Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Forgive me, for I know I have sinned; this year I write to you electronically. But it’s all the craze. It does not mean I will be e-mailing you this letter as the grumpy elf you have at the front desk would not disclose that information.

How he seems to think an e-mail address is more personal than the fact that everybody knows you live right smack in the middle of the North Pole, I don’t know! Either way, I shall be posting a formal complaint about said elf as he was nothing but obtuse. And I feel that is not behaviour befitting one who ought to be very grateful for such a loyal customer as myself! I mean, heavens! My yearly Christmas wish list doubles all others. And without mine you would all feel quite lost, I’m sure.

Suffice to say, this year I did think ahead and found myself in a very generous frame of mind and thought I would help you out a bit. I sent the original list 3 months ago via recorded delivery. No thanks needed, I have done my good deeds for the year.

My dear Santa, I did think it would also be nice for me to write to you separately and acknowledge that you are more than a make-up facilitating, perfume producing, handbag sprouting, shallow dream fulfilling, white beard toting, toy manufacturing, joy enthusing, reindeer riding man in red! You are also a person who no doubt enjoys a quiet Sunday slumped in front of a roaring fire [whilst reading my blog].

And so I thought I would write and entertain you for a while with some silly tales and help take off a load from a hard days’ work with the elves. They can be such moody things can’t they?

Well now, I did have an entire line up of funny stories for you, but it has to be said that my first new year’s resolution is to work on my memory. My second is to remember the first. And leading on from this we move swiftly over the fact I cannot remember the tales I was to regale you with. Apologies, but then, perfection would be boring would it not?

One thing I would like to talk with you about though, are holidays and times of rest. I know you reputedly rest throughout the year, but we all know that’s not true! Mrs Clause has us ladies well informed about your general lack of sleep and how much preparing for the ‘big day’ takes it out of you! All work and no play makes Santa something we shant say!

I for example find myself living a fabulous year, as I am at home. The family home, which is delightful. It just means that for the awaited reprieve of Christmas holidays one enjoys the idea of retreating home to recover. But me, I look forward to re-retreating back to my bedroom - and believe you me, those four walls couldn’t find it in them to change even if I paid them!

So dear Santa, I would understand should you decide to put your clone from Eastern Europe, Santushka, to work this season. Perhaps you should join me on a holiday to end the year in peace and be raring to go as Big Ben chimes 2010?

I hope you take my advice, as for once, I intend on doing just that. Sit back, relax and let someone else send me my presents, perhaps?





All my love,

Nur



P.S I hope this draft actually makes it to you before getting completely incinerated in the chimney.

P.P.S Merry Christmas and I look forward to entertaining you with more blogs in the new year!

Crisis in Winterland? I think not...

Word on the street says it is very nearly Christmas. With every degree that drops, the sleigh bells come nearer. Nowadays this time of year is no longer just a celebration for all those religious. In fact, and I think many of you would agree, it turned into a children’s holiday about the time Coca-Cola decided Santa Clause ought to be red instead of green. I kid you not, he used to be green, but something about clashing with the snow and the reindeers got his suit changed.

Santa and his wardrobe are beside the point. The point is, it is Christmas! Yay! Yay? We are after all in the biggest financial crisis since Jack had to sell his cow for a magic bean! The entire world is short of a bob or two, yet Christmas has not been scrapped.

In fact, it would appear that The People of the World, yeah, all of you, have finally decided to have a good rummage between all the sofa cushions and produce enough spare change to have a quick cheeky Winter holiday!

Roughly 4.500 (Scots – though nationality is irrelevant here), decided to up and leave the crisis riddled UK to pre-Christmas themselves in the sun! Smashing idea, I think.

Ahh, but what goes up must come down I hear you say. And if you didn’t, you will in a minute. All 4000 of them fannied off in search of heat and ended up getting stranded in their hot destinations! I laugh, but do feel a tad bit bad for those who feel it is wrong to do a hot Christmas. Christmas should be snow and freeze and all things requiring one to wrap up and light the chimney!

Well now, apparently the Scottish travel agency that had shipped off all these sun seeking Scots around the world went bankrupt. Just like that, from night to day. And as a result, left thousands of people stranded and no longer loving their sneaky hot holiday. One would think this to be a good thing, wouldn’t one? Extended holiday, perfect. But no, people were not amused and it has made international news.

It would seem as well as Christmas being in the air, planes would be too. But as it turns out, there is a bit of a lack of them cruising the clouds lately. What with British Airways trying to stage a strike, only to have it overruled by a judge! Democratic society anyone? So with one strike under its belt, one travel agency out of business, one world with a crisis…heavens, I think we’re all due a holiday! Oh! And not to mention all the Madrid taxis getting together and making the city come to a stand-still with their own 24 hr strike!

You would think that in a time riddled with financial issues people would be working overtime and not planning strikes or exotic get aways! Unless of course, the world leaders are lying and our economy is actually not doing too badly…hmmm – there’s food for thought.

In a time of crisis, I have seen more Series One BMW’s cruising the streets than ever before. There is a reputedly higher number of businesses starting up and Spain, who is in worse financial trouble since sliced bread, is still building and planning [luxurious] golf resorts – what’s wrong with this picture?!

Don’t get me wrong, I did read somewhere that if more businesses start up than eventually more money will be made, thus more jobs, thus better for all in long term. BUT what I do not understand, is if people have such little money, where are they getting the capital to start up these businesses? (It is a completely rhetorical question, as I do not actually lose sleep over this matter.)

What does cause me a little more interest and perhaps a little less sleep is that the answer to the financial crisis appears to be so simple and yet no one has grasped it yet!! The problem is that not enough people are spending money and so the shops go bust, people out of jobs etc etc – the answer glaring us all in the face, is to bloody well shop some more! I can only promise I am doing my bit to get society into shape…but it is hard going sometimes.

So for now, Christmas will serve as the perfect excuse to shop till you drop and be my way of helping the world overcome its financial crisis. Whether it actually exists or not.

NEWS FLASH!

As by now you well know, everything that has to do with the ‘real’ world almost certainly does not factor into my life. I know nothing about geography, thus quickly striking Worldly Knowledge from that list; I know nothing about politics – well, not “nothing” – I do have a rough idea who is in power in about 3 different countries. But please, note the word, rough. And finally, we stumble upon the news.

The news is something that only exists as a form of white noise in my life. Something that should be checked every so often, if for no other reason, than because I could end looking really stupid one day – “Who had a tsunami?!” But the news and I have never quite gelled. If there are no pretty pictures I am not interested.

Although, there exists the exception of when somebody else tells me what is going on or what has hit the news recently, then and only then will I go out of my way to read the entire story. Like the one I was pointed in the direction of the other day.

Have you ever woken up and before you placed one timid foot out of your duvet, experienced blush producing flash backs of the night before? Or finally managed to get on with your day/ your week but still with images that slam into your mind making the colour creep up your neck and engulf your face? How about the times that all you get are images that have been blacked out but carry with them an embarrassing soundtrack? Yes my friends, we have all been there.

Fear not though, the days bringing the Cringe (and other more life altering issues) could well be behind us, according to some researchers in New York. (http://uk.reuters.com/article/idUKTRE5B85HV20091209?pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=0)

These highly intelligent people have decided that with a window of between 10 minutes and 6 hours, bad memories could be eradicated. Miss the window and you’re stuffed. They state that through electric shocks and looking at blue squares, your bad memories could be replaced with good memories! This piece of news comes as quite a shock in the medication savvy world that we live in. No more pills? Heavens…what is the [pharmaceutical] world coming to?!

These scientists declare that their studies have been put into place in order to help those suffering from painful battle memories and those suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

Now, as wonderful as this may seem, do we really know what the long term effects could be? How about the fact that wiping away ones memory as if it were a chalk board could lead to future troubles when trying to form new memories or live through experiences similar to those that were erased? I’m thinking it all looks like it could lead to one big brain fart…

I mean, for all things green and holy on this earth, we actually don’t really know what we’re playing with! It seems like a breakthrough, “Hoorah! No more pills! ECT and new memories for all!” Realistically, how many people are going to queue up just hours after having seen a bomb explode and voluntarily submit themselves to electric shock treatment to see what was worse, the memory of the bomb or the ECT? And where are we to erect these ECT stands? One next to all ATM machines? Corner shops? Newspaper stands? Unlikely, I think.

In theory, the idea sounds great. It could fix all; it could revolutionise the medical and psychological world and in theory, could right us all. The theory sounds wonderful, as often they do. But the world is already having trouble dealing with ‘traditional’ forms of maladies, how is it they suggest to hand out ECT memory cleaning therapy to all who claim to need it?

And who is going to decide who ‘deserves’ to be electrocuted? Frankly I’ve a few experiences I think I would rather not live with. Ranging from being too curious a child, early morning afros, the days before makeup was inextricably intertwined with my being and that-thing-I-saw-in-that-place-that-time-when-I shouldn’t-have-been-looking. All these things are traumatic enough to send me straight to an ECT bank.

But is it worth it? And what happened to good old psychotherapy? You know, lie back, relax and “…how does that make YOU feel?”

Forget-me-not OAP

It is in the air. It is a terrible thing afflicting us all. There is no reputed cure as all attempts to dash it have failed. It can cause confusion on a huge scale; disorientation; dribbling; deterioration of sight; disintegration of bones and finally, death.

It is a thing that hovers in the air and threatens all. In this era of high tech medicine, we would have thought we were nothing but safe. And if not safe, then at least that there were sufficient amount of drugs in the Overpriced Pharmaceutical Pantry to make a good pretense of being able to fix us up good and proper! But no, I am living proof that it is contagious and quite frankly, just gets worse with every passing day.

Do not be mistaken, I am not talking about the menopause, which in my opinion is a state of affairs if not a disease, that is not given sufficient attention. It really does cause one to be utterly ill at ease. And it is transferable as I have suffered from having the hot flushes passed on to me. When I say I am wiser than my years, I really mean it.

