LondonHeather

Journey back...

2012-02-15T21:29:00.000Z

This is where the scrapbook nature of blogging comes in. You see, this video is unlikely to grab anyone but me - but this is my blog and my little online repository where I can store things I stumble across and want to remember.

This video is powerful to me - you see captures one of my favourite childhood experiences, The Timewalk museum in Weymouth. As a child, I was obsessed. The concept is pretty self-explanatory - you travel back in time* and follow a path through various ages of Weymouth: plague, civil war, smuggling, regency, brewing to name a few, and each age is depicted by a small set with mannequins and period costume and mock artefacts and cats who tell you what's happening. Yes, cats - well known for their narrative skills and knowledge of topical matters.

Watching the video now, I realised that by current standards it seems a little cheesy and the production values are pretty low. But when I was an eight year old on my summer holiday by the sea, this captured my imagination like nothing else. This was the first thing I'd experienced that brought history to life, that helped me understand that history was not dull and dusty textbooks, but rather something genuinely like time travel. Okay, not actual time travel, but that finding out about the past is like reading a guide to another country. Except that rather than seas and landmass separating us, it's months and years and centuries.

And the cat narrators are, I believe, responsible for my love of social history - I got to hear how the average man on the street (cat in the alley?) saw things, what it was to live in circumstances I could barely imagine. I was fascinated by the accounts of everyday people bringing out their dead, or preparing for the Armada or bathing in the sea with King George. And as I got older, it was social history that continued to grab me - military history, political history, economic history are all interesting, but nothing spoke to me like social history. After all, social history is pretty much people telling their stories - and I love a good story.

It sounds over the top, but I really do not exaggerate when I say how much of an impact this museum had on me, sparking a love of history which would flourish at high school and eventually lead to my university thesis on the Black Death. And by the way, my favourite cat was Marmaduke Dance, the little Roundhead cat in the barrel. I even got my picture taken with him...as a fourteen year old. (I was so cool).

Me and Marmaduke

Every summer I would beg my parents to take me again. I think they rationed it to alternate years, which was just about enough for me, although I would've gone every year if I could. I was briefly in Weymouth three years ago, but didn't manage to get round to Brewers Quay. And when I looked it up last year, I was really sad to find out that Brewers Quay was being redeveloped, and the Timewalk closed for good. Such a loss! Think of all those historians-in-the-making, future generations deprived of a tangible experience of the past (or perhaps, a tangible-if-you-use-lots-of-imagination experience of time travel through an old clock).

So, I wanted to write this for my benefit, to remember and revisit and pay tribute. And I'm trying very hard not to wonder what happened to Marmaduke Dance, because if I think about it too much I get very sad.

*No actual time travel is involved. I was slightly disappointed on my first trip. But that was my only disappointment.

And so I think...

2012-02-04T16:32:00.000Z

So, I'm sitting, eating Cyprus Delights given to us from our lovely Cypriot fake grandparents next door, pondering the nature of things. Things being looks and beauty and self-esteem and body image.

Woah there Heather, that's a lot of things to be pondering, especially fueled by sugary treats!

I've been frustrated lately, angered even, by how much time I waste thinking about how I look. How my hair/clothes/face/body/skin/nails/image are just not good enough, in my opinion. Good enough to what? No, I don't compare myself with celebrities. No, I know that is foolish. Instead, I helpfully compare myself to every single woman I encounter. See, much more productive?

Anyway, I know this is nothing new in itself, either to me or to most women out there. But two things have occured to me. The first, as mentioned above, is the frustration at the amount of time I spend comparing and criticising. Ridiculous and unproductive - believe me, the fact that I know that to be true rarely stops me, but that's a whole other thing to be pondering. The second is about balance. And how, in my desire to distance myself from the peril of vanity and embrace the concept of beauty on the inside, I may have run too far in the opposite direction.

Let me try to explain. I believe and I know that looks are not everything. I know a lot of women, across the whole spectrum of hair style/looks/style/body shape, and all of them are beautiful to me. They may not all make the cover of fashion magazines, but I can see both inner and outer beauty in all of them. And I've learned too that boy does character matter. Beautiful characters genuinely do radiate out of women. And the converse is true, I think - I've met women who could appear in magazines but found their outer looks to fade and turn pretty plain when they've turned out to be rude or mean or selfish. So there we go. I am all about cultivating beautiful characters - integrity, kindness, love, peace, compassion, fun, silliness, intelligence - and I know that it's a much better use of my time working on those than fretting about outward appearance.

But, I've been wondering if I've been too dismissive of outer appearance. You know, so afraid that if I embrace a style or make-up or care for my appearance that BAM, I'd be trapped, bound by my clothes or my hair straighteners or my make-up, unable to feel comfortable without certain colours or items or looks. Plus, you know, I'm quite lazy - I like clothes and make up to a point, but I'm not particularly into fashion or trends or looking completely done-up every time I leave the house.

Yet, I've noticed. When I take a teeny bit of time to think about what I wear before I leave the house, I often feel freer. Because I know I look good. I feel more confident in myself. And, that I find is freeing - I forget what it is I'm wearing because it's working for me not against me. When I shove on any old thing, it's amazing how much time I spend in my mind wishing I'd worn something different, wishing I didn't feel so plain or so dull or so ugly or so...forgettable.

Now, I know, clothes are not the solution to anything (except coldness and nakedness) in and of themselves. Same for make up and hair and owning (and using) a pair of ghds. But, surely there's a middle ground - taking a bit of care, a bit of interest in my appearance without getting sucked into crazy vanity? Because really, I'm already there. I already spend tons of time critcising my outward appearance - so why not experiment and take a bit of time on it and see if, for the love of all things good and pure and right I can focus my mind on something other than me for a little while?

I know this is not revolutionary. I know I have a long way to go in so many ways. I know this is incredibly self-centred. But, this is my place to note down things I see and hear and think about. So here we are, early February 2012 - appearance isn't everything, but what if it's something - a little something - after all?

The graph...on the wall...

2012-02-03T20:11:00.001Z

I saw this today on the Guardian's Viral Video chart, and loved it. Not only is it wonderfully creative and pretty cute, it's also one of my favourite songs.

Enjoy!

New Favourite Song: On Battleship Hill by PJ Harvey

2012-02-02T18:20:00.002Z

This song has been under my skin all week. I'm a "distant" fan of PJ Harvey in that I've enjoyed pretty much everything I've heard of hers, but I don't own any albums. I LOVE everything about this song - the low rhythmic guitars, the steady beat, the delicate piano, Harvey's remarkable voice soaring this way and that, the deep, almost spoken backing vocals, the devastating lyrics, and how the sparseness crescendos into this incredibly powerful sound. Ah, so beautiful!

Slightly inappropriate song lyrics going round and round his brain

2012-02-01T18:09:00.000Z

This week we got a new hi-fi. It has a record player!

This week I learnt how to use a record player (as a child I was not allowed to operate ours - it was too delicate for my clumsy child hands).

This week I dug out all of my vinyl - a surprising volume considering I've never owned a record player. My vinyl collection is the result of hand-me-downs from my father, along with a hoard purchased from charity shops when I was a teenager/student. I went through a big new romantic phase and a big glam phase and a big punk phase - and of course, the ever present Queen phase - and since I couldn't find posters of Adam Ant or T-Rex or The Stranglers, I bought second hand vinyl and blu-tacked the record covers to my walls.

This week I have been listening to Billy Idol, Simon & Garfunkel, The Cult and Scott Joplin, all warm and slightly crackly-sounding.

This week the husband has mostly had "Flesh for Fantasy" going round and round and round his head. This makes me smile.

This is incredible

2012-01-23T09:00:00.000Z

360 Degree Project: ballet. (Click to watch video!)

And this is how I feel {a birthday post}

2012-01-19T20:54:00.001Z

Today I turn 28. Happy birthday to me!

I took this picture today, walking round the docks on my new favourite route. It made me smile to see how the sculpture had lined up with the sunlight, the clouds, the vapour trail, something I hadn't planned when hitting the button on my little fake blackberry. And it made me laugh as I realised how well this sculpture sums up my feelings as I enter my 29th year.

I feel bold, I feel like I'm striding into something very new, something adventurous. I feel somewhat fearful too - I will need armour, I will need help, my stance is sometimes for show - faking until I make it. I mean, that's how it works - adventure, newness, is scary - that's why you need boldness, right?

I feel solid and secure. I also feel fragile, laid open, vulnerable (because maybe I'm learning that I am not the source of my solidity and security?).

I feel beautiful and strong. I also still have the voices in my head that love to tell me otherwise, voices I often believe. But I finally feel like I'm learning a little bit of what it is to be a woman, and more than that, a daughter of the King. My identity is slowly shifting away from outward and towards inward.

And so I laugh - here I am, a mess of metals and shapes, of odds and ends, of new parts and old parts. I'm a tangle of solid and tough and delicate and brittle. But boy, what a sight when the pieces, good and bad, are assembled by a sculptor with both an eye for detail and a sense of the bigger picture.

Beautiful.

New favourite song: The Gravedigger's Song by Mark Lanegan

2012-01-18T18:58:00.001Z

This week I am mostly listening to this on repeat.

On the eve of my birthday, it strikes me that the past ten years have seen a sea change in my music tastes. Ten years ago I was still swept up in music made by men who (mostly) looked like women.

Then, two things happened. One, I discovered Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Two, at the age of 19 I attended the Reading Festival, saw Metallica for the first time, and fell in love with James Hetfield.

Oh, I still love music made by men who look like women. But now I have a lot of space for music made by grizzly, growly, older men.

No comment on whether this influenced my choice of husband.

Receipt

2012-01-09T18:37:00.003Z

It reads "10/02/10 07:20AM".

A combination of jet-lag and excitement got me up, washed, dressed and out exploring at the crack of dawn that Saturday in October. Ready to start my day with some coffee and breakfast, it wasn't long before I stumbled across a Starbucks. Lame choice huh, Heather? Oh no, but you see, this wasn't any Starbucks. This was my first American Starbucks (sticking American in front of pretty much anything made it exciting). So I headed in, placed my order, and sat at a window seat with my bible and my notebook.

I still have the receipt tucked in my bible, in the midst of the Psalms. It doesn't mark a place or serve as a bookmark for my current reading. But I can't bring myself to throw it away. For me, it is a slightly odd Ebenezer - not a stone of help, but a receipt of help, a marker for a significant time in my life where all I could and all I can do is wonder at God's grace.

See, we all know that I dislike flying, that I'd once sworn never to fly again, but over time had managed to get back on planes, gritting my teeth as I did so, even on short hops. This trip presented such a wonderful opportunity - visit friends who are practically family in South Carolina, by way of New York, with my husband and some of our closest friends. I'd always wanted to go to the US. I'd always wanted to see New York. I longed to see our friends - friends I used to see every week until the time came for them to return Stateside. I wanted to have an adventure and I couldn't think of a better group of people to go with.

But the flight. All 7-8 hours of it loomed before me. You know, if I freak out on a two hour flight, it sucks but it's not too long before it ends. But if I freak out on a flight like this? And what if I need the loo? Usually I can't even stand up on a plane in flight, let alone walk around. And not just the flight - there's the build up to the flight, the anxiety, the panic attacks, the IBS, the dizziness.

But I did it. I sat, strapped into my seat, between my husband and my good friend, holding my husband's hands as the engines started roaring, and as the plane took off, God spoke to me. And I got goosebumps and my eyes teared up and I smiled as though my face would break in two. It was fine. Better than fine - I relaxed, I looked around, I watched some films, I ate plane food (surprisingly good, on the flight over at least), I got up and stretched and walked to the loo.

Courtesy of the Husband

And eventually we landed and made our way outside and I saw some yellow cabs and, oh, how good did that feel? My soul soared and yet all I could do was watch and marvel at God's grace. The trip itself was incredible - everything I'd hoped for, and more on top of that. So, I keep that receipt, my receipt of help, to make me smile as I remember that woman sitting incredulous in Starbucks at Union Square so early on an Autumn Saturday - that is me.

Havens

2012-01-06T22:11:00.001Z

I work in what must be one of the most densely populated areas of London - I looked it up and apparently around 90,000 people work in Canary Wharf. I love people, but I'm not great with lots of people, and when my company moved here just over a year ago, my heart sank. Longer commute, slightly airport-departure-lounge-style clinical atmosphere, and, the aforementioned hoards of people.

BUT! God is good and I have been pleasantly surprised. I learnt fairly quickly where to avoid (The Mall), but it took me a while to discover what are pretty much Heather-designed havens. For rainy days I have the library (small, but plenty of couch space, and an extensive catalogue). And for sunny days I just have to decide to turn right or left. Turn right out of my office - bustling crowds of people amid the high-rises. Turn left out of my office - silence and solitude by the docks. Perfect for me - wonderful views of Canary Wharf (for I do love the urban landscapes - I've always found them beautiful) without the people.

Today I found a new route - down some slightly rickety metal steps, through a boarded up walkway, down through beautifully quiet roads by the old docks, and then back through to Blackwall dock. Today was bright and clear - the sunshine warm, the wind chilly, the sky vast and blue with streaks of cloud.

My new route took me around 40 minutes, although that was partly because I didn't know where I was going, and kept gawping at the scenery. It gave me time to stretch my legs, breathe some (slightly) fresh air, think, or not think, pray, imagine. Slightly ironic to think that the space that now give me so much enjoyment and peace because of its quiet and solitude and calm was, little more than a hundred years ago, heaving with dock workers and merchants and traders and all kinds of people.

This year, one of my aims, is to be glad. Glad is one of my words for 2012 (well, that makes it sound like I have a whole list of words, and I don't) - I want to cultivate thankfulness and contentment. It's a challenge: I like to worry and I like to complain. But today it was easy.

Don't Let It Get To You

2012-01-05T21:34:00.001Z

This song has swooped on and off my radar for a few months now: I'd hear it on the radio, my face would light up with glee, I'd tap happily along to it...then I'd promptly forget to look it up later, and then lose the scrap of paper on which I'd written the name of the song.

I love it because it is dreamy, it is wistful (I love me a bit of wistful music), it's got this awesome jangly, loping beat, and it reminds me of summertime.

Summertime when I was a kid to be precise: we lived in quiet suburbia, and there were lots of kids our age, so my brother and I would spend the summer playing outside, a gang of us running around in baggy t-shirts and cycling shorts (the girls) or Umbro shorts and football shirts (the boys). Cycling round and round the block (we could go round as many times as we liked provided we didn't leave the block), burning each other's tyres, attempting to ride with no hands, racing to imaginary finish lines (that tree! the post box! your gate!). Or water fights in the sunshine (who had a Super Soaker?), or the time we tried to "rescue" a cat (it blatantly had a home somewhere else but we agreed it was lost and that we'd be much better owners, pooling our pocket money to buy catfood, not really considering where it would live longer term. Don't worry - the poor cat put up with us for an afternoon and then returned to it's actual home). Or the year Nynex came to lay television cables (ooh, the future!) and we "helped" them by sweeping the dusty pavements with their big road-sweeper style brooms. Those are the kind of adventures you have in suburbia.

For whatever reason, there's something about this song that has unlocked that little section of my memory and transported me to summers past...which, right now, is lovely. I'm a fan of sunlight, warm sunshine, long days, evenings that stretch out beyond bedtime. This year I'm doing my best to embrace winter, but in my heart, which is a little subdued in the darker months, I cannot wait for the summer to come.

This Is England '88

2011-12-31T10:50:00.000Z

This Is England '88

Yesterday I decided to catch up on some television viewing, and ended up watching all three episodes of the latest "This Is England" back to back. Good grief. I don't usually go in for hard-hitting drama - I understand there are a lot of programmes out there that deal with difficult topics, tough subject-matter, in a thoughtful, real and interesting way, but mostly I avoid them. I much prefer light-hearted things. But I have a soft-spot for This Is England, even though I know it'll feature some really rough scenes to watch. And '88 was true to form - a mix of comedy and tragedy, aspects of the tragedy incredibly harrowing.

So, I got to thinking about why I watch this, why I make an exception, and I think it comes down to the fact that this series has a lot of heart. These characters are very real - we see the ordinary, the imperfect, the frustration, but we also see heart, whether it's worn on sleeves, hidden below the surface, or buried out of harms way. There are few characters who appear entirely beyond redemption - most of the characters are incredibly sympathetic, even when they're frustrating or annoying or getting stuff wrong. They're characters you'd want to befriend if you met them, and so you're willing to stick with them to find out what happens, how they fare. I love the dynamic of the gang, the group of friends. In interviews with cast it becomes clear that they're friends off-screen, and this really comes through on-screen - the banter, the silliness, the mickey-taking, the heartbreak, the betrayal, the hurt - all feel so authentic. Yes, I'm going to invoke my favourite word, but there's community here, imperfect people who mess up but stick it out and try to stick together through thick or thin. And when that doesn't happen, when there is estrangement or isolation, then that becomes even more poignant, because the dynamic is still so powerful.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching this series, although I would hesitate to recommend to anyone without some strong caveats, as the subject matter is really rough in places. But, it's handled incredibly powerfully - the third episode contains a scene of deliverance so jaw-droppingly painful and frightening and beautiful that I was almost left gasping for breath by the end (and I admit, I couldn't watch some of it, but hearing the sound was still powerful enough). So, if you want to watch, I'd recommend checking out the previous incarnations first, to get some back-story, and a sense of the group dynamic: This Is England (film), and This Is England '86 (4-part TV series). Roll on This Is England '90.

Apples and Cuttlefish

2011-12-30T13:13:00.000Z

Today I finished a project I've been working on since, ooh, June or July perhaps? A simple patchwork quilt, my first. I chose it because I knew it would be slow and simple - I decided to hand-sew the patchwork squares, since this would give me something to do with my hands whilst watching television or chatting with friends (save me from Spider Solitaire or tearing up beermats/flyers/random bits of paper). I liked the idea of an ongoing project, something I could pick up and put down, something that would keep me going for months. And it has.

But today it's finished, and you know what? I feel pretty bad about it. Not because the project is over (although I do feel a little adrift), or because it went completely wrong and is unusable. No, I feel bad because it's not perfect. The lines aren't entirely straight, the wadding is bunched in places, the edges aren't even.

So, instead of looking at my little quilt and feeling satisfaction at finishing and pleasure in a pretty good, certainly functional, first attempt, I get my measuring stick out and feel deflated. And who or what do I measure myself against? That blogger I admire who sews beautiful things to sell; those friends who appear effortless in both creativity and ability to craft wonderful things; my high school textiles teacher, who's voice whispers in my ear: if only I'd been a bit more careful, if only I'd watched her a bit closer, if only I had a bit more skill, if only I was like her star pupil...

Ugh, does this strike you as ridiculous too? I write it down and I'm even more aware that even if I should be measuring, at least I should compare apples with apples right, instead of ooh, I don't know, apples with cuttlefish? Quiche? Lego pieces? But no, not only does brandishing a measuring stick to start with rob me, but comparing myself with gifted people who have worked hard to grow their skill finishes the job by clobbering me over the head.

I am a beginner. I am just starting out with limited skills but lots of ideas and lots of excitement. I choose to take heart that I have finished a project, that I have successfully sewed together a quilt of my design. I smile at the time taken - months of hours snatched here and there, measuring, cutting out, pinning and stitching. I love the fact that conversations have been spoken over my quilt, that friends have helped out in the construction, that I've watched wonderful films, needle and thread in hand. Yes, it's a bit wonky, yes it's a bit bunchy, no the sewing isn't spot on - but here I have a fantastic, colourful, warm quilt.

A while ago, this wonderful clip was doing the rounds on the interwebs. I watched and absorbed and was encouraged. And clearly then forgot, so here's a good reminder.

Original found here.

Genie

2011-12-23T16:29:00.000Z

Another video, with a bit of a story.

So, a good few years ago, I entered a competition on the radio - I can't remember what the question was, but I got it right! Woo hoo! And, I won the competition. My prize - tickets to see John Martyn at the Fairfield Halls in Croydon. I had no idea who John Martyn was, but hey, free concert is always a good thing, right?* So, I roped in my lovely best friend, and the two of us went for dinner at Nandos and then headed over to the Halls.

Finding our seats in a packed hall, we settled down, completely clueless about what we might experience.

The support act, a Mr John Smith, completely blew us away. Just him, his acoustic guitar and beautiful beautiful songs filling the hall. We became instant fans, the free tickets introducing us to someone we might never have come across otherwise. My best friend bought a CD, and the two of us went to see him again, months later, at a teeny tiny venue in Camden. Awesome.

Today, listening to Marc Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie on the wonderful 6Music, I heard Marc mention John Smith and a new album of covers. He played one and again, I was blown away - both by his voice but also by his unusual choice of song. It made me smile, so here it is, a Christmas present to myself and any readers out there.

Merry Christmas everyone!

* John Martyn passed away a few years ago, and apparently he was a bit of a legend in the folk scene. Unfortunately, at the concert, my friend and I did not appreciate what we heard. To us, it sounded like terrible lift music, and so, after giggling our way through three songs, we left. I feel a bit bad about that now - I've subsequently heard some songs of his that I enjoyed, and especially since there are probably people out there that would love to have seen him. But hey, what can you do - all we knew was that we just didn't get what the rest of the audience seemed to love...which translated to fits of giggles that we desperately tried to hold in before we made our swift exit. Apologies Mr Martyn, but thank you, also, for introducing us to Mr Smith.

