind? What creepy people decided it would be cute to print pink kiddies tshirts with "So many boys, so little time" across the front in glitter? Hmmm, because that's how every mother wants her little baby girl to be portrayed - as a man-eating slut.

Look, children don't want to be sexy. They don't. They don't even understand what sexy means. (Jeez, I still don't really know). Children, if anything, want to have fun, and be popular (from an early age we are desperate to fit in) and as long as we are promoting the idea that young people dressing provocatively is the popular thing to do, this is what's going to happen:

(The little sister of mouthy popstar Miley Cyrus, and friend. They're NINE)

Sexy clothing for children is bad enough, but then there are the toys. Interestingly, while modern boys are still playing soldiers and race-car drivers, the toys for little girls have hit a downward spiral. While I don't like the violent games available to children, boys have always played with guns (cops & robbers anyone?) and they've always played competitively. So, although how and what boys play is something that should be monitored, the overall gist of it hasn't changed too much over time... whereas with girls, things have really taken a disconcerting turn.

Dolls, makeup and frills have always been a part of a girl's childhood, but it's one thing to dress a baby doll, and quite another to dress a skinny, big-lipped female figure in a babydoll negligee. Since Barbie first appeared, all big boobs and miniscule waist, girls have had a skewed idea of how a woman should look. Yet even Barbie still strived to be a doctor or a pilot. She at least had ambition to use her brain and make something of her life. These days ambition is out the window, and being famous (ideally for looking like a tart) is the new big craze.

One of the worst "new generation" dolls are the Bratz. (For a start, I have serious issues with the concept of spelling plurals with a 'z'.) Bratz are dolls with tiny figures, giant bee-sting lips, non-existent noses, and tarty outfits - all topped off with "attitudes". Ahh yes, just what everyone wants - underweight, shallow, precocious pre-teens!

It must be hard to stop a child from wanting these things when they're out there, in the limelight. It's in music, in movies (there was even a Bratz movie. Lord help us). It's proving so difficult to get away from it in social culture, that removing oversexualised clothing from shops is only going to do so much. We need better role models, and a more ambitious culture for young women.

At the end of the day, little girls want to look pretty, feel included in their peer groups, and have fun. They want to be like their role models. And if their role models are all about sex, and if sex permeates popular culture, it is only going to be damaging. Studies have shown that girls as young as six want to wear nail polish and lipstick and children as young as eight are dieting and obsessing about their weight. The desperate desire to look more adult - and more worringly, the fact this desire is being catered for - has lead to a rise in child depression. Really, not so much fun.

I wasn't born so long ago (the mere early 80s), and yet I can tell you I didn't really know what sex was until I was at least ten. I would never have dreamed of wearing a mini skirt, and my role models were usually actresses, writers, and (interestingly, mostly male) singers. I had a Barbie doll, which my grandmother made little classy outfits for, but this was alongside a lot of fluffy cats and toy dinosaurs. I wanted to get my ears pierced, but I wasn't allowed until I was 12. Sure, I wanted to be pretty, and I wanted to sing like people in musicals. But none of my dreams involved being provocative.

How might I have turned out if I had been exposed to dolls like Bratz (as a child I was self-concious enough about my prominent nose... imagine how the nose-less Bratz would have made me feel)? Or albums by ready-meal popstars with sexual lyrics and barely-there outfits? Hell, I didn't even get a bikini until I was in my early 20s. Yes, I realise that's possibly a little later than necessary, but I don't care. I am just glad I was able to be a child until I became a woman, and not before.

Dead Man Flying

2010-04-06T15:51:00.000+01:00

Usually when I read the paper I'll come across a story or two which BOGGLES MY MIND. And this one in particular was too bizarre not to write about.

Last Saturday a pair of women went to Liverpool's John Lennon airport and attempted to check in a man in a wheelchair for a flight to Berlin. Not something that should cause a stir, except for one minor detail - the man was dead.

Understandably, he could not have checked himself in in such a state, so it was kind of the women to help him out. Naturally the police didn't see it this way, and arrested them immediately. Airline staff had became suspicious during the check-in process; likely when they asked him if he had packed his own luggage and the man didn't respond.

The thing is, he was wearing sunglasses - which makes me wonder if in fact these women had seen Weekend at Bernies and realised what fun times could be had with a deceased acquaintance. Why they chose to go to Berlin, rather than a beach house is hard to know - the house parties wouldn't be nearly as good.

OK seriously... this story is actually quite sad, if not bizarre. The women were his relatives and were trying to smuggle the body back to their native Germany to avoid the repatriation fees (which are pretty hefty it must be said). They apparently thought that telling airline staff that the man was merely asleep would be enough for them to get away with their plan. Did they really think they could get to Europe without somebody suspecting something was a bit odd? I mean, did they actually sit around and decide that this was the plan with the most potential for success?

I am sorry for the family's loss, and I can't help but admire their determination.
But everybody knows that you can't check in once you've checked out.

Loser Eats Win

2010-03-28T15:51:00.000+01:00

It's a sad but honest fact that some people don't deserve to win things in life. Sure, I know that sounds a little harsh. But it's true. Classic example?

Ryanair Scratch-card Guy.

Flying on Ryanair from Poland to the East Midlands last month, our loser decided he would purchase one of the inflight scratch-card tickets. Somehow, somewhere in the deepest illogical corner of the universe, chances gave him a winning ticket. He won €10,000.

What happened next is somewhat extraordinary (and has become a classic example of why losers shouldn't win).