I am actually referring to Old Age symptoms. They are a horrific thing. It happens to all and I have come to the opinion it is also a transferable. My grandmother for example, has been telling me she is 105 for the past umpteen years. She is as fit as a fiddle, more or less, looks wonderful for a woman sporting 71 years (which means great older years await me), but she keeps saying she is old. She is old and therefore cannot do as she used to. She is old and does not remember things like she used to. She is old and does not understand things she wished she would…

…I am 21 and I have great difficulty in telling you what I did yesterday, never mind last week! I also forget what I am saying mid sentence and what I have walked into a room to do. (The latter can be fixed by walking backwards into the room where the idea was born, for all you struggling with the same problem.) My eyesight fails me to such an extent that I make up flight details, consequently causing myself to miss flights. I invent conversations I think I’ve had with people, or rather not, and get told off for not having told people certain things, when actually, in my head, I could even reproduce the exact conversation (we did not have). Compared to me, my granny’s got it good!

Plainly and simply, rather than the excuse of old age-itis, it is called Losing Ones Marbles. “Hello my name is Nur and I can’t tell you when I lost my marbles exactly, as I cannot for the life of me remember.”

My theory is that we live such terribly fast paced lives that what we in fact spend our days doing, with both good and bad repercussions, is multi tasking our thoughts. It is this act that makes us, (and when I say ‘us’ please note I mainly mean me), have our thoughts scattered everywhere. We live in an age full of super fast technologies that evolve even faster. And somewhere along the line that has been the evolution of mankind and its exhaust pipes, we thought we had to have minds that functioned as fast as the machines.

This has ended up with us short circuiting into thinking we have lost our marbles. There are constantly little snippet articles advising people on how best to cope with the stress they feel and their loss of memory.

The real solution to said problem is that we should follow the example of our limbs. We only have two on top and two down below. Therefore we should only think as much as we can do. You wouldn’t try and pile four hundred things in your hands at one time, would you? So why would you laden your mind with them? This, my fellow forgetfulls could be the key to fighting the symptoms of the dreaded old age.

Now, prepare yourselves because there is one other key element to combating this state which stresses and worries us all so much. It is a method that has been developed by professionals in the field and has an absolutely solid reputation. This study will change your lives. Now, if only I could remember what it was…

From Madrid, with Love

We ramble through the city
That has been an absent part of my life for many years,
Through winding streets that ought to be known but are yet to be seen,
We wander through, discovering with mirthful tears what is and what has been.


Labyrinths beneath the surface is where they city is run from
with steaming gaping holes where the wonders await,
Shuffling past and through in order to feel the breeze and continue with joyful gait.
Raising our faces to the sky so as to drink in the new area, the new micro world into which we unfurl.


Parallel to the normal routine
That is your life within this city
Suddenly you stumble across a whole world before unseen,
But now we take advantage of the chance to explore and immerse ourselves in discovering the nitty gritty.


The city that has followed you for so long
And never before did you stop to ponder it,
love it for its secrets and street performer’s song.
But now we take advantage and breathe in the night as it is inviting and lit.


It takes outsiders for you to stop and appreciate
All that it has to offer – night and day,
A curious outsider with insatiable thirst who cannot wait,
In order for one to look with new eyes and leave the old out of the way.


A weekend full of walking the streets,
letting them guide you through the winter atmosphere
and finding ones way just listening to the cities beats…
Each new spot discovered, unwrapped and enjoyed on the tourism tier.


It took a weekend full of walking the streets with newcomers
For me to rediscover the city I was born within.
To realize the secrets its walls hold and become one of its admirers,
one for whom witnessing its life is no longer left to chance or whim.


I loved to remember the impromptu life
That springs forth at every turn,
And with the crisp winter sun there is no strife,
only the option to soak in the good and the better yet to learn.


A weekend brimming with peels of laughter
Is the perfect mate with which to discover a city so ignored,
so taken for granted lest it cause that smile that is so sought after.
The city has spun its web and as its charm reels me in I follow in accord.

Christmas Put on the Bench

I nearly choked when someone told me it was less than a month till Santa comes!
By god where’s the year sped off to?
But since it’s fast approaching and just for us, Santa runs
We will discuss all things snow and how Madrid has made it a taboo!

**************************************

Here ye! Here ye! Christmas is cancelled!
What’s that you say wench?!
I said, the local council has gone and cut Christmas!
They can’t have! No one puts that holiday on the bench!


Well well, it would appear as though the Spanish government
thinks otherwise!
The capitol and its banks have decided, the holiday they would resent
And so the festive season suffers a first time demise.


The financial crisis has hit Spain hard
And left the country caught between a rock and its flag place.
It is suffering worst unemployment since the first changing of the guard!
The only market inflating is the black, desperate crime means all want mace…


The mayor of Madrid has decided –
(no no, nothing sordid),
just that festive parties and drinks
be greatly reduced to not cause the economy anymore kinks.


In one foul sweep he declared that the snow should halt
The Christmas spirit teetered down to nil,
And the pine trees be allowed their forest floor to hold their malt.
Oh dear…oh heavens…it would appear as though there is no festive will!


Such are the cutbacks affecting the country and city
That some smart alleck has decided a number of motorways ought not have lighting!
Pray do tell if I overreact and deserve no pity
But I argue that in fact no lights invite trouble for those with precarious sighting!


‘tis no excuse, granted, but all heavens below and above -
One thing is to cancel Christmas, which really is quite bad,
But another that the safety of citizens is unworthy of love!
Sloppy cutbacks and no Santa just make for the people to be sad.


The mayor, who’s name I am impressed I know
Has clearly decided the budget is better spent in asphalt
And not in allowing the electricity to run through the fairy lights and let cheer flow.
The name, beginning with ‘G.’ is one uttered by all in traffic jams around the city.


Attempts to quash the Christmas spirit were once tried by Scrooge
And given the excitement proceeding presents
I would say that such efforts were futile and do not even spark the rouge!
The frown appeared, the voices thundered but were nothing for those who Christmas cheered.


It is a time not believed in by all
But by now the ambience is adored by more than one.
A December with no Santa? How dare you have the gall?!
It is the only time when the cold and the snow become more important than the sun!


No matter how low the budget
How miserable the memories,
Push all aside and rejoice in joint festiveness with Mr Gadget
Whilst we celebrate not necessarily the bible version – but the home made one
Full of pie and rosy cheeks with laughter being a main part of the entire sum!

Kiss and Tell

I have always had an inkling that I was slightly bashful
I do not mean like one of the 7 dwarfs for whom red goes hand in hand with face,
I mean regarding all things bodies and scatological I would rather bury myself in wool
Than have to face a conversation where gas is discussed, and candles and lace.


Do not mistake me for an innocent naïve young girl
For unfortunately I have been aware of the birds and the bees
for more years than my therapist would deem safe for me not to hurl.
Far from being a discreet way of life, the tune they sing surrounds me and the seas.


I appear to be the friend with whom all topics are safely broached
The Spanish friend who is English enough to carry the dead pan-non-judgmental face
In order to listen to all things hairy, lumpy, bumpy, scary and loathed.
Whilst I shrivel up and die in the name of my friends, they beam and think I am ace.



I think it is my height…
I think it is my big hands and wide shoulder span…
I think it is because my forehead must have “Speak to me” across it in a neon light.
In the end, I s’pose it’s ok…to have so many people spill their innards and be my fan.


Confronted with a family in female majority
Who see no problem in being relaxed with their nakedness,
I embrace future years of therapy which will end in realizing my stance in the minority,
Further accentuated by a Bulgarian roommate who shared the need to cause me mental mess.


My mother who plans to gallop off to a forest when done with society
Once shot at me what a prude I had become!
I am no such thing, just not Spanish in the airing of my opinions via my lung!
I merely deadpan my way through the English culture and keep the frills and lace quite mum.


As much of a prude as I may be, like I said, the questions come rolling,
Mind bogglingly so, the answers nearly innate
The forth right friends delighting in making me cringe
Whilst I think about the catholic upbringing in which I didn’t partake.


Our future, it brims with plans
To find that one perfect man, to find our Hans.
We must think about family and houses and kids
As well as not forgetting to fight for out Mr Right - to put in our bids.


Regarding procreation one must think like an animal
Mix with the best and create the best.
‘tis a simple rule to follow to survive in the jungle that is the city mall.
Not accepted are: big noses, gangly limbs and worst for the girls – a hairy chest!


These factors must all be considered when planning the future
And I must assume the fact that all things birds and bees will continue to surround me,
And the outspoken friends will still have sexy conversations whilst my ears I shut with a suture
Really, ‘tis pitiful to admit and actually, please note it verges on hyperbole – but for heavens sake the need to flee is quite innate.


I have an active ban on all things pooh-pee-fart-scab-bump-internal-external related
But like I said, I hold more information than most on causes and solutions as well as exclusions
I also believe in the closet non prude who will leap forth one day – though perhaps belated
But till then I will continue to regale in the tales of those less bashful and contribute my astounded and giggle laced wails…


And I assure all I had the furthest from a sheltered childhood, but appear to have decided to be a discreet one for the entire brood,

The question here is how many years before I lose that air
The one that allows me to surprise all and speak filth sometimes, but still maintaining my innocent flair?

Vivacious, Curvaceous and Delightfully Unfashionable

In the 1600’s or there about
the ideal woman was full and curvy,
I hear you say, “full of chub and grout”
But no, ’twas the fashion to be round, but now the females, they’re tipsy turvy.


The fashion, it states all are to be slim
and pretty and dainty and clean (or at least keep the white powder on the down low),
The fashionistas, state all are to be taut, forever young and prim -
Ahh… tis here we hit the crack pot and see ‘tis like a salmon and hard to follow the flow.


The elite world of fashion was once just that, a special club
that invited none and certainly did not cater for those not sporting celebrity blood.
But now the days have changed and all strive for that special club look
the one that is worked, perfection and threatens all who pine for the fashion book.


This era is one where we search for all things greener, better, leaner -
but let us not mention grass as this stopped being hygienic and ‘cool’
And turned into a dirty reminder of all things French or German…good heavens society just got meaner…!
Alas, we speak of laser depilation as one step into perfecting the imperfection that is the future life-pool.