"This is the day your life will surely change..."

2011-12-19T17:49:00.004Z

Continuing my Manics theme, the video to their cover of "This is the Day", with the footage that made me shed a wee tear on Saturday night (it's nice - don't worry, nothing terrible happens. I'm just a softie).

Enjoy!

"Now baby, what have you done to your hair?"

2011-12-18T10:34:00.001Z

A Night of National Treasures, The o2, 17.12.11.
Courtesy of the husband.
(You can see JDB's face centre right screen)

Last night was a first: first time going to an arena gig, first time going to a big gig with the husband, first time seeing the Manic Street Preachers, and, first time seeing a band that holds so much personal significance.

As with most bands I love, I came late to the Manics, falling for them aged seventeen, long after they started out, long after their notoriety, long after their own tragedy. But, fall for them I did, whole-heartedly immersing myself in their back catalogue, their twisty, complex, catchy, often politicised, always emotionally honest lyrics and their sometimes barn-storming, sometimes poignant, always rock n' roll melodies forming a soundtrack to my late adolescence.

But even when I left my teens, the Manics came with me: one of those bands that had got under my skin, their music connecting with me at a deep level, grazing my heart, speaking to my soul. And of course, they got under my skin - their personalities (on stage, in interview, at least), the early glam eye-linered androgeny, their ideals, their humour, and their story. I loved how passionate they were, how principled, how beautiful, how funny, how determined...and how much they cared about one another.

It was not until I walked (ran) into the arena, clutching my husband's hand, as they entered the stage and burst into "You Stole the Sun From My Heart", that I realised how momentous this could be, not just a good gig, but one that would move me, one that I would love and not want to end. And Messers Bradfield, Wire, Moore, and, certainly there in spirit at least, Edwards, did not disappoint.

Sean was steady as a rock, James was witty and self-deprecating, Nicky was glamorous (yes, there was a costume change into a dress) and full of stories (Richey eating a kiwi fruit to cure a hangover on tour in Portugal and coming up with lyrics for Revol), and Richey, well, Richey was Richey in old footage played out on the big screens, and running through the lyrics of the whole set.

I sang until I was hoarse, I danced, I smiled, I shed a little tear (when they covered "This is the Day", because not only is it a wonderful song, one I've always loved, but they played archive footage of the band over the years, on stage and off, and the combination of sights and sounds and lyrics was just too beautiful). And, the Manics are one of those bands that sparks dedication, so to be surrounded by 20,000 other fans who truly love the band, singing along and laughing at the jokes, was a remarkable thing. I love the fact that they are still true to themselves - they played every one of their 38 singles, not editing any out that perhaps did not do so well, or that they're not so fond of, but acknowledging each one, despite how they may feel about them now - though really, for such a big back-catalogue, in my opinion they've released few weak singles.

To pick out my highlights would be foolish - I'd end up listing the whole set. But last night was so much more than songs to me - it was a reminder about the value and power of creativity and music and words and perseverence and ideals and principles and friendship and family and honesty. I sound like an old teenage diary, I know, but maybe that's appropriate.

"Wear your eyes as dark as night,

Paint your face with what you like,

Wear your love like it is made of hate

Born to destroy, and born to create."

Autumnsong, Manic Street Preachers

Title of post from Autumnsong, Manic Street Preachers

Horrifying

2011-12-14T09:18:00.000Z

"A new study reveals the public find it hard to differentiate between the language used by convicted sex offenders and mainstream magazines"

I worry quite a lot about the messages young women receive via all kinds of media. But I didn't really think about what sort of things young men are consuming. This is terrible!

Four books: two good, two not so good

2011-12-13T19:16:00.002Z

I love to read, and have done since I was a wee child falling asleep in bed with the light on, book still clutched in my little mitt. Lately (and actually one was not so lately), I have encountered four books that I had quite strong opinions on, so I thought I'd elaborate here.

The Cookbook Collector, by Allegra Goodman
I found this in the library, read the back, thought it sounded interesting, and took it home (borrowing it first of course). What a delight! I love finding a book that I can't put down - and not only can't put down, but thoroughly enjoy the writing style and love the characters too. Two very different sisters, both interesting in their strengths and their weaknesses. And, I always enjoy a book where there has been lots of research - I found out all kinds of things about the dot.com bubble, antique books and cookery through the ages. Maybe slightly too contrived towards the end, but by that time I was enjoying the characters so much that I didn't really mind.

The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins
This one I sought out - I saw a trailer for the upcoming film version and decided I should read the books quickly as the films look amazing, and I prefer to read books first - usually there is more detail, characterisation, plus I get to use my brain to imagine the story. I loved this, although I have to confess it practically gave me a heart attack - the pace and sense of urgency and danger is maintained pretty solidly throughout, and I'm not used to such excitement. It's been a while since I've read a new young adult book (occasionally I re-visit the Judy Blume books of my childhood), and my last choice was not very satisfying (more later). This one didn't disappoint - the style was simple, but the plot nicely complex. I had an idea how things might work out, but never once guessed how they'd get there, and wasn't entirely right in my reckoning. AND, it's from the viewpoint of a kick-ass female character! Who is bright and courageous and strong and yet very human too - she gets stuff wrong, she feels fear, she gets hurt, she's confused. AND, there's very little physical description - I imagine her as a very beautiful woman, but that comes more from her character than any description by Collins. Hurrah for three-dimensional female heros who aren't dependent on their looks!

Which brings me to the first of my not so good books. One of the things that put me off reading The Hunger Games was that there was a quote from Stephanie Meyer on the front.

Twilight, by Stephanie Meyer
I read this a while ago, because everyone was raving about the books and someone gave me a free copy. Oh dear. I think it didn't help that I'd seen the film first. With my housemates at the time. And that we all mocked it mercilessly. The thing is, if I was fourteen, I'd probably love this series, but now I just find the film funny, and the books tiresome. There are some fun bits, but I got so frustrated with the pace, the exposition, the endless angst, the flatness of the characters. Oh yes, and lest we forget, the terrible relationship dynamic between the two main protagonists. Horrifying messages to be telling young women.

So, I was pleasantly surprised to find The Hunger Games nothing like Twilight, including the perspective on relationships. No, Katniss doesn't have the perfect view, but at least she has a bit of grounding, a realisation that men won't complete her or make life perfect, and that she has freedom to choose - not just a choice between two partners, but to choose no partner, if that's what she wishes. No wonder I have a bit of a girl crush.

And finally....

The Girl Who Played With Fire, by Steig Larsson
So earlier this year I read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and while I enjoyed it, and by the middle couldn't bear to put it down as I was so keen to find out what happened, I did struggle with the violence. In fact, not even the violence (although it didn't sit well in my brain), but the fact that the descriptions were so graphic and and so frequent. I find that less is more - a bit like Jaws, it's amazing what brains will do with the power of suggestion (and it gives brains a chance to hide behind pillows - metaphorical pillows when it comes to books - if they want to). I decided to try the follow up - I really liked the character of Lisbeth Salander, and wanted to find out what she did next - but I've had to put it down. I really can't handle the descriptions any more - and again, it's the frequency more than anything. In my mind there is no need, and I just felt queasier and queasier. So, even though it's probably another gripping story, I'm just gonna have to say no.

Social media as a tool for encouragement - never!

2011-12-06T18:56:00.001Z

Ah, back to one of my favourite topics, but hopefully a little more positive this time. Yes yes, I'm still like a frightened little sparrow when it comes to social networking, BUT this past week I have read two very good and wise and helpful (to me) blogs about the wonders of social media.

The first comes from Stuff Christians Like, which usually makes me giggle (it only doesn't when the references are too US-based for me to get). Jon Acuff really loves social media and uses it in creative, funny, life-changing ways. However, his honesty in this article really resonated with me and my reasons for avoiding social media stuff - this extract really sums up a big issue I have:

'But in the midst of doing that [referring to following friends via Twitter], I’ve realized something rather pathetic, insecure and crazy of me.

I’m getting really jealous of my friends. As I scroll through their tweets, here are a couple of things that pop into my head:

“Oh wow. That friend hung out with that other friend and they did something amazing together. Huh. Why didn’t they invite me?”

“Whoa. That friend just announced, ‘I had a great time seeing people I love in Nashville, time to fly back home.’ Weird, he didn’t even tell me he was going to be in town.”

Then I sit in this ridiculous pity party, which eventually mutates into me coveting a life other than my own.

I want those adventures.

I want to be invited to those events.

I want to be as cool or as interesting or as funny or as anything as my friends.'

Yes yes yes - this is exactly why I struggle - it ties into existing wounds of being excluded, of having low value when compared with others. Good to know I'm not the only one to feel this way - and in reading this I was reminded that as much as I take issue and like to get on my soapbox, social media is not entirely to blame, it just happens to be something that I personally need to be careful with as it's likely to prod my soft spots with a sharp stick. Which is why currently I don't engage.

You can check out the whole thing here.

The second is actually a series of blogs written by Gypsy Mama, a woman who's writing I've come to really enjoy lately. She's writing a series of blogs all about social media, again as someone who enjoys its benefits and recognises its boundaries. I've only read the first two so far (she's only published two out of four), but they've been really encouraging, My favourite extracts so far (emphasis mine):

'The world tell us social media is about building our platform, our brand, our followers, our name. To get while the getting’s good. That it’s a land grab and grabbing requires a finger in every network, a post every day, a PhD in SEO, and herculean competition for attention.

Exhausting. The worrying that wherever one woman succeeds there’s that much less land for the women coming up behind.

What if instead social media was a way to build a bridge?

To lay ourselves down, plank by plank, word by word, and offer a way for women to walk out of their fears, their loneliness, their desperate belief that they are the only ones to have failed at parenting or marriage or decorating or educating their children and discover that they are not alone.'
You can read the whole thing here.

For me social media can quickly descend into a competition, the pursuit of popularity - again, my personal experience, tied into my weaknesses. This just reminded me that individual connections, connections with another human being (because we can forget this, hidden behind online identities), are valuable in themselves, rather than in terms of volume. And this works offline too - developing relationships is a wonderful thing, far more powerful than amassing tons of acquaintances.

I also liked this:

'Are you tweeting for attention? Are you blogging for comments? Are you Facebooking for likes?Because none of these things can fill the hungry, desperate need for attention we all have.

Only when we understand ourselves in the context of the God who made us, rejoices in us and celebrates us will we feel satisfied.'

Yes yes yes once again! Social media is a communication tool, not a means of meeting my (our?) needs for attention. Ugh, I struggle with this one, and I get all judgy when I see others posting in this way (in my eyes). A good benchmark for learning when to stop, shut the laptop and take a little real life break.

You can read the rest here.

So, thank you SCL and Gypsy Mama. Although I'm still not convinced I want to get back onto social media sites (aside from this one), it's given me food for thought and helped me see some of the benefits of these things in our lives.

Smell like a monster

2011-12-04T09:00:00.000Z

Thanks to my lovely friends in Finchley, I found this. Made my day.

"I'm on a horse." "Moo!" "Cow."

It's important...

2011-12-03T12:52:00.001Z

...to have a suitable soundtrack when putting up Christmas decorations. Our tree looks all the better for having this on in the background:

Source

Reminder

2011-11-29T09:00:00.000Z

I sat, uncrossing my legs, unfolding my arms, eyes closed, willing peace and stillness, straining to hear, to glimpse, to grasp. Shushing my wandering thoughts, trying to block the sounds of the room, distractions keeping me from my goal. Waiting, longing, trying to put on an aura of depth and wisdom and openness, an identity of wholeness and holiness, a fertile ground for any whispered words or inner sense.

Still.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Nothing.

So, I folded my arms, sat back and sighed, somewhat defeated but resigned. Not my day today.

A smile.

It's always your day, my darling daughter. I love you when you're tired and small and distracted, just as I love you when you're calm and centered and serene. And I have things for you when you're tired and small and distracted - I don't need you to be calm and centered and serene to receive them.

No need to pretend, to assume a mantle - a gentle reminder that I am loved as I am.

Always.

One foot on land, and one upon the sea

2011-11-28T09:00:00.000Z

I am hoping that Father Christmas might bring me this on Christmas eve. Until then, I am very much enjoying listening to 'His Rest', my favourite track from the album:

Because I never say it enough

2011-11-27T09:00:00.000Z

“...and when you meet someone and fall in love, and they fall in love with you, you ask them "Will you take my heart-- stains and all?" and they say "I will," and they ask you the same question and you say, "I will," too.”

“I saw doves and I thought they were rocks, but they were asleep. My breath made them stir, and they rocks took flight, the earth exploding... and my only thought was that I wanted you to see them, too.”

Both quotes: Douglas Coupland, Microserfs

Two years ago this month you asked me to marry you; eighteen months ago we tied the knot. I often lack words to express this, but, husband of mine, I am so glad you've taken my heart - stains and all.

This is a tale, of Captain Jack Sparrow....

2011-11-26T09:00:00.000Z

I know I'm late to this party, but this has made my last month (its lyrics indelibly stuck in my head, prone to pop up and circulate at the least helpful moments - mid-meeting, on the train, during church), and has given me something I'm not sure I'd ever have - a love for Michael Bolton. Enjoy.

It's a celebration

2011-11-25T18:24:00.001Z

This week I got to be part of a week of pre-wedding events for one of my closest friends - who is also one of my newest friends. My friend and I have looked out for one another in various times this past year, but this week it was definitely all about celebration. I got to see the spectacular culmination of her intensive three-month wedding planning (give the girl a medal), I was welcomed by her family at Thanksgiving (so much good food!), I got to laugh with her close friends (muchos cocktails = wonderful, honest and hilarious conversation), and today I got be witness to the union of her and her beloved (I didn't cry..but it was a close run thing).

Sorry for the poor quality, but aren't they beautiful? Definitely worth celebrating.

I love having friends, and I love walking with my friends - going through life with them, good times and hard, being there for them when they need me, and leaning on them when I'm struggling. I'm not the most "peopley" of people, a classic introvert in many ways, with a tendency to shy away from people. But time and time again I'm reminded what a wonderful thing friendship is - when someone lets you into their life, lets you see them, good days and bad days, exciting times and stressful times, and the joy of doing the same, even when it's hard, even when you feel vulnerable. And today I remembered that, just as it's a relief to have a friend to lean on when things are rough, it's incredible how much fun it is to celebrate the good things in the lives of friends. Especially when there's a dancefloor filled with some of your best and silliest friends, even more so when MC Hammer comes on over the speakers and the aforementioned friends attempt to breakdance. Represent.

So, my lovely friend, thank you for your friendship this past year. You are an awesome, punky rock (no pun intended) in my life, and it was a privilege to share in your big day. May you and your new husband continue to grow in your friendship as you enter married life together. And may the celebrations just keep rolling...

Lessons from Chris Cornell

2011-11-21T17:51:00.001Z

Source

Now I’ve never been very good at translating the way that music moves me into words, so I’m not going to attempt to describe the joy I felt whilst watching Pearl Jam 20. Suffice it to say, I love the music of Pearl Jam very much, and you should really listen to this*, this and this.

I was not surprised to thoroughly enjoy watching this film, but I was surprised to find myself challenged by Chris Cornell. Now I love Chris Cornell, for many reasons, but he’s totally on my list of nice men** now for a completely new reason: he reminded me that it is so much greater to subscribe to a spirit of wealth than suffer under a spirit of poverty.

In the early days, when Pearl Jam and Soundgarden were part of the Seattle music scene, what leapt out from all of the interviews and footage is how close they all were. They were friends first, or so it appears from the documentary, gigging together, hanging out together, sharing in grief, performing together, supporting one another. No meanness or nastiness or ridiculous competition, all in it together. Then Pearl Jam released Ten and just skyrocketed into fame. And nothing changed. You know, you might think that this would be the moment that resentment or bitterness would set in on those not in the band…or maybe arrogance for those enjoying success. But no. They hung out. They played together. They looked out for one another. Cornell talking Eddie down from his threats to retire as the fame threatened to overwhelm, encouraging him to keep going, doing the thing he loved.

Because there are people out there who believe that there is only a certain amount of good in the world, and so when someone else is successful, well, that just means there’s less to go round, less available to you. I know I slip into this, believing that odds determine my chances at happiness. But good old Chris reminded me that no, this is bobbins – life isn’t about playing the odds, securing things for you at the expense of others. So I want to grab hold of a spirit of plenty. A spirit of wealth – to cheer with others when they’re successful, to work hard at what I love, and to enjoy the company of friends in all places, regardless of what we have or how well we do.

And you know, things didn’t work out so badly for Mr Cornell either.

* CHEEKBONES!

** Heather's List of Nice Men is something that originated when I was a teenager. Nothing sexual, just a list of men who I deemed to be gentlemen. When I was a teenager, the list included Gianluca Vialli, Andre Agassi, and Bruce Willis (who actually I also had a crush on). Only just noticed that they're all somewhat lacking hair. Every now and then, I add another nice man to my list.

They call me Mr Boombastic

2011-11-19T11:58:00.001Z

Last night I was out with a friend celebrating her hen party in the best way we know how - dancing at the Ballroom. And as I made my way on the bus I was touched at how much flailing about in various clubs to very loud metal has meant to me.

Sure, it's not to everyone's taste, but for me the discovery of alternative club nights was like a homecoming. Always a dancer, willing to dance to anything (except of course, jazz, funk, jazzfunk, and really terrible music (flippin S Club 7, I'm looking at you)), yet never feeling so free and joyous and invincible as on those dancefloors. I mean, it helps that metal is one of my music loves, a style that connects with something deep in my being*, but it was a revelation to discover that mostly, at these clubs, people dance because they love the music, rather because they want to seduce someone with their smooooth moves.** Which I love - cos you know, seeing people do something they love is generally a beautiful thing, no matter how good their style is.

So, on the bus last night, I remembered the first night I went out in Camden. Sure, I'd been to tons of metal clubs in Leicester as a student, but I hadn't really found my feet in London. And here I was, with a group of new alternative friends, in a club just like Ret***, dancing in a way I hadn't for a good few years, sweat pouring, legs aching, heart pounding, totally happy. I vividly remember going home that night, taking a cab to Victoria, pegging it through the station to catch the one an hour train to East Croydon, queueing in the cold at the taxi rank, being as quiet as I could as I crept into my parents' house. In fact I remember more about going home than I do about the evening, and I think it's because it was a reassurance, a light. I'd felt so lost after Uni, so unsure in so many areas, worried that my alternative days were behind me as I entered the corporate workplace, assuming it was a necessary sacrifice, unsure of who I was now my undergraduate identity had gone. And here I was - administrator by day, flailing to angry loud metal by night, waking up to the possibilities of life post-Uni, realising that this was just the start, that there were so many good new things to discover in this new stage of my life, allowing myself to get excited and dream a little again. That alone was worth the price of entry and cabs and trains. And looking at my life since then, I grin, because you know, so many things have worked out even better than I dared to dream.

Hope through Sin City. Who would've thought?

*I may have said this before, but I vividly remember my entryway to metal - hearing Zane Lowe play Deftones "Digital Bath" back to back with "Chop Suey" by System of a Down on XFM. I was standing in my old bedroom at my parents house, getting ready to do my homework for the evening, and I stopped in my tracks. At last! Music that spoke to my soul! So angry! So loud! So crazy! So beautiful! Home! And so from a foundation of Nu-Metal I made my way into 90s metal and the NWOHM and I've never looked back.

**Okay, there are exceptions, but visit a mainstream generic pop/rnb club and compare the atmosphere with a metal night - I mean, I love both, but I find there's more freedom to just be at the latter, whereas at the former I always feel very aware that there is lots of mental scoring going on around the room. Maybe it's just me.

***Retribution was my favourite metal club in Leicester. Over three floors (though we only really went to the top floor). Amazing music, tons of space, lots of familiar faces, terrible toilets, and close enough to walk home. And the brilliance of the jokey choices at the end of the evening. Pretty sure they once played Mr Boombastic to the handful of us who made it through to close of business one evening. And we still danced - a wonderful memory of goths, metallers and punks grooving to Shaggy.

This made my day

2011-10-13T21:12:00.000+01:00

So, the cast of The Princess Bride had a reunion! Totally made my day when I read about it here.

Check out the awesome photoshoot:

Source

And then the cast interview:

A good holiday

2011-10-09T14:52:00.001+01:00

A holiday should be long enough to both forget and remember.

Long enough to feel the daily routine of home slip away from under your skin, for your body to shake it’s internal alarm clocks, for your mind to forget work, commuting, housework, to do lists, days of the week and even, dare I say, pets.

Long enough that you can allow yourself to get swept up in long lie ins after late nights sitting up drinking wine, eating olives, gazing out over the sea. Long enough that you can fully immerse yourself in exploration of new cities, new forests, new beaches, new landscapes, following paths as they show themselves, not worrying about following a plan or keeping to a timetable. Long enough that you relax into eating later than usual, taking more time than usual over food, relishing the taste of local cuisine, fresh produce, simple flavours. Long enough that you no longer feel guilty for taking hours to read a good book, long enough that you are able to get swept up in day dreams in the sunshine.

Long enough so that you find yourself doing things you would never normally do, things that excite you, that maybe even scare you a little. Swimming in the ocean, exploring old castles, climbing to the tops of cliffs and peering over the edge, paddling in deserted rivers, trying out new languages.