I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in that aircraft cabin. However all I have to go on are snippets from the newspaper article, and this is my own re-enactment of what reportedly happened:

Passenger (to Steward) : "Excuse me, I've won €10,000 on my scratch card."
Steward (delighted) : "Wow! Congratulations sir! ( To rest of plane) We have a winner here, folks!"
Passenger: "So, good, can I have my money please?"
Steward : "My good man, you'll have to wait till we land; then you can claim your prize from the scratchcard company."
Passenger: "What?! No! I want my money this minute! How dare you keep it from me!"
Steward (grin fading) : "Uh, but Sir, we don't have that kind of money knocking about the aircraft. It's in a safe place, with the scratch card company...."
Passenger: "It's my money! You swine!"
Steward: "Look, Sir, you can claim it when you land, you will get your money..."
Passenger (standing) : "This is an outrage! You thieves! You liars! You toy with my emotions! I shall not be a pawn in your ridiculous game!" (Stuffs ticket in mouth) Steward: "Woah! Uh! Wait, Sir, you don't want to do that. Just sit down, and..."
Passenger (wide-eyed, mouth full of ticket) : "MMPPPH!" (Swallows ticket)
Steward (eyes wide): "But...!" Passenger : "I will never fly your airline again, you crazy man!"

Ryanair donated the money to charity.

Losers should not be winners. It completely puts the entire universal balance out of order. Yet, this is what happens. Foolish people win money, get angry and eat their ticket. Nice sane people with big mortgages and rising debts don't get three matching symbols, and have to eat baked beans.

The only consolation anyone has from this is knowing that charity gained.

Well that, and also imagining what that chap's wife must have done when she found out.

Plane Ridiculous

2010-03-26T14:50:00.000Z

An airport worker is "traumatised" after her colleague used one of the new 'naked' body scanners on her while making lewd comments. Needless to say this is disgusting behaviour and I hope the louse gets fired. Yet this only fuels my abhorrence for these scanners and their ability to see through people's clothing. It's like something from the sci-fi fantasy of a horny adolescent geek.
If airport staff are traumatised by someone ogling their naked form, then has anybody considered that passengers will feel equally distressed by undergoing such indecency? I already anticipate having my dignity stripped away whenever I fly. Instructed to take off layers of clothing, and my shoes, to pass through security, I am then - semi-clad and barefoot - given a full body rub-down by a strange woman whose name I don't even know.

All this to go on holiday, eh?

I don't like these scanners, and if the day comes where I am forced to walk through one, I would rather opt for a pat-down and bag search... although if do take that option I risk being denied boarding. Taking off my shoes is one thing, but being seen naked by strangers to make sure I am not concealing explosives is the final straw for me. Frankly, I'd rather travel by train if only it were always a viable option. (This is a good move for environmentalists, it must be said).

Airline representatives can bleat on all they want about these naked images not being kept, or looked at for too long, but the fact remains - people I don't know get to see my private parts, and nobody can guarantee that lewd thoughts don't cross their minds, even for a second. This is the sort of treatment criminals get when being shuffled between prisons, and the general population does not deserve it.

Up until the introduction of the scanners, I thought airlines had gone bonkers enough. Let's consider the liquid restrictions on carry-on baggage. Passengers are forbidden to take liquids onboard of more than 100ml per item. (Unless, of course, you purchase them after you've cleared security. This prevents you from bringing on anything expensive that you could be buying from Duty Free instead. Hats off, this is smart business). The thing that really intrigues me, however, is the logic behind these restrictions on liquids.
A group of nutcase extremists once attempted to blow up a flight by packing some liquid explosives in their carry-on luggage. Their plan was to gather their materials together and construct the bomb on board the aircraft. Apparently they had two kinds of liquid explosives - one carried inside batteries (which, by the way, you are still allowed to take in your hand luggage), and the other carried inside 500ml drink bottles. Fortunately these human stains were caught before they could go through with it.

Following this near-miss, it seems a few chaps on a committee were feeling the pressure. So they got together and decided that from now on, passengers would only be permitted to carry containers of liquids no larger than 100ml, which they would present to security in a clear plastic bag. I do not fathom that they believed this would prevent such a threat from happening again. It wouldn't.

When I travel I can take at least six 100ml containers with me whilst keeping within security guidelines. Is 600ml of liquid in separate containers safer than 500ml of liquid in one bottle? Certainly it allows airport staff to keep an eye on things (other than our private parts, of course) but realistically, if extremists wanted to harm us again, this is not going to stop them. They can buy bottles of water once they clear security, decant their 100ml bottles of liquid into them, keep calm and carry on. (Sure I don't know the first thing about explosives, but I hear these terrorists are pretty persistent).

Similar confusing logic applies to the restrictions on hand baggage. Personally, I refuse to pay exorbitant amounts to check in a suitcase these days, and have now mastered the art of travelling with hand baggage only. I measure my baggage before I travel to ensure I am within the size restrictions. Weight might be another matter, although I find if I carry my bag on my shoulder, and act like it weighs nothing, nobody checks.

This is where it really gets ridiculous.

If you do get your bag weighed, and it's over the weight limit, you have to pay for it to go into the hold. Unless, of course, you take out some of your clothing items, and put them on. This is fine. It's also fine if you give some of your items to your travelling companion, if their bag is under the limit.

I cannot be the first person to realise that you are STILL TAKING THE SAME WEIGHT ONBOARD? All the rapped-knuckle-logic being spouted by the fluoro-clad airport staff about the importance of weight restrictions is ludicrous. It's fantasy. If my bag is 5kg overweight, and I take out 5kg of clothing and wear it on the flight, (where I will then take it off and put it back in my bag before I am seated), it makes no difference to anyone. Except the airline, who look like they are in control of the situation, should a situation ever occur.

(I don't blame the general airport staff - I have worked for major airlines in my time, and one of the reasons I left the business was because I didn't like spouting nonsense to passengers, when I knew it didn't make sense. I think it's safe to say most staff don't agree with, or even understand, half of what they are told to enforce).