By god I believe we’d all relish being smooth, sleek machines!
No more hair between
the brows (you dirty lot, I know what you’re thinking – though that as well is no longer hot),
‘tis wanted and needed a pleaded to have all things unattractive not seen.


We must ask the question though,
and this, it reminds me of the subject I did fail –
Of who draws the line at attractive and not, who decides when to stop and go?
Have we not turned into fashion’s sheep and follow mindlessly till the day it works not and all we can do is wail?


How did a fashion show turn into a human show?
How did loving your clothes and Chanel turn into having to nip and tuck and stretch and fetch?
How did predicting the trends turn into the infamous need for a trout pout and caring if They got too low?
Cosmetic surgery has turned into our greener grass, our holy water to right all wrongs and be our rose tinted sketch.


As a young bean I was all for lipo
Figured it would solve a lump or bump or six,
Digital TV being a blessing in disguise showed me how a vacuum cleaner in ones thigh actually verges on the psycho!
Nothing ought to be plunged in and out of one’s fat, never mind ones leg – even if it does mean a quick fix!


Though I preach from a wrinkle free stool,
I’d say the same to all pulling their eyebrows up an inch, right a bit, left a lot
Botox yes, staple some more – ahh my dears they are the secret tool.
I’d rather shine for my personality than because some hair got caught in the latest stapled knot.


Alas we always seek another to blame and for this we have the industry,
Not the red light district one, but the other reigning our very lives.
We have succumbed to the pressure and cannot see what life would be
without the fix of surgery.
We must relearn to love our wrinkles, laughter lines and saggy vibes.


Though, and I tell you in all confidence,
There was a case of a woman whose eyelid muscles gave way
leaving loss of control on shutter up, shutter down.
Thus in this occasion, though I did giggle, one cannot help but admire the surgeons who with some dental floss quickly fixed the drooping lid and saved the day!


Suffice to say my dear lot,
That fashion and surgery rule enough
For them to also influence in self love,
Do not seek out the trout pout, vacuum cleaner making leaner machine
Or the nipple raiser – which is actually just a visual effect –
Leave the pain for jollier things such as giving birth – which by the by I’m not doing due to a horrifying story – I think I’d rather join a sect!


Let’s concentrate on loving the fashion world which errs on the unstable
at a distance fit for reveling in and enjoying our crow’s feet.
And let all surgical fixes remain just a fable
as we all breathe in, go back to the top and repeat...

"Love your Immune System", by the Bleach Boys

I am not someone that can be described as being OCD clean. Call it what you will but, being obsessively tidy or clean or organized is just not what I do – in comparison with the majority of my Spanish girlfriends that is. They clean and dust and arrange their bedrooms and given half a chance mine too. They iron their clothes and I mean all of them, not just the ones that need ironing as they can’t pull off the wrinkled look… and to top it off, they iron their sheets. Regarding sheets, I’ve always figured that once you roll around on them for one night, bob’s your uncle! They’re wrinkle free. But the Spanish way declares otherwise and thus makes me look like I shouldda been a boy sometimes…but a clean boy.

I live in what I like to think of as an organized disorganization. My mum says I spread. But when I’m not spreading myself about the house, I have piles of clothes crowning every surface of my bedroom, but I know what is in each pile and I would like to add, they are clean piles of clothes. The worn go into the washing basket, there’s no two ways about that. Unlike a close friend of mine who happens to be quite a boy; I watched him rummage through a pile of clothes on the floor (mine would never be on the floor), sniffing t-shirts until he happened upon one and exclaimed, “That smells amazing!” I looked up expecting to see roses fluttering out of the sleeves and he looked at me and said, “I mean, it smells clean.”

You see, the end of my jaunt around England lead me in the direction of Plymouth for 2 days to visit one of my best friends. A boy, who we’ll call R. One with smelly inclinations, apparently. Not his actual self being smelly, but more so his surroundings.

I’ll start from the top shall I? One of the friends R. and I have in common visited him for one night this past September, thus meaning the reputation of the house he lives in preceded him. I was told it was dirty, to put it simply. When I found this out I nearly cried. I may not be obsessively clean, but bad smells and the hint of unhygienic are enough to turn me into a Stepford Wife. I spent a week or two beforehand making it very clear to my friend that I needed clean sheets. CLEAN SHEETS. I did not care what the rest of his house was like, but I was banking on the fact that he is fully Spanish and was hoping his mother had drummed enough of the basic hygiene code into him that 4 years of living at uni. hadn’t destroyed.

I got a wonderful surprise when he declared that part of his rental contract was a cleaner and she was cleaning a few days before I arrived. Somebody in the sky clearly loved me. Or did they?

I walked in to find my friend’s room smelt of boy, but panicked not as one morning of girl deodorant and perfume would sort that out wonderfully – also, me cranking open the window 2 seconds into my visit worked a treat. I then got introduced to the sitting room where the TV was on and rumour had it a human abided. I saw a pile on one of the sofas move and out emerged a head from a hood and a sleeping bag. Housemate no. 1.

The boys had decided that instead of working with the confines of a small kitchen, as most would do, they would move half of it into the sitting room. Behind the sofa housing the hooded housemate stood a work surface with plates, chopping boards, cutlery and in one corner a big old fridge humming the cold tune of its life.
The bathroom made me cry inside. The wallpaper was peeling with sufficiently obvious and dirty looking dampness that made me consider strapping on the pair of balls passed within the women of the family, and ringing the local council, but the boys weren’t bothered and I was going home. I was going home…I was going home…I was going home…but before home came the fact that they had run out of toilet roll that same day and so were using kitchen roll. My lady skin puckered at the thought.

They did not have any hand soap in the bathroom. They did, but they didn’t. The options were a bar of Dove soap that after having been poked at with one tentatively wet finger turned out to be made out of plastic, or was just old. And the other option was washing up liquid… I bought a little bottle of hand sanitizer. I also had to buy myself a towel as my friend is friendly enough that for guests the option is to drip dry whilst wearing his bathrobe. I bought a towel and shower gel that smelt of clean girl and took my contacts out so as to revel in my short sightedness.

My friend showed signs of offense at my snotty behaviour towards his house, saying, “We’re not dirty!” I do love my friends and hate confrontation and love to keep things on a generally good level, but it had to be said, the house was filthy. My feet stuck to the kitchen floor, making me think of everything but fudge; it smelt of unventilated boy and there was all sorts of crap in the sitting room; the sofas were used as dumping grounds for objects ranging from cardboard boxes to suitcases – all being ignored and being sat/lay on – to humans. I found myself taking a deep breath and joining the latter category as we spent an entire day watching TV – I love English TV...sacrifice ending with a rash for TV? It sounds like love to me.

I would also like to point out for the sake of pointing things out, that I sat through a game of rugby and a Star Wars episode. Am sure that information will work in my interest one day....

Everything happens for a reason…I can only assume my visit to an all boy house was to strengthen my immune system – and show me what a darling my friend is, and that living in a clean environment is not all! (I feel as though am lying, but it has to be said: on this occasion living in a mess does not reflect on the good core of who this boy is. His heart is clean, at least.)

The end of my jaunt around England has made me think in a summarizing manner, my English professors would be proud. But with my adventures coming to an end, for now, I cast my struggling memory back and review my stay.

One thing that stands out is that my friends are all growing up. I do see how I can be thrown into that group as well, I certainly am not going backwards, but given that they are in their final year at uni. and I still have one more left, they feel more grown up than me. I have friends planning husbands and children and the sharing of houses for life AFTER uni. and just before married life. I have friends applying for jobs and thinking about life AFTER university – which just confuses me ever so slightly as I am still unsure what country that means for me…and whether life after uni. even really exists.

So given that everyone was mixing uni. with future lives involving husbands, jobs, kids and the sort, I went and had coffee with a possible candidate for a husband. A fiend of mine, not somebody that answered my ad. – which funnily enough is not having as much success as I thought it would. Suffice to say I do believe we shook hands over getting married, with some financial parameters put into place; sort of, you earn ‘x’ amount and we’ll get hitched. Not the most romantic of engagements, but I feel as though I have done my bit regarding the thinking about of my future in the realm of marriage.

And the job, well, a 9-5 office job would probably bore me to tears and threaten my sanity, so for the best part, I’d say I’m on it…watch this space.

Fannying about England has been great fun, it has done wonders for the recycling of my current life; topped up my reserves of ‘ummph’ to keep me going for a bit more; made my immune system stronger and has apparently landed me a husband. I couldn’t think of a more successful trip actually!

Mission DIY Bread Machine

Everyone loves bread. But still everyone spends their time talking about how carbs are bad for you, mustn’t eat carbs blah blah blah obese blah blah weight watchers blah blah etc - but everybody loves bread. Even the English language supports the eating of bread: “Best thing since sliced bread…” Well, with such a topsy turvy week of travelling and visiting people I have found that toast has been the answer to nearly all my problems and a good one at that. Anyway, everybody adores bread to such an extent it has even been slipped into the English language. It’s got to mean something, surely? Even if it doesn’t, it got me thinking about a bread machine experiment my family and I have been living lately.

We jumped on the bread band wagon and bought a bread machine not long ago. Got told it was terribly easy, tasted wonderfully and mixed up the usual eating routine thing. We thought it would be great fun to make our own bread – you know, to be self sufficient in this era of all things pre-bought and manufactured. My mother and I thought it would be wonderful to be able to infuse the house with the sweetly comforting smells of homemade bread…ahh to live the life of those running the real life version of House on the Prairie. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Women spent years baking and making bread and generally feeding their families from scratch. It couldn’t be that hard…could it?

Little did we know it had to be assembled. And who in the unit that is my mother and I, assembles things? Me. Since I was big enough to hold an Allen Key I was putting together all things Ikea and so the job was mine. But first we had to pick it up and rumour had it this was going to be to be an early morning, shoving house wives out of the way, racing down the aisles affair.

Before anything we had to scout for a Lidl – because this was the only place where one could buy a decent bread machine that was not going to cost us half a kidney.

Lidl found, check.

Found out it opened at 9am – or so we thought. Once there, we discovered it actually opened at 9.30…but it’s ok, we were there at 8.40 because we clearly had nothing better to do…and waited in the queue. With the old people and housewives.