Long enough to take time to talk – to dream dreams and speak out visions and share hopes and maybe some fears to. To ask some questions and take time to listen for answers. Long enough to think over things spoken, to mull and consider and ponder, long enough to allow thoughts to form and to give space for revelation.

And, once you’ve forgotten your everyday life, once you’ve plunged into holidays and shed the skins of fatigue and boredom and frustration, you start to remember.

You are rested enough to see daily life in a new light. To appreciate the good things. To recognise the things that need to change. To come to terms with the things that perhaps you want to change but need to stick out for a bit longer. To find yourself perhaps even looking forward to returning. To get back to the routine, to make a couple of changes perhaps, to get stuck into work or home or friendships.

A good holiday should be long enough to both forget and then remember. A good holiday should return you home ready for real life, with some great memories reminding you of what possibilities exist when you take time out of your regular routine.

Ours was a good holiday.

Choose Joy

2011-09-25T20:52:00.000+01:00

It feels strange to write this, but I'm going to write anyway.

I recently found a blog that I connected with immediately. I read a lot of blogs, and while there are loads I like, there are a handful that I really love, so it's always exciting to find someone else whose writing really speaks to me. This blog spoke straight to my soul, bringing life and breath and being to words such as courage and joy and hope and faith, life and breath and being that, for the author, is grounded in the hardship of longterm chronic illness. So, for her, those words are not to be taken lightly, and so her sentiment is not shallow and empty. As I've read these past few weeks, she, in her wonderfully humble way, has spurred me on and challenged me in ways I did not expect - and to a degree I never expected from someone I have never met, who I do not know, except through the words she shares on her blog.

I am so glad of those words, but glad in a bittersweet way: you see, I came across Sara's blog through another blog I read, when the author posted the news that her illness had stepped up again, and that her body was shutting down, that she had entered her final days. He paid tribute to her, speaking of how her writing had touched his heart, how he had spent hours reading through her blog, and so I clicked and followed the link, and then I too spent hours reading through her blog.

And this morning when I turned on my computer, I found the news that late last night, Sara had passed away. I feel a bit ridiculous really, mourning someone I do not know, who I have never met, and I certainly cannot begin to understand the grief her family and friends must be feeling right now. My prayers are with them.

But I wanted to pay tribute, in my own small space, in my own small way. So, Sara, thank you. Thank you for your decision to choose joy, even in the midst of terribly difficult things. Thank you for your decision to share something of your life online, for people like me to stumble upon and then rejoice, because it was like stumbling across treasure. Thank you.

May you rest in the joy of everlasting life with your Father.

Zola Jesus

2011-09-22T17:34:00.002+01:00

I have more to write, but another day. Today I want to write about how much I love Zola Jesus. I have been listening to her at work all week. I love it when I find a new artist who completely floats my boat. Plus, her music is great for spreadsheets. The husband likens her to Florence + The Machine, and while I think there are some similarities in that they both have big wonderful voices, Zola Jesus is a lot darker music-wise. All electronic gothy noise. LOVE IT.

Check out "Vessel", "Stridulum", "Manifest Destiny".

Blog

2011-09-15T20:37:00.001+01:00

This past year I've blogged more than I have done in a good few years. It was a choice to start typing again - I felt like I had some things to say, or perhaps was willing to risk trying to write various things, and I was curious to see how things would develop: would writing publicly help me find my voice?

I'm not sure I have found my voice. I look back over the posts I've written so far this year with fondness, but I can find lots that I'm not completely happy with. The past couple of longer posts have felt defensive in tone, which saddens me somewhat. I've found that I bore myself with lifestyle posts - there are a gazillion other bloggers on the internet who can put together fabulous blogs with beautiful photos and a few lines of writing, and I am not one of them. I've found that I'm not terribly inclined to write about important or significant events, yet quite happy to natter away about everyday happenings. I thought God would feature more, and yet He doesn't, not explicitly. I think it's because I feel I have to defend everything I write (which to some degree I have to be prepared to do, otherwise I shouldn't be posting things in a public forum) but really, it's fine that I'm not a theologian and don't have all of my thoughts wrapped up in a watertight defence.

I read a lot of blogs, and I'm learning that just as in real life, it's okay that I don't write in the same way as other people - they have their own voices, and I just need to keep going to figure out mine. But the nature of the blogs I read is likely to influence my writing, since that's the sort of thing I engage with. Looking down my blog list, I can see blogs that make me laugh, blogs that make me think, blogs I read for the sheer joy of the way the author strings words together, blogs that inspire me in their wisdom, blogs that encourage me, blogs that open my eyes to other viewpoints and ways of life, blogs that are beautiful in their honesty, and blogs that are a combination of all of the above. And, of course, blogs featuring cute animals.

As I've said before, comparison is rarely helpful. Mostly though, I find that reading other people's blogs is a helpful thing rather than a binding thing for me - they spur me on to give writing a go, keep striving to figure out how to communicate my thoughts, how to improve the way I write and find my own sense of voice.

And I think I'm getting there, slowly but surely. There are some posts I've really enjoyed writing, and there are some I look back on and feel proud of. And that makes this whole process worthwhile. It's good for me to accept I'm not brilliant at something and to keep working at it, as I have a tendency not to try things I won't do well.

Articulation is helpful

2011-09-09T10:19:00.002+01:00

A friend of mine said something very helpful on Sunday. Someone mentioned a social networking site, and she said she disliked sites like that because they make people worry about things they never would have worried about before: wittiness of status updates, quality of holiday photo albums, number of friends, relationships between friends ("so-and-so posted on her wall but didn't post on my wall - what does that mean?!"), self-image being presented online, number of comments.

This was really helpful to me as it summarises exactly why I struggle so much with these things, although I think for me it needs clarification. You see, I worried about those things before social networking came along. But what social networking did for me was amplify those insecurities and me-focused worries about a kazillion times worse. It gave me a means to measure myself against others and it gave me "evidence" of how much my friends liked me, right there on a page. So, even if I didn't intend to use SN with those things in mind, inevitably at the end of spending some time there I'd have a reading on the barometer of how wonderful I am as a person (generally low) and I'd have measure of how well-liked I was by my friends (again, low, because what is enough?).

Now, I understand that not everyone does this, but it was really helpful to be able to articulate a bit more clearly why I don't work well with those things. It also helped me to realise that when I use SN, generally I end up substituting time on the site for time I could spend with actual real people, and for me, that's a terrible trade-off. By nature a timid introvert, there's something very appealing about being able to interact with people at a safe distance behind a computer screen. You can decide which aspects of yourself you display, you can choose the prettiest photos, you can take time to think up a thoughtful comment, a funny status, and you can get instant affirmation in the form of messages and comments and "likes".

But, in the year since I deleted SN accounts I've come to really value time spent face to face with friends. It often takes more effort to organise to meet up, and sometimes it's a bit nerve-wracking to put myself forward and trust people want to spend time with me. Dang insecurity! But if I can't spend time face to face with friends then emails and letters and calls are that much more valuable, because they are personalised. I love hearing news via personal sources - I love sitting down with someone and hearing their stories, or reading an email intended for me, written in a way that took time and thought. Not being on SN means I miss out on a lot of news, a lot of invitations. It's not always easy for me to remember that this is not personal, that most people who use SN genuinely forget about those people who don't, and sometimes I get upset. But it's still worth it for me because I believe I get a much higher quality of interaction with people, even if it's not as frequent.

And my heart is much more blessed by smaller levels of high quality interaction than vast levels of low quality SN interaction. And you know, maybe one day I'll be free enough of the insecurities I have to be able to re-engage with SN online. That would be pretty cool! But if I was that free, I'm not sure I'd want to. I imagine I'd probably be pretty content as I was. And maybe a bit smug too. But that'd be okay because no one online would know this. Sneaky!

Some favourites from Monday night

2011-09-08T18:44:00.002+01:00

Yay for youtube and people with higher quality cameras than me.

Gaga - Palmer - Madonna
{note the regal yellow dress.}

I Google You
{as sung by Neil Gaiman}

F*** tha Police/Do you swear to tell the whole truth?
{how she opened the gig...and now I've had this in my head all week and it's lovely because her cover is so upbeat, but I can't sing it aloud because, well, for obvious reasons}

Ukelele Anthem
{penultimate song and yes there is a bit of chat before the song starts, but it's very worth watching}

Whole Wide World
{how they finished the gig...isn't it lovely?}

There were lots of other good moments: in fact, all of the songs were great. But these were some that I really loved hearing that night.

Best. Gig. Ever.

2011-09-05T22:18:00.000+01:00

Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman

Tonight the husband and I got to sit in a room in the British Library with 198 other people and hear Amanda Palmer play a variety of songs on her ukelele. From the moment she opened with N.W.A.'s "F*ck tha Police" (yes, on the ukelele. And yes, it was spectacular.) I knew it was going to be good, but good is too weak a word. It was incredible: epic, funny, touching, moving, silly, loud, sweary, romantic, honest and brave.

She played her songs, covers of songs, took requests, answered questions, wore a yellow dress and pearls (regal), took off the yellow dress and pearls, switched to a mandolin (an Amandolin), dueted with her husband (the equally talented Neil Gaiman), and introduced us to an epic song she'd written to the ukelele that she didn't quite know by heart, which is why Neil is pictured above, holding her lyric sheets as she sings (and which now means I want to go and buy my own ukelele).

It was everything I love about a gig - great music, from a performer I admire and respect, great atmosphere, lots of laughter, lots of beauty, my favourite author (who just happens to be married to one of my favourite performers and is willing to sing with her on stage), IN A LIBRARY(!!!), plus my husband to share it with.

Perfect.

Insides and Outsides

2011-09-02T22:39:00.000+01:00

We're* planning an adventure. Well, it may not be an adventure to some, but to me it's quite a big adventure in terms of challenge. I am afraid.

Afraid is my default for many things.

But.

Slowly, as I face the many things, I'm learning to acknowledge the sensations, the thoughts, the feelings, and then go ahead anyway.

Because I'm coming to realise that fear is a very natural reaction to lots of things for lots of people.

And I'm coming to understand that some people seem to fear more than others.

And I'm also observing that different people fear different things.

And I'm finding that some people are open about their fears, and others aren't.

So really, fear becomes a barrier when it turns into comparison. As my friend told me, I have to stop comparing my insides to everyone else's outsides. Other people are not a suitable measure of my ability to do things, or an indication of my ability to confront and overcome things that scare me.

Also, isn't the key in the word? Adventure - surely what makes an adventure is the elements of new, unknown, challenge? So really, a little nervous anticipation is to be expected. It's in the rules I expect.

*By "we" I mean myself and my husband. I've not started speaking in the royal we. Although that could be quite fun. And pretentious. So I probably won't.

This post is brought to you with added vim and vigour (and a touch of defensiveness, perhaps)!

2011-08-30T20:18:00.000+01:00

I work best under pressure. I work hardest when the deadline is tight, as in, within twenty-four hours tight, and I work poorly when the deadline is distant. I think I've always been this way - at school I'd often be up late the night before a big project was due, but it was at University that I really noticed it - regardless of the fact that essay deadlines were handed out at the beginning of the semester, and that examination dates were posted weeks in advance, I'd generally be writing essays in the couple of days before they were due, and leaving my intensive revision until a fortnight before.

I also work better in short bursts. I mean, unless the clock is really ticking and I have ridiculous amounts of work to do in a short time, I work much better in short bursts with breaks between. I had classmates who could study for what seemed like endless hours, particularly around exam time, and I'd always be the one, taking breaks in the kitchen, watching the snooker and drinking a pint of custard, feeling slightly guilty that I wasn't in my room or at the library like everyone else.*

I write this now, because I've only just realised that the guilt has to stop. Every year I'd promise myself I'd plan my work better, complete work gradually over a period of days and then hand things in before the deadline. And every year, I'd never manage it. And so I'd feel guilty and the cycle would start again.

Well, here it stops, because I know now (at last!) that although it may seem stupid and unwise, I do my best work when I'm under pressure, at the last minute. Unless I have my deadline leaping closer, I struggle to focus, and unless I take regular breaks with a change of scene, I cannot concentrate. But when the pressure is on I focus, I spurn distractions (Bah, internet! Scoff, spider solitaire!), I think quicker and I'm a better critic of what I've produced. And, I have a track record that shows that my methods seem to work. I surprise myself almost every time when I realise that my work is actually good. That working the way I do doesn't mean I turn out drivel but stuff of decent quality.

So, begone shame and labels that read "slacker" and "lazy" and "muppet"! And begone resolutions to work differently, to change my ways, to be better next time. I am better as I am, and it's time I embrace this and work with it, rather than scorning it and disparaging myself in the hopes I'll magically transform into something I'm just not.

Yeah!

*And for drinking the whole pint of custard, on my own, in one sitting. But there's certainly no guilt in watching snooker.

I love London

2011-08-08T19:57:00.000+01:00

I don't know how many people read this, or how many of those that do are praying sorts, but, if you are a praying kind of person, please pray for London. Violence has been breaking out across the city all over the weekend, and it's continuing this evening. Where we live is currently okay, although several shops closed early this evening, we hear constant sirens driving past, and there is a definite feeling of tension and fear. We have friends in some of the areas directly affected - it's heartbreaking to see what seems to be mindless violence tear up these areas.

Please pray for all involved - inhabitants, local business owners, rioters, police. Please pray for peace, love, hope and justice in this city, and beyond - I'm now hearing that there are similar events in Birmingham.

Thank you!

Weird

2011-08-05T18:27:00.000+01:00

This week I heard something that completely transported me back to my childhood. Like a time-machine - I could almost taste it, feel it, smell it. Really really weird how music can do that. So, I heard this:

But you know what's weirder? Hearing it doesn't remind me of being a little'un, watching Miami Vice with my mum on the telly. No, until a few days ago, I had no idea that this was the theme tune to Miami Vice. In my mind, this is the theme from a series of Nat West adverts in the very early '90s when I was about seven years old. Such as this.

Now that's my childhood.

And you know what, this is not the first time I've heard music that I primarily associate with a bank advert in my childhood that immediately transports me back, only to find it was a piece of music written for an entirely different purpose. No, for years, my only frame of reference for 'Wonderful Life' by Black was an Abbey National advert. Vividly remember the logo for the bank at the time, two silhouetted people walking together under umbrellas.

I have absolutely no idea what that says about me or my brain or my childhood - but there you go, two international banks whose brands are indelibly inked onto my subconscious and forever tied to my childhood.

Speechless (I'm not even going to mention how this fits my current theme)

2011-07-30T10:39:00.000+01:00

Carlos Acosta Premieres Plus| Production (click and please scroll down and watch the video)

Last night myself and my lovely cultured friend headed over to the London Coliseum to watch Carlos Acosta's Premieres Plus. I'm not sure what my expectations were, except that it would probably be very good (and that I was incredibly excited to finally see Carlos Acosta dance).

Oh. My. Goodness.

It was incredible. Despite being sat quite high up in a vertigo-inducing seat, as soon as the lights were lowered, I was sucked in, mesmerised by what was unfolding on the stage. Now, I am no expert, so I won't be talking technicalities, and please forgive my limits with words, but it was wonderful.

Stark.

Light.

Dark.

Heart.

Contrast.

Love.

Lust.

Quick.

Slow.

Soul.

Joy.

Despair.

Anger.

Blurred.

Sorrow.

Animals.

Freedom.

Trapped.

Poised.

Beauty.

Wonder.

I've not been to a great many ballets, and I've loved the ones I've been to, but I have to say, this was something different, all-encompassing. Rather than one big narrative this was lots of smaller stories, abstract stories where every time you tilt your head you see something different. I was captivated and entranced the whole way through. The soundtrack (score?) was perfectly suited to myself and my cultured friend: ambient, drum and bass, almost Cyberdog-like trance, gentle cello, and then, after the interval, the most beautiful mezzo soprano that had my cultured friend reaching straight for the tissues. Not that I can talk - the final "story", death and sorrow and heaven and joy - featured the most soul-touching ethereal choral piece I've ever heard.

So yes, totally in keeping with my current theme.

I may as well just go ahead and rename this blog to "List of things that make me cry"

2011-07-28T21:08:00.000+01:00

This week it was happy tears all round, though, so that's okay.

I have been reading "How to be a Woman" by Caitlin Moran, which I highly recommend to anyone who enjoys books written by intelligent, articulate, entertaining, interesting, incredibly funny people. Yesterday, reading the chapter about underwear, I had to wipe away tears with my sleeve on the tube home.

That, however, was only a warm up for today's waterworks-inducing mirth. I found this blog a little while ago, but the author hasn't updated in a while (I think she's writing a book - yay!), so I sort of forgot about it. Well, this week, I decided to read through some of the archives - something that turned out to be a very good decision. The woman who writes this (I don't know her name) tells brilliant funny stories mined from her life, through the medium of basic-looking but extremely characterful cartoon drawings (and some are not so basic - she can do a very good horse). So, I grinned my way through the archives, until I got to this one: The Party. I actually had to close down the window half way through and switch to an Excel spreadsheet just to give myself a chance to dry my eyes and calm the heckins down before I exploded with loud and ridiculous giggles (I was in a quiet and public place, otherwise I would've let them ring out).

And, my new favourite song of the week is "Baby Missiles", by The War on Drugs. I love it - it is loud and fast and joyous and jangly in a kinda Springsteeny way, which totally floats my boat. Hurrah!

Yes! This is what I have been saying for years...

2011-07-27T06:56:00.002+01:00

http://www.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2011/jul/26/deadwood-season-one

Zoe

2011-07-25T19:51:00.001+01:00

On Saturday I was chief bridesmaid for my best friend, Zoe. I've known Zoe since we were both eleven, so a fairly long time then. We went through school together, grew in faith together, and then when we left school and I moved away, Zoe still went through life with me, and me with her, mainly via the wonder of email (neither of us particularly enjoy phonecalls, and both of us love writing and receiving long [sometimes loooooong] letters). We've been on holiday together, we've helped one another through difficult times and celebrated many good times together. Zoe was the first person (after my mum) that I rang when I got engaged and she was my chief bridesmaid. Zoe is a wonderful friend, and yes, I know I'm biased, but it's true. She is kind, compassionate, faithful, honest, hilariously funny, wise, strong, encouraging, humble and a delight to spend time with.

Me and Zoe - Isn't she gorgeous?

So, I was over the moon to find out that she had met someone who also saw how amazing she is (to be honest, I was surprised it hadn't happened sooner), and who she completely fell for. I cried when she called on the night they got engaged, cried on Saturday as I walked into the church behind her, cried as I looked ahead and saw her groom catch sight of her for the first time as his bride. It should be said that these were happy tears, all round - I don't cry very often, but love, beauty and happiness are things that frequently move me, so it was no surprise that I was welling up a lot on her wedding day!

Zoe and her husband cut the cake

So, Zoe, thank you for inviting me to be part of your big day. I had such a blast! I pray you and your beloved would know every blessing in your married life together, and look forward to seeing how our friendship will develop over the years ahead, as we are now, amongst other things, two wives walking along together.

New new new!

2011-07-21T19:55:00.000+01:00

Now that Spotify is no longer free, I've been listening to the radio a lot more. I'd forgotten how great that can be, how much good music there is out there. So, to celebrate the wonder of music and how much fantastic stuff there is out there, these are my favourite new (to me) songs:

Future Starts Slow by the Kills....
....Still Life by the Horrors....
...Kids by Sleigh Bells (okay, I'm probably too old for this song now, but I LOVE it, I would eat it if I could...it makes me want to turn the speakers up to eleven and dance my butt off - like, srsly!)...
...Ritual Union by Little Dragon...
...A Heavy Abacus by The Joy Formidable...

***

And this week (well, it'll be eight days) has been full of new and exciting things...last night the husband and I got to visit our friends and their new baby, and on Saturday I get to be maid (matron?) of honour for my best friend at her wedding. I am so happy for these two couples in all the excitement and nerves and joy that comes with new babies and new marriages. I love the fact that even though new and exciting things might not be happening in my life, that doesn't matter, because I get to share a little bit in the wonderful things taking place in the lives of my friends.

This made me smile and cry

2011-07-17T14:17:00.003+01:00

Voice

2011-07-17T10:58:00.000+01:00

I watched American Beauty again recently, and while I still love it, I've found my perspective has changed somewhat. I think I was about seventeen when I first watched it - a friend lent it to me on VHS, and I watched it during the school holidays. What I remember about that is being so blown away by it that I re-wound the tape and watched it again, straight away. I'd never seen a story told that way, the drama and the mundane just captured me, and, I had a crush on Wes Bentley, so that helped too.

Watching it now, I'm more aware of the flaws of the characters. Or, rather, the flaws of all the characters with an understanding that it's those flaws that make them human. My seventeen year old self somewhat idolised Jane and Ricky, the teenage outsiders, while now I see more of their imperfections. And as a teen, I realise I wrote off many of the adult characters, seeing only the negative, missing out on the hints at how they had become the people they were, little sparks and frayed edges and disappointments.

But what really grabbed me this time was the way in which the characters find both their identity and their voice. Obviously, Lester Burnham is the one we follow most closely, and the one in which we see the greatest transformation. Ignored and meek jobsworth, to a man full of confidence, determination and decision. I like Jane's journey, the labels of "plain" and "ordinary" and "ugly" being replaced by "interesting", "noticeable", "beautiful". Angela discovering honesty and vulnerability, Caroline facing the fact that her life is falling apart, that the facade can no longer be maintained, and control was only ever an illusion, and Colonel Frank, desperately fighting not to face up to something so conflicting, his personal battle at such great cost to those around him.