This feels too much like a case of needing to be seen to take preventative measures, rather than taking measures that are actually preventative. Such measures probably don’t exist, short of banning everyone from flying. Taking religion's route of using fear and guilt to control the masses, these rules appear to be in place for no other reason than to make us feel like we're being protected. Yet at what cost? Where does the attempt to control our safety actually end?
Gone are the days of going on holiday and enjoying the journey as much as the destination. Now we are tagged, stripped, patted-down, searched, scanned, fined, and our good shampoo confiscated before we even get there.

Do I feel safe? I really couldn't say yes.

Sew Cool

2010-03-13T20:48:00.000Z

I have always loved the idea of making my own clothes. When I was in high school there was a girl I was friends with who simply oozed coolness from every pore. She also had a little sister who was equally cool - so much so, I invited her to join my band, in hope it would increase our cool credentials. (It did not, but this just says everything about our band).

The thing about the Cool Sisters is that they had a mother who could sew, and who would make, at her daughters' regular bidding, all sorts of eclectic digs. I was intrigued - the coolest thing I owned was a pair of charity shop denim, high-waisted flares. (I know. Not actually cool. But I loved them).

Of course, the reason this seemed so radical was because making your own clothes was no longer common practice. Times had changed, and sewing was no longer the most practical way to clothe a family. The rise of readily-available acrylic clothing provided a more practical option and sewing had begun to die out.

My own mother didn't sew. She was an excellent knitter, but who could bear to see a child destroy weeks of hard work with one tree-climb? So I knew I couldn't ask my mother to make me something to trump my flares, even though I am sure she thought they were hideous. (They were).

On the other hand her mother - my grandmother - was an incredible seamstress, making most of my dolls clothes, and many of my own. I had always assumed this talent was a product of her generation; a life-long skill she had practiced since she was a girl. However I recently learned that my grandmother didn't learn how to sew until she had children - when she realised the practical and economic benefits of making her own baby clothes.

I still admire the thriftiness of my grandmother's generation. When times were tight, everything was used. Clothes were made to last, mended, and handed down, and there was little waste. Obviously times have changed, and we dispose of far too much. Clothes are bought uber-cheap and then thrown away when they fall apart after a few wears. We could learn how to repair them ourselves... or better yet, make our own clothes. There would be less waste, less cost, and less environmental impact. Outfits would be more unique, and made to fit. There are so many benefits, yet the majority of girls today have no idea how to use a sewing machine. I was one of them.

So I decided I would learn to sew, and bring the skill back into the family line. I took a one-day beginners course at The Make Lounge where I learned how to use a sewing machine, and create a simple stitch. I came out with a fully-formed cushion I made myself - one which I would have happily bought in a shop. Few things feel so satisfying as having made something yourself, and now I am hooked. A friend of mine kindly loaned me her sewing machine, and now I am going to practice. I want to get to a point where I can make a variety of different things; clothes which fit well, and with fabrics I choose myself.

Making your own clothes doesn't mean you also have to have a nose piercing and a worm farm... for a while this was in the realm of hippies, but before them vintage ladies were making beautiful dresses. Coco Chanel was a seamstress before she was a designer.

I have found an excellent book to get me started - "One Piece of Fabric" by ethical designer Lena Santana. So far I've not put it into practice, but the designs are gorgeous, the instructions simple, and I am pretty optimistic that I can make myself a sundress in time for summer. (Or at least a cushion cover).

Feeling Lucky, Punk?

2010-03-13T15:48:00.000Z

According to Oxford scientists, the chances of winning the UK National Lottery is 1 in 13,983,816. And to really drum home just how improbable this is, they add that the chances of dying between Friday and Monday is 1100 times more than that of winning the lottery.

So why do we play it?

Because, dear friend, there is always someone who wins it. Someone who plays the same numbers every week but never won anything, (except back in '02 when they won £47 and went out for tea). You see these people in the paper: a kind, middle-aged, working-class couple from a small town, riddled with repayments on their washing machine, who will now be able to take nice holidays, and - says the husband - buy that sports car he's always wanted. It's cute, and they're deserving people, and the photo of them grinning and waving a bottle of champagne (the wife always with her hair done and best lippy on - because now she's worth it) is the all too familiar reminder that someone has got to win it.

"And why not meeeeeee?" we all think, although we scoff and roll our eyes when we buy our ticket, and then put it in our wallet and try to forget about it. But you know it's there. I know it's there. And for that short time until the draw is made, we have a small atom of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time it will be US in the paper, spillling champagne everywhere. Every time we joke about "when I win the lottery", we're only half kidding... a part of us still believes there's a chance we might win the jackpot, and all our stress and troubles will miraculously melt away.

Of course, it doesn't happen, and we check the results, and immediately screw up our ticket in disgust. Disgust at our ridiculous dreams and for really thinking that we were ever going to win this. Don't people realise the chances of winning is 1 in 13,983,816?! I am more likely to DIE this week than become a millionaire! Dammit - HOW COULD I BE SO FOOLISH??!!

Still. I've got MY ticket. Have you?

What's All Your Furniture Pointed At?

2010-03-09T15:47:00.000Z

I don't have a television.
But you can stop with the sympathetic expressions... this is a personal choice. (Yes, really).
The thing is, it never ceases to amaze me just how much we rely on our TV for entertainment, even when there is nothing there to entertain us. I mean, out of the ridiculous abundance of available shows, how many are really worth watching?

Come Dine With Me... Britain's Got Talent... Britain's Got Talent in the Jungle... I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here... I'm a Celebrity Come Dine with Me... Z-List Celebrities Eating Dinner... Celebrity Big Brother... Dancing on Ice... Dancing with the Stars...Celebrity Dancing on Ice... Dances with Wolves on Ice....