In the queue we got to talking with a pair of elderly sisters and found out they had already bought a few of these bread machines and were chuffed. They said they spent all their time making and freezing bread and it was a delicious pastime. My mother and I licked our lips in silent anticipation and although my mother somehow had the energy to make small talk with these women, all I was thinking about was how to get to the door before them.

Suddenly the doors swung open and the queue crawled forward and whilst my mother was still very much deeply in conversation with one of the sisters, I dug deep into my memory and remembered the layout of Lidl – of which we had done recon. the day before, and whispered into my mother’s ear: you’re not here to make friends, we’re here for the bread machine! I sped off, skidding down the aisles and she followed. As if in slow motion I launched one of my hands out of the sleeve of my jumper and set it down with a slap on the nearest machine yelling SHOTGUN in my head, (I blame my boy cousin who’s re-implanted the shotgun way of life into mine). I hauled the machine under one arm and casually made my way back towards the cashiers, like the cat who got the bread making cream.

We arrived back home in time to have breakfast, flourishing our morning’s catch. We dumped it down on the huge chest freezer and left it there until we realized it was far too large to just stay there if not being useful. My mother and I looked to each other to see if we could decide what to do with the mass of food making machine we were suddenly faced with. The idea was so exciting, the mission was adrenaline creating and the mere thought of having large amounts of warm bread at our disposal was a taste bud, saliva gland prompting flood in the happening. But first we had to tackle The Machine. Eventually we did investigate the huge box it was encased in…

…and it wasn’t that bad actually. Were it not for the constant warnings of FIRE HAZARD, BEWARE - it all looked quite straight forward. Just, whip it out the box, plug it in, don’t set it on fire, bung ingredients in and off you trot. So long as we didn’t set it on fire. After having read the entire instruction manual, and please note that I don’t usually read instruction manuals unless it has all gone terribly wrong and actually the only answer by then, should be to send it back to the manufacturers...well, I tried and I read them this time and the effect was panic. I was scared to have one of the menopause hot flushes I’ve been kindly given by female family members for fear it would catch fire…but it all seemed quite straight forward and easy.

Got the ingredients, put them in, chose the programe – figured I would make a sweet loaf, pressed the on button and walked off. I couldn’t help but come back and visit the machine a few times but the internal condensation was making it hard to see and it was making noise, so I figured it was ok…until 2 hours into the 3 when I realized it was too hot. The machine was sporting a very high temperature and I panicked. I had to turn it off at the wall and leave the lid open and then realized that it had in fact not been mixing and what I was staring at was a huge mass of warm wannabe dough. With raisins. Making bread and being like the people in House on the Prairie was not as easy as it had seemed at first.

I’m one of these people that goes away and thinks about things and lets all the information make its way inside my head and then conclude. Yes, it would appear as a slow process and yes, many of you may be surprised to know I am actually not mentally swift, but it does happen…not all the time and not with everything, but it does happen. And so, a week down the line I figured out that that little bag holding two spare bits that looked terribly complicated and I had thrown back in the box - were probably central to the making of bread.

Turns out the spare bit was the one that would stir the mixture and actually help make the bread. I popped it in, put the ingredients in and this time realized that the liquids were supposed to go in at the end…another factor I had not taken in when I read the manual. The machine made noises and it fogged up again BUT with the difference that this time it did not appear to be running a dangerously high temperature and I prayed it would not burn the house down. If it had I would have pleaded temporary insanity due to overload of languages in the instruction manual. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. But I would have.

Out popped the bread, normal, looking great and it was warm and I had the butter at the ready. As my mouth watered faster than I could swallow my pre-stomach juices I peered inside the baking/mixing tin and realized I had lost that bleeding spare part that was crucial to the mixing and making of the warm, end result! I looked everywhere. Inside the machine, outside of it, down my top, on the floor, on the kitchen table and finally had the wonderful idea of looking at the base of the bread. And there it was. Deeply embedded within the fresh, warm and nearly perfect loaf I had just proudly flourished at the kitchen and all those within eye and ear shot. Grabbing a knife I dug deep, pulled the spare bit out thus ruining the centre of the bread and stared at it.
How on earth was I supposed to have put the rotating bit in the tin, short of super gluing it to the spot – but then it wouldn’t have spun…so how on earth was I supposed to have put the rotating bit in the tin?!

A few weeks later, once the information had made its way through my not so very swift mind, I still had no answer. And I still do not. I make bread. And the bread comes out with a 5cms by 5cms piece of metal that helped make it and at the same time, helps destroy it. But dammit, I make bread. And anyway, perfection would be boring.

An Immigrant’s Rain Soaked Heart

Immigration is on everybody’s lips these days. I’m not referring to falling in love with an immigrant, or kissing immigrants being the new ‘in’ thing. I mean immigration is a topic being widely discussed in the media and around the media and depending in which city you live, it’s around you - full stop. I’m an immigrant. But I don’t really count do I? Or do I? And before you all ring immigration control, since I know the UK is deciding to limit entries – I do have British citizenship thank you very much…just with a touch of Franco-Hispanic pallid complexion-ness thrown in.

Now that I’m an expat, (or a fake expat really, because it’s me going back to my point of origin but leaving a rather surprisingly big chunk of rain soaked heart in the UK), I am the embodiment of all things English. I have turned into a firm believer of Sunday lunches, though it only stays as a thought as trying to push a full roast in front of my family would probably not go down too well, not to mention what my thighs would have to say on the matter passed a few weeks…I was always into tea, so that hasn’t changed, but also it tastes quite different, a lot more watery and just simply does not even compare in colour. But tea it is, not to mention toast and I am still hunting for the Rich Tea biscuits…

I live in Spain where the weather is fair and the food is olive oil and the nights smell of wintery pine trees and the drivers are crackpots, but that’s beside the point. I live in Spain where the rhythm of my life is so much calmer and for the first time in two years I am being looked after and wrapped in a thin layer of cotton wool (which involves a lot of food…may need to readdress the layer)– but all I can think about is the UK. Where on earth did the real, strong tea go?? And the toast and the take away coffees (the Spanish hook themselves up to an IV line every morning) and the humid African winds that sweep through Exeter (look, I’m an English student and it just sounds like a possibility) and the English friends who manage to make me look like a foreigner and the ones that are foreign with me and muddle along with the similar words that aren’t actually similar – though in our opinion they could be. ..

You have straight hair you pray for the curly. You live in the UK and dream all things Spanish… I am spoilt by choice of country, but somehow and without my noticing, my heart was won over a long time ago; my heart belongs to the god awful mix of colours that is the union jack. I have spent so many years denying the fact I was anything British (after having spent 18 of my 21 years here) to go and live back ‘home’ and discover I actually quite fancy the pants off England. Good heavens where did it all go so wrong? …is what I tend to think when I look at baby pictures, but in this case regarding ‘who’ my heart belongs to – for now. Other candidates do include Canada and Seattle, but that’s another story.

On this trip I arrived in England terribly stressed because I was made to check in my VERY SHINY, DESIGNER HANDBAG at the door of the plane, yes, Easy Jet turned anal and nobody thought to inform me. But anyway, God loves me and if he doesn’t somebody is paying him to love me as my bag arrived intact and still full of my crap. Riddled with stress and delay and wondering whether I would make my first of two coaches I careened out of arrivals and in a ray of godly light my eyes happened upon Marks and Spencers. Suddenly everything was OK and it was worth the extra stress of maneuvering my luggage trolley through the narrow aisles in order to get an M&S drink. I was happy, I was in England.

It was raining and I did look like I was sporting a small afro on the back of my head…but I was in England and I was happy.
The coach arrived and the coach driver was a bit of a mad hatter with a cockney accent and whose biggest concern was the fact that “that silly bugger didn’t time it proper and get me a cuppa tea” – it was perfect, I was home.

The second coach journey was the longer one and the driver was the madder one. He stood at the end of the aisle and yelled instructions to us all, along the lines of “no seatbelts means a fine, alcoholic drinks mean a fine, no loud music or you’ll be physically thrown off the bus, no round fruit on the floor or it will roll down the coach… ”etc. He also said that should there be an emergency or fire or smoke that he would be outside and recommended we all follow.

One woman who looked a tad Eastern European, but we were after all near London and everybody lives near London (and I love it and miss it dearly), so she could have been from anywhere and actually, it is beside the point. She said she did not take kindly to his shouting at her. He looked dumbfounded for a split second and said he was not shouting at her, rather just, near her. She answered nothing. The driver began to drive, pulled out of the bay and the woman stood up. The entire coach turned to look at her with baited breath…she swore and announced she did not feel comfortable on this coach and demanded to be let off. The guy sitting next to me, who smelt like he had had an eventful evening hosted by Jack Daniels laughed and called her a “silly cow”…friendly British men. Love it less? The driver pulled back in, it was like a small moment of ground hog’s day, and let her off.

The journey began through an Indian ghetto and then an Orthodox Jewish one and I couldn’t help but smile, this was perfect, this was what I was missing and this, by the by, was exactly where I would never live, but would like to know it could exist…if to be seen at a distance and through bullet proof glass and – alright, so I’m just being spoilt about my choices of country.

Eventually the group of teenagers behind us piped up and expressed their deep love of musicals, hard drugs and desires to be on Broadway. I believe they are the future of our drama students. The guy next to me and I giggled throughout…it was legal eavesdropping as they were being so ridiculously loud and open about their lives…personal and not. Extroverted English teenagers without knives. Love it.

Eventually the coach journey came to an end after having been offered neat drinks by the guy who, according to him, had rolled straight out of nightclub IN DHUBAI and gotten a plane to the UK – and so was medicating himself with hair of the dog and a half. But I was back, I was in my uni. town and not even getting intoxicated by proxy due to his outstanding breath, was going to ruin my rain soaked moment.

The weather was awful, the rain pelted down and the not so drunk guy, (who by the way, had absolutely stunning ocean blue eyes and clearly worked out), told me that the forecast for the weekend was storms, gale force winds and crazy temperatures. I effed and blinded under my breath thinking about my hair and whether I had the appropriate clothing for the week…Turns out I’ve missed the British rain and wind and short dark days, turns out I’ve missed waking up with my hair so curly it’s formed a mushroom shape around my ears and turns out, that right now, I would forgive England anything.