Finding one's voice is something that means a lot to me: being able to communicate who you are, and being heard and known and accepted by another, has such power in a person's life. When a person is listened to and valued, it's amazing what life that can bring, what energy and sense of worth. And it's so easy to squash a person by ignoring them, speaking over them, or, worse, appearing to hear them but being blind to who they really are.

I have a friend who has a gift for seeing the hidden in people, the potential perhaps, the good that lacks a bit of confidence, and calling it out - naming that person straight out by what she sees, rather than what they think they are. And, it's amazing to see how people respond when invited to lead or help or give or speak or listen or organise or comfort. Mostly, people step up, get on and do it - and it's wonderful, both to experience and to see.

I suppose finding one's voice comes from finding out who one is, one's own identity. But, this process is made easier when there are people in one's life willing to truly listen, to look beyond the outside and take a chance on what's underneath. In American Beauty, character change only comes as a response to the words of other people. I forget how much power there is in the words I speak to and about other people, and in the way I listen (or don't listen) to other people. That's something I'd like to try to remember.

It's back in December!

2011-07-15T18:51:00.000+01:00

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

In feast or fallow

2011-07-14T18:36:00.000+01:00

I find myself in something of a vacuum at the moment. Not an actual vacuum, a figurative vacuum. But still, that's how some things feel at the moment, and I'm learning again how to walk through this. My instant reaction is to scrabble about to fill the gaps, fix the problems, paper over the cracks. But, this time, I want to resist those urges and instead let it be: give this time in my life some space. Realise that although some things are harder than usual at the moment, there is good in this too, things to be learned, even healing to be found, perhaps. Good that I might miss out on if I was to try to hurry through with my head down.

I found myself thinking of this song, a hymn I first heard sung at Lysan, the beautiful lyrics and melody weaving in and about my thoughts ever since. I think it fits for where I am, and reminds me, amongst other things, that nothing is forever - both good times and harder times. I won't always be in this place, and, although that makes me glad, it also makes me more keen to take what I can from this while I'm here.

Tuesdays and Oreos

2011-07-12T18:59:00.000+01:00

Tuesday nights are family nights. I get home from work to find the husband plus one/two/five friends, pottering around the garden, making dinner, drinking tea, watching youtube. As I type, the husband and R are chopping up veg for our dinner. I'm a fortunate lady indeed. I think my favourite moment in recent Tuesdays was R entering the living room to find myself, The Loris and A merrily sewing patchwork squares. Despairing of our giggles and needles, he wandered out to the garden to find the husband chatting with our neighbour over the fence, both men holding hammers. Hmm, sewing or hammering? How's that for a stereotypical gender spectrum?!

***

Is it wrong to scoff six Oreo biscuits in rapid succession less than 24 hours after a big IBS flare up? Well, I'll find out later I'm sure, but in the meantime I'm clinging to the logic that if good-for-you fruit does me in so badly, then surely highly processed sugar snacks can't do any worse. Ah, logic that does not hold water - my speciality.

***

Speaking of American snackfood, I was reminiscing today about my trip to the US last October, and which foods completely won me over. I was surprised to find that there weren't so many - after all, I grew up reading a whole load of American young adult fiction, so I had a long list of things to try. In the end, I realised that if somehow I could be supplied with a regular stream of Oreos (peanut butter & double stuff), candy corn and Chex Mix, I'd be a very happy (sugared up) bunny.

Overheard on the Overground...gig in the library...hurrah!

2011-07-11T19:30:00.000+01:00

The train announcer at Stratford deserves some kind of reward...or at the very least, not getting fired. Never have I heard such honesty, or seen so many smiles on the faces of my fellow passengers. It should be said that the following is an approximation of the announcements, although the wording (especially the, um, fruitier, words) are not far off verbatim:

"Due to really cr*p lines of communication, we don't know where any trains are. The screens are wrong, so don't bother looking at them - we don't know where any trains are. We strongly recommend that you use alternative means of transport. *softer voice* Absolutely f***ing unbelievable."

So, I turn around to head off to the Central Line, and then hear this:

"Oh look! Apparently a train's pulling in. Get on it, and hope for the best!"

Good PR perhaps not, and suitable for children, certainly not...but never underestimate the power of honesty with commuters. We all hate delays, but what we hate more is not knowing what's going on or being fobbed off with generic updates (yes, we know the train is delayed - please just tell us why and whether one is likely to appear any time soon). So, thank you mister announcer for bringing smiles and chuckles to our faces this evening.

***

In other news, today I managed to get tickets for me and the husband to gather with 198 others in the British Library on 5th September to listen to this lady. I am very very excited: intimate gig, a performer I love, in a venue surrounded by books.

I last saw her play the Astoria in 2005 or 2006 (with The Dresden Dolls)...that's the gig I heard DeVotchKa for the first time, and they blew me away, and that's the gig I really grasped how powerful a voice and a piano and a drumkit can really be and got completely swept up in the moment and barely breathed through the whole show. I also found out subsequently that my future flatmate was there taking photos, although we didn't know each other at the time. But that's by the by. I've been wanting to go see The Dolls or AFP again since then, but things have never quite worked out, til now. Hurrah!

I'm already panicking about the possibility of actually being able to speak to her...I'm a terrible fangirl, and while I've seen many artists/comedians/musicians I admire out and about (Chris Morris, Noel Fieling, Tamsin Greig, Billy Bragg, Phil Jupitus, to name but a few), I've not approached any of them due to ridiculous shyness. I have a feeling the husband will not let me get away with that this time, should the opportunity arise.

Two Seven One

2011-07-09T10:00:00.001+01:00

I really miss my old bus route. Due to the Overground going kaput last night, I had reason to make my way to Moorgate to take the 271 home, and as I boarded, I realised how much I missed this journey.

For starters, it's usually fairly rapid, avoiding the perils of Angel and Upper Street, opting instead for Hoxton and Highbury. But, more than that, it's the sights.

I miss Hoxton - it's weird mix of dilapidation and newness and creativity and over the top fashion. I miss the warm yellow/brown brick of the warehouses, the windy little streets.

I miss the moment we drive over the canal and I get to gaze out at the still calm water. It was always a little highlight of my evening, something that made my soul unclench and smile.

I miss the approach to Highbury, looking out to the right at the big houses at Canonbury, surrounded by so much green that you can't see the road and it looks like the houses have sprung out of a jungle.

One thing I really really miss is my morning journey. Provided I'd left the house early enough, my special treat was to get off the bus early and walk in a leisurely fashion through Shoreditch park. Ah, it is so beautiful first thing in the morning - a place of green and quiet and peace, stark contrast to the overcrowded bus I'd just left. My favourite mornings were those in the Autumn/Winter, bright bright dazzling sunshine, cutting through the early morning mist, warming my eyelids a I closed my eyes in it's glare.

So, it's nice, every now and then, to be able to revisit my favourite bus and take a ride. Hehe, and maybe I could do a series: "LondonHeather's favourite bus routes". I'm only slightly joking...

I dread to think what the security guard thought

2011-07-08T19:01:00.000+01:00

Weather forecast: very windy with rain showers.

Hair forecast: rapidly expanding until it forms it's own distinct entity, with devious plans to conquer the world.

Monkey and Binky

2011-07-07T18:58:00.000+01:00

Our cat has made a friend. She/He is a little cat similar in size and colour to Monkey, although mostly black with a little white (white socks! I love cats with white socks), whereas Monkey's about half and half. Monkey is not known for her social skills - despite her smaller size, she has little trouble establishing her territory and defending it from any prey, biffing far bigger cats as necessary. However, every now and then another cat finds a chink in her fearsome armour and becomes her friend.

In her old house, it was Jake who she befriended. He was bigger than her and built like a barrel, and had the strangest yowl we'd heard until we moved here (the cats round here are a veritable choir of oddness), leading the husband's old housemates to Christen him Goat-Cat. It was a sad day when she moved and left Jake behind (well, sad for us, on her behalf...she probably didn't really care), and we wondered how she'd find living in a new place, surrounded by new cats, away from her old ally.

It's taken time, but her new friend is firmly on the scene. I've named him/her Binky for no apparent reason except that "Monkey and Binky" sounds ridiculously cute in my head and makes me smile. If Monkey's in the house, Binky often appears on the side of the fishpond, peering in the window to find his/her friend. The number of times I've tried to point him/her out to Monkey - "look Monkey, there's your friend! No, don't eat my finger, follow my finger - look! No Monkey, I don't want to play, turn your head, Binky's outside the window!" - before giving up, hoisting her round and putting her face right up to the pane so that she can see for herself. And when Monkey's outside, she and Binky sit together, watch the fish together, try to eat the fish together, chase each other, stare at each other, occasionally biff each other, and generally get on wonderfully. Binky is an odd mix of shy and brave. He/she is well known for walking into people's kitchens, through windows, into sheds. But try to stroke him/her, or sit near him/her, and off he/she runs.

The husband and I like Binky, and like the fact our little Monkey has made a new friend. Ahh, we're so proud of our little stand-offish fuzzball.

Midnight ramblings

2011-07-06T21:08:00.000+01:00

So I wake up in the night from a weird dream involving a spider that looked like a spider plant (all leafy green legs), roll out of bed and stumble off to the bathroom. On my return, the husband sleepily asks what I was shouting about. Shouting? Me?

Yes, apparently, just before I got up, I shouted out, "what the heckins is that?!"

I can only suspect it was my response to the spider. Good to know that Adam and Joe have permeated my subconscious so deeply that I've incorporated "heckins" into my core vocabulary even in sleep.

Fruit are not my friend (and learning to let go of control)

2011-07-01T11:27:00.001+01:00

This week I was slayed somewhat (haha, good use of contradiction there, Heather) by IBS. To me it still seems that the attacks are fairly random, although I'm finding some foods are more likely than others to trigger an attack. Fruit are not my friend. Or, rather, fruit is my difficult, highly-strung, temperamental friend: it is good for my body, but only at very specific times. So, I can only eat most fruit on an empty stomach. Eating fruit after a meal is a no-no, unless I want to trigger an attack. Bananas are the exception - I can eat them any time. Summer fruit is treated with extra caution - yummy as they are, berries tend to do extra special things to my system, at random, no matter when I eat them. Aware that I may miss out on key vitamins and goodness, I am now trialling smoothies to see what they do.

Probiotics seem to be a good thing. They don't stop IBS from attacking, but they do minimise bloating and general stomach discomfort, which is very much a good thing. It took me a while to find one that made a difference. I first tried a probiotic tablet. When that didn't work I tried a fresh-from-the-fridge drink and that seems to be very helpful.

I carry a lot of guilt with IBS (and the dizziness, for similar reasons), I realised this week. No one really knows what causes IBS, or has a fool-proof way of treating it. Most doctors I've spoken to seem to agree that it's a problem with the flora of the gut rather than the gut itself. And most doctors agree (to varying levels) that stress is a big factor. The main advice I've been given is to try to track diet and diary to see if there are any obvious trigger - ie certain foods, time of the month, major anxiety etc etc. The problem I'm finding is that although I've been tracking for a while, the attacks seem to come or go regardless of what's going on in my life. And as such I feel like I'm failing. That I can't get a grip on things for long enough to enact a solution. I can't make myself chill out. I can't figure out why some foods work some days, and other days cause huge upset. And so there builds a lovely cyclical effect. I have an attack and feel anxious about managing it and why it happened, and so the stress builds, and I'm more prone to another attack.

I think it's all a lie. I mean, I do believe that over time I'll recognise ways to help my body. Figuring out the fruit factor is a big thing, but there are other simpler things that I could do. Like stopping wolfing down my food (a very bad habit I've had for a long time). But really this all plays into a bigger narrative that tells the story of my relationship to my body. Learning that my body is not my enemy. Learning that my body can and should be cared for, but control was never a good attitude, nor a realistic option. Learning to listen to my body but not be bound by it. So there is no guilt that I can't control my body. It's not a machine, and the sooner I really understand that, the better. It's a long learning process though, especially as it involves unlearning a whole load of things, and I think I'm at about crawling level. Maybe I'll be able to grab onto something strong and hoist myself up to standing position soon, maybe even take a few wobbly steps.

Where do your passions lie?

2011-06-30T21:27:00.000+01:00

My Eskimo friend posted about a Blue Plaque she'd seen lately commemorating Luke Howard, the "namer of clouds", and asked, what would your plaque read? I love questions like this, letting me daydream about how people might remember me, how I would remember others. But they also challenge me. Another friend recently asked what I'm passionate about, and I really struggled to answer. There are lots of things that I like, that I enjoy doing, but there's very little in my life that I am passionate about, consumed with, fascinated by. And I wonder why.

It's not like I've never been passionate about things. In my teens it was mainly bands - I started with Hanson (oh wow did I love them), and then moved on (thankfully) to Queen, maintaining a wonderful obsession with them that lasted until I left school. Along the way I focused in on Adam Ant, Marc Bolan, the photography of Mick Rock (David Bowie, Queen, Blondie, Dr. Frank-N-Furter), collecting girls annuals from the '70s and '80s, amassing knowledge about various punk bands who were big way before I was even born. Of course, there was an element of romantic infatuation with all of these things, and obsession is not always a good thing. And of course, people mellow, hormones die down a bit, things level out and seem less vital.

But passion is a good thing, and I miss it. Busyness, tiredness, apathy, fear - I reckon these are probably all obstacles to passion. I have no quick solution - I don't just want to latch onto something for the sake of having a keen interest. But I suppose my challenge is to be more aware of the things in my life that excite me, and take the time to slow down and pursue them. I would like to be remembered as someone who was passionate. It doesn't matter if people don't remember what exactly I cared about so deeply, but to live with passion is a wonderful and remarkable thing.

Adam and Joe make me cry

2011-06-16T21:36:00.001+01:00

There's a theme this week!

Adam and Joe's podcast made me cry this week, but the tears were tears of hysterical laughter, rather than deep emotional stirring. One of the many things that cracks me up is people corpsing. I realise that Adam and Joe aren't really corpsing when they do their radio show, since it's not scripted, but I still love it when they talk about something that really tickles them, leaving them laughing hysterically. This week's podcast was a peach. I found myself crying at the update on the Bronhom/Taffin-related situation (especially the Jaguar Skills clips), Joe's brilliant Blah-Boobidy-By-Yah story, and the wonderful metal cover of the Travellin' Tales theme which left both of them slightly taken aback by the darkness at the end.

But I think one of my favourite examples of corpsing is the recent(ish*) version of Monty Python's Four Yorkshiremen sketch, with Harry Enfield, Eddie Izzard, Alan Rickman and the wonderful Vic Reeves.

I don't know how Alan Rickman keeps a straight face. I'm glad the others don't.

* Actually, it was from an Amnesty International comedy fundraiser that my friends went to when I was still at school, so probably dates from around 2001, 2002. So, ten years old, not so recent really.

Google Chrome makes me cry

2011-06-15T22:55:00.001+01:00

I'm not sure what it says about me when adverts for a web browser reduce me to tears, but recently two of Google Chrome's ads have left me weeping in front of the television.

The first features a new father, writing an email to his newborn daughter, proud and overwhelmed and delighted. We then see her grow up via video clips, whilst he keeps writing to her email address, saying how he loves her, how proud he is of her, and finishing by saying that one day they'll read through the emails together. Maybe it's the soundtrack (music will often make me cry), maybe it's the use of words and pictures and music (I really am that simple - this is why film trailers reduce me to sobs), or maybe it's the fact that it is, to me, such a lovely concept. Maybe a bit too 21st century, but come on - a dad writing letters to his daughter as she grows up, ready for her to read one day. Beautiful.

The second was aired during Glee, which makes sense, as it focuses on the YouTube page for It Gets Better, a site featuring videos from all kinds of people speaking out to reassure LGBT youngsters that although life may be tough, things really will get better, that they deserve to be treated well regardless of their sexuality. Again, it could just be the combination of heartfelt videos set to a cool soundtrack that got me, but I think it was more than that - I love the inclusiveness, I love the fact that sites like this exist to reach out to people who may feel lonely or afraid or lost or hopeless. I love the sense of community, of hope, of courage, of strength: all things that tug on my heart and make my eyes leak.

So, what's next eh Google Chrome?! My money's on a group of otters rescuing a little lost kitten to a soundtrack by David Holmes.

Flashback to the library {part four}

2011-06-12T11:33:00.000+01:00

I loved working at the library, and not just because of G. I liked the sense of order, the wealth of information at our disposal, the feeling of community amongst staff and patrons. We weren’t out to make profit, so the atmosphere was, for the most part, relaxed and fun. Of course, there were dull moments. We worked on a rota, and so some weeks I’d be faced with a three-hour shelving stint, which was far less appealing now that I’d experienced the joy of sitting at the desk and talking to patrons. But generally there was always something to do, someone to chat with, or interesting books to take a look at.

We got used to certain regulars coming in and out of the library. There was S, the drunk guy who’d turn up with his can of Special Brew and pass out on the couch in M & A until the library closed. Mostly he was pleasant to talk to, although I heard later that one day he turned up with a replica handgun, and there was quite a scene as the police came out to talk him down and end the siege. There was the older man, who, all year round wore a shirt and shorts, with a huge great plastic water canister on his back. He was well-known around the town, and generally didn’t cause any disturbance, simply attracting looks of curiosity. Occasionally there’d be the odd rude patron, complaining loudly about lack of certain titles, or clashing loudly with H after he’d told them curtly to keep their voice down, or, that they were being made to pay fines on long overdue books. Although, the largest fine I came across, well over £100, was drummed up by a woman who seemed quite dazed by the whole thing, and was keen to reassure us that she’d pay, and that we could trust her to pay a small amount each week. Friends and family would pop by too, which was always nice, although sometimes a little embarrassing, my eighteen year old self bemused as parents and workmates collided.

The library helped me save money to go to Uni, gave me confidence in myself and if it didn’t revolutionise my social skills, at least gave them a little shove in the right direction. When I left, my workmates gave me a card and a little toy Eeyore. I’m not sure if that was a statement about my personality, but I do know that I was touched and a little sad not to be coming back. I visited a couple of times, back home from Uni. The library underwent a massive refit after I left - about time really as I think the original building was a '60s relic - but it didn't feel the same after that. A few years later I bumped into H, now retired, out and about in the area, still as eccentric as ever. And I still like the idea of returning to work in a library at some point. Using the date stamp has still not lost it's charm.

Flashback to the library {part three}

2011-06-11T11:24:00.000+01:00

Eventually, I managed to get a full time Saturday job, so my after school shifts came to an end, and I was promoted to the desk. Ah, what joy – learning the system, scanning barcodes and, finally, stamping out books, CDs, DVDs with a proper stamp. And to teach me, the other librarians, some full time, but also the little group of Saturday staff, students a little bit older than me. All friendly and kind, keen to help me where I needed help, fun to chat with at quieter moments, making me feel that little bit cooler with my new older friends.

It was here that I got to know someone that I pretty much fell head over heels for. Ah, G, the most beautiful man I’d ever met in real life. I thought he had Jared Leto’s eyes - that’s how love-struck I was! Now I’ve mentioned the shyness, right? Oh my word, with him it was excruciating, especially as he was quite quiet too. Half the time when he spoke I couldn’t hear what he said, and the other half I spent blushing and tongue-tied, desperate to come across as cool and witty. But, even with the awkwardness, somehow we managed to chat and get to know each other a bit, mainly bonding over our shared love of alternative music (although he disliked Placebo, my favourite band at the time) and films.

A big aid to this, and my other new friendships, was that once a month, the librarians went bowling. Yup, Monday night was bowling night, and we’d take up several lanes of the local alley. I remember the first time I plucked up the courage to go along, and I ran into G on my way over. It was a boiling hot summer evening, and I was wearing my Queen "Innuendo" t-shirt. I was so aware of how sweaty I was already, and hoping that I didn’t stink, and then here he was, and I was all befuddled, trying to think of interesting things to say to him. He was wearing a Backyard Babies t-shirt –this was the first time I’d heard of this band, and so of course, as soon as I could I borrowed an album of theirs and was delighted to find that I didn’t even have to pretend I liked them, as their scuzzy punk rock ‘n’ roll was right up my street. That first night at bowling I discovered that a) I suck at bowling, and b) G was incredible, getting strike after strike. After striking out each of my first three goes, I realised that at least I couldn’t embarrass myself any further, and weirdly was able to relax and enjoy hanging out with the others.

Nothing ever happened between myself and G. I’m not sure he saw much in me beyond a shy and awkward workmate, and I was far too timid to actually express what I was feeling to him. These were the days before major mobile phone usage, and way before social networking and msn (for me at least), so I couldn’t even attempt to flirt from behind a computer. Probably just as well really - I was set to go off to university in the next year, and hey, further down the line I met my lovely husband, which was totally worth waiting for. But I look back fondly, slightly amused and embarrassed at the painfulness of it all, but glad that despite my struggles I actually managed to make some friends and speak to a guy I was totally into without combusting.

Flashback to the library {part two}

2011-06-10T11:14:00.002+01:00

I became a pro, learning the Dewey-decimal system by what seemed like osmosis, effortlessly sorting the laden trolleys, lugging huge piles of books about, cramming books on shelves (and occasionally dropping them, sometimes on my own head), rolling my eyes as I reorganised where people had mis-shelved things. I became a dab hand at operating the security cases used for the CDs, and enjoyed placing them back on their shelves, putting aside any I liked the look of to borrow for myself later (“Razorblade Suitcase”, by Bush, was one of these, hence the flashback when I put it on my earphones). I took time in my favourite sections: architecture, impressionism, photography, music bios, poring over photos surreptitiously, hidden from view of the librarian on the main desk.