(I can't help but feel the decline of television came with the rise of the "reality TV" show. This, of course, came at the same time as the rise of "celebrity" and now it seems the two are so inextricably married, that if you are on TV for more than 5 minutes, you are entitled to paparazzi. Why? Because everyone is sitting at home staring at their TV screen, so if you're on it, you're famous. You don't actually have to do anything).

How many of you turn the TV on before you think about what else you might like to do with your evening? And how many of you channel-surf before settling on the 'least bad' programme on? (Be honest, you don't really want to be watching re-runs of The World's Fattest Pets do you?)

I'm not against television; merely our reliance on it and the overbearing presence of it in our homes and lives. Rather than being an appliance that we go to when we're in the mood to watch something - much like you would pick up a book - most people switch it on automatically, like a lightbulb. It has become a necessity.

Like Joey from Friends said, "You don't own a TV? Then what's all your furniture pointed at?"

People have actually congratulated me on doing away with it - but not as if I have given up smoking, (which would be a more apt comparison...) but as if I have joined a convent.
"Wow... good on you! I could never do that, but I think it's great that you're making that kind of sacrifice."

No I haven't joined a convent, but bless you for your concern. I really love a great TV show - if only there were more of them! - and there are particular shows that I can't get enough of. Since I don't have a TV I watch them online, or DVD, and this way I can watch them whenever the mood strikes, not because the TV is on and there is sound and pictures coming out of it. (Also, this way my furniture can point at other furniture, which is much better for socialising.)

So alright, what do I watch that's so damn great?
The latest entertainment marvel I'm hooked on is Modern Family. Now HERE is a show which has it all; it's sitcom, it's mockumentary, it's satire, it's sensitive, it's insensitive, it's heart-warming, it's hilarious... there is no bad guy, there is just one (forgive me for saying it) dysfunctional family, and each character is as likeable as each other. It's unusual. Not since Friends has a show got it so right, but unlike Friends, each episode is individual - a glimpse into a day in the life - and you don't have to follow dramatic "will they? won't they?" relationships and incestuous hook-ups. The most ironic thing of all is that Modern Family feels more like reality than anything I've ever seen on "reality TV" shows.

Watch it here (and give me your verdict:)
http://www.casttv.com/shows/modern-family

I Love You, Google Chrome

2010-03-09T02:46:00.000Z

I've never thought much about the web browser I use. A long time ago I used Firefox at work; I didn't see the big deal (but then, why would I?) On another occasion, upon the tragic death of my previous laptop, once last resuscitation attempt was tried by installing Linux, and the web browser Opera. I found the entire experience so ghastly that I turned off the machine's life support once and for all.

Apart from this I've not really paid much attention to the browser I use. That is, until my web-savvy little brother discovered I was still using Internet Explorer. His exact words were, "Internet Explorer is to web developers what Hitler was to the Jews." That's a pretty strong statement from the kid you used to share a Commodore 64 with.

Putting this up for a second opinion on Twitter, I was surprised at the level of venomous abhorrence for this household browser. One Tweeter promptly agreed, saying that, "repeatedly slamming your tits in a door is better than IE." As if this wasn't enough pain to consider, another added, "having hot pins stuck under your finger nails and your toes hit with hammers is better than Internet Explorer."

Alright, no more self-harming, I get the picture!

My sibling's instruction was to get myself in tune with Google Chrome immediately. Which I did, because I know that if I want to keep bossing him around for the rest of my life I need to do what he says too once in a while. (And OK, also because he's a web genius and I know he knows what he's talking about). Frankly, the speed and ease of the Google Chrome installation is a tiny preview of things to come. Not only is the layout simple but the speed is impressive. I feel that every time I click a button, a thousand imaginary servants are racing to do my bidding. For the first time I realised just how clunky and unreliable Internet Explorer was. Constant issues with "(not responding)" errors, and, despite the plethora of tabs and buttons and toolbars, I could never find anything I was looking for. (What ARE all those toolbars for, anyway, Microsoft?)

So if you're a believer in the ethos "less is more", and you're tired of the lethargic pace of Internet Explorer, go for Google Chrome.
Or you could try hitting your toes with a hammer, because I hear that's good too.

Designs of the Year 2010

2010-03-07T16:31:00.000Z

I've always loved the London Design Museum. It's an intriguing white box on the edge of the river, and houses far too many fascinating exhibtions to name. Although one I have been back to each year is the Brit Insurance Designs of the Year exhibition.

Overall my favourite design was Sugru - a mouldable waterproof silicone which can be used to repair or change just about anything. The concept behind it is to "hack things better". In other words, to improve things which are shoddily made, customise them, or fix broken objects so they can continue to be used.

On display was a plethora of household examples - the rubber was moulded into the inside of a shoe to fix the sole which was coming away. It matched the shoe and was seamlessly invisible. Another was Sugru was moulded around the handle of wrench, for better grip, and used to fix together the pieces of a broken vase. One is left wondering; is there anything that Sugru can't do?

Aside the fact that it's clever, what it does is provide a means for repairing and improving items we use every day, instead of throwing them away and replacing them. I LOVE this. We've all become far too materialistic and generally treat everything as disposable. Using something like Sugru is another way to recycle, and extend the life of the things we own. Now THAT is clever.

Quote of the Day

2009-10-29T14:43:00.001Z

"The important thing is this: to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become" - Charles Dubois

Risky Business

2009-10-29T12:12:00.000Z

There are times in life when you have to ask yourself that most insightful of all questions:
"What is the worst that can happen?" For me, I was a publishing assistant. I liked my job, but alas, I didn't love it. I had finally got my foot in the door in publishing, and yet after a year I still found myself in the same situation as I had been in before in every other job I'd ever had: I just wasn't where I was meant to be. I knew I was capable of so much more, and yet taking the safe job options was never going to allow me to that.

