A Tale of Two Countries

You’ve got ‘the look’ - reflections on turning 40

I recently visited an old university friend who I haven’t seen since 1995. Those halcyon student days in Leeds – spent living on “Britain’s most burgled street” (Chestnut Avenue, LS6) and occasionally attending the occasional university lecture when not in bed - resembled a combination of ‘Electric Kool Aid Acid Test’, ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’, ‘How Not to Live Your Life’ and ‘Shameless’ (the McGuire characters featured heavily). While certain memories from those days are hazy, others are so clear that the Leeds student antics could almost have happened yesterday. How can 16-17 years slip by unnoticed like that? Will I suddenly turn around again, take stock, and find that I’m 57?

While meeting my friend – who ran a successful surfing magazine from her Leeds HQ for several years - her hubby made a comment about the passing of the decades: “We suddenly realised we were fed up with reviewing trainers and hoodies. We were getting older than the readers. When you’re 40, you have to decide on the look.”

Since then, I’ve taken his comment to heart. It creeps up at unexpected moments – late at night when contemplating life; in the daytime when I’m choosing a fresh outfit; and when I see teenagers strolling past in a selection of “Claire’s Accessories combined with worst of Primark”, or with the waistband of their jeans hanging under their bums. There’s no doubt about it: yours truly is getting OLD and any look involving bums-out, trainers-in or printed slogans must be avoided at all costs.

So what is “the look” for 40? Is it the look when I’m dashing to school with the kids at 8.55am, like a crazed wildebeest, panicking about being a few minutes late; the look when a dried-on red wine stain must be scrubbed from the lips; the look at a festival when the dress-up bag has been raided (however, the look is definitely not zip-up, furry animal suits or Wellington boots when it’s not raining or muddy).

Is the look Primark, M&S (Caitlan Moran says Per Una garments make everyone “look a little bit mad” and I think she’s correct), Karen Millen or – my favourite - the latest haul from the charity shop and car boot sale?

I think that over-analysing what is “the look” or the ‘hybrid of looks” makes everything look a tad unfortunate. And why should I care how it all looks anyway, huh?

Another friend, who is currently 47, had a habit of saying “not bad for 40” when she first turned the decade (she is now more concerned with “middle aged spread”). Possibly because I’d rather be “very bad for 40”, my six year old boy has given me withering looks about the prevailing look at times during the last year.

And, is it just the look or the look and feel? ‘How Does it Feel’… when we kiss the sky? And is everything really the way it looks anyway?

Harking back to the 80s, I remember a song called ‘Camoflague’ by Stan Ridgeway. While recording my favourite Top 40 tunes, I spent months imagining that Stan was actually singing “Camel Claws”. In view of the nature of the lyrics, my error was quite apt:

Whoh-oh-oh-oh Camoflague
Things are never quite the way they seem…

 This throwaway ditty, which goes on to mention “I was awfully glad to see the big marine” (I bet you were, Stan, nudge-wink), can be applied as an effective mantra for life these days. So here are a few WORDS OF ADVICE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE from DR JO WHO IS NOW 40, a la William Burroughs:

1. Situations aren’t always the way they seem so don’t imagine the worst and act as if your assumptions are a fait accompli / a proven fact. This is known as “awfulising” and it tends to make scenarios W-O-R-S-E. We don’t want to awfulise, now do we? This ‘put the brakes on your imagination’ mechanism can be applied to everything from “such-and-such didn’t accept my friend request on Facebook so he/she clearly hates me” to “such-in-such is sleeping with my partner – I just know it!”
2. Having said that, hunches can often be correct, are some sort of primal instinct, and we probably shouldn’t ignore them. Maybe ‘they’ really are sleeping with your partner.
3. People, in particular, aren’t always the way they seem. Don’t believe clever presentation and personal hype - it’s what they’re really like that matters. Press the ‘play’ button on ‘Portrait of Dorian Grey’ for a useful example.
4. Don’t waste days/months/weeks/years (delete as appropriate) on bad relationships. Before you know it, whole decades will have been laid to waste while you bicker over whose turn it is to buy the frozen peas and pick the dirty socks off the floor. As suggested by the blurb for a self-help book on Amazon, “if it hurts, it isn’t love”. (All consensual fetish-type activities are exempt from the proviso, of course.) As an addition to the above, open relationships might work for some people but I personally think they suck like a cyclonic Dyson with a dysfunctional “off” button.
5. It would be easy to sink into the escapism of addictive behaviour(s) – whether your ‘poison’ is booze, drugs, porn, chocolate, junk food or lurrrve addiction – but, really, it’s boring for whatever mates will put up with it, as well as being expensive and ‘morally bankrupting’. So just say “no” like they told us in ‘Grange Hill’, back in the 80s, alright?*
6. Don’t live in the past. Nobody likes it when interpersonal communication descends into a gruesome dissection of “that incident 10 years ago when you got off with my mate and weally weally hurt my feelings…” What’s wrong with focusing on present annoyances instead?
7. Don’t sleep through the party (or through life) – you might miss out on various (or all) forms of fun. However, no matter whatthe 'fun level', it is inadvisable to sleep with the partner of your friend/boss/any crazed person with psycopathic tendencies.
8. If you are being negative, everybody will avoid you. Just as a watched kettle apparently won’t boil, the phone won’t ring if you’re in the deepest, darkest, dankest mode. So sort it out before venturing into public (but don’t try to rectify it with a bottle of vodka).
9. Don’t borrow money you can’t pay back. Even if it’s just money for drinks at a party. You don’t want everyone chasing you around with baseball bats… or handbags.
10. Watch out for the camel’s claws and the big marine.

Disclaimer: I didn’t say I can or do stick to my own advice.

 Although we should definitely live in the present, being 40 has tended to make me reflect as follows: “Wouldn’t it be handy to REWIND to certain pivotal moments in life, erase them, and then re-record the ‘footage’ for a more favourable ending. With a handy rewind button, how everything looks could be given a rigorous post-production edit.” 

In the words of The Cardigans:

Erase and rewind
'Cause I've been changing my mind…

Ah well. I guess it’s too late to edit the last four decades NOW THAT I’M 40, so I’d better lie back with a chilled glass of Prosecco and slip a more positive tune from Prince into the player. So here goes:

You've got the look
You've got the hook

You sho 'nuf do be cookin' in my book.
Your face is jammin'
Your body's heck a slammin'

If love is good
Let's get 2 rammin'.
You got the look
You got the look!

YEAH!

 

 

 

Lost in translation again: Mummy needs to go to 'el colegio' with 'los ninos'

I recently enrolled my two young boys in the local Spanish school so they could integrate with the community in a proper way. I consider this important: not only do the boys make new Spanish friends but Mummy has the job of escorting them to various after-school activities - such as football practise and birthday parties - which forces social interaction with other Spanish parents. Outside the world of 'el colegio', these fellow members of society would surely be overlooked because of the inability to conduct a coherent and meaningful conversation that doesn't result in gesticulating and blustering over lost and forgotten words. Muy embarazoso!

At a Spanish kids' sixth birthday bash held in the function room of a local bar last week, for example, Mummy was somewhat priveleged to be the sole English parent. So there I was: brandishing a cheese sandwich containing excessive amounts of butter and vaguely wondering whether it would look 'malo' to procure a social-nerve-calming glass of vino. As none of the other parents were openly drinking alcohol, the vino was vetoed. The cheese sandwich became heavy and dropped to the floor (worse than 'los ninos' - oops). A fellow parent said that my youngest son is in the same class as her three-year-old but I initially misheard it as "why is he here - does he know the birthday boy". Oblivious to my slightly awkward feelings, Oldest Son dived straight into the fray, chasing the birthday boy around and brandishing balloon swords. The Spanish parents seem to encourage 'fun sparring', for want of a better word. I was relieved when the party ended so we could return to the 'comfort zone' of our own house and the wood-burning stove. After accidentally tipping a plate of half-eaten, gooey birthday cake over a table at the back of the room, it seemed prudent to leave quite quickly.