Not that they would have minded. Music & Arts was staffed by three librarians on shifts, each of them brilliant and slightly odd in their own way. L & C were younger, both fans of jeans and plaid shirts, both with a couple of hoops in one ear. L was the easiest to get on with - he was laid back and funny, and we talked about music, books, his kids, school. He put me at ease in my shyness. Ah, yes, the shyness…it was for this reason I found C the trickiest to work with. Looking back now I’m guessing he did not know what to say to an incredibly awkward seventeen year old, but at the time I assumed he was indifferent and simply thought himself too cool for me. When we did talk it was somewhat strained, although we shared a similar taste in music, which helped and he put me onto some decent bands, so by the time I left the job, I was more or less capable of speaking to him like a normal person.

And then H. Ah, how to describe H? H was much older than the other two, a librarian of the old school, passionate about books, stern when it came to noise (woe betide anyone whose mobile phone rang on the second floor). He had at least one grown-up son who was studying at Cambridge and he spent a lot of our time working together urging me (sometimes encouraging, sometimes commanding) to apply to Oxbridge, which was both flattering and annoying, as I’d already decided that I wanted to study elsewhere. Get him talking, and he could go on for hours about the most random topics. We talked history, politics, film, gardening, music, local parks, holidays, places of interest, his childhood. This was always pretty random, but mostly very interesting. Sometimes it was nice, having a little break from the books to chat with (or rather, listen to) H. My favourite memory is walking up to work one evening, and hearing a very odd noise emerging from behind the desk. As I approached, I realised that H had not only bought a set of bagpipes, but had assembled them and was playing them there and then, in the middle of the library, to the bemusement of the patrons. No idea why, but there he was, and he managed to get away with it too.

Flashback to the library {part one}

2011-06-09T22:14:00.000+01:00

Today I chose to listen to Bush on my mp3 player, and as 'History' piped into my ears, I was catapulted back nearly ten years, to autumn 2001, when, as a seventeen year old I started working at a library. I can picture what I wore to go to work (huge flared skate jeans, band t-shirt, retro/vintage shirt, plastic bangles up my arms, fingers full of rings – not a lot has changed), I can vividly recall the smells of the library, the Music and Arts department where I stacked shelves, all dust and paper and plastic mingling in the ever slightly too warm, over-lit room.

I’d wanted to work at the library ever since I was old enough to look for a part time job, but I had to wait a while, as the library had a long waiting list for students. I started out stacking shelves, three hours an evening after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays in Music and Arts, taking extra shifts on Saturday mornings after a few months in Adult Fiction, where I would timidly watch the other part-timers working on the desk. The desk, was something I aspired to, having played at checking books in and out of libraries since I was a small child. Seriously. I still have some of the books I read as a child, and if you open the cover, most of them still have brightly coloured post-it note adorning the first page. Some of them were checked out (either by my brother, or one of my toys), but in the absence of a date-stamp, I used the next best thing – a pink pterodactyl stamp. The fact it was a pterodactyl was unimportant – what was vital was having a stamp, any stamp, so that I could perform the correct stamping motion on check out. Although, I do remember, even as a child, longing for a proper date stamp, a big heavy thing with a revolving mechanism, which would make the perfect *thunk* when used.

Awesome!

2011-06-08T20:56:00.000+01:00

Thanks to my lovely cultured friend, I found out today that I get to see this man in July:

So excited - I've wanted to see Carlos Acosta for years!

Tea in Cake

2011-06-06T20:52:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I got round to baking a recipe I found last week, in my friend's copy of "The Hummingbird Bakery: Cake Days". As I flicked through the book, feeling my mouth fill with drool (nice), I actually yelped out loud when I came across a recipe for Earl Grey Cupcakes. Earl Grey in a cake! Genius! So, I noted the recipe and made plans to give them a go on Friday evening. Alas, Friday came and I realised two things - we had no butter, and I was inordinately tired, both of which put me in foul mood, until I was stropping around the house like an overtired four year old. Not pretty. Admitting defeat, I retired to bed, and postponed my plan until Sunday morning.

Marlon the saddest panda tries a cake

As I prepared to make the cakes, brewing the tea, the husband appeared and immediately turned his nose up at the idea of using Earl Grey, since in his opinion, one can barely taste it in tea form, let alone cake form. No, to his mind, the best tea would be Lady Grey. Now, I had planned to try LG if the EG cakes turned out well, but faced with such strength of emotion, thought I'd go ahead and substitute Lady Grey then and there.

And, as you can see, the cakes turned out alright. Presentation has never been my forté, so please excuse the plain case and lack of adornment (I'd like to put little jellied orange & lemon pieces on top). My cakes didn't rise as much as I'd hoped, although I think I've figured out why: the recipe said to mix the butter, sugar, flour and baking powder, so, even though I know better, I shoved it all in the bowl and whisked. Really, I should have done what I usually do - whisk up the butter and the sugar until it's light and fluffy, then add the flour and slowly stir in...and then rather than whisk in the liquid ingredients, slowly stir those in. Hmmm.

Anyhoo, slight lack of rising aside, the cakes turned out well. Which was good, since I ended up with 24 cakes (the recipe said 12, but I think they probably use larger paper cases). And, they passed the taste test - I took 'em all down to church, and before long people were munching away and smiling at me through the icing. Hurrah! Plus, that saves the husband and I sharing 24 cakes between us. And, for those interested, one cake is worth 7 points, according to my calculations.

I already have requests for the next batch: Lapsang Souchong cupcakes. Not sure lots of people will go for little bonfire-tasting cakes, but the husband and The Loris seem keen.

Clutter is good

2011-06-05T11:38:00.000+01:00

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a sh*tty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it....Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is a wonderfully fertile ground - you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it's going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath, of suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move."
Copyright: Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird (1994)

I've recently discovered Anne Lamott, and while reading Bird by Bird, her guide to writing, I came across the passage above. I have never thought of myself as a perfectionist, by any stretch, but recently, as I've tried tackling various things, from craft projects to writing on a blog to making decisions about my life, I realise that the grip of perfectionism actually holds me quite tight, and holds me back from trying lots of things, from accepting things the way they are, from understanding that as I step out into the new I will learn as I go and the messiness of things along the way is normal and fine and good. That I don't have to get things right, do things properly, straight away.

It's a humbling thing for me to acknowledge that I'm not little miss perfect, that I'm not particularly "together" at the moment - I mean, I've always known that I'm not, but I've loved projecting to others that I am, and to be honest, I've often drawn comfort from believing that my life, me, the things I do, are tidy and neat. And I'm sorry for that pride. But now, more than ever, I want to embrace the imperfection rather than hide it or squash it away. I want my life to be lived, not to be tidied. And I think that is the life that God would like me, would like us, to live - with humility and honesty and courage to keep going even if things are messy. Jesus doesn't love people who are perfect. He loves people while they are imperfect - in fact, embracing God and His love and grace is easier when you realise that you yourself are not together, that you don't have it all figured out. A lesson I am still learning.

It may not be a monkey in a scarf, but it's not too bad

2011-05-29T23:18:00.000+01:00

On Friday I finished off my first craft project of the year (I generally manage about one a year - last year I knitted a little monkey, complete with his own scarf.* I'd like to up the volume, even double would be pretty good). So, this year's first craft project was a cushion cover. And, it's turned out waaay better than I thought it would. Hurrah!

Cushion cover, modelled by the husband

Back in February I was able to buy myself a sewing machine, and on my first trip to our local haberdashers, I discovered the joys of packs of fat quarters. Fat quarters (or, FQs as they are sometimes known) are squares of fabric measuring 50cm x 50cm, ie a quarter of a square metre of fabric. I found that these were great for me, as they gave me a selection of interestingly-patterned fabric, in smallish, easy to use, pieces. More cost-effective too than committing to metre lengths of fabric, which is often the minimum length haberdashers will sell.

So, armed with my new sewing machine and a stash of pretty floral FQs, I set about working out a project (yes, I know, you should come up with a project before buying materials, but I was too distracted by the bundles of pretty fabric), and figured patchwork would work best. Straight lines all the way, with the exception of the zip, plus we had a cushion that needed covering, so my project would be useful too.

Turns out, straight lines are not always so simple. Sure, sewing in a straight line isn't too difficult, but, I found that I am not skilled at cutting out straight lines, nor marking/pinning straight lines. There was a lot of unpicking, and, alas, some of my squares don't quite line up, which isn't ideal. In addition, although I managed to work out how to insert the zip (something I am very proud of), I seem to lack a zipper foot for my sewing machine, which meant that the end result wasn't as neat as I'd hoped.

But, for all that, it turned out pretty good, as long as you don't look too closely at the detail. And really, that's all I wanted. So, now that I have one project under my belt, I'm trying to figure out what would be a suitable progression. But hey, to meet my new quota, the deadline is the end of the year, so I doubt I'll be rushing to jump into something new just yet. Instead, I shall enjoy my lovely new cushion.

*Monkey, our cat, did not take too well to my little knitted monkey. I had just finished him, and set him on the arm of the sofa next to me. As he sat, Monkey jumped up, and inched her way towards him. After giving him a good sniff, she delivered her verdict - a swift strike of her paw, that sent him sprawling onto the floor. Poor knitted monkey. He now sits on a shelf, well out of Monkey's way.

New Fro Yo - The Cultured Cow

2011-05-27T13:38:00.001+01:00

Today, on one of our last days of holiday before the return to work next week, the husband and I found ourselves drinking tea in Camden. Whilst sipping our blends and gazing around the relatively crowded Yum Chaa, I remembered a friend telling me about a new frozen yoghurt place, also on Parkway. Remembering only that the name included the word "cow", I set off up the road, determined to try out a new (and highly recommended) source of delicious fro yo. It is Friday, after all, and fro yo is my Friday treat.

"The Cultured Cow" has only been open for two weeks, and, rather sadly when I went in, was completely empty. It serves low-fat, probiotic frozen yoghurt, made from milk sourced from English cows (or, rather, cows grazing in England). It's not quite as fun as Yoo Moo (my regular Canary Wharf-based source of fro yo), in that you are served your yoghurt and toppings, rather than assembling all yourself, and is a bit pricier, although as the size/number of toppings are all costed out in advance, it removes the slight worry I feel at Yoo Moo when my tub is weighed and the price determined - what if this week I really broke the bank?!

I came away today with a medium tub (or, "heifer" tub - nice) and three toppings: raspberry & strawberry puree (for health), marshmallows and caramel shortbread (for treats). Oh my word - it was a mountain of yoghurty goodness, but far too much for my greedy eyes, which today were definitely larger than my stomach. Still, I ate as much as I could, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I went with the natural flavour, which was very rich and creamy, without being cloying - as my friend had told me, just like greek yoghurt in taste. The toppings added sweetness and a nice tang, and I could tell that the puree was all natural, as there was no sickly sugary after-taste. Really, the ratio of toppings to yoghurt wasn't quite right for such a large helping, but I'll know for next time to go for a smaller tub and ask for a better balance of treats.

I would definitely go back - it's open til late on Sundays, so it could be a perfect post-church treat. Plus, my doctor is recommending me to up my intake of probiotics in the battle against IBS, so perhaps I should make fro yo my Friday and Sunday treat. Doctor's orders, after all.

On friendship

2011-05-08T21:19:00.000+01:00

One of the things that I have been learning a lot about this past year, is friendship. Of course, in the context of a newly married person, friendship with my husband, and starting to learn how the dynamic of our relationship works (and doesn't work) has been a big part of that. But actually, running along in parallel, has been rediscovering the wonders of friendship, especially with other women. Perhaps it's because I've been in the mindset of noticing what makes my marriage relationship flourish, and what doesn't, that I've also paid more attention to the people in my life who matter to me.

I forget that relationships - all relationships - take effort, intention, work, especially as an adult. Is that fair? I think so - I mean, when you're a child or even a student, you're surrounded by peers most days. So while it may not always be easy to make friends, there are more opportunities to spend time with people, get to know them. Plus, kids don't tend to analyse so much, they just get on with things. But then, you get older, and life changes, you move, friends move, situations and circumstances evolve, and the friendships you have take more effort to maintain, maybe some fall by the wayside even, and starting new friendships isn't perhaps as easy as it once was - for a start, meeting people as an adult isn't always too easy as there's not always a readily available peer group to hand.

This, if it is not obvious, is my observation. I know plenty of people who find making friends easy - they're gregarious and outgoing and happy to talk to anyone, striking up friendships left right and centre. I've been fortunate to have great friends, but making friends generally takes a long time for me. For a start, I'm an introvert by nature, and I'm shy. I love spending time on my own, and while I like being with others, I crave space to myself, as that's where I often recharge, rest, relax. Although I'm not as painfully shy as I was as a teenager (good grief, painful really was the word), I'm still quite timid around new people. I don't always know what to say, feel a bit awkward, and worry that I'm boring them. But hey, that could be a whole other post, so I shall leave that there, but suffice it to say, building friendships isn't something I take to particularly naturally.

A wise (or trite) person once said something along the lines of, "friends are there for a reason, a season, or for life". I think there's something to be said for that, especially the fact that it recognises the various types and natures of relationships, and that it's okay for people to come and go in your life. There are people I met and befriended whilst doing something specific - be it renovating a cathedral during one summer, or the crazy gang of Viking re-enactors, but am now no longer in touch with at all. There are people I met during a specific time at a certain place, who I've lost contact with now - youth group at church as a teenager, various friends I met at uni. And then there are people I've been friends with five years, ten years, fifteen years - some of them I'm still in regular contact with, others more sporadic, but people I'm sure will remain in my life for a good while to come.

With this in mind, in the past year, I've been evaluating lots of friendships, not wishing to take anyone for granted, trying to be more intentional about the people in my life. Common themes have been trust, grief, love, delight, surprise.

I have more trust issues than I realise, but I am learning to take people at their words. If I don't trust a friend, it's rarely because they've shown themselves to be untrustworthy, more a refusal on my part to believe that when they say they like me, they actually like me.

The nature of friendships changes - sometimes that involves growing closer together, but sometimes it involves space developing between you, or simply drifting apart. None of these things are wrong or bad, but it can be hard to hold people in an open hand, to give them space to change, just as they give you space to change, or, to realise that actually, as much as you care, you no longer have so much in common. These things are good, I think, but they grieve my heart too.

I have some good friends. Some great friends. Women I love with my whole heart, women I can turn to in any crisis and know that they will be there for me, women I can spill my soul to, and know that they will not mock or judge or reject me. Women I can laugh with, cry with. These women are my treasure, diamonds gold and jewels - I love them very much, and I am very grateful for them.

Friendship is a delightful thing. Being with another person, finding out what makes them tick, seeing them come into their own, sharing experiences and stories, silliness and laughter, new friends or friends you haven't seen in a long time - these things are wonderful, and I love the lightness of friendship, how it can lift up your soul (hehe, I'm such a hippy!).

I have always LOVED the surprise when a person comes into your life and you just click. Sometimes it's instant, but not always. I have many stories of surprise friends, people I never expected to connect with the way I did, people I can't believe I haven't known longer, people who bless me in ways I never knew I needed. And this gives me hope - if I'm still making new friends now, then I trust that as life continues to weave its way onwards, I will continue to meet surprise gems along the way.

Of course this is an ongoing process - my mind still falls into the trap of believing it's a short term project (or even a project at all), but, you know, things will keep on changing, and so really this is a mindset I'm trying to learn to keep on applying year after year. There's ebb and flow - at times things are so hectic that it's not always so easy to be intentional with people in your life: but then, that's the wonder of friendship, people who care and walk with you through the busy times, prop you up during the weak times, carry you through the hard times. I seem to be in a flow time right now, and I'm enjoying what I'm learning as I try to carve out space to build new friendships and maintain older ones.

Daydreaming...

2011-05-06T21:42:00.000+01:00

Post-retreat is always an interesting time, most often marked by tiredness and possibly general under-the-weather type feelings. This week was no exception. When we set out on Monday for a walk along the canal in Camden, I was full of beans...it took very little time for me to wilt like a sad little flower, and so our afternoon's walk was cut short so that I could go home and nap. But before my descent into knackeredness, we did manage to visit St. Michael's to take a look at the art installation that had been part of the Camden Crawl.

'Day Dreaming with...St Michael's', taken by me.

"Day Dreaming with...St Michael's" was absolutely incredible - the husband and I stuck our heads in and our jaws promptly dropped as we sank into chairs and spent a good while just watching as the swirling patterns projected onto the screen, reflected at our feet. The whole thing drew me in, a bit like a lava lamp, and was weirdly spiritual too, at least for me - the dark church, the ethereal music, the vast swirling flame-like shapes. At times I thought I saw angels, sometimes I even thought the throne of God might come appear...and then the next minute I was deeply unsettled, the flames shifting, the music changing, and I wondered if perhaps I was glimpsing part of another, very different, spiritual realm. And I loved it - I love being moved by art, and as I know very little about art, often it doesn't take much, but this was very visceral. I loved the sense of awe and wonder, combined with creeping dark undertones - really unsettling, but in a very good way.

I found out afterwards that this incorporated a work entitled "The Heretics Gate", by Doug Foster, which, inspired by Dante's Inferno, depicts a gateway to hell. At St Michael's, James Lavelle had pulled together Foster's work, together with input from Jonathan Glazer (he of Guiness ad & music video fame) and music from UNKLE and Simon Fisher Turner. The installation ended yesterday, so I'm very glad we managed to stop by - well worth it.

***

After my nap on Monday, I decided I was suitably emotionally tired to risk watching "The Time Traveller's Wife". Having adored the book when I read it for the first time before Christmas, I've been a bit hesitant about watching the film, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been, and I ended up really enjoying it (and having a good cry). Whilst watching I found my newest song obsession - Broken Social Scene's cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart. It's dreamy and slow and lovely and brings a tear to my eye. Well, to be fair, the original does too, so that can only be a good thing. Beautiful.

***

The Husband, Monkey and our first courgette

This week we enjoyed our first harvest - baby spinach leaves (so tasty!) and our first courgette! Very exciting to eat food from our garden - I take my hat off to the gardener, my lovely husband, pictured here showing the first courgette to a very curious Monkey. Our garden is fully in bloom, with all kinds of wonderful things growing. I think we have...spinach, pak choi, broccoli, potatoes, courgettes, tomatoes, parsnips and rhubarb sprouting in various beds and containers across our yard.

***
Ah, and in the past fortnight, we went to see David Eugene Edwards at Dingwalls. A really good show, just him and one other, an amazing set list of songs, all nicely stripped back. I think though I prefer him playing with the full band - while I enjoyed this show, it was a bit frustrating, as things felt like they never quite got going, the way they would with bass and a drumkit and electrics. Still, a good night out with some lovely people.

(Long) Walk through the week

2011-04-24T20:50:00.001+01:00

[Warning: this post has turned out much longer than anticipated, and contains donkeys, clergy, ballet, dizziness, halo braids, ruined castles and sheep, amongst other things.]

Holy week, started aptly for me with a walk through Camden. Aptly, because I was joining people from churches in Camden to celebrate Palm Sunday. We walked together, following a donkey (the wonderful Larry, from Hackney City Farm), kids and some grown-ups waving palm branches, a brass band playing, the motley parade belting out hymns, the clergy following in their finery.

We ended our walk at St Michael's, the church packed out, for a short service remembering Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem and the journey to the cross that followed.

This was the second year that our small church has taken part, and I love it. We really are a teeny church, so it's always fun to meet up with people from other churches, to hear many voices singing, to see kids running around like lil loonies, to chat to older people over hot cross buns afterwards.

And we finished the day in the garden of some friends, eating and laughing and jamming (interesting use of a shaker in a back pocket). My favourite quote of the evening came from my husband: "yeah I learnt that when I was stoned in a forest", although the brilliant bluesy duet was awesome too.

* * *

On Tuesday evenings we have a kind of open house type thing - friends come round, we cook dinner and eat together. It evolved over several months, and has become one of the highlights of my week. I'm an introvert, and while I do like spending time with people, I looove time on my own. But, Tuesday nights are so relaxed- our friends come and just hang out, expecting no entertainment. I like that people feel comfortable in our home, I like that they help themselves to things, that we take turns with food, that we joke and laugh and, usually, ending up giggling over ridiculous youtube videos. This Tuesday, I came home to find people working in the garden, helping the husband with his ~~boat~~ pond and planting tomatoes. For me it was a snapshot of community living - we may not have our community house yet, but I love that we get to do this in the meantime.

* * *

Sourced from here

My lovely friend took me to the ballet on Thursday evening. My birthday present had finally come round (she booked it for me back in January, for my birthday), and I had managed to avoid looking up what we were to be watching. We had fantastic seats at the Royal Opera House for Manon. Oh it was amazing! We were so close to the stage that we could see every expression, every muscle, hear the soft padding of the pointe shoes. I'd not seen Manon before and found myself swept up in the story. Equally sexy, funny, disturbing and tragic, a world of wealth and poverty, greed and passion, love, sex and lust, betrayal and death, my friend and I felt emotionally knackered, but very happy, once the final curtain fell. Thank you, my lovely cultured friend, for a wonderful birthday treat.

* * *

Unfortunately, whilst out at the ballet, a dizzy spell descended, one that was to last 36 hours. As I've mentioned, I HATE dizzy spells - they leave you feeling so uncomfortable, freaked out and vulnerable. Thankfully, it wasn't as severe as some I've had, but it meant that I slept poorly on Thursday night, and was housebound for most of Friday, doing very little. Dizzy spells, rare as they are, only used to last a few hours...recent ones last at least a day, if not longer. Not so much fun. But, the best thing about a dizzy spell, is the moment you realise it's passed - you turn your head, or get up from bed, and find that the room no longer spins. It is such a wonderful feeling, and thankfully happened for me on Saturday morning.

* * *

Friday, as rough as it was, was not a complete loss. We made it up to Chalk Farm for the Good Friday service, and I'm so glad we did. Once again it was great to be part of a larger gathering on such an important day, and even though my balance was all over the shop, I felt moved and connected, sad and yet joyful too. Revelation church led a happy Good Friday service - as we remembered the cross, Jesus sacrifice, we stood in the joy of the knowledge that He is risen.

* * *

Friday afternoon, from my stationary position on the couch, I attempted a halo braid as demonstrated on the brilliant Hairdresser on Fire site. [Side note: Reagan, the Hairdresser on Fire (she's not literally on fire) also has a great personal blog, one I've recently discovered and really enjoy reading for it's mix of honesty, fun, silliness, style and, importantly, her awesome daughter Piper Jane.] My braid is not as neat as it could be, but then my hair, frizzy and crazy as it is, is rarely neat, so I'm not too worried, especially as this was my first attempt. Also, you can sleep in it, so that meant my hair was already sorted for Saturday. Awesome!

* * *

Rievaulx Abbey, Yorkshire

And Saturday, my day out to visit my friend in York and meet her new fiancé. Knowing me well, they took me to see historical things! We visited Rievaulx Abbey, a ruined Cistercian monastery, which is beeeauuutiful, and one of the most peaceful places I visited. We ate our picnic seated in sunshine, gazing into the nave of the church, and spilling passion fruit juice everywhere (not our fault - gravity happened, and it happened to each of us in turn. One would spill, recover, wipe the juice from the crisps, we'd all giggle and then another would fall. Incidentally, passion fruit soaked crisps are quite tasty).

View from window at Helmsley Castle, Yorkshire

They then took me to a castle!! Helmsley Castle, to be precise, which is in ruins only indirectly due to battle. In one of the most civilised contretemps of the Civil War (no pun intended), the Royalists surrendered the castle peacefully, agreeing that the Parliamentarians could pull down what remained and that neither side would use it in future. So it's a bit odd really - parts of it are still wonderfully intact, and others are almost completely torn down and worn away.

It was a wonderful day - great company, beautiful sites, baby lambs (yes I know it's an oxymoron but they are sooo lovely!!) and fantastic weather. The combination of sun, fresh air and walking round ruins made for a very sleepy train ride home that night.

* * *

Of course, Holy week culminates in Easter Sunday, but I think this post is long enough as it is, so I'll leave things there. Happy Easter all!

Skies

2011-04-23T12:19:00.002+01:00

Royal Naval College, Greenwich, taken by me.

There are two things in nature that I love to take photos of - waves and skies. Something about them transfixes me, and I can take end up taking photo after photo without even realising how much of my memory card I'm filling up. The waves became a running joke when, after a girly holiday to Dorset, the other girls and I sat down and compared photos and found that I'd taken about 150 photos just of waves. Wave photos can be quite dull to sum (yes, I can see that!), but I think sky photos are always pretty special, since the sky sets off whatever else is in the photo, regardless of how dull or ugly or mundane.

Stratford Station, taken by me.

Certain times of the year are great for sky photos, although, with our temperate, ever changing weather, here in the UK there are good skies to be seen all through the year. But in spring, when the weather is warming up, there are often lots of great skies - bright sunshine, deep blue expanse, and all manner of patterns of cloud.

Pudding Mill Lane DLR Station, taken by me

I like the way the broadness and scale of the sky set off the things we build. I do actually quite like industrial and urban landscapes anyway, and the contrast with vastness of skies is something wonderful to me. One of the things I love about my window at work is that it looks out over a relatively low-rise urban landscape, so I get to look at lots of shapes and scales and angles with a huge expanse of sky stretching out over the top. One thing I realised recently is that in central London, you often have to look up to see sky - which I realise sounds stupid and obvious, but what I mean is that when you walk around, you're often surround by at least 2 or 3 story buildings, if not taller, so it's quite easy to feel walled-in at times. But every now and then you come to a vantage point where you can just look out, not up, and see miles of blue (or grey, depending on the day).

Greenwich overlooking the Thames, taken by me.

Vapour trails are amazing too, and this pattern, this cross (or alternatively, Take That logo), was beautiful to watch - watch as it came to be, and watch as it slowly faded. It's at points like this I get all American Beauty sappy - but, clichéd as it may be, there really is so much beauty in the world, and I love it when I remember to look out for it, and when I stop to enjoy what I find.

Oh I wished I lived in Sweet Valley...

2011-04-18T21:33:00.000+01:00

The skeleton in my reading closet is probably the fact that, as a young teenager, I was obsessed with Sweet Valley High. And Sweet Valley Twins (the twins at 12 year olds). And, later, Sweet Valley U (the twins go to Uni). I didn't manage to read every single book in the series, but I read and bought an awful lot. Oh how I longed to be as perfect as the twins and have a life as exciting as they did.

Of course, I got older, grew up a bit, and lost interest in the somewhat two-dimensional world of Sweet Valley. But they still hold a place in my heart. So, I was delighted today to find this blog.

Sweet Valley books, re-read and re-capped, in a similar style to Television Without Pity. Absolutely brilliant, although somewhat shocking too - they weren't particularly racy, but they did contain quite a lot of mixed messages concerning body image, relationships, society, sexuality. Still, I don't remember picking up too much rubbish from them at the time, and I'm quite enjoying reading back through these summaries and laughing at some of the writing/characterisation/plots. Also worth reading the recap of the recently published "Sweet Valley Confidential" - where we get to find out where the twins are at 27. I, for one, am shocked at Alice Wakefield's language.

A weighty matter*

2011-04-15T22:10:00.000+01:00

This week, for the first time in my life, I started a diet. To be honest, I still feel quite odd about it. I've spent my adult life, like many women, battling pressure to be thin, to lose weight, to conform to what films and television shows and music and magazines tells me is beautiful. In my teens I knew several girls who struggled with serious eating disorders - and even while I was getting angry about beautiful women dieting when I could see no need, I knew that inside I was feeling the same pressures as them, and that it wouldn't take much to push me into trying to drop some weight and for it to become an unhealthy obsession. Again, like most women, I've felt conflicted over my body image - it's hard not to compare, and it's taken me years to get to a place where I actually practise the words I preach: just as there are all kinds of women, there are all kinds of body shape, and all should be celebrated.

In the (nearly a) year since I got married, I have, for the first time in about 12 years, put on some noticeable weight. I realise in sharing this, many people will be fuming at how lucky I am only to be experiencing this now, but I'm not writing this to show off, rather to explain how it is for me. My measure of weight has rarely been scales, determined as I was not to become obsessed with numbers, and instead I paid attention to clothes - if I could still fit into my clothes, then there was no need to worry. This winter, I realised that there were certain clothes I could not longer comfortably wear, and that I wasn't just a bit bloated or having PMS, but that weight was here to stay.

First reaction? Panic! "I've never gained weight before! How did this happen?! What if I keep piling weight on?! Can other people tell?! What do I do?!" etc etc... I have been fortunate - I seem to have a fairly fast metabolism and while I've never been skinny, I've always been slim, and have not had to worry about what I eat. This is even more sickening considering how inactive I am. I walk a bit, but I've never been into sports or exercise, and would much rather be curled up somewhere reading, or watching a film (or blogging). So really, it's no surprise that at some point my not entirely unhealthy but pretty lax diet, and lack of regular exercise would kick in and my body would start keeping some of the weight I was feeding it. Rather than rush to the other extreme of denying myself everything except small portions of very very healthy things (which, aside from being a bit obsessive, would never be sustainable for me in the long term), I decided to figure out how I actually felt about weight, body image and what my goals really are.

If I think of my body's value in terms of weight and dress sizes, then I feel sad and automatically compelled to do all I can to drop some pounds and shed some dress sizes. My current body does not fit my idea of ideal weight and size, therefore I must condition it to fit. But where am I getting my ideals from? From size 0 actresses? From super slim musicians? From my slender friends? From girls in Shoreditch (no offence Shoreditch ladies, but when I lived there it did feel that all the women my age were incredibly slim and beautiful)? And, what if I did manage to get to my ideal size/weight- what would happen then? Happiness? Enlightenment? A fanfare and glitter falling from the sky? I'm pretty sure that making numbers my main goal would be unhelpful all round - dangerous to my sense of worth, because if I didn't fit the numbers I would be worthless and if I did meet the goal, well, it's just a number. I doubt I'd feel anything except emptiness, literally and figuratively.

But when I forget numbers and just take a look at my body in the mirror, I feel pretty happy with what I see. No, I'll never be teeny tiny, I'll probably never be long and lean, and I doubt my legs will ever fit happily into skinny jeans...but I have curves, I have a waist, I have junk in my trunk, and I like all of these things - I would be sad to see them go. When I stop comparing myself, I find that what I am is okay. Better than okay - beautiful, even. So, why the diet?

Well, although I like my shape, weight gain is still an issue - while I'm still within a healthy weight range, I am pushing the upper limit, and even though I'm trying not to be guided by size and numbers, my health is important. This has served as a reminder that unless I take responsibility for the food I eat, the weight may well keep piling on, to the detriment of my well-being, as well as my figure. I've not had to worry about the food I eat in terms of it impacting my weight before, but now I am realising that it does, I'm also realising that it impacts my health too, and so I thought it would be a good opportunity to learn how to eat a healthy, varied diet, with sensible portions. Tying in with this is the fact that I have recently been diagnosed with IBS - if ever there was a time to take note of what food is good for my body and my health, then it really is now.

So, I've started a points-based diet, and while I'm not doing great at sticking to my points, I'm getting better, and, more importantly to me, it's making me think twice about what I eat, especially when it comes to reaching for snacks. Am I really hungry, or am I just bored? If I'm hungry, is there something else I could munch that would be better for me than this giant stack of brownies (for example)? Some days a chocolate brownie really hits the spot, but most days an apple or some trail mix does the job and leaves me feeling less buzzy from all the sugar.

Exercise is also forming part of my new approach to health, although I'm finding that tough. As mentioned, I've never been particularly athletic, and have already written about my slowness in power-walking. So, battling laziness is always going to be an issue to me when it comes to physical exercise. But, did you know that fear also pays a big part in whether or not I make it out walking, or to the gym? The winning combination of dizzy issues and IBS, means that I often feel pretty fragile or at least a bit vulnerable - on a bad day, I generally want to curl up somewhere quietly, and unfortunately, I've been having more bad days than usual lately.

However, I am determined. I know I am not perfect (shock!!), and I know I won't suddenly turn into a super-duper slender athlete overnight, but I do want to take responsibility for the body I've been given, and the health I've been given. Sure I have issues and problems - but then who doesn't? And sure, motivation isn't always easy, but lots of people have the same struggle too. For all my big talk about body shape and loving who you are, my attitude to eating (don't care what it may do to me, must eat as much as I can!) and to exercise (not for me thanks - I've not got the stamina so why bother trying?) is pretty destructive, and not indicative of a woman who genuinely loves who she is.

And, so that's my goal. I want to learn how to take good care of me, to look after the good things God has given me, because in doing that, whether I lose weight or not, I think I will grow even more loving, understanding and accepting of my body, warts and all. And that seems priceless.

*The incredibly cheesy title of this post prompted my husband to remark with a sigh, "you really are your father's daughter." I love you Dad!

Excerpts...part 2

2011-04-15T13:00:00.006+01:00

And, following my post about Canary Wharf, as much as it's interesting (no, really), I really miss working in the City.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
17 May 2007

This week I've been a-wandering. On the hunt for an elusive leaving gift, I had to venture into Clerkenwell, an intrepid explorer hunting for the one Books Etc that sold said leaving gift. I got to wander past Barbican (the archictectural sponsor of 1984- it fascinates and slightly scares me) into territories unknown...I cut through Smithfield market which was briefly fascinating- I'll have to come back for a proper look. It's one of the oldest markets in London, and meat has been sold there for over 800 years. And you can tell. Even though it was all shut up and not a meat hook or butcher was in sight when I crossed through, you could definitely smell meat, a smell I've always hated, even when I still ate meat. Ick. But it's this amazing building, and you can feel the history (*feeeeeel* the history!). Which is true of most places round there- Clerkenwell (or maybe it's Farringdon? I dunno, I'll find a map) is full of old buildings and little passageways- I glanced up one alley on my way past to see a big old beautiful church hiding in the courtyard behind it. So cool- things all built on top of each other.

I also made it to the Museum of London, to check out the new fire of London exhibit and browse the bookshop. Unfortunately the place was crawling with screaming school kids (don't get me wrong, I love that kids get to do that, but it's just rude to shove kids out the way to get a closer look at the fire-fighting equipment used in 1666). The bookshop was blissfully quiet, and while I came close, I didn't buy anything (next on my list are a new book about the Black Death and a book about London's disused tube stations).

I do love working where I work. Ooh look, there's part of the old Roman wall of London, next to some nasty '60s office block. Ooh, as I peer through the intimidating concrete walkways of the Barbican, I can see the gherkin reflecting in the windows of Citypoint, next to Fox's umbrella shop, vending quality umbrellas to the discerning customer since Queen Victoria's time. Oh the joy of navigating Bank tube (who was it who described it as an underground assault course?), yet emerging at the top I spy the Royal Exchange, the Bank of England and the most amazing sunset behind the nasty nasty orange and black stripy station.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Interesting things I've spotted in Canary Wharf! (part one)

2011-04-14T22:11:00.000+01:00

Interesting* things I've spotted in Canary Wharf:

Tonnes of seagulls soaring over Billingsgate fishmarket. On clear calm days they soar on thermals, and it looks like such a fun and peaceful thing to be able to do. On windy stormy days, they alternately shoot along on the gusts, or flap against them.
A man walking into one of the glass walls at the library ("Idea Store" my arse!). Poor thing, it must've been a painful shock, but it did make me giggle a bit...and then pray that my pride wouldn't lead me to fall in the same way.
Sammy or Simone the Seal - a seal who comes to visit the docklands, and who steals our hearts everytime he/she visits the dock outside our office. He/she knows exactly where to go, bobbing up and down in the water as the Billingsgate porters throw him/her bits of fish. Absolutely made my day when I first spotted him/her.

Sammy/Simone sourced from here

Some interesting sculpture. I'm no art expert, but it's quite cool to see some random statues and installations on the island. Our gathering area for fire drills is home to an imposing centaur statue, while one day before Christmas, when I went for a wander and got lost, I came across this, which must be confusing for motorists:

Traffic Light Sculpture sourced from here

Men boxing by a dock. Four men, wearing boxing gloves, taking turns to spar by the side of one of the docks. You get a lot of this - exercise I mean, not water-side fighting - at lunchtime Canary Wharf swarms with joggers and runners and power walkers (that'd be me every now and then) and small groups being put through their paces by fitness instructors, and now groups of men boxing.

*I should probably note that my definition of interesting is very very loose here. Basically, anything that's not a sterile high rise (but you know, I do love the skyscrapers, so maybe they'll sneak in at some point).

"Yonder under the horizon..."

2011-04-11T21:50:00.000+01:00

Today as I left work and plugged my mp3 player into my headphones, I couldn't quite remember what I'd queued up when I'd been listening last week, and was very satisfied to find that SikTh's cover of 'Tupelo' was blaring into my ears. I love Nick Cave's version, which was the first I heard, all dark and menacing and building and building and building before exploding...and then I heard SikTh's version a few years later, which is just as dark and menacing and progressive, but with the added element of crazy that only SikTh can bring. Today, feeling stressed and tired, it was good to hear a bit of menacing madness. The temptation to screech along was huge...I imagine it would feel so good. "Water water everywhere, no bird can fly, no fish can swim, no bird can fly, no fish can swim until the king is born, until the king is born, until the king is boooorrnnn!!!!!"

But I didn't screech. It would be unbecoming on a tube full of commuters.

I've always done this with music, using it as a means to express emotion that I can't quite seem to communicate. Generally it's stress, anger and hurt that I struggle to deal with, and for years, if I've been feeling particularly would up or dragged down, I've retreated into loud loud angry music. I don't tend to go for relevant lyrics, instead I look for music that translates what I'm feeling. So heartbreak songs, even if beautiful and not whiny, don't really do much for me, but heavy, fast and aggressive vocals, instruments, computers seem to hit the spot. Years ago, when I was hurting from a particularly painful break-up, I often hid in my room, speakers on full blast, blaring out Alec Empire's Intelligence and Sacrifice. I'm guessing my flatmates could tell if I was having a bad day from the industrial noise seeping from my room.

Perhaps thankfully, I do this a lot less now, although I still have the odd moment. I love how music can express so much, and can act as an outlet when I feel at a loss with my own emotions. One thing I did realise, very clearly and suddenly as I made my way home, is that, essentially, in doing this, I am Brian Topp, listening to a horror sound effects tape as a means of expressing his heartbreak. And realising that, in this respect at least, I am the slightly crazed, shy, oddball artist from Spaced made me giggle, thus dissipating some of the stress that had been coursing through my body all day. Cheers Bri.

Brian Topp sourced from here

Camden Barbie

2011-04-10T22:23:00.000+01:00

Barbies in Camden taken by LondonHeather

In Camden today I saw a really cool little car. An old Fiat, painted bright orange. It would've been interesting enough on it's own, but what really caught my attention was the back window. Resting on the parcel shelf was a row of little faces - five blonde Barbie dolls, all stark naked, and one Ken doll (although it may have been an Action Man), fully clothed in army combats. I'd love to know how they got there. Okay, I do realise they didn't climb up there themselves (though that could make for a great story)- but what made someone decide to put them in their car?

Maybe it started off with one doll- perhaps a poor abandoned doll, flung onto the pavement by a wilful child. The owner of the car took pity, picked her up, dusted her off and put her into the back of the car, with a nice view out of the window. Maybe then it caught on amongst the person's friends, a joke that snowballed, people keeping one eye out for Barbies to give to the car owner for their next birthday, or Christmas. And then one year, the birthday was getting closer and closer, and no Barbies were to be found, so a friend settled for an Action Man, hoping that would do instead.

Why the Action Man got to keep his clothes, yet the Barbies lose theirs, I'm not so sure of. A statement about the person's sexual politics? Maybe a ladies' man, dropping hints to passers-by. After all, the Barbies look pretty happy, party Barbies with a suave military man. Yet, massively generalising, don't ladies' men tend to have macho, fancy cars, and not cute little orange Fiats? Or, maybe it is a subversive comment, slamming men who treat women like objects, likening such people to men surrounded by naked Barbies- sure, they're smiling, but then their faces are painted plastic, they have no choice, they're forced to smile, no matter what situation they find themselves in.

Or, maybe I'm thinking too much (yes!) - a person with a cute lil car, thought it'd be fun to put some toys in the back window, hoping to bring a smile to the face of the driver behind them. Whatever the story, I like quirky and I like original, and I'm glad this caught my eye and brought a bemused smile to my face as I wandered today.

Social Networking Sites vs Blogging (part two)

2011-04-03T22:15:00.002+01:00

So, how is me keeping a blog, and engaging with other people's blogs, any different or any healthier than me using social networking sites?

It should be said that hardly any of my real-life friends blog. Some do, and I enjoy reading them, but generally the blogs I subscribe to are written by people I've never met. What I find is, that, of the bloggers I read, rarely do they use their blogs to update people simply with what they are doing. Sometimes they do, but even then, there's usually more thought behind it than simply an album of photos or a list of status updates. And this is what I enjoy, because blogging requires a bit more time, a bit more analysis than social networking. I've found that when people choose to blog about something, it's usually because they find it interesting, and have given it some thought. They give something of their true selves when they blog- a funny story to go with the photos, a list of things they're up to and an explanation of why they're doing these things, or simply their thoughts about this or that. Blogs usually provoke further discussion- so if I read the blog of a friend, generally I come away with a desire to get in touch- to ask a question, or say how much I enjoyed reading what they wrote, or simply just to say hi.

This is not always the case, but with blogging I've found I'm very selective about what I read. I subscribe to a whole ton of blogs, but there are some more than others that I really enjoy to read. I like opinion, I like stories, I like good writing, I like personality to come through, I like honesty. If I'm not engaged within the first paragraph or so, I'll happily skip over, and if I find that I've not really engaged with a couple of entries, I'll stop reading. This is no judgement on the character of the person who writes at all, simply my personal preference about what writing engages me and what doesn't, just as there are some authors I love, and some I can take or leave. Blogs, for me, are more about the content, than the person who writes them (although that's not always the case, since I don't know most of the people who write the blogs I read personally, it is).

And of course, I know this goes both ways- as much as part of me would like everyone to read my blog and write loads of comments, I realise that what I write may not interest many people at all. Early on, I realised that if I blog to attract comments, then I lose the enjoyment of blogging, because I'll get caught up in trying to figure out what I can write to make people like me, and how I can be wittier/funnier/more profound than other bloggers. I like to write- I'm not always particularly interesting, or compelling, to anyone, except myself. If I write with an audience in mind, then I censor myself far more than if I simply write for pleasure. Now of course, I choose to write in a public domain here- anyone could find my blog and read it, if they wanted. And this does censor me in what I will and won't write (I'm still working on my blogging boundaries)- but it also helps me focus. I can't write every single thought in my head here (I could, but I choose not to), so I am forced to consider and refine and choose my words carefully.

So, going back to my two points, I've found that blogging does not impact my friendships in the same way social networking did. Perhaps if all my friends blogged, it would, but they don't. And if they did, I'm not sure the impact would be exactly the same. The second is still a risk- I do have to consciously choose not to present the most awesome version of me I can on my blog. I want to be honest, I want to be genuine, within the boundaries I decide, good points and bad points. But what's been a nice surprise is that while of course I do still find myself making comparisons, generally such comparisons provoke encouragement rather than despair. Real people, writing honestly about their lives, good and bad, can be incredibly compelling, and challenge and inspire me, in how I write, but also in my views on all kinds of things.

Thus endeth my essays regarding social networking and blogging. Any thoughts? Do share - I really would be interested to know what others think*, since I've spent a great deal of time pondering this myself. Plus, I just miss writing essays and like to set myself the challenge every now and then.

*Okay, blatant appeal for comments, even after everything I've said, but really I am curious. Or, if you know me, just talk to me- let's discuss!

Social Networking Sites vs Blogging (part one)

2011-04-02T22:46:00.000+01:00

Last summer I decided, after five years of using social networking sites, to delete my accounts for good. Not just de-activate, but delete entirely (which involved a Google search to track down how you actually do this...sneaky social networking sites like to hide this process!). While I do not think that social networking sites are entirely bad*, I'm not convinced that using them is always healthy. For me, while there were some aspects I enjoyed, generally it was an unhealthy use of my time.

Why? Well, two reasons. One is that I felt sadder and sadder that I was keeping up with my friends though passively reading their status updates and viewing their photo albums, rather than through actively being in contact with them. Sure, it saves time, but I realised I missed being told exciting news in person, or by a phone call- email even. I felt weird meeting up with people for a catch up, only to find that we both knew each others news already. The downside, of course, is that now I don't use these sites, I'm often the last to hear things, and sometimes entirely miss out on things (if you organise parties/events though these sites, spare a thought for your friends who might not use them). But, the bonus is that I find that I actively invest in friendships more than I did, and find that those I'm no longer in contact with probably weren't strong enough friendships anyway, and that it's quite freeing to let them go, wishing no ill-will, but understanding that times change, relationships change and it really is okay not to be in contact with every single person you've ever met.

Second reason (and this is probably the main one), is that when I used these sites I could easily get lost for hours checking out people's profiles, reading the latest news, looking at the latest holiday snaps etc...and not once, at the end of this time, did I feel happy, encouraged or at peace. Okay, perhaps there were one or two times, but those were incredibly rare, because really, what I most often felt was sad, discouraged, and somewhat bereft. One thing I've always struggled with is comparison- I compare myself with others very easily, consciously and unconsciously, and this is never a good thing. Either I come away feeling superior and proud, or, and this is most of the time, feeling inferior and useless. Everyone else has more friends/more exotic holidays/better hair/nicer clothes/skinnier bodies/more interesting hobbies/more impressive jobs/more awesome pets etc etc etc etc (well, okay, not the last one- no one could have a better pet than Monkey. She's the best. [see, superior]).

And because social networking sites let us present what we want of ourselves, then when you're like me, it's hard not to a) come away feeling inferior to everyone else, and b) be determined to present only the prettiest pictures of yourself, the most witty status updates, the most dramatic holiday albums. Long and short, being in touch with tons of people through these sites simply made me think more about me. Either how rubbish/great I am compared with other people, or scheming about exactly how to present myself to best advantage so that everyone would think I'm amaaazing and put lots of comments on my page.

So, determined to build better real-life friendships, and desperate to get away from this dangerous narcissism, I quit- first I deactivated my account, to see how I'd do without it, and after my world hadn't fallen apart, I deleted it for good. And I haven't looked back. There are parts I miss- I miss seeing photos of weddings, or new babies, especially from friends who are far away. And occasionally I feel left out when I find that something happened without me, because it was a social networking thing, or when everyone else finds out something about someone and I'm the last to know. But generally, I'm happier without it.

Which brings me to blogging. I've kept a blog of some sort since 2005 (so about the same length of time I was active on social networking sites), and while I've not always remembered to update it, recently I've found myself really enjoying posting blogs and reading other people's blogs. So, how is this any different to engaging in social networking? Thoughts on this to come in part two....

*I don't think they are inherently bad, but I do worry about the impact they have had on my and my relationships in the short time I've used them, and I really fear for people just ten years younger than me who've grown up with these things. Sure they can be great communication tools, and I certainly do not judge people who use them, but I do worry, for the reasons I state above. All things in moderation, right?

fro yo is my Friday treat

2011-04-01T19:06:00.000+01:00

I know I said that I love Spring in my last post, but a couple of pictures of tulips doesn't really explain why.

I love it because the days get longer almost overnight- one day you're waking up and getting home in the dark, the next it's light when you wander into the kitchen first thing, and light when you get home. I love longer days, I love light, and though the night is cool, my whole being feels better when there's a whole lot more light. I think I'm part sunshine buddy.

Sunshine buddy, sourced from here

I love it because the weather gets warmer. Okay okay, it's laughable making such a statement in the UK, because, as we all know, the weather is insanely changeable. BUT, even though it's not really really warm yet (although there have been moments), I can leave the house without ten thousand layers, and I even walked home today with no coat or cardigan on (I was still wearing a t-shirt and a vest, but it's definitely progress).

I love it because plants, trees and flowers start a-bloomin'. I love to see green shoots, blossom on trees, daffodils, snowdrops, and tulips coming into flower. Everything is lush and lively and it makes me happy.

Our front garden. Photo by the husband.

I love it because the skies get even more amazing. I'm a big fan of the sky, particularly on bright, fluffy cloudy days. I know we can get these in winter too, but there seem to be more in spring- or perhaps it's just that they last longer.

And I love spring because it contains the hope of summer. Again, summer is no guarantee, but spring lets me dream that it'll be long and hot and sunny. This is why I don't like autumn very much- while it's a beautiful season, it carries with it the threat of winter, and I really don't like winter at all. Brrr.

So, here we are in glorious spring- and I can enjoy spring even while at work, with my new (new since December) window seat and floor to ceiling windows. It's not as good as being out in the fresh air, but it is lovely to gaze out at blue skies and sunshine.

I am also enjoying the new frozen yoghurt place in the mall. My friend calls it fro yo, which I think sounds cute, therefore I am now calling it that. In fact, the place itself is called Yoo Moo, so I get to go have fro yo from Yoo Moo. Awesome. Frozen yoghurt is far healthier for you than ice cream, or so they say, but I doubt that this is true when I smother mine in mini-marshmallows and chocolate buttons. I do have a bit of fruit compote for health, but really it's a token gesture. This is why fro yo is my Friday treat. Were it to become my daily treat I'd soon be the size of a house.

And finally...The Big Green Bookshop has had a wonderful month, and while they didn't quite reach their target, they are really not far off at all. Hurrah!

Tulips

2011-03-30T19:28:00.001+01:00

Tulips are one of my favourite flowers, and Spring is probably my favourite season, so I have been very happy this week to find....

...tulips in the living room.....

....tulips in the bathroom....

...and one lonely tulip in the garden.

Indoor tulip photos taken by me, garden tulip photo taken by the husband.

Best Bookshop in North London

2011-03-26T08:46:00.000Z

Sourced from here

The Big Green Bookshop is a wonderful independent bookshop up in Wood Green. Staffed by the lovely Tim, Simon and Mark, it is the best place to buy a book- they have great stock, they know a lot about books, they are a kind a chatty bunch, AND, you can get a cuppa while you browse. If that's not wonderful, I don't know what is.

Anyhoo, they are trying to pay off a loan right now and really need our help in order to do it and stay viable as a bookshop. It would be tragic if they didn't make it, and thankfully so far tons of people have come out in force to show them a bit of extra support as they try to get this loan sorted.

So please, if you're in the Wood Green area, go and have a visit. You won't regret it (your wallet might). If you're nowhere near north London, then go online and order a book through them. Independent shops are becoming few and far between, so let's not let this gem of an indie go...

Excerpts...part 1

2011-03-25T21:00:00.000Z

So, way back in the day, like most of the rest of the world, I had a MySpace account. This was in the years before Facebook took over the world, and actually, I was quite late to the whole social networking thing. Before that I had a Livejournal account, although I've no idea if my account is still active or what. Anyhoo, my point is, before I deleted the MySpace, I copied all of my blog entries, and tonight, whilst rooting around on my laptop, found them again. So, I bring you part one of "Excerpts from my blogging past"...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

19 May, 2006

Top Five Cheesy Love Songs...

...so I'm brushing my teeth last night, humming 'Take My Breath Away' as I do, grinning about how much I love that song (great mental image I'm painting here :S) and that spurred me onto thinking about what other crappy cheesy sappy love songs I absolutely love. Now, I love music, I pride myself on my exceptional taste (and my enormous head), but there are some songs that have absolutely no credibility that can actually move me to tears...bring on the list (in no order):

Take My Breath Away- Berlin

Reminds me of my childhood...also, great use of synthesisers (sp?!).

Stay Another Day- East 17

Beautiful, heartfelt- I can totally picture the sincerity on Tony Mortimer's face in the video, with their matching, totally not gay white furry parkas. It even has church bells!

Always On My Mind- Pet Shop Boys

Yes, the worst of all the covers of this song, but I love it. It reminds me of being about five, holding my Granny's hand as we walk through the Whitgift shopping centre in Croydon, my little heart pounding with anticipation at the thought of riding the carousel. I always rode the swan. Another synth masterpiece.

Too Lost in You- Sugababes

Okay, I dunno even if that's what it's called- it's the one from Love, Actually but it does actually make me cry. So moving. Those harmonies. Ahhh.

Crazy for You- Let Loose

This has to be my all time favourite- a jangly piano-driven masterpiece of a love song. Never was a throwaway pop song sung with such true emotion, nor has anyone written such meaningful lyrics since. Dear me, I'm only half joking there.

Not quite sure why I felt the need to share this here, but it seemed appropriate somehow. MySpace is all about the lists.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I'm pretty sure that, actually, if I had to write the list now, very little would change.

LondonHeather, the slowest powerwalker in the east...

2011-03-21T21:04:00.000Z

Powerwalking is my exercise of choice right now, and, as it turns out, a little pin that pricks at my pride each week.

I like walking, and I like walking fast, although I've never done it for the sake of doing it before (either mad dashes to get somewhere, or leisurely strolls with no particular purpose), and while I thought it might be a challenge, I assumed I'd be okay at it. I am okay at it- in fact, I'm pretty good, by my standards. I pretty much make it each week (rare for me to commit to any exercise regularly), I get up a pace that I try to maintain, and I get round the whole route, even when my calves are screaming at me to take a break. By the standards of the group I walk with, I suck. Okay, I don't suck, that's me being dramatic, but I'm not great because I am always the last one. I am a slow powerwalker. The women I walk with are great- they never make me feel bad, they always encourage me when we go out and when I finally return. But I still feel hurt when I see them racing off ahead of me, and I feel inferior for lagging behind. Particularly as I am one of the tallest in the group...long legs equals fast walking right? Not for me. So, I feel my pride take a hit as I push myself to keep going, to try to catch them up up, when I try to laugh as I realise it just isn't going to happen.

Today was particularly bad, as left alone with my thoughts I fell to berating myself for not being as good as the other women. I've never been particularly athletic or energetic, and I've never had good stamina, ever. But I've been known as a fast walker among my friends, and so I figured this would be easy, that I'd sail along at the front of the group. How hard could walking fast be? As I powered slowly round the route, I let the pity and anger wash over me, culminating in a big, "why bother?!" moment three-quarters of the way round. It's true- why should I bother if I'm never going to match the other women? Oh sure, I might catch up to their pace one day, but by the time I do, they'll have sped up even more.

But see, that's the lie. If it's all about competing and being the best, then fair enough- it's unlikely to happen, and I may as well give up now. Comparing myself to other people is something I'm quick to do, even though I know, I have learnt, that it is never a wise thing to do. I either feel proud and superior (even if I don't mean to), or pathetic and inferior (even if I don't mean to). Either way, I end up focusing on me and my brilliance/ineptitude, which is pretty selfish, proud, and just sucks joy out of any situation. I've been trying to take decisive steps to stop doing that, but here it is again, sneaking up on me in my efforts to get fit.

But, if it really is all about getting fit, treating my body kindly by building up strength and stamina, by being in the (relatively fresh air) and soaking up some sunshine, then it's definitely worth the bother. I hate being bad at things, and so I don't tend to stick with things that I find tough. Fair enough, lots of people are like that, and sometimes it's good to realise your limits and instead focus on things you can do. But, exercise and fitness isn't something I can choose to abandon if I want to take care of my health. I can let the guitar playing go, and leave the party-planning to other people, but if I want to get fitter then I have to get off my arse. No one else can do that for me.

And besides, challenges can be helpful sometimes. It's good for me not to be good at this, to have something to work at. Yeah, life is easier when things are easy, but where's the satisfaction?

So, I am going to accept that my pride is likely to keep on getting dented, but believe that I am more than my pride and keep going. And while walking with the ladies is great encouragement (and good for accountability to get out and move), I am going to choose to celebrate our differences. Yes, I'm pretty lame compared with them, but compared with me and my history of exercise, I'm doing pretty good. And wouldn't it be nice to just, for once, forget myself and all my issues, and instead enjoy the fact that I can walk in the first place, enjoy the feel of my muscles working hard, enjoy the scenes around me, enjoy the space away from my computer, and, eventually, enjoy the benefits of a healthier body?

Music and a book and some trees in pots

2011-03-19T22:35:00.000Z

Oh blogging and the doors it can open to introspection! How much of myself do I want to put online? How much of me do I care about other people seeing (and how much do I mind the fact that whether kindly or not, I will be judged?)? I like writing, and having a blog is good motivation to write, as there's something quite satisfying about seeing words in print. Yes, I am that superficial and easy to please. So, while I continue to ponder and establish some internal guidelines about what is and is not suitable, I shall ramble about some trivial things from the week gone by...

....I remembered how much I love listening to The Birthday Massacre. Canadian twinkly, um, gothrock? I dunno, but in my head they work well with Mindless Self Indulgence, although content-wise pretty different. Anyhoo, that makes The Birthday Massacre remix of MSI's "Straight To Video" a piece of genius to my ears. A good friend of mine got me into TBM several years ago, and as such, listening to them reminds me of her, and of the nights we spent at her house in Charlton, getting ready to go out dancing, generally at Synthetic Culture. I wonder if Synthetic Culture is still running? Other music that reminds me of that time...actually, weirdly, Soul Mining by The The- not that we listened together, but I was listening to this a lot on my headphones, and so still when I hear it now I'm back walking from her house, down the hill to the station, gazing out over the industrial estates towards town.

...I giggled whilst reading this month's Word magazine, at the small article about mis-heard album/artist requests. Reminded me of the time my dad fell in love with a certain song by Fine Young Cannibals. Not knowing the name of the song or the artist, he taped it from the radio and rang a record shop, blaring it loudly in the background, to ask them what it was. It was on that day that we found out that the song he referred to as "Boot Fair" was in fact "Good Thing". I certainly inherited my father's poor ear for lyrics, particularly when it comes to songs by Queen and The Travelling Wilburys. "And the wee wee gang"*, anyone?

...I finished reading Persepolis and absolutely loved it, repeatedly stunned with the deftness of touch that Marjane Satrapi has in both telling her own story and through it reflecting the narrative of a pretty horrific time in Iran's history. Flitting from hilarious to ridiculous to tragic, all the while anchored in the personal narrative of a child/teenager/woman. And the illustrations- brilliant in their relative simplicity. Love it, and highly recommend it.

...I went to the seaside with the husband, stopping at the bonsai place on the way down. So many teeny (and not so teeny) trees. Actually, it's worth saying that this is a fabulous place to visit whether you're into bonsais or not, as the trees there are so beautiful that it's like visiting a gallery. The guy who runs it is fantastic, in that he'll answer any questions and treat you kindly, never implying that unless you know everything there is to know about bonsais you can't possibly own one for yourself.

The husband perusing the bonsais. Photo taken by LondonHeather.

And so, we came away with two little trees. I bought a nice fig to give away, and the husband bought a gorgeous-smelling Japanese moss cyprus.

*"Handle me with care" by the Wilburys. "At the back of my summer settee, I did it for love...", possibly my next most ridiculous misheard lyric, is in fact "I'll look back on myself and say, I did it for love" from "It's A Hard Life" by Queen.

Date for the diary

2011-03-13T11:12:00.000Z

Exciting news (for me anyway)!! One of my favourite musicians is coming to London! David Eugene Edwards will be playing in Camden in April- woo hoo! So, DEE played in a band called 16 Horsepower, and then a band called Wovenhand, making incredible bluesy, folksy, rocky, Southern-gothicy awesome music. For a taster, check out the awesome roadtrip-documentary, "Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus"- DEE features a couple of times. Or Spotify. But they rarely come to London, and actually, seeing Wovenhand live for the first time was definitely another memorable scene, part of the epic US Southern Tour last October. We spent the day in Asheville, a beautiful creative hippy-ish town near the mountains, enjoying the sunshine, the markets, the art galleries, the amazing bookshop (a whole Neil Gaiman-dedicated shelf!), the micro-brewery and the wonderful company of our hosts and their family. And then that evening headed to the Grey Eagle for one of the most intense, beautiful, atmospheric gigs I've ever been a part of.

Wovenhand @ The Grey Eagle, 10/10/10. Photo taken by M. Bryzak

Cheesy as it sounds, it really was a spiritual experience, and the fact that I was not in London but out in the US, in a mountain town, in a tiny venue, standing near the front, with some of my closest friends, who also love this music, just made it that bit more incredible. I'm not sure any gig can live up to that one, but I'm still eagerly anticipating what April's gig will bring. Come along, it'll be grand.

Memorable Scenes...1

2011-03-11T19:12:00.001Z

Following on from this post, I've been thinking about the memorable scenes in my life so far. The biggest one from 2010 had to be the day I married my incredible boyfriend Steve. Now of course, it would be hard for any wedding not to be memorable, and I could bore you all silly (not to mention make you ill!) by recounting all of the wonderful scenes from that day in May. But I won't. Instead, I want to pick out one (and, since I'm finally working out how to use photos in blogs, this post will be illustrated!!).

So it's about two thirds of the way through our awesome wedding ceremony. My initial flood of emotions had calmed down so that I no longer had to fight the urge to burst into happy tears, and we came before God, the vicar, our family and friends to declare our vows. I remember looking into Steve's eyes as he spoke his to me, vaguely aware of everyone around us, but unable to pull my gaze away from his face. And as I spoke mine out, I felt so very happy to proclaim to the world how much I love this man, whilst marvelling that it felt like the most normal thing in the world to be standing here, in front of all we love, wearing a wedding dress with Docs, and speaking words centuries old.

When we'd rehearsed the ceremony the night before, our vicar, the lovely Father Philip had said that he wouldn't be declaring "you can now kiss the bride", as it wasn't part of the marriage ceremony liturgy, and he thought it insanely cheesy. So instead we worked out that he would pronounce us married and then step back...and in case we weren't sure, our awesome friend John, who was tag-teaming the service with Fr Philip said he'd give us a big nod so that we knew to go ahead with our smooch.

So the moment came...we'd vowed and promised, Fr Philip had declared us wed and stepped back, and really, we didn't need any extra hints:

Photo taken by Caroline Purday

I kissed my handsome husband and the church erupted around us, clapping and cheering and whistling and I believe there was even some whooping. Grinning, we turned to face everyone, and then Steve etched the moment even more firmly in my mind (and the minds of all there), by doing this:

Photo taken by Caroline Purday

This photo makes me beam even now. As the faces in the church turned from shock to delight, the cheers got even louder and I collapsed into giggles. My fearless, joyful, don't-care-what-anyone-thinks husband added some pretty awesome icing to an already "I-can't-believe-it's-this-great" cake.

And that's what makes good moments great. It's a bit late for New Year Resolutions, but who cares, this is a lifetime resolution- as I think back over other memorable scenes, I want to strive this year to create even more, not just for me but for those around me. Nothing forced, purely old school, seizing the day, seizing the night. Wouldn't it be awesome if we all had a go?

Leavin', on a Jet Plane (Londonhev vs Dizziness: part 4)

2011-03-10T11:32:00.001Z

A major battle over the past few years is flying. On my first flight, a short hop to Scotland, I had a massive panic attack because the motion of the plane (especially banking) felt like the mother of all dizzy spells, and it just wouldn't pass (odd that, finding out I can't directly control the plane by thoughts alone). I made it there and I somehow (I think God helped a whole lot there) made it back, and then vowed never to fly again.

This was before I got my diagnosis, and when I saw the specialist he said that flying might feel uncomfortable, but would not make the dizziness/my ears any worse. Ie, once the plane stopped, I'd be fine. Even having heard this, it took another 18 months for me to realise that I didn't want to live under this massive fear. As a Christian, I try to trust my life to God, and yet here I was, with a loving and trustworthy Father, plus the knowledge that flying wouldn't likely harm me longterm, choosing not to trust God but to trust ugly ugly fear.

So, I signed up to a Fear of Flying course, held at Gatwick Airport on sunny Sunday in March. I joined with 119 other people who were afraid of flying for a day of lectures, Q&As, a relaxation workshop and finally a 45 minute flight. I soon realised that the course probably wouldn't help me hugely, as my fear is about dizziness and my health, rather than the safety of aviation. My heart broke for the others on my table who could not speak of flying without sobbing, some of them needing to fly regularly for work, or had relatives across the pond that they longed to see but just couldn't.

In fact, even though it didn't address my issues, I should say here how wonderful that course is- if ever you find yourself afraid to fly, give it a go. You will feel cared for, you will find out everything you need to know about the physics of aviation (ie why planes stay in the sky), the safety of aviation (covering things like engine failure [insanely rare], and turbulence [scary to feel but not dangerous]), and have time to ask any question you like without fear of being made to feel stupid (people were asking about wings falling off, and all four engines failing, and then falling off). You spend the day with the same 10 people, and each group has it's own air steward/stewardess to answer any additional questions and look out for you.

The day culminates in a brief flight- you sit with your little group and the steward, and the captain talks you through every single process on the plane as you fly (what all the noises mean and why they're important and not a sign of impending catastrophe). And you fly! Not everyone made it onto the plane- fear is a terrible thing- but everyone on my table did, some with tears, some with white faces, but all of us determined.

My flight? Well, being a short, circular flight, there was a good deal of banking and motion. Yes I felt the feelings I dreaded, and yes I felt dizzy and panicky, but I also felt far calmer than I ever could have imagined (I would think the army of friends praying that God would give me peace, had something to do with that). I used my trusty sickbag not for vomit, but as a means to calm the hyperventilating, and managed to smile and chat a little bit here and there. The important thing was, I'd done it- I flew and my world didn't crumble.

High on adrenaline and exhaustion, I thanked God and prayed the somewhat reckless prayer of "Lord, if you want me to keep flying, would you give me a trip to do?" I got home, crashed into bed, and waiting for me at work the next day was an email from my good friend inviting me to fly to Dublin with her for her birthday, in a month's time. So, be careful what you pray for!

Since then I flew to Dublin with my friend; I flew to Portugal for a week with my (then) boyfriend. I flew to Macedonia for a week with my church. And last October, flew to New York and then North Carolina with my (now) husband and some friends. Ironically, I hardly felt dizzy at all on the big flight to the US, but it was the internal flights on teeny planes that freaked me out. I still get nervous before flying (sometimes full on freaking out), but I've managed to keep doing it, and each good flight means the next one gets that bit easier to face.

You spin me right round, baby, right round (Londonhev vs Dizziness: part 3)

2011-03-09T11:00:00.005Z

Day to day, generally I feel a bit off-balance or on-a-boat most days at some point. Some times of the month are worse than others, and some situations are better/worse than others. Being around people can make the feelings more intense, as I get anxious about displaying and managing symptoms. And feel odd trying to explain something that's really not visible to other people. Sitting at a computer all day at work sometimes sets things off a bit, so I try to take regular breaks. The major attacks that leave me unable to move properly happen maybe once or twice a year (generally before/during/after a very stressful time, although not every stressful experience brings one on). I HATE them so much, especially as recently they've lasted for about a day at a time. However, they do pass eventually (usually if I can get to sleep, I wake up feeling much better), and thankfully they're not too frequent.

I can understand how people can get depressed or suffer from major anxiety, as dizziness is a really really unnerving, vulnerable and immobilising feeling. I try to remind myself that sitting still (unless I absolutely have to) is one of the worse things I can do, as the brain constantly needs to remember how to compensate for imbalance- and walking around (or at least moving slowly) helps it do that. Sitting still for ages would just make things worse. But it's hard sometimes to do that, and I do have to fight to stop my world shrinking.

Doctor Doctor! (Londonhev vs Dizziness: part 2)

2011-03-08T10:30:00.003Z

The specialist doctor was lovely- a very kind smiling man with a bow tie, who made me do loads and loads of exercises so that he could make a diagnosis. I had hearing tests, I had to shake my head about, I had to run on the spot looking this way and that. And I had what I think was the Dix-Hallpike manoeuvre- I sat upright on the medical bed, and the doctor put his hands either side of my head and pulled me backwards, so that I was lying down with my head looking left. I did not enjoy this at all- although the room wasn't visually spinning, it felt like it was in my brain. He sat me back up and I felt better, and then he said he'd do the same but turn my head to the right. When I whimpered at him (yes, I whimpered), he smiled and said he thought it would be easier. And, it was. Only a little dizzy, nothing like the left.

So, from my trip to the doc's he diagnosed me with three things- all non-life-threatening, but when ganging up together could make life quite uncomfortable. He diagnosed visual vertigo, BPPV and migraine-associated vertigo.

Visual vertigo is when your sight is overwhelmed by images, especially moving ones, and sends confused messages back to the balance part of the brain. For example, supermarkets can make me feel quite dizzy as there are loads and loads of shapes & colours, plus lots of people moving around. The same can happen with large crowds and on train platforms. I notice too that standing by moving water (by a river or by the sea) means I have to concentrate a bit harder to keep my balance, as it's easy to feel like I'm moving.

BPPV stands for Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo...this is a disorder that effects the inner ears, and basically for me means that I cannot roll over in bed, lie down easily on my left side, and sometimes means I get dizzy if I look up/down suddenly. For a more technical guide, you can look here (this site is amazing, very helpful to dizzy-sufferers):

http://www.labyrinthitis.org.uk/bppv.htm

And finally, Migraine-Associated Vertigo or MAV. My doctor calls these brain-stem migraines, as that's the part of the brain they affect. So, I don't get any headaches, but what I do feel dizzy- sometimes the "on-a-boat" kinda dizzy, and sometimes the "cannot-move-as-everything-spins" kinda dizzy.

He gave me a sheet listing some exercises I could do, but generally thought that stress was the biggest factor, and advised I try to find some relaxation exercises to do as well.

That diagnosis came nearly five years ago now, and though my symptoms haven't gone, they're no worse. Not sure if that's great or not, but there you go!

DISCLAIMER: By the way, I'm no doctor, so I may not have described things brilliantly. If you suffer from dizziness, please go see a doctor and get a diagnosis. If you have a diagnosis, or just want to know more about dizzy things, then I can recommend two sites:

http://www.labyrinthitis.org.uk

and

http://www.dizzytimes.com

Small steps

2011-03-07T20:16:00.000Z

I've been re-reading one of my favourite books*: A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller, and once again have been struck by the challenge of what he writes. Imagining our lives as a screenplay, he spurs us to consider the elements of screen-writing that make for a good story on the big screen, and how we can transfer those principles to our own lives. We've been given life, we find ourselves part of a story...how can we live beautiful, transforming and unforgettable stories?

And, once again, I have been nudged by my conscience. I find myself admiring the prose, enjoying the stories that populate the book, delighting in the revelations I find along the way for my own life and the life of my community...and yet these things remain in my head, not translating into action.

Miller writes, on the subject of creating memorable scenes: "We have to force ourselves to create these scenes. We have to get up off the couch and turn the television off, we have the blow up the inner tubes and go to the river. We have to write a poem and deliver it in person. We have to pull the car off the road and hike to the top of the hill. We have to put on our suits, we have to dance at weddings."

So, I find myself taking small steps at the moment. Small steps that see me grabbing hold of life a bit more, refusing to drift along as I so often do.** Cos, you have to start small, right? As part of this, I have decided to observe Lent this year. Inspired by a recent conversation with some good friends (hello J & J!), I was challenged to consider what I might fast during this season in the church calendar. I don't often observe Lent, but this year I decided that it could be a helpful milestone. So, I shall be giving something up for the 40 days of Lent, commencing on Ash Wednesday, after pancakes tomorrow evening. And no, I won't be sharing what I'm committing to fast here, but I am hoping that it will help me focus on important things, precious things, to be present in the life I have been given, to create some memorable scenes.

*I really do recommend this book. In fact, I took it on my honeymoon last summer and my poor husband lost me for several hours as I devoured it. Twice. Thankfully, I married a kind and patient man.
**It may be worth clarifying that I think I drift from fear and apathy- I'm often too afraid or too lazy to make the most of life. I live a great life, with wonderful things in it, but I am very aware that there is so much that is wonderful that I just take for granted, and so many opportunities that I'm frightened to reach out for. And I'd like to change that.

I'm so dizzy, my head is spinning... (LondonHev vs Dizziness: part 1)

2011-03-06T10:22:00.000Z

I never think to write about this, but it may possibly be helpful. To me at least, in terms of processing...

So, one day when I was fourteen or fifteen, I woke up on a Monday morning, and when I tried to get up out of bed, the whole room spun and I slammed back onto the pillow. Lying there I felt weirdly calm...which strikes me as odd but nice now. In the end, my mum had to help me very slowly get up, as no matter which position I tried, or how long I waited, the room would not stop spinning around. Once I was upright, things calmed down, provided I didn't look up/down or move my head suddenly. A trip to the doctors informed me that I can contracted Labyrinthitis, an infection that affects the inner ear. The inner ear is the organ which controls our balance, hence the room spinning. The doc prescribed sea sickness medication, and advised that I just had to wait it out.

Within a week it had got much better, and I seem to remember I was back to school a week or so later. Still a bit wobbly, but not as bad as it was. But, over the next few years I'd still have the odd dizzy spell...sometimes feeling like I was on a boat (whilst sitting still), or sometimes a full blown, "can't-move-my-head-cos-the-world-will-spin-and-slam-me-down" attack. Generally, I just managed, through the rest of school and then University. However, in my second term of my first year of Uni, I started having panic attacks- not directly related to the dizziness, but the two definitely had links (in a panic attack, you feel dizzy, so my brain would freak out that a dizzy spell was coming on; when a dizzy spell happens, it's really unnerving, and thus tricky not to freak out).

Again, I managed...panic attacks, dizzy spells would come and go. Usually the nasty unable-to-move attacks would only last a few hours, though the on-a-boat spells could last weeks, off and on. However, things compounded in my first year of work, when I felt wobbly enough to miss work for a couple of days in a row.

Going back to the doctor, he put me on sea-sickness medication, and told me to come back if the situation doesn't improve. Well, it didn't really- and my stomach didn't really enjoy all the medication. I later found out that for long-term dizziness, sea-sickness medication isn't great, as although it calms your inner ears, it prevents them from re-learning to compensate for the imbalance, a vital means of recovery. Finally, he referred me to a specialist, who I managed to see a few months later.

I walk through mindfields...

2011-03-04T19:27:00.001Z

When I left Uni, moved back to south London, zone 6, I used to pelt through the City on foot from Moorgate to London Bridge, very aware that dallying would mean a half hour wait for the next train. The walk took 26 minutes if I steam-rollered my way down to the river, dodging around the milling tourists, and if I managed to avoid gazing out dreamily over the Thames, something I've always found hard to do. As well as my dislike of waiting, the soundtrack was a definite motivator, and by far the best albums to get me in the power-walking zone were The Fat of the Land (Prodigy) and Intelligence and Sacrifice (Alec Empire).

Moving to East London, there was no need to catch a train, and though my walk took the same time, there was less need to hurry and more things to distract me along the way. Now, up in North London, with a commute out to Canary Wharf, I've re-discovered the joy (or rather necessity, as I have a tendency to lateness) of walking with time constraints to good music.

Tonight, rather than jump on the bus home from the station I decided to experiment...will exertion beget energy? So, headphones warming my ears I set to pounding the pavements leading homewards, Mindfields streaming into my brain.

Aaaah. Sun starting to set, sky turning deeper darker blue, streetlights and headlights beginning to glow, I wove my way through the people trudging along, trying to outpace the speedier walkers, cursing those with longer legs than I. My new ugly ugly shoes are helping me balance, and correcting the weird way I walk (I wobble through the edges of my feet instead of heel-toe, through the centre), so 5 minutes in my calves were complaining, and 15 minutes in they were screaming. But I kept going, breathing heavily, enjoying the fact that I could walk through the pain and work the muscles that were so out of shape.

Experiment result? I got home happy and peaceful and full of energy. Will I remember that when it's cold and wet and I'm tired and a bus is due in 2 minutes? Well, we'll see...but a nice start to this weekend, nonetheless.

GU Women's Conference, 2010

2010-12-05T12:05:00.000Z

'Awake, awake, Zion,
clothe yourself with strength!
Put on your garments of splendor,
Jerusalem, the holy city.
The uncircumcised and defiled
will not enter you again.

Shake off your dust;
rise up, sit enthroned, Jerusalem.
Free yourself from the chains on your neck,
Daughter Zion, now a captive.

For this is what the LORD says:

“You were sold for nothing,
and without money you will be redeemed.”'

Isaiah 52:1-3

"Do not grieve, for the joy of the LORD is your strength.” Nehemiah 8:10

A cool December evening, and a group of 15 women gather in a quiet, cosy, wonderous tea parlour in central London. Cupcakes of all colours and flavours, teeny baguette sandwiches, pink raspberry marshmallow, dense brownies, enormous mis-shapen scones and lots and lots of tea pots. In amongst the delight, the tea-pouring, scone-buttering, comes the warmth of old friends reunited, new friends making acquaintance.

Paula, organiser extraordinaire, welcomes us, invites us to enjoy our lavish surroundings, and to enjoy the love that our Father lavishes upon us.

Kari leads us in worship, beautiful and heartfelt as always, we sing that we are daughters of the King, princesses indeed, one and all.

Hazel speaks to us, first of diggers, road rollers and cranes, reading her son's story book to us, us giggling and joining in with the "dig dig dig" and the "lift lift lift" and watching mess turn into an adventure playground. Her two year old son amazed and delighted at the chorus of women reading his favourite story to him. She speaks of our lives being a work in progress, a mess to something wonderful, the processes being good but sometimes painful and hard.

And then she speaks to us of freedom. Awake! Rouse yourself, stir yourself away from self-pity, apathy, lethargy. Put on strength, put on joy. Clothe yourselves in beautiful garments. This hard time will come to an end- it is not forever. Shake off the small distractions that swamp our minds. Break off the labels that lie and bind, and find truth instead.

Move away from what's comfortable, as comfortable does not always mean freedom. Comfortable can mean fitful, fearful and painful but can feel deceitfully safe. Move away and take what's yours...you have been set free, redeemed at the highest price. Take hold of the hand of the one who freed you and move forward.

Freedom is hard to choose. Or, freedom is what we want, but we simply don't know how to choose it. I want freedom but I don't always choose it, and when I do, I don't always know how.

I believe I can learn.

A Sunday Post

2010-11-21T21:38:00.000Z

“that he who lives to be my king,

once died to be my saviour...”

This line floored me today. Two lines managing to sum up so much, and so stirring something deep within my heart, my core, my soul.

Having a king, a leader, a ruler, a protector, a defender, a just judge, a champion (as all kings should be)...the need for a king....that He is a living King...and yet he did not fight and conquer and dominate and empire build.

He died. He would be King no matter what. King of kings.

And He died. He died to be a Saviour. He faced death so that I wouldn't have to. Not in the same way that I would without him. He died to that I might live.

He died so that I might live and know Him as my Saviour and my King.

It is a rule of servanthood. A rule of friendship. A rule of devotion.

Me to Him...His servant, His friend, His devoted follower.

And yet only because He shows me how. Because of His servanthood, His friendship, His devotion to me.

A moving time today, standing with my family as we proclaimed hope and life and light and a time which for so many seems desperate and death-like and dark. We don't try to talk ourselves into something pretend, make-believe, delusional. We acknowledge struggle together and yet proclaim truth into that struggle.

And we try to trust. We try to have faith. We ask that we be remembered.

We learn to pray like Hannah prayed.

New year new home

2010-02-01T19:15:00.000Z

On New Year's eve 2009 I celebrated in style by moving all of my possessions into my friend's house in Bethnal Green (with the help of the Fiancé and our wonderful car, Lil Bug Oddfoot). New Year, new home...interesting timing, celebrating the strike of midnight not with party poppers and sparkly drinks, but by pausing to grin at each other wearily as we unpacked my things. But good timing- it felt wonderful to wake up on the first day of 2010 in a brand new home.

And I love my new home. Not that my old home wasn't great, but this is different. The right time for a change I think, to a place of peace and calm and silliness, before I make the big move of the year, into marriage in May...

An adventure begins...

2009-11-12T22:32:00.000Z

Last Thursday evening, on the wilds of Hampstead Heath, giggling and cold, with fireworks exploding over our heads, the Boyfriend asked me to be his wife.

I said yes. And have grinned like a loon ever since.

The Boyfriend is now the Fiancé. Ooh la la!

I feel like I've been in a vice recently- under pressure from lots of things. The wedding planning could easily become another thing. But though this pressure is scary and stressful, I think it's good too, or at least, being used for good.

I'm learning about losing control and welcoming uncertainty. Learning. Very much a beginner, even a pre-beginner. But the more I relinquish my grip, the more I try to make myself at home in uncertainty, unsettledness, the more I'm glimpsing God.

Those teeny gaps in my grip allow me to see more of His face. More of His care and grace and love and mercy. More of His power and might. More of His wonder and beauty.

I love that He wants to teach me this, walk with me through this. I'm terrified too, for I know there is a long way to go, and it's uncomfortable and painful too.

In pairing me with the Fiancé, I'm seeing more and more, in teeny peeks, but peeks nonetheless, how God works in and through our relationships - all relationships. How we are forced to confront Him as we are confronted with others. Things I would happily leave buried or ignored on my own, come to the surface as I interact with those close to me, and they have to be dealt with, looked at, examined, healed, mended. It's beautiful and messy, wonderful and annoying. And I believe will be more of these things as we step into marriage. It's scary but exciting too. An adventure, together, with Jesus.

I like what Mike Mason writes:

"For people are the consciousness of God in the world, the closest thing to Him in the physical realm, and a more vivid reminder than anything else in creation of His existence, His mystery,His creative power. If man really is fashioned, more than anything else, in the image of God, then clearly it follows that there is nothing so near to God as a human being. The conclusion is inescapable, that to be in the presence of even the meanest, lowest, most repulsive specimen of humanity in the world is still to be closer to God than when looking up into a starry sky or at a beautiful sunset."

Linky!

2009-10-24T11:15:00.000+01:00

Not much original I'm afraid, but I've found some interesting things...

Winn Collier writing about preaching:

http://blog.winncollier.com/2009/10/on-preaching.html

I love this- this is how I want to be when I speak in church. Does this sound too good to be true? Can it be true that there is a God who is loving and wise and powerful?

The absolute importance of community in church:

http://www.relevantmagazine.com/god/church/features/18261-church-shopping

“It’s the people that you're committed to, the fact you are committing to something outside of just yourself, to the cause of the Gospel...You should look to find a place you can be invested in. I think people should have an attitude of wanting to find a real home, not just a hotel room for the night a place where they can say, 'This is my family, my home, where I protect and defend and where I invite people to.'"

And finally, one of the loveliest sites (and blogs) I've seen in a long time:

http://iamotter.co.uk/

I'll happily spend hours here. Otter is a lovely mischievous little otter and writes wonderfully about her life with Otter Keeper in their flat.

Books in 2009, Part 4

2009-06-15T21:30:00.000+01:00

"Don't You Know There's A War On? ~ Voices from the Home Front" complied by Jonathan Croall (non-fiction)

A collection of accounts of people who lived in the UK through the Second World War, speaking about their experiences as evacuees, housewives, conscientious objectors, teachers and war workers. A mix of backgrounds, social classes and experiences made for a fascinating glimpse into every day life when bombs were falling over the country, something it's nearly impossible (thankfully) to even imagine today. Some great story tellers in here, honesty too about the harsh realities of living during this time.

"The Small Miracle" by Paul Gallico (fiction)
I found this in a second hand bookshop. A children's book, first published in 1951, telling the story of an orphan boy in Assisi, and the measures he takes when his only friend, his donkey, falls ill. I loved the simple storytelling, the beautiful description (especially of Violetta, the smiling, good-natured donkey) and the sense of wonder in the faith of the small boy. The illustrations are lovely too.

"Land Girls" by Angela Huth (fiction)
Again, seeing this in that second hand bookshop, I remembered there had been a film of the same name, and wondered if this is where that had come from. As I'd just finished a book of real-life accounts of life during wartime, this fictional take on the experiences of three land girls on a farm in Dorset appealed. A quick read, but thoroughly enjoyable in it's characterisation of the girls, the family on the farm, and the way of life itself. The tone was not heavy, but the storytelling not without depth either.

"The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" by Alexander McCall Smith (fiction)
Determined to get away from books about WWII, I went for this, the tale of a young woman in Botswana, who, when her beloved father dies and leaves an inheritance, decides to set up Botswana's first (and only) ladies' detective agency. I loved this book- the characters, particularly our herione, detective Precious Ramotswe, are beautifully written; and the mysteries she investigates are skillfully worked into a wonderful depiction of life and culture in this African country. The humour is fantastic, but I liked the fact that there were moments of tragedy, or bittersweetness, too. I will be reading the rest of this series, as soon as I can find them in the bookshop...