So I decided to take a leap, and I resigned from my job. And I didn't have any other roles lined up. I just decided it was time to start doing what I truly wanted to do. No time like the present. It is amazing the different reactions a move like this will give you - many friends couldn't understand why I would put myself in a position where I am not earning any money. So many times I was asked, why I hadn't decided to stick out my old job until I had found a new one? I was tired of waiting things out, locking in another safe option, and ending up in the same position. If I wanted to start following my passions, I had to do it right now, and I had to take big risks.

It seemed to me as if we have become so reliant on the security of a job, that the concept of not having one is completely unfathomable. (I had a similar reaction when I told people we were not having a TV in our new flat - people have come to rely on television so religiously that they cannot see past it, and imagine life without one). Yet what I have come to truly realise - not just agree with but actually understand - is that this is our life, right now. It's not a rehearsal. I should have done this years ago, so why wait another day?

Every day we get up, go somewhere, and spend the whole day doing something in particular. So surely we should be doing something we enjoy? Far too many people don't like their jobs but they stay there and continue to do it because they like the security of the pay packet, and the comfort of the familiar. Others admit that they don't like their job but they do it for the money, so that they can fund their lifestyles outside of office hours. Sure this makes sense, and in fact I used to subscribe to this exact school of thought myself, but I've since learned that for me, this isn't the way I want to live.

I was earning very good money as an executive assistant for one of The Big Four firms in London, and while I could buy nice things and go to nice places, I wasn't fulfilled. I was selling my soul. When I took a significant salary drop to work in publishing, I found was much happier, and, most amazing of all, having less money didn't actually make me miserable. Right now I am earning nothing (albeit for the short term - there is rent to pay after all) but I feel great. A little anxious, yes, but believe me - great. I am grateful too that my boss at the publishing company was fantastically supportive, and let me go (replacing me with two people, I might add) because I am now free to work for myself.

Suddenly my fate is in my hands: what I do each day is of great consequence, and my motivation is put to good use. It is an amazing feeling. I have never felt so free! Sure, it's terrifying, intimidating, and my energy levels come and go in peaks and dips. I can spend two days believing I can take on the world, and then spend two days bathing in self-doubt. This is all part of the vital process and it's a test of my commitment. There is no sense of achievement without a challenge.

What is the worst that can happen? You will not end up on the streets, alone, with nothing to eat. You will not lose your health and your family. Frankly, the worst that can happen is you fail, you run out of money, you stay with friends, get another job, and try again shortly. You will find is that all the things you truly need will still be there. Except you will be better off for it.

Of course, you need to be committed; nobody will help you unless you first try to help yourself. I have parked myself at my home desk every day, networking, job searching, applying for paid and unpaid writing tasks, eager to build my portfolio. The problem is, I know I can write. I just need to prove it. But to get the copy proof, you need to HAVE the copy proof.... and there lies the catch.

There are no real hard and fast rules to anything in life - despite what people may tell you - and I know from experience that self-believe, perseverance and willingness to take the plunge will get you everywhere. Somehow, I am going to make this work. Yes, it's a gamble, and no, there are no guarantees for success. But you will never know until you try. When you take a risk you either: a) succeeed; or b) fail, and learn invaluable lessons. Both outcomes are worth the gamble. So why play it safe? To develop and to discover your potential you need to push yourself, and see how far you can go. You are not going to do it in the safety of your comfort zone.

What is the worst that can happen? It's never as bad as you think.

Recommended reading: Why Do We Believe That Our Job Is What Makes Us Worthwhile? by Alain de Botton

Keeping it Real with Rankin

2009-08-20T20:22:00.000+01:00

My taxi bumped along the cobbles of Brick Lane and deposited me outside the little door to the Truman Brewery, above which a big black signed asked, "Fancy a Rank?" I was here to take part in the exhibition 'Rankin Live' by the photographer Rankin, in which he aims to capture "real people" and display them in his exhibition as soon as they had been shot; creating an instant and constantly changing display of interesting portraits.

Rankin has shot everyone from Kate Moss (who he describes as "The most beautiful woman in the world - after my wife, of course") to Queen Elizabeth II, (who personally chose her shot, even though the Palace officials preferred the more straight-laced images). Today it was my turn: I was about to get Ranked!

I climbed the stairs in my favourite ankle boots, full of nerves; announcing myself at the desk, I was taken through a side door and escorted through the gallery housing the exhibition. The gallery is enormous. Expansive white walls, covered with Rankin's lifetime of work - portraits of a naked Kate Moss, a leering Keith Richards, Katie Holmes pulling an ugly face, a naked model covered in hands, the Queen smiling in front of a Union Jack, Jarvis Cocker bending at sharp angles, a man biting a woman's leather-clad buttocks....
Welcome to the world of Rankin.

At the end of the hallway, outside the studio, was a giant screen where images of faces flickered briefly. This was one of the photo shoots happening at that very moment. I was taken into the studio and ushered to a big black sofa behind the make-up and hair area, where girls were having their hair styled with curlers, and their faces powdered and coloured. At the opposite end of the room was the set where Rankin was at work, while his assistants were either racing around or working on the images at a row of Apple macs.
As one Times journalist, having his own shot done, described it, "They rush around, wielding clipboards or stands, or hefting lights and reflecty things. Many of them sit at enormous computer screens. It’s like Battlestar Galactica in here." I saw Rankin teasing one the assistants; making a joke and gyrating against the wind machine. I had heard he was cheeky. Was I ready for this?

After a wait I grabbed a spot in the hair stylist's chair. The young, slightly grumpy-looking stylist, with a tattoo along her spine, ran her hands through my hair. I had done nothing with it as I knew hair and make-up were being done prior to the shoot, so I was hoping for a bit of a miracle. She asked me what I wanted. "Big hair!' I pleaded, picturing some sort of extreme mane of theatrical proportions. She summoned the photography style assistant who came over and ran her hands through my hair as well.
"That's good. The wind machine will get that. I want to leave it as it is. Just straighten her fringe a bit."
(What? Nooo! Don't leave it as it is!)
I attempted to coerce the stylist: "How about if we tease it up a bit at the back at least?"
"No - if I backcomb it it won't move in the wind machine. We want movement."
She ran some straighteners through my hair. "Done."
I was nervous. No big hair then?