Last week's encouraging example of integration by Oldest Son was sadly counteracted by this week's incident of the 'bolsa in the bin'. All the kids have a school rucksack ('mochila') and, when school Comedor (dining room) ended yesterday, Oldest Son's rucksack was strangely missing. Following a fruitless 20min search of the playground, Mummy took to ranting at random adults re "la bolsa es perdida" and "donde esta un habitacion para propeidad perdida", which nobody seemed to take on board. In view of the general lack of progress, the hunt was abandoned. This morning, an English Mum emerged from the play area to say that the bag had later been spotted in the bin: however, the school caretaker (a lady in her 40s) wasn't sure what I was ranting on about yesterday. The bag was duly returned, albeit a bit dirty. Mummy knows who put the bag in the bin (an older Spanish boy). The culprit possibly hopes his crime against personal property and hygenie will be 'lost in translation'. He's probably right!

Meanwhile, Oldest Son (5) and Youngest Son (3) are already coming home from school and repeating Spanish words and phrases in perfect Andalus accents. They've only been "integrating" for two months and their capacity to take on board 'un otro idioma' is clearly more akin to "absorbent little sponge" (kids) than "village idiot" (Mummy). I'm not sure whether to be proud or slightly jealous... neither of them suddenly slips into a Home Counties "a" when pronouncing "vado" or accidentally pronounces the "h" on "hombre". Oldest Son already talks about "Speederman". Cool. Maybe he can pronounce my van numberplate in correct Spanish letters of the alphabet when I next book airport parking services.

Or maybe Mummy needs to go to school herself, and 'muy rapido' The fact that I've widely mistranslating "the school" as "upon straining" when speaking to townspeople isn't entirely inspiring re keeping up with the five-year-olds!

Can We Beat the January Blighty Blues?

 
It’s telling that I haven’t felt like updating this blog for, ooh, a few months. There’s something about winter in Blighty that doesn’t inspire me to write jolly copy with an ironic twist. But now, yes now, when it’s almost time to lock up those troubles in the old s**t bag that was January 2011, I feel compelled to put fingers to the ‘Tale of Two Countries’ keyboard once again… so here goes:

Things I don’t like:

• Phone alarm sounding at 7.30am
• Walking up a steep hill at 8.30am (school run minus vehicular transport… yes, I really am one of those annoying parents who is a lazy s*d in the morning and can be spotted carrying out awkward manoeuvres near the school gate)
• Van breaking down in the fast lane of the M1 (cue fears of instant death)
• Broken van spending three weeks in the garage
• Buses
• “Mummy I’ve done a poo” (said at top volume) two minutes into a half-hour bus ride.

Well, that pretty much gives an accurate picture of January… give or take a bout of Flu (thanks, piggies) which put paid to the idea of New Year celebrations, a disaster of a birthday party and my three year old scratching the screen of our HD telly with a spoon, after liberally smearing it with yoghurt.

But, as my folks pointed out: “At least nobody is dead.” Uhu! Well, that makes January seem loads more palatable all round, thanks.

It makes me think… is the January Blues a tangible thing or do we just escalate any problems and talk ourselves into feeling down? According to Visa Europe, the week beginning 11 January is the busiest time of the year for flight bookings: i.e. people glance out of the window at the gloom outside and decide that a week in Torremelinos is exactly what they need. Recently, I’ve been commissioned to write about family-friendly ferries. It makes me want to board one. If we can’t at least fantasise about our ‘great escape’, perhaps we dwell in even worse January doom. And give a thought to all the parents out there who can’t afford to escape Blighty this year because the fares charged by some operators/carriers almost double in the school holidays.

According to the Samaritans, suicide rates peak in January and psychologists have decreed that January 24 is the most depressing day of the year. To beat the blues, ‘experts’ suggest that we eat a proper breakfast, lower our expectations, get enough sleep, and try to make plans that don’t involve battering our credit cards or punishing ourselves for annihilating them previously. I’m not sure what other people are expecting but surely it isn’t aiming too high to aspire towards a life outside the alarm clock / school run / laptop / vegetating in front of telly / going to bed when the movie has finished? Aw, forget it!

The month of January is named after the god Janus, who is usually depicted with two faces looking in opposite directions – one into the future and one into the past. Based on the way this jinxed January has panned out, I would rather just live in the present and believe that it will all improve in February. But, to look on the bright side, those who are not in Blighty (i.e. expats in Spain) may be sitting in an unheated house clinging to the side of a mountain, watching their food freeze on the table, and dreading taking a bath in ambient temperatures of 5C and then putting their feet straight on to the concrete floor. Maybe winter in Blighty isn’t so bad after all: let’s aim for the benefit of positive thinking.

Am I having a mid-life crisis?

Remember being young, ‘cool’, and full of enthusiasm? Yes, I do too. Or perhaps we simply thought we were cool and ‘happening’ when, really, we were naïve and somewhat annoying young adults who were yet to graduate with our quota of hard knocks from the School of Life. There we were at check-in, en route to accumulating enough personal baggage to fill the entire handling area at Gatwick Airport. Nobody told us the plane wasn’t coming. Ooh, aren’t I cynical, as well as being a user of mixed metaphors. Isn’t it vile (cue muffled snigger).

An old friend recently said to me: “Yeah Jo, you used to go out and have fun. Now you just sit at home poison penning everything.” That, sadly, is a fair criticism.

Almost four decades, two kids, a couple of questionable relationships (or “relationsh*ts” as my friend, Jules, wryly calls them), one too many copywriting jobs involving carpets et al, and a possible “double dip” recession later, and it’s not just the poison-penning that’s the problem… I must break the news to myself gently: I’m not young and ‘cool’ any more (if I ever was in the first place!). Do I know what’s Top of the sodding Pops (or whatever succeeded it), Britain’s Next Top Model, or whatever C-list celeb has the darn X-Factor? Could I identify key trends in vintage fashion or the hottest in handbag design? Nah! I’m more inclined to know which brand of nappy leaks the least around the sides, how to remove a grease stain from your favourite dress, or which campsite is best for a lively toddler. And when I go to parties these days (an increasingly rare luxury thanks to child-minding costs), I take Nurofen and antihistamines in my handbag. If I forget them, I practically have a nervous breakdown.

Actually – sigh - I can’t remember when I last went out without headache tablets or when I was ‘down’ with the latest happenings in music and fashion. This might’ve been sometime shortly before Pregnancy Number One, perhaps? Even the word “happenings” sounds outmoded… like my Mum calling student accommodation “digs”, much to my disgust when I was actually a student. I’m sure that the “yoof of today” has an entirely new and invented vocabulary, calling things they favour “da bomb” or similar. How lovely for them! Just don’t say it in the airport or on a train, young man. As for noise tolerance, I caught myself thinking of a banging tune at a recent party “that’s not music – it’s just noise”, an expression favoured by my Mother in the past. This was minutes before I fled back home to the safety of my own bed.

Oh god… where will it all end! Will I suddenly start finding those wheelie shopping bags favoured by old ladies “an attractive and practical solution to my family’s grocery transportation needs”? Will I start shopping online for candlewick bedspreads? Argh! No!

Is it a… dare I say it… midlife crisis?

According to Wikipedia (with some editing by yours truly): “Midlife crisis” is a term coined in 1965 by Elliott Jaques. It is used in Western societies to describe a period of self-doubt felt by some individuals in the "middle years", as a result of sensing the passing of their own youth and the imminence of their old age (tick!).

A crisis can be triggered by transitions experienced in these years, such as extramarital affairs, menopause, the death of parents, unemployment or underemployment (tick!), etc. The result may be a desire to make significant changes in core aspects of life such as career, work-life balance, romantic relationships, spending habits or physical appearance. Err… tick! Tick! Tick!

Perhaps I should just stop the process in its tracks and get out more? I went out with friends last weekend and re-emerged with a dead leg, glow sticks in my tent and gravel in my hair. I felt that it was, indeed, therapeutic.

Last night, I watched two programmes on ‘Bravo’ about large-scale parties in Thailand and Amsterdam. Although the Thai ‘Full Moon Party’ looked a tad too hectic (people having their passports nicked, being spiked with Rohypnol, burnt by fire sticks and imprisoned for smoking joints isn’t ‘cool’, man) the Amsterdam events - ‘Ex Pornstar’ and ‘Wasteland’ – looked enticing. However, there’s something wrong-ish about watching other people letting loose in a club when you’re lurking under a duvet after tidying remnants of your son’s hot chocolate away.

It’s not a hopeless case yet. Even though my colleague warns me that “getting out isn’t necessarily the road to being sensible” (and… your problem with that is?) when I get back to Brighton and no longer need to pay the GDP of a small country for babysitting, I’ll shut down the laptop and TV, tell my mate Auntie Debs that she can keep ‘Old Lady Mrs Brady’ to herself, and chuck me new Zimmer frame away. 

Midlife crisis checklist: 

1) Is it “just noise”?

2) Do you look forward to getting back home so you can put on your “leisure clothes”?

3) Do any of the following words or phrases excite you unduly: home-made soup / bread maker / Stain Devils / carpet slippers / duvet / ‘Cougar Dating’?

4) What is the most enticing option: (a) an evening in a nightclub with the chance of meeting a stranger for wild sex (b) a quiet cup of tea and your own bed?

5) What is there to look forward to in life: (a) your fulfilling career (b) exciting relationships (c) meeting new people (d) the menopause (e) your duvet (f) death.

6) If somebody says “it’s da bomb”, do you instantly think of terrorists?

7) You thought of buying the ‘Very Best of A-ha’ album, just once.

8) Your idea of a “hot date” is baking them some bread.

9) What’s wrong with duvets?

10) Oh grow up!!

The ‘F’ Words: will Facebook and Foursquare make us four-eyed?

Ever felt like throwing your laptop out of the window because you’re fed up with modern technology that’s supposed to make life easier actually making it more complex? I’m pretty sure we’ve all experienced the “computer says no” frustration of an online banking system failing to perform an urgent transaction or an online shopping cart that repeatedly refuses to debit our credit card. And then we have the perils of today’s popular social media sites. “If you can’t beat it, join it”, as the old adage goes. And that’s what we do, joining social media sites such as Facebook in our droves…

 

At an August get together of some Brighton-based bloggers, the conversation turned from Facebook and Twitter to Foursquare – a new-fangled web and mobile application that encourages users to connect with friends and update their location by "checking in" at whatever venue they’re visiting. Users earn points for this checking in process and, if they do it from a particular venue on more days than anyone else, they’re titled “Mayor” of that location. One girl laughed that she’d earned the dubious privilege of becoming “Mayor of Morrisons”.

 

While Foursquare sounds amusing and it could be a good way of identifying kindred spirits in a bar you plan to visit imminently, it also sounds like a handy resource for burglars, stalkers and those who want to pin you down for a “friendly drink” when you’d rather avoid them. And, indeed, does the online community really need to see us checking in at our local chip shop, park bench or favourite public convenience we visit daily when we have nothing better to do? My Mother keeps saying: “Why don’t you keep your private lives to yourselves?” Oh but it’s so much more fun to share our every move… or is it?

 

People frequently complain that “big brother is watching us” when it comes to store cards that track our shopping habits, speed cameras that measure our MPH and CCTV cameras deployed in public places, yet it seems that we don’t mind proactively broadcasting our exact location online. Perhaps Channel 4’s ‘Big Brother’ is partly responsible for this trend: thanks to social media such as Facebook and Foursquare, we can all be the stars of our own “reality internet” performances, 24/7 and with very few editorial restrictions.

 

I hold my hands up to various Facebook “broadcast” crimes during my two years as a member: i.e. posting dull-as-dishwater status updates, moaning about my lot, airing personal grievances and starting catty ‘Facebook wars’. OK, so my updates on the “Jo Ego Show” have never been quite as bad as “I’m doing the dishes now” or “I’ve just changed a nappy” but they’ve come close.  I asked myself recently: would I stand with a megaphone in Brighton’s Churchill Square and broadcast the same material to 325 people who were physically present? I think not. “Hah but would you manage to gather that many people in one spot anyway,” said a critic from my Facebook friends list. Whatever – the point stands that I wouldn’t tell the gathered crowd that “I’m in a bad mood today”, “I’ve got a hangover because I drank some cheap vino” or “my little boy has just poohed on the floor”, so why does it seem OK to do this on Facebook? Because you can’t see the people’s faces and their true reactions to the worst of one’s self-serving claptrap, that’s why!

 

I recently had ‘interpersonal issues’ with a friend who thought that the Facebook updates I posted while on ‘holiday’ (I use that word advisedly: I’m married to my laptop these days) were all about him. Err, but what about the other 324 people on my friends list who might be viewing my status updates and were simply fascinated to know that I drank a couple of tequilas and pulled a mate’s curtain rail down (two separate incidents: both equally, ahem, enthralling).

 

My sparring partner grumbled: “You’re trying to wind me up with your updates. I don’t put anything about what I’m doing on Facebook.” Err. Apart from the fact that’s not strictly true, isn’t the whole point of Facebook to show and tell people what we’re doing? Or, perhaps, some people think it exists to be used as a glorified dating site – a different sort of “show and tell”.

 

Personally, I think social media has a lot to answer for in the ‘noughties’. It’s quickly turning from “social media” into “anti-social media”, what with the tendency to encourage late night Farmville and Zynga Poker addiction, fostering misunderstandings between friends and instilling bad feeling between partners. It’s all too easy to descend into “ooh but you’ve got your ex on your friends list so why shouldn’t I have mine, blah blah, bleat bleat”, in between fits of furtive snooping on third parties’ profile pages, where you can learn that they just did the dishes and that their child poohed on the floor.

 

And just think of the social scenarios we must handle today that weren’t an issue three years ago. Such-and-such hasn’t accepted our friend request so they must hate us (cue fit of hideous, creeping paranoia); such-and-such has defriended us; such-and-such has turned us off their news feed so we’d better turn them off ours as well. Ner ner ner ner ner! This level of playground-quality behaviour is hardly surprising, given that Facebook was designed for freshers (i.e. new university students) in the States before it became popular as resource for every man, his dog and its laptop.

 

So let’s get Facef*cked, Foursquared and four-eyed, shall we? Or shall we slam down the lids on our collective laptops, realise that we’re not really stars of our own reality internet shows – we’re often sharing all that is trivial and mundane – and go back to using a pen and paper if we really must communicate our every waking thought? Perhaps, upon rereading our own written comments, we’d quickly become bored with the dross we write in “dear diary” and consign it to the deepest, darkest desk drawer where it belongs?

 

In these days of iPads with downloadable apps that do everything from show share prices to play womb sounds to soothe babies to sleep, GPS tracking devices installed on Blackberry phones and YouTube footage from camera phones being shown on serious news programmes, there’s no turning back the technology clock... but that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasise about shutting the lid on Pandora’s Box.

 

Perhaps the Amish have the right idea. Their idea of “social media” would be a barn-raising. I’m starting to think they’re doing themselves a big favour and they’ll have the last laugh when we’ve Twit-Faced ourselves to insanity and turned ourselves completely four-eyed in a few years’ time.

 

Hmm! Enough said. Must get back to my Facebook now…

Can 30-Somethings Go Belly Out?

 
One of my pet topics on this blog and in other assorted ‘rants’ has been the Brits abroad and their conspicuous lack of clothing. After my recent trip back to Blighty, I can verify that the Brits don’t just wear insufficient clothes abroad: they do it at home too. There I was freezing my… um… mits off in 18C and breezy conditions but because it’s August, some unnamed central fashion force has dictated that “Everybody Must Wear Sandals”. Hence, insubstantial footwear of every style and colour was in evidence at the Fulking Country Fair on 1 August, even though it was less than balmy that day.

In the distant past, I was brought up in Newcastle upon Tyne where we Geordie lasses weren’t shy about venturing on a January pub crawl clad in nowt but miniskirts, strappy cropped tops and stiletto heels. Having exposed bellies, arms and legs on display was par for the course. I can vouch for the fact that several Diamond Whites later, we might be falling off tables but we couldn’t feel the cold outside. Possibly, by that stage in the game, we couldn’t feel anything at all. Ah the folly of youth, etc…

Sadly, the condition of being ‘comfortably numb’ can’t be applied to visiting a Brighton seafront play park on a weekday afternoon, where I