It’s called a honey moon period. I give it a week.

Not Over Till the Polar Bear Sings

We all know “…the End is Nigh!” as the old man crack pot in London’s Oxford Circus so kindly bellows forth with the help of his megaphone. Let us quickly say that whoever sold him said megaphone ought to be shot. Not to mention, actually, the fact that the local borough which I imagine is The London Borough of Shopping, ought to have the man removed if not for harassment then for noise pollution. Really, he is there day and night, come rain or shine; he can certainly get points for commitment if nothing else. In fact, if not removed for polluting the ambience then at least for being a danger to the mental stability of many – that man is constantly telling us we are all going to burn in hell and there is little except kiss his small little toe, that we can do about it…it is depressing on a good day. But he is conveying the ever popular announcement that the world is coming to an end and one way or another we are all due for a roasting.

I am not talking about your next holiday in the sun, no. Though I must admit when somebody says burn I think summer, since, the summer only brings burn (and then a crispier than would be wished tan, but a tan none the less). Though along the same (tan) lines, I am talking about the ozone layer, the melting of the ice caps, polar bears, deforestation, CO2 emissions and all things very much pointing to the red and not sufficiently green. Thus “The End is Nigh”. Apparently. I say apparently as the end has been near for as long as I can remember and frankly, if the end was so “nigh” at least 15 years ago wouldn’t it have arrived already? I am not pooh poohing Global Warming – it’s just that the whole thing feels a bit like crying wolf. The polar bears would disagree, of course.

For years now we have been recycling religiously, or some of us anyway, only to find out on one good day that actually it all gets shipped off to some island a millionaire ‘lost’ and it just sits there…no doubt catching fire every so often as the rubbish rubs against each other causing friction and burns (really, I could have been a scientist had I put more effort into learning the periodic table), thus polluting the ambience and sending it all from where it came. The end is so nigh, it’s just an island away. But we’re not really doing much about it, are we? Nobody really wants to rock their own personal boat too much…think of the water damage.

People say Global Warming, I think deodorant. Not because I am obsessed with all things good smelling, but because I have been told and also done my fair bit of telling, that spray deodorants are a bad idea and only harm the environment.

It took me a while to realize how spraying something into the pit in my arm could somehow find its way out and make a bee line for the harming of the environment…but I got there eventually. And now we do not use spray deodorants, do we? Well, if only Spain manufactured the right kind of deodorant in the right kind of format then we wouldn’t be forced to sometimes partake in a little bit of spray and not so much tickle, would we? Actually deodorising has now turned into a bit of a hell, not Oxford Circus hell, but awful none the less – it just attacks my conscience, but I tell myself I’m doing it for the good of all those that surround me…The usual excuses we throw our way to ease our dodgy doings. But really it is a case of one spray for me and less raindrops for mankind. Google it.

It is all BS of course. We tell ourselves all sorts in order to carry on living the way we do. We carry on destroying the world we live in; we carry on crippling it without thinking about the repercussions. It’s like feet actually. We put them in awful shoes, we don’t take care of them properly and often, a lot of us do not actually like them and talk about and think about and refer to them, in a disgusted manner. Poor feet. Poor world. Without both we would have no support and would not be able to live and enjoy life the way we do now. Mental note: must acknowledge the Help, learn to not be snooty and realize all it does for us….all it does for us…

We complain about the topsy turvy weather but do we stop driving cars and emitting all that dodgy gas – am not talking about bean induced anything – am talking CO2. We all complain that the summers are getting hotter, insufferable even and the winters are getting colder and icier and snow falls where it dared not before. We complain, or think about the tan, but still we do nothing. We act selfishly, thinking only every so often about how the fact that we are slowly destroying our world affects us, never mind the rest of the beings we share the Earth with!

The Polar bears for example. I say polar bears and you think Zoo or fluffy toy or somehow and inexplicably, you think perfume – don’t worry, it happens. But as we warm the world in the least romantic sense of the word, we are also melting ice caps; “Yeah but there’s loooads” you might say. It doesn’t matter how many chunks of ice we have floating around on some other part of the world, what matters is that we are melting them and they didn’t used to be melted. Cue problem. Polar bears live on the ice caps and when they melt, they drown. There is no simpler way of putting it. Why do we care about polar bears? Somebody has to and there are a whole bunch of us somebody’s to do it. We should want to take care of our home, even the chillier bits. And since we are on the subject of ice caps/bergs and the sort, umm can somebody please talk to the Middle East and neighbouring countries, to stop dragging ice bergs all the way to their country to make ice and water – surely the freezers work the same there and there have been so many advances with filtered water…come on guys, let’s not be extremist here.

We can only try and be more informed and try and care more and hope that one piece of information we digest changes our perspective for us and hits the Environmental nerve, and does so soon. When I was younger I thought, well, if the world comes to an end or the petrol runs out, because god forbid I would have to walk places, then it will clearly happen when I’m already dead and I won’t have to live it. Sorted. I am a little older now and perhaps not so much wiser, but certainly more informed and I think quite differently.

Apocalypse, 2012, Independence Day (am not just naming films, look beyond the cinema), “…the End is Nigh…” man – they all point us in the direction that the world is going to change and we will have to like it or lump it. OR help make the transition easier by becoming more informed about how it is better to spray perfume inside a sealed off room with recycled air (I am waaaay ahead of you all), just to keep our world ticking for a little longer.

Fear not, this was not a blog to depress you all into environmentally friendly hibernation, it was to give you a heads up because the fashion industry is about to change: the cold will get colder, thus cuter, more attractive ear muffs are due out – I can only hope the same can be said for hats as till now they have done nothing for my face; the hot will get hotter and I can only recommend you do not go out and buy a new bikini or somehow a fashionable pair of Speedos (?!), but perhaps a head to toe wetsuit UV insulated, because the burns will burn more; the rain and the ice will come trundling our way and for that I can only suggest you learn how to swim if you, or turn that old tin tub into a boat fit for a cramped King. Because also, there exists an environmental catch 22 in that the water of the sea is now infected with gases and other awful ingredients and so when it rains it rains worse than acid. It rains the disappearance of our future.

Dress it how you like, but damaging the World is becoming highly unfashionable and you ought to jump on the band wagon before you’re left straggling “..in the pits of Hellll!!”…I wonder if the Oxford Circus man has a family?

Von Tramp Family and the Kitchen Sink

We went to the Algarve this past weekend. You’re thinking sun, beach, surfers, bikinis, bare essentials and just enjoy life, aren’t you? Well not quite, at least not when you’re travelling with my family. And the cat. You see, we do not only think about taking all plus the kitchen sink, but we actually take the kitchen sink and everything else that could possibly go with it. And by ‘we’ I mean my family. I take absolutely no part in this whole travelling like wandering-street-tramp-thing; bags a go go, Tupperwares of food – because you know, nowhere else sells food if it’s not near your house – a hundred different plastic bags of differing sizes and contents…Really, my childhood has traumatized me because this was what it was like travelling with my mother. And bless her shin-high cotton socks, she believed and still does, in an outdoorsy kind of life – but this healthy outlook on life no doubt, inevitably and painfully, means taking with you the kitchen sink and looking like the Von Tramp Family who’s out for a weekend breather.

The worst thing about this is that my aunt went to work and had left me in charge of getting last minute things, like the fridge things and the Tuperwares and a few other bits and bobs. Leaving me with a list (which I misplaced) and leaving me with my rising dread and filling up yet more plastic bags. I did tell her at one point she was not allowed to ring me if it meant adding more items onto the ‘To Take’ list. With the stress upon me I loaded the car trying hard not to think about the unloading if and when we arrived at our destination. And perhaps the icing on this Von Tramp trip was that we were taking the cat. Cat, not car. This meant litter box, blankets, defrosting fish in one of the umpteen plastic carrier bags…really, when I have children, they are each taking their own little rucksack full of whatever they may need along the trip – none of this multi tasking mummy with hundreds of spare nappies, wet wipes and Kleenex in her (might I add, already very full just with me) handbag; each child will carry their own wet wipes, emergency underwear etc – it’s how to keep the troops hassle free and clean.

The cat was a Saint. She sat and dribbled on my sweat pants the whole trip there, whilst we acted like crazy people and spoke in that stupid voice people reserve just for animals and which they probably tune out from the word Go.

Going to the South of any (hot) country inevitably means tourists, expats and a live scroll through the catalogue that is Caravans and Motor Homes from passed decades to the very present, very now and actual Mercedes ones. Mercedes, indeed. Hey, look, they recession is hitting everyone…first it was the Smart car they added onto their fleet and now Motor Homes – nothing to be ashamed of…everyone’s gotta grit their teeth and make a living! Passing that slight hiccup in the car industry we are now faced with the fact that all tourists are English tourists. Really, it was like a breath of fresh GB-number-plate-air from home. The English go wherever there is one more day a year than the UK that is scheduled to be sunny and allow a BBQ. Other than by the red fading tan lines criss-crossing their bodies that they insist on exposing till the dying day of the sun – be it evening or winter, you can spot them a mile off; they are the ones that buy huge quantities of ice, and bacon and bread for the morning after. The Brits like to gravitate towards all things slightly hotter than home as well as gravitating dangerously to the extreme right hand side-come-ditch of the road when driving. They make such an effort to drive so very not on the left or the centre of the road that without having seen the number plate, a Brit can be spotted by being the one shaving the flora by the roadside.

All things painfully expat aside, there were walks along the beach, drives along the coastline, lunch straight from the sea and coffee with rent-a-cat. We went to have coffee down an uninhabited, rocky road that would have spelt ones death had it been in London, but since was not, did not. It had a surfer’s gypsy van gracing its U-turn, with music and surf boards poking out the back as a very hench, tonk, toned woman painted the paneling of the back doors an-in-your-face, impossible to miss pistachio green. It’s the thing to do when you have a surfer’s gypsy van, didn’tcha know? Before we could order the IV of coffee – yes it tends to be that strong – I clapped eyes on the most gorgeous, softest, ball of fur. Clearly not talking about a Portuguese surfer dude as amount of general bodily hair allowed is strictly specified before taking on such a ‘cool’, water based sport. No, my eyes had landed upon the shiniest looking grey coat this side of Feline Fetish and before the poor thing knew what had hit him I was in his face making all sorts of stupid cooing noises and beckoning him over to where we were sat. The poor cat came running when I called, thinking it was food I offered. He soon realized that I am the sporter of the Famous Lap cats talk about worldwide, thinking it just a myth: the Magic Lap, the Comforting Lap and the Better-than-Food Lap. Soon he was purring away and digging his claws into my fleece whilst burying his head in the crook of my elbow. I love cats, I do, but I must admit, I felt thoroughly used. I mean, he jumped on top of me, had the time of his life for 45 minutes, never made eye contact with me and suddenly, just like that, decided he was done. He was so soft, but I felt so used.

All in all, even with my trauma of travelling like Tramp Bag Family and the worrying about the cat possibly frothing at the mouth and hyperventilating all the way south and the stress of unpacking the brimming car, the weekend was wonderful. I loved the fact that in November you can still walk along the beach and not be carted off to A&E with pneumonia; I loved staying in the little cottage with low ceilings and insects at every turn…yes, my nervous system did suffer ever so slightly with the centipedes, the woodlice that have clearly fallen into a nuclear plant since I was a little girl as they now have pincers on their behinds! As if they weren’t horrific enough before…and sharing a hot, steamy shower with a spider is not my idea of anything, not to mention having to sleep with socks so as to not step on creepy crawlies in the dead of night. This weekend reminded me how much I like to sleep in socks, if nothing else.

Leaving Lisbon was a blood pressure riser, the weekend kept it at a steady pace – but all improved with breakfast in the sun, windswept beaches and nights filled with real, actual, sleep. In between all this I taught the one eyed cat how to hunt all things insect; she did me proud and played football with a rolled up something or other and then saved me from a near death by flattening another. Though now she’s decided she’s done with humans and has refused all company for the past 24 hrs…Mythical Lap Overload? I think so.

It was a wonderful weekend, really. Well OK, the only thing I would have changed would have been to have only taken my handbag as luggage. Do not be fooled, a lady’s handbag holds all.

Fluent in Fashion?

Nowadays if you don’t know about fashion you are no-one. Fashion is a language in itself, fashion is a Right in itself and it has become terribly fashionable to talk about fashion. Actors (inside which I clearly include women, if not only women, but we are being PC), give the whole acting thing a go, dip their finger in that pot, maybe streak across a stage or two and then *drumroll* …Fashion! Suddenly they make the local, inter and national tabloids because they got on the wrong side of gale force winds and have (unwittingly) revealed their underwear thus causing a Fashion raucous. Not naming names, we are of course not talking about a Miss Watson of the Harry Potter Family, who is Burberry’s new face and Guerlain’s new face/scent. But it is this amount of fashionable noise they make that propels them swiftly to a catwalk somewhere between Home and Fashion Week Eastern Time, and thus lands them squarely in the palms of a fashion designer who will make their present and future very fashionable indeed! How many of you hate the word fashion already? Well, not enough by any stretch of fabric – myself included.

When I went to the wedding last week it made me think about the fashion world a bit; there I was dressed in what looked like a tye-dyed bit of the sky, next to a terribly shiny purple aunt and looking quite stunned at the enormous amount of people clad from head to toe in black. Sitting back on my heels I wondered where on earth my memo of the new black being black had been way-laid to. I thought about it some more as I kept catching glimpses of another brave soul not dressed in black; hers was an outfit boasting inspiration from a golden sunset, rippling with her fashionable non-curves and flashing a cheeky shoulder in the fashionable off-the-shoulder style hitting all catwalks and high street shops.

Apparently this season we are not just doing straight black, it is black with a twist and a stud. Rhianna has swept across our magazines and celebrity news channels, not to mention fashion weeks sufficiently enough that we all know how she rocks; with straps and studs and black and funky and sharp and so overly fashionable, only she can follow her style. We have tried though, we have bags by Cavalli: gold and stud and other accessories and shoes care of Jimmy Choo that are blinging up the black in a rock chick kinda way; as are Mango for those of us short of a few Jimmy-Choo-bob or two.

Fear not, ‘tis not all doom and gloom, United Colours of Benetton (UCB) are all things colour and mismatch in this world of ours. Although slightly in their own world, like me and maths and geography, politics, physics...well the list would be endless and would do wonders to highlight the downfall of the British education system (I can blame them, right? They’ll never come looking for me…) but instead, the colours of UCB serve to show us that you can do this season’s ‘slacks’ look in more shades than black, white, cream and charcoal. The slacks look by the way, is one being paraded by Chloé and popular singer/style icon Roisin Murphey. Team the slacks up with heels and you’re off. Sexy, smart-casual look down to a T. My only problem is the heels part…

Let me make a slight interval here and share with you something that my contact lenses and I have noticed recently: it is a common factor that we have running throughout the ages: We repeat stuff. I am a wise old bean, I know. It’s what 21 years, Google, parents, family members and more time spent reading magazines than living life has done for me. I have managed to realize that we repeat stuff. We repeat fashion, we repeat conflicts, pandemics, mistakes and successes, and we repeat life threatening situations or those that do not risk enough or do so too late. Perhaps it is an innate way of life to copy previous actions, something along the lines of better the devil you know than the one you’re not too friendly with yet – or something like that. Perhaps it is because we are scared of the unknown or do not have the courage to leap into something new and try and make a go of that. Perhaps some would argue that by repeating things what we achieve is to better them, make ‘em shinier than before…

Now, please, if there is somebody out there who can tell me what can be made shinier and better and more appealing by bringing back padded shoulder – really, I’m all ears. In my boarding school part of the uniform was a blaser. I, as previously mentioned am not petite and thus have the back of an athlete, or a working horse, whichever you prefer, so shopping for the uniform meant there was not a back span that fit me in the girl’s sizes. This lead to rummaging through the boy’s side, which also meant that the blasers were not tailored and THIS in turn meant I looked like I was the walking advertisement for the Under 16’s Female Rugby Team. And much to my utter amazement, the shoulders are back in fashion.

I love fashion, I do. You may think after reading this that I am against all things fashion and think we should all be clad in patchwork quilts. But no, I follow the fashion trends nearly religiously and find it interesting how designers combine the old and new, the black and the blacker and how a designer will suddenly unveil his or her new line for the season and call it the ‘Now’ and the ‘Future’ when in fact it is simply rewinding our eyes back to yesteryear [and their shoulders]. I was just shocked if not perhaps a tad disappointed to see we couldn’t do better than jazzing up black. Black suits, shoes, makeup and the dramatic effect is served. It does look good, it does look suave but is the real designer talent not reflected in the ability to wear colours and combine them with different lips and hair colours? Though quite frankly, considering that the ‘in’ lip is a red one, the outfit should be one that does not clash. In a catwalk a few weeks ago, if not a month, the front row was filled with big names in black, shades, pale/clean faces and red lips; were it not for the different dimensions of body (and shoulders), they all looked the same!

Fashion is about being individual, making a statement about who you are – not making a statement about how good you and your neighbour can share a look, it’s Boring and it’s Black. We all have idols because it’s nice to put your faith or like to think you put your faith in someone whose life is all over the tabloids and catwalks like a designer rash, but would it hurt to use our noggins every so often and try and change the patterns? Better said, ignore the patterns and make way for a new shade of black and - heaven-above-forbid - wide hips instead of wide shoulders? Maybe it’s my thoughts on the matter, or maybe it’s fashion food for thought.

Marry Me (Mafia)

First and foremost I must introduce the main theme for the blog today: marriage. And before you all get side tracked with the story ahead; I would like to announce that I was left with a deep yearning to be married. Now. I will have a wedding. It looked like such a wonderful party and everything was so beautifully decorated and the bride had a gorgeous dress and she seemed so happy…I want it. I don’t care if for a wedding one is supposed to have a groom, I will have a wedding and sort out the groom somehow. But in case I find no attractive mannequin, offers for a groom welcome by e-mail or mail order delivery and just a heads up, I do not suffer fools gladly.

Back to the actual wedding. The setting was stunning. It was on the grounds of a manor house dedicated to celebrations; the gardens were extensive, the peacocks were numerous(yes, they’re the new turtle doves, didn’t you know?), the main house was a huge dining room with candles at every corner and framing every stone column. Just beyond the French windows a petal scattered lawn stretched out, dotted with elegant wicker garden furniture, little tea lights marked wood carved ornaments and even a section with a bouncy castle and foosball tables had been set up for the children. And by children, I mean me had I had not been wearing a flouncy dress and see-through tights…the bouncy castle was the only thing I have pending to do and am considering buying myself a private one. For my garden. Just for me. To bounce on all day long.
Games aside, the area where the celebration was held was a lovely little secluded spot down some absolutely horrific steps. There were a lot of women at that wedding, therefore a lot of heels, stilettos and humid if not a tad muddy grass. What is wrong with all those put together? The puncturing of the grass with the heel and thus the sinking of the woman with every step; one minute you’re 6 foot (in my case), the next you’re back down 4 inches, it ends up looking highly ungraceful and like human bobbing apples. Not to mention the state we must have all left the grass in by the end of the evening; something like a football field after all the players and their studded boots have pounded on it for a while. Me in heels is already an ordeal - I turn into this skyscrapingly tall woman tottering about, having to bend down just to shake people’s hands and crippled within the hour as my toes have splayed and my feet flattened and suddenly take up thrice as much space as before. Every step is one in the direction of self hate towards my feet. Not to mention my calves, they are used to gym exercise, not this muscle shaping, tension building continuous umpteen hour cramp! So when I can, I lean. On anything, anyone and even if it means leaning the tiniest bit of my ass on the tiniest corner of ANYTHING I will lean so as to take the weight off one heel at least.

After the ceremony the guests had the opportunity to sit up near the dining hall on the deluxe wicker chairs, after having taken a trip to the open bar, sorry did you not catch that? It was, Open Bar, and await those floating from table to table daintily putting aperitifs near your lips so as to tempt you with the varied and fine cuisine. I kid you not, the waiters were top notch. (Shant be giving out the name of the catering company or manor house as we have not yet agreed upon the commission.) My aunt sat and spoke to another guest there, who happens to have won at least one (if not two) gold medals for running (super fast). And since I do not speak Portuguese, (the wedding took place in Portugal) I found little to add to the conversation since like I said, I don’t do Portuguese and I certainly don’t do running…last time I ran was in 2005 and it was in London, for a bus and I fell, scraped my knee and still have the scar. Nur does not run. And therefore my eyes wandered to the guests and their attire. It would seem black is the new black. Black for a wedding, really? That’s just a little wrong, surely? There my aunt and I were, her clad in (sophisticatedly) shiny purple and me in a short blue silk dress (which by the way had a thick silk lining that was doing the best job it knew how at oppressing my chest. I felt like a eunuch. Not to mention the tights, have we mentioned the tights? Well, the tights were bought in Portugal in Portuguese and I do not do Portuguese. So I ended up, involuntarily buying ‘control’ tights. These are chubbiness controlling, ass squeezing and thigh converting into sausage tights. Absolutely horrendous, am still in shock and have no idea how some people wear these voluntarily. It took me about 20 minutes to put them on and I cut myself out of them at the end of the night. Between my chest, my lower limbs and feet…I was boxed in, up and moving very slowly. ) And so in case the oppression wasn’t plainly visible on my face, say, if you were near enough to me to see it, I was wearing half metre high heels. Suffice to say we stood out like two quite colourfully sore thumbs, or perhaps, me just plainly sore. Whilst everybody else looked like they were attending a funeral where laughing and joking and smiling were the done things. A few people took the dressed in black look a bit more seriously and added the shades, either in your face Armani or super Gucci…and stood on the borders of the crowds…with their arms crossed…looking mean…in fact, I think the Portuguese mafia were present at the wedding. Really, with so much corruption in the country I wouldn’t be surprised if we had Pedro DeVito and co. attending rather indiscreetly the countryside wedding. I did catch them glaring from guest to guest and can only assume there was some sort of silent turf war going on; “This piece of grass ain’t big enough fo’ yo’ boss ‘n’ mine!” sort of thing.

The supper was stupendous, the jazz player even better and when I stood up after the 8 course meal I realized I had been drinking wine and not water. The waiters at one point had also laced my Schweppes tonic water. And by laced I mean they put some gin in and I didn’t send it back. Thus clearly laced, and drank against my will. Clearly.

The drive home was in part through country lanes, you would think it would be a slow, meandering drive, wouldn’t you? But my aunt is a wannabe racer boy, so as we sped through the country lanes and the trees whizzed by in a blur of green I sat back in my seat (trying to ignore the fact I could no longer feel the last 2 toes on each foot) and listened as my biological wedding clock ticked. I will have a wedding, I will have a dress, there will be a groom but first, I must work on committing…tricky, tricky, tricky.

Lesser of Two Evils: Stress or Stress

Blonde, Sexy and Cannot cope with life if not severely stressed – it could be a pick up line for the Lonely Hearts adverts in the back of newspapers.
Or
Could not live without his darling stress.
Or
Beloved co-worker, Fellow Road Rager, Public transporter and Anger Management buddy: Died of a stressed heart.
These are a few examples of what people are going to start engraving on tombstones at the rate we are going. People are so stressed out they are losing their hair,their ability to match outfits, they are falling sick, losing shoes, they are depressed, over eating, forgetting to groom eyebrows, under eating, becoming insomniacs and generally losing their grip on the important everyday matters. Like which accessories go best with which outfit or how to dress like Chanel and not be bankrupt. It’s the important things in everyday life that we’re missing out on due to stress.

Take a leaf out of my book. When confronted with stressful situations, I find that the important thing is to not let the frustration build up, do not suppress it or bury it because it will only come back and bite you were it hurts, ten-fold. See, by not suppressing, I now partake in full on bilingual road rage. This means I am less stressed by the time I get home. But the other day, was a very stressful day and I kept it to myself – this thus meant that by the end of the day I had no patience and nearly castrated the taxi driver who finally took me home. Let me start at the top, to give you a better picture of what happened.
I was passing through security from Madrid to Lisbon and the usual, take your watch off, ring off, belt? No. Bag there, jacket is fine, laptop out on top of laptop bag etc. Quick glance from top to bottom and the security woman who had been watching me, told me to take off my boots. I passed through the archway and beeped. Stepped to one side and got rudely frisked, got told to take off my light jacket. I did so and turned to the conveyor belt to look for my things. The security guard that was sat there, was a pot bellied, balding one, masticating Rich Tea biscuits like he was a cow. He looked straight at my chest and accusingly, told me I was supposed to have put my laptop and its bag in different trays, which by the way would have left me carrying 3 trays – umm multitasking women anyone? So between the over dried biscuit rolling around in his mouth and leaking onto the corners of it and my gag reflex, now very much in full restraint, I told him his colleague had allowed me to put it through the machine like that. He swallowed some of the saw dust in his mouth and with a deep, condescending breath that somehow did not choke him, told me “It says so on the big wide TV over there.” His pedantic tone, receding hairlines and the crap rolling around in his wide open trap made me answer a bit more sharply than I usually would: “Well, your colleague, the one over there, the one who watched me strip, said nothing about the laptop.” I stood, half naked, and glared as he got his other colleague to pass my laptop through the machine again, whilst I wondered if it were an actual X-ray machine and not something out of Toys R Us, surely it would have x-rayed through the bag?! Instead I said nothing and controlled the gag reflex once more when the other one came back over with the laptop and breathed god awful sewer-come-old dog breath in my direction.
After having dressed myself I moved on, I needed a drink. I went and ordered a bottle of water, I know, I’m hardcore, and whilst I was there the beer barrel behind the bar exploded and I got showered with from top to bottom. Great. I would now smell like an alcoholic for the entire flight. I boarded the plane and considered walking right back off it. It looked like one of the Flintstones’ model airplanes and I fully expected to be asked to whip out my legs and run to get it off the ground. I did not have to, but I did have to get a bus to my aunt’s office in the city and then a taxi home. The bus was packed and my suitcase weighed a third of me and I don’t bench press any amount of my bodyweight, by the way. Nobody helped me because I look like a strapping young lass. Did I mention the bus was packed with men? Everyone was far too busy fiddling with their testosterone to help me, so I caught my finger in the wheel of my suitcase, swore at various people in English and deep breathed. The taxi driver didn’t know where my aunt’s house was and I nearly cried. Weren’t taxi drivers taxi drivers precisely because they were good at finding their way?! Apparently not. And he had a nervous twitch. He kept leaning forward slightly and sort of doing pelvic shuffles in his seat…I wondered who on earth I had gotten into a taxi with and felt slightly comforted by the idea that rage and hysteria were a more or less universal language and I was sure I’d survive the drive.
I got home, looked in the mirror, wished I hadn’t, rolled my eyes and sunk into the sofa. Good grief, I was never travelling again. Or perhaps, I should learn how to do stress control. Perhaps I should have disconnected from the little kid who sat behind me on the plane, sniffing through his cold and kicking my chair to the rhythm of my STRESS. Perhaps I should have been thankful I did not miss the bus into the city and even more thankful that the taxi driver was not giving me a detailed run down of his pelvic shuffles.
We allow stress to consume us at every turn, we allow it to encroach on our personal lives and perhaps most importantly and more often than not, on our sleep – or lack of thereof. The society we have formed is one of I want it now or better yet, I want it Yesterday!! Take away coffee is no longer seen as good handy thing for those who fancy passing the morning with the wafts of (Starbucks) floating around their office and giving them a gentle nudge for the day. No, take away coffee has turned into “I want 2 coffees to go, Now! Extra hot! Now now now!!!! I am running late! And I don’t even know if I’ll have time to drink it!” Just the thought stresses me out, and with such pressure for swiftness, the majority of things we consume do not go down well, as a result. The society we are used to is one where things happen quickly and if they are not happening, you think on the spot and find an alternative option – anything, so long as it is occurring now, this instant. Take the internet; chances are we all started with dial up and now all have the latest super duper speedy road runner-esque broadband, ADSL, faster than light – call it what you will – internet connection, yes? And when the page takes longer than usual or is desired, to load we start huffing and puffing. We double click, we shake the mouse about a bit, we refresh the page, we roll our eyes, tut, huff some more, refresh, swear under our breath, tut-refresh-triple click-WHAT IN F**KING PETE’S NAME IS GOING ON WITH THIS EXPENSIVE PIECE OF CRAP EQUIPMENT?!!! With all your tutting and breathing and clicking and momentary loss of control over your tourettes, to an outsider you look like you have just had a minor meltdown. All because, you had to wait 20 seconds – as opposed to 4- for the page to eventually load? You see? Stress of the society we have built around ourselves. We all need to take a breath, count to 10 and carry on. If we all did that, firstly, there would be less talking because we would all be counting, second we would be able to gain enough distance to be a bit more rational and third, people would probably get better at maths.

Nursery Rhymes and Prozac

“[Insert your name here] stole the cookie from the cookie jar!”
“Who me?”
“Yeah you!”
“Couldn’t be!”
You’re all enjoying a slow, widespread smile right now aren’t you? Remembering singing the song either as a child or singing it to your children/younger siblings/cousins etc, right? If your answer is No, then I do pity your childhood and suggest you do some catching up and go sit in your local nursery for a bit - with your hands clearly visible, right next to your credentials. Such a seemingly innocent childhood song that does nothing but make the time pass in a more enjoyable fashion, and depending on its use, allows the group to learn each others names…lovely.
Little did we know that singing this song at high volumes actually distorts our nervous system and has great effects on how we are able to lead our lives. This has been studied by the EUC D.N.D labs and results have been published recently. But like many important things that have been published and sent out into the whole wide world, (has anybody read about the killer swine flu vaccine being forced on people from all cuts of the earth?) little notice has been taken and the song is still sung. And the inherent sense of guilt is that which will accompany us throughout our lives. People say ‘chocolate cake’ and instantly you dab at the corner of your mouth to see if you missed a crumb of double chocolate fudge forbidden what-not, right? The fact there’s man in the middle of Oxford Circus bellowing The End Is Nigh For All Sinners!! Also does nothing for our sense of guilt. But, as the Church would say, we are all born sinners and life is our shot at redemption…make of that what you will.
I am not really religiously bent in any direction, nor do I think I was born blaspheming my way out of my mother’s womb though considering my foul mouth…it’s debatable. But I do have a feeling that I carry more of a guilty conscience than most. Though I have never done anything bad in my life. Actually, I lie. When I was 12 a friend and I stole a sweet each from the local pick ‘n’ mix sweet shop. I felt so terribly guilty that the minute we got outside I popped it into my mouth, chewed faster than I have in my life, swallowed it and stood with my mouth slightly ajar to prove there was nothing in it should the security man happen upon us. Half way through the town centre. Because he clearly had nothing better to do, like guard a shop. So I have a slightly hysterical guilty conscience?! Who hasn’t? Clearly you, I know. But when surrounded with life constricting things such as, the first year of one’s driving license in Spain, guilty conscience turns into a habit. You see, you are allowed to drive at no more than 90 kmph – which is about 55 mph. You’re all gob smacked, right? So apart from the life endangering fact that I drive in Spain, for now, I also find myself having been born from a family who drive at break neck speed everywhere. Even to the corner shop. Driving slowly does not factor into our family vocab. pool, and so going at 90 kmph is preposterous to even consider. Thus, I find myself spending the entire first half of my driving life looking continuously in the rear view mirror. My eyes constantly scanning for anything with flashing blue, or white with writing – which consequently meant I slowed down to the ridiculous law abiding snail crawl the other day until I blinked my contact lens back into place and realized it was a removals van, and not a riot police van making a bee line for me. It also does not help that for now I am the Family Car Tramp and am borrowing whichever of the Dulin fleet happens to be available for my travels; more often than not this means my granny kindly makes hers available to me. It also means that I am running from the police and praying for inconspicuousness IN A RED CAR. It is like an interactive game of Where’s Wally. By the time I get to my destination my nerves are shot through, and let’s not even broach the subject of parking, because since I got told that limping doesn’t count as a disability, can’t park in the disabled spot and have to make do with the narrower spaces like everyone else uses…I park with my eyes half shut and hope it works.
But really, I think it is something about authority figures. No, I have not gotten side-tracked and am talking about uniforms and their possible degrees of sexiness, I am talking about the guilty conscience that robs me of sleep. And keeps me from flying to the States. The umpteen hundred hours on the plane are bad enough, every time I go I swear it’ll be my last, but I love my family too much and so find myself just swearing. But it is the arrival into immigrations (and their uniforms, see? Still on track) that makes me so nervous my curls fall out and my hair straightens. You inch forward, slowly, as if gradually getting closer to meeting your doom, slowly, sweat snaking its way down your back. By the time you’re one person away from the Immigrations Official you’re trying to remember why you’re visiting this country, whether you have stolen goods in your bag - what if someone dropped some drugs into your hold-all when you weren’t looking? Who are you visiting here? Why? Are you sure they’re your family? Business or pleasure? Oh my god! I enjoy my job , does that mean I answer both?! Can I? Am I allowed?! Then they scan your eyeball and take a piece of your index finger’s soul as it is infrareded – and then they switch the lamp on, “all the better to see you with, my dear” but really you know it’s an interrogation! The sweat now blurs your vision and by the time they ask when you’re leaving, you answer Right now!! Where’s the exit? Can I just back it up onto the same plane I got off??!! I love my American family, but my guilty conscience and I have issues with Immigration. And driving in Spain. And sweet shops. Actually, shops in general. Every time I walk out of a shop I hunch my shoulders and sink my neck into my collarbone hoping I’ll become less visible in case I mistakenly stole something and put it into my bag without me realizing – because I would be mortified if the alarms went off. Embarrassed shade of red does nothing for my hair colour. There you have it ladies and gentlemen, the effects of singing in nursery. And Sunday choir on TV.
As afore mentioned, the EUC D.N.D Labs, and that would be, European Union Citizen Dulin, Nur, Dulin Labs, have recently published research showing that the singing of accusatory songs at a young age serve only to imbed a deep seated sense of culpability at all levels, affecting motor functions (i.e. driving) to saliva glands (I nearly choked on the stolen sweet). Our lives have become so hectic and we lead them in such an automated manner, that we no longer give ourselves 5 minutes to stop and think: where do our prime problems stem from and how could we prevent them? 5 minutes over, what have we learnt? Do not sing to Tomorrow’s Generation? Or sing slowly and think about it, instead of just spewing out the usual suspects.

Guns, Politics and Perfume

My mother recently got described as a hippy by a friend of mine. I laughed in her face – a little bit and then thought about it. She wasn’t a hippy. Granted sometimes the colour co-ordinations were slightly off centre, but then you could ask, off whose centre? And she does have small lapses when mixing crocs and stripy socks – but not enough to be described as a hippy. My mother and I, due to her, do embody all things green. We recycle, we buy organic, biological and if we could we’d be plucking things from the earth – and by ‘we’ I mean ‘she’. I draw the line in certain places and depending on who’s looking…
We’d be slightly sick in the head if we weren’t ‘all for’ world peace, of course we are, we just don’t spend the day toting the ‘love, peace and multi-colour’ sign, nor do we mirror the Asian tourists waving the two fingered peace sign (and camera). And though my mother does eat, wash and sleep all products eco-friendly/good for you and the world, I must admit I let the side down with cosmetics, perfumes, body washes, toxic waste deodorants (you use them too…) but heavens, I love smelling good and perhaps your last whiff of the world to be your very expensive, favourite perfume (which your mother described as smelling like toilet air freshener) wouldn’t be such a bad thing? What is bad on the other hand, is to discover that the good smelling world I inhabit has affected my already very sleepy brain cells. The perfume has gotten to me. Years of wearing more perfume than clothes has finally addled my brain and left me nearly permanently in a bubble filled of nice smells that draw a smile (and make one look a tad special perhaps.) Therefore I have decided that maybe I should step outside of my warm, fuzzy, pleasant on the nostrils bubble. So I read the news. Not the celebrity news, give me some credit – I save that for bedtime reading. I mean, hard hitting, private world destroying, nightmare creating news.
At the end of the day, by the way isn’t that such a silly saying? In the middle of the day, actually, our world is horrific. Everyone is always dying and bombs are going off, and we’re all going to be poor and living under bridges next time we blink, and don’t have kids and bring them into this world, and don’t pay your parking fine because you’re probably contributing to some sort of corruption, and if you’re not dying of old age already, you are bound to die tomorrow because the world is going down the very loo you’ve been told to sit on to not retain liquids or clean out your toxic colon- goodness gracious me. Why oh why would you not want to live in a perfumed world?? Even if it does smell of toilet air freshener. Why? Because of the power of politics, that’s why. Yes, I know, for all those close to me this last sentence has either left you reeling or you are sitting there wondering what stupid thing I am about to come out with. This is the girl who once said the crummy thing about communism was that sharing mascara was unhygienic and when asked whether she had an opinion about Obama having just been elected answered, I did, hang on, but I can’t remember it now. So yes, deep breath and read on. Politics, our choices and information or lack of- regarding both, can have quite impacting results.
Apparently I can vote already. Apparently I could already have been voting for 3 years. And in two countries. The fact I haven’t voted does not mean I see myself as politically atheist, I’d say it mixes in with geography and the end result would be ignorance. Plain and simple. Thus, upon informing myself a little bit, I quickly wished I hadn’t and realized why I live quite happily knowing N-O-T-H-I-N-G. What I did find out was that Spain is breaking the law a little bit; the country that’s known for its ‘siestas’ and ‘fiestas’ and ‘sangria’ and royal family in the Hello magazine every other week, is breaking a serious law, with seemingly no repercussions. Spain is 6th in the long list where (Hello Britons, you’re dodgy too) the biggest exporters of Arms are listed worldwide. Spain didn’t used to proudly occupy the 6th position, but like a socialite, it has climbed its way up the ladder and perhaps is the only thing it has achieved this year. Rumour has it - remember, I live wrapped in Lacoste smelling cotton wool. But through this cotton wool I have learnt that there is a law (that came about in 2007, about the Selling of Defense Materials and their Double Usage) stating that Arms should not be sold to countries where there exist feasible reasons that they could be used to perturb the peace, used in a manner opposite for which they were sold etc… (http://www.soitu.es/soitu/losdesastresdelaguerra.html). Following this, the somewhat extensive list of Guns and Stuff clientele are indeed countries that have rap-sheets longer than my already discussed very big foot, regarding Human Rights Violations and GBH in the style of Guns, Bombs and Hurt. Not good I hear you all chorus, no, not good. It is all happening under our noses and the frustrating thing is that no matter what perfume you wear, little can be resolved by us, the people. So from the safe vantage point of my good smellin’ bubble, I can only presume that what Spain did was vote for a President that said he would make sure the country would bump itself up in some kind of ranking, be it best tasting dog food or otherwise. And dammit it did. And it got aired on National TV. Ooops.
From this I have learnt that my stance of Ignoramus Maximus re. all things political is perhaps better. It appears that the other option would be a whopping headache. Don’t vote for this one, vote for the other one, but make sure he’s not lying or looks like he could sport the ‘guilty’ look well or actually just make up your own political party and hope your extended family supports you to make up numbers. Politics is another world with a language I do not speak and quite frankly think with the way my mind is wired, better not to try and learn. I have been shocked out of my comfort shell, my eyes opened that little bit more and slowly I gain a better view of our world. Guns, politics, human rights, perfume, chocolate, unveiling on national TV and somewhere in between a good old ‘Friends’ episodes to make it all easier to swallow. Short of getting up and ranting at some politician, who no doubt would have us tasered in seconds, I see the next best thing as becoming informed. Information is gold, it will make the world go ‘round and help us make better informed decisions. Not just about choice of perfume for the day.