When it comes to my hair, it's my mojo, and without any special treatment I suddenly felt my confidence waning. But hey, these are professionals, I would have to trust them! Fighting my growing anxiety, I sat on the second black sofa and started chatting to another girl, named Hayley. She had beautiful curls, adorned with a big flower, but she said she was having a bad hair day.
You? Bad hair day? I thought. Try going out there with no styling done!

We watched a blonde slip of a girl have her shoot done. Her images flashed up on the screen. Pouting and wide-eyed, she looked amazing.
"Wow" Hayley and I breathed, "Will that be us too?"
Next was make-up. Ruth, a kind Irish make-up stylist in black jeans, put me at ease, and said I had really really lovely skin.
"Really?" I smiled - nobody had ever said that before!
"Oh yeah!" she affirmed, before admitting, "I do have a thing for freckles."
There's something nice about having someone else do your make-up. Ruth accented my cheekbones with loads of blusher, and gently lined my eyes with a smoky charcoal. But she didn't go too dramatic - "I want your natural colouring to show through" she told me.

So back on the sofa, there I was, looking.... well, like a slightly smoother version of me. There was no glamourous transformation, but I decided to take that as a compliment. I finally felt ready to be Ranked. I think. As if sensing my nerves, one of the stylists handed me a beer and sat I back on the sofa, watching Rankin shoot a girl with her top off, hands across her chest.
"Ooh he's getting everyone naked today," said another make-up artist, "hope you ladies are ready!"
Hayley and I looked at each other, not sure whether he was joking or not. Personally, I wasn't against the artistic merit of taking my clothes off - especially as the photos looked amazing (and no nudity is shown in the image!) but despite being offered the option ahead of time, I decided against it. Looking back, I wonder what would it have been like, going topless for Rankin?

There was no time to think about it - Hayley was next and I promised I'd get some photos of her having her shoot done. She sat down in the set and was suddenly surrounded by lights, assistants, and Rankin, plonking down on a chair in front of her, snapped away. They stopped and went over to the macs to look at the shots, and then went back to shoot some more. Hayley's face appeared on the large screen in the gallery with each snap of the camera - she looked amazing. One shot stood out; one where she was laughing, her eyes half closed. No doubt Rankin had said something cheeky to make her giggle! (I found out later that this was the shot they chose).
Suddenly Rankin himself strolled over to the make-up area.
"Who's next?!" he called. The waiting girls all looked at each other.
"Come ooon, who's next?" he repeated.
I was looking at the shots I'd taken of Hayley on my camera, and suddenly realised his assistant was pointing at me. Rankin came towards me and held out both his hands and I took them.
"Who are you, and what do you do?" he asked me. I was bowled over and my brain switched over to some sort of radio-censoring delay system.
"Er - I'm Claire, and I'm a publishing assistant!"
"Right, Claire, come with me."
I remembered I'd brought a prop with me - props were encouraged.
"Hang on - I have a prop!" I scuttled over to my bag, as fast as my ankle-boots would carry me, and procured my tea cup and saucer. (I am a tea addict, and one of my vintage tea cups - an idea suggested by my mother, in fact - seemed perfect. I only hoped nobody would notice any comparison to Lady GaGa, who also carries a china tea cup - although whether she likes tea as much as me is debatable). I ran back to the set with my tea cup and saucer. The crew liked the tea cup.
"Oooh that's great!" said one.
"Bit like Lady GaGa!" said another. (Damn).
"She copied me, I'm sure!" I joked.
I sat on a chair in the set, and Rankin, straddling another chair in front of me, leaned over the back of it and stared at me thoughtfully.
"So." He said.
"So..."
"Talk to me."
I was nervous. And I knew he could tell.
"Well.... I'm ready for this shoot!"
"You Australian?"
"I'm from New Zealand."
"Your accent is very subtle."
"I've been here four and a half years."
One of his assistants leaned over him, obscuring his face with her chest as she tried to adjust the light.
"Yeah could you push your boobs in my face please?" he teased her.

And suddenly we got to work. Bright lights were shone in my face, a reflector sheet held beneath my chin, and Rankin pointed his massive black camera lens a couple of inches from my face. He instructed me on how to pose. Hold your tea cup up. That's it. Lean forward. Smile. Shoulder back. Tea cup up. Like that. Tea cup down. ("You look like the Queen mother, when you do that!") Shoulder forward. Look deep into my eyes! He then asked me to bite the saucer.
"Just with a little bit of teeth." I obliged. He chuckled and snapped away.
"Alright... let's lose the saucer. Be saucy, without the saucer!"
He laughed at his own joke and I grinned. Then we went over to the macs to view the shots.

I must admit I was surprised how..... plain I looked! I felt my lack of glamour was letting the shots down. My heart sank - surely if anyone was going to make me look amazing, it was Rankin - and I knew he could do it! On top of that my poses were almost too tense... I felt they looked like I was trying too hard. I knew I had to relax, and yet I only felt an increasing pressure to get this right.
"Any you like?" he asked.

Now, when a world-famous photographer takes photos of you and you don't like them, what do you do? I was honest.
"Er, they're really good, but nothing stands out as "the one" just yet." He flicked back to a shot of me biting the saucer. It was ridiculously funny. He giggled.
"You got a kick out of that, didn't you!" I laughed.

Back to the set. Rankin flicked on the Dandy Warhols track "We Used to Be Friends" which is an old favourite of mine. Leaving the tea cup and saucer to the side this time, I took my place on the set. In an attempt to make things more interesting, I pushed my hair back out of my face, hoping Rankin would pick up on using that - and he did.
"Yeah, I like that, push your hair back, but with one hand. Like that."
Chin up and out, lean into me, look down. Serious. MORE serious.
Then: "What do you look like naked?" I laughed heartily at this, but my brain was back on delay-mode, and unable to form any witty retorts.
"Er..... uh.... how exactly is someone supposed to answer that question?"
"What do you look like naked?" he repeated, clearly enjoying himself.
"Well..." I laughed, blushing. He could tell the shock tactics weren't working to relax me, so he sang as he snapped away. "Relax, don't do it, when you wanna go to it! Relax, don't do it, when you wanna cooooome...."

Time to review the next set of shots. Lots of serious expressions and big smiles, but my hair looked odd, and flat. I squinted at the shots, trying to find one, any one, that stood out. But something wasn't working here. I began to worry that Rankin would make me pick from the choices here, yet none of them were quite right. "I'm sorry, I'm just not.... feeling it."
Fortunately Rankin is a decent guy as well as a professional, (and probably used to this), and he stood up and announced to the crew: "She's not feeling it, let's do some more!" He flicked the music over to Jet's "Are You Gonna Be My Girl?" and we sat down in our places facing each other.
"So." Rankin asked. "What do you want?"

Now that's the question. What DO I want? To look beautiful? To look quirky? To capture my personality? To look real? What was it? I knew I had to give him the answer if he was going to get the shot I'd be happy with.
"I don't know..... I guess... more... wild? More energy!"
He called for more wind machine. One last go.
Chin up, shoulder back, scream at me! Give me a scream!
I did a mock scream as the wind machine blasted my hair everywhere, and I pushed it back out of my face, and laughed. This was fun. Finally, my last shoot over, Rankin and I approached the computer screen for the final set of shots. He flicked through them and though the screaming ones were a little contrived, one popped up that Rankin liked. He stood back.
"That one." It was me, with my hands in my hair, laughing. He had finally got me to relax, and that was the moment he caught. That there was my best photo. "Yes," I agreed. "That's the one."

The decision made, he took my hands in his and asked if I'd enjoyed it.
"Yes!" I admonished, "I really had fun!"
"Good, I'm really pleased" he said, and seemed genuinely glad I'd had a good time. A minute or so later I came back and approached him, as he was autographing a magazine for someone before preparing the next shoot, and asked if he'd mind us having a photo together.
"For me ma," I said, although the truth was, it was for me.
"For who?"
"Me ma."
"Right, come here."
He lead me onto the set, Hayley ready with my camera. Standing next to him with my ankle boots on, I towered over him.
"Hmm. You're a bit tall," he said, and then grabbed a box on the side of the set.
"Awwww, nooooo," I cooed, feeling guilty at making Rankin stand on a box, but giggling all the same.
We cuddled for a pose.
"Really press your breasts against me!" he demanded.
Cheeky sod. Hayley took a photo, but Rankin said,
"Come on, take another!"
You just can't help but like the guy.

Getting my prints back, I felt a little pang of disappointment that I had not been transformed into to some arty uber-amazing version of myself, and that in fact, I just looked like.... me. Imperfections and all. And yet it was a great picture. As my mother says:
"Self image is a very complex thing. We all have photos we hate, yet other people think they are 'fine' or 'great' cause that is actually how they see you all the time. It is the human scourge that we all have a different image of ourselves in our heads to what everyone else sees."

I went in there hoping for a cleverly artistic shot, perhaps with me looking amazing as only one can with hair, make-up and a world-class photographer. But trying so hard to be something amazing only resulted in stiff shots. After all, was I really expecting to be transformed into someone else? The thing about Rankin is he sees something in you that you might not see yourself. And this proves my best side is the one when I let my guard down, and stop trying so hard to be the perfect version of myself I have in my head.

I left the studio and wandered through the now-closed gallery, and with nobody around I strolled through the massive exhibition, getting lost in the maze of walls, each housing various themes of Rankin's work. "Breeding" was one, with photographs of children. There was a section of artistic shots featuring naked figures. And one where different women wore the same dress in each photo. And then some more of Kate Moss. I exited through the fire escape door and stepped out onto the busy, vibrant back streets of East London, clutching my photos tightly, and made my way home.

I still can't believe I've been "Ranked". It really has been an amazing experience. I'm going to frame my Rankin portrait, put it on my wall and let it be a reminder that this is who I am and who I always should be. I hope I never forget to keep it real.

Big World, Small Problems

2009-08-13T10:12:00.000+01:00

When I was a child, my father brought home some books from the library.
Educational books, they were, and the one that stuck with me at the time was the one called "Big and Small". It was about the concept of relativity. And in this case, the example given was size.

"What is big?" asked the book.
"An elephant is big!" I replied.
"But an elephant is not big, compared to a blue whale," said the book, "Next to a whale, an elephant is small."
I was stunned.
"Something is only big or small, when you compare it to something else."

I thought about this, for years to come, and I still think about this today. It applies to all of us, in almost every part of our lives. It's about relativity. Comparison. Perspective. As a seventh-form student, sitting in Art History class (doodling cartoon versions of famous paintings, which my black-humoured teacher rather enjoyed), I learned more about perspective. Piero della Francesca was a mathematician and artist, whose theoretical study of perspective inspired many artists to come. It was he who once stood back from his work and, proud of his skill of making things look bigger or smaller compared to their surroundings, he remarked to his wife, "Ah, what a sweet thing perspective is."

He is right! And yet very rarely do we allow ourselves a healthy perspective on things. Our lives are full of trivial and mundane situations, which at the time might be a source of great frustration to us.
Someone pushed in front of me in the queue.
There's no milk left.
I've put on half a stone.
I missed my bus.
It's raining - again!
We bitch and moan and look for things to complain about, when really, we have everything we possibly need. We do not have to steal food to survive; live in fear of death for our beliefs; or wonder where we will sleep tonight. Don't forget, there are people who are actually suffering. They are hurting. They have heavy burdens to bear. They wish their biggest problem was a leak in their kitchen pipe and an unreliable plumber. So why do we take so much bitter pleasure in finding problems that don't even exist?

Remember, it's all about comparison. Problems are relative. Your frustration is tiny when you compare it to actual problems. If something truly awful happened, you would wish for the days when you had no such troubles. But don't you see - that's what you have right now! You don't want to find out the hard way; by having an actual problem show up and turn your life upside down. Now that the blue whale is in your living room, do you really think the elephant was all that inconvenient?

That's what they mean when they say you don't know what you've got till it's gone. Why do we only declare how much someone means to us when speaking at their funeral? People who face death are the ones who say they have learned to make the best of the time they have. Why then, when we are not faced with such a limited deadline, do we not do the same?

Take a new perspective. Because what a sweet thing it is indeed.

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

2009-07-19T11:12:00.001+01:00

It's my big brother's birthday on Tuesday, and having just spoken to him (through the wonders of the internet, as he is in New Zealand) I thought perhaps it would be nice to make a special mention to the wonder that is The Sibling.

For those who have them, the relationship we have with our siblings is one which we often overlook in its importance to our development, instead placing the make-up of our identity squarely on the shoulders of our parents. What we seem to forget is that our earliest social interaction (with a peer group) is with our brothers and sisters, and in particular, birth order is believed to have a profound and lasting effect on psychological development. According to research, first born children typically like to have control, often attempting to keep parents' attention through conformity; or if this fails, through misbehaving. (And according to Austrian psychiatrist Alfred Adler, firstborns are "dethroned" when a second child comes along, and this may have a lasting influence on them).

Youngest children are often the most pampered and protected, looked upon as the baby of the family, and therefore even when they are older they expect others to take over responsibilities. Middle children are usually rebellious, forced to create a sense of uniqueness in order to gain attention from their parents, and in most cases play the role of peacemaker. 'One important modern theory of personality states that the Big Five personality traits of Openness, Conscientiousness, Extraversion, Agreeableness, and Neuroticism represent most of the important elements of personality that can be measured. Contemporary approaches to birth order frequently suggest that birth order influences these five traits.' (Source: Wikipedia)

I have two brothers - one older and one younger - and the three of us could not be more different on paper. My older brother is a strong, charming, insouciant character, passionate about cooking, hunting, and tending his vegetable garden. My younger brother is a clever, dry-witted, well-researched technology expert, with a sensitivity to thought-provoking film and music. Though I am sure they don't realise it, both of my brothers have taught me things - about people, about life and about myself - that have in turn helped define who I am. (Yes, they also used to break my stuff and give me chinese burns, but that too has probably had an effect on who I am today... hopefully positive). And yet despite our differences in personality, we all have one thing in common: we don't live life by the rules. And I like that.

My brothers and I subscribe to our own individualities, our own theories, and we stick by them. And we stick by each other (although we might not admit it in public). Not one of us chooses to conform to the typical mould that is offered to us pre-adulthood; it's our way, or nothing. And for that, my bruvvas, I salute you.

Nelson Siblings, 1984
{Edit: the birth order traits appear to be spot on here!)
Interesting reading: The Sibling Bond

~ Thought for the day ~

2009-07-18T18:33:00.000+01:00

"We pay for civilation so called, with body as much as with soul. I am a bit scornful about the hardship aspect. Who is facing it in fact? Experiments with rats showed you could overwork them, starve them, freeze them, in general make life hell for them - and they thrived; but give them endless food and luxury, crowd them together in urban opulence - and they went mad." - From Hamish's Mountain Walk, Hamish Brown, published 1980

Love Food, Hate Waste

2009-07-14T11:52:00.001+01:00

Finally more focus on the issue of food waste. A sell-by date does not mean something is inedible! Again, this is a case of people not thinking for themselves. My personal theory when it comes to food is:

If you were lost in the wild, would you eat it? If so, why wouldn't you eat it now?

It's all just an argument of aesthetics and a lack of common sense. Since when were any of us too posh to scrape the mould off the cheese? A third of the food we buy in the UK ends up being thrown away.

Find recipes, tips and tools to help you reduce food waste from the Love Food Hate Waste campaign Source: www.lovefoodhatewaste.com

Water Water Everywhere... If You Pay Your Bill

2009-06-24T18:13:00.000+01:00

I heard that Thames Water is implementing a new scheme, whereby they can restrict your household's water if you refuse to pay your bill. (NB: this is not if you cannot pay your bill - they do in fact have a contact department for those who are in financial trouble, and will not take action against you if you alert them to this).

However, naturally people are complaining that it's wrong; the most common complaint being that "children should not be deprived of water, even if their parents refuse to pay their bills". Now, is it just me, or is this another case of the public expecting handouts? After all, if you have children, it is your responsibility to provide for them, and not just the government! If a parent is negligent enough to not want to pay their bill, and allow their child to go without water, this is a much bigger issue - and one that has nothing to do with Thames Water.

Before I am mobbed, let me also add that this scheme would limit those non-paying households to just enough water to flush a toilet or fill a jug, to meet public health requirements. Nobody would completely go without. Water is a human right. And for this reason, I agree that Thames Water need to be very careful in deciphering those who cannot afford to pay their bill, and those who just don't want to. I don't want to pay my water bill either, but if I want a steady flow of water whenever I feel like it, I have to pay for it. We don't complain when the electricity company threatens to keep us in the dark - I think we have just got so used to taking our water for granted.

PS - Last point - consider this, stop whinging, and pay your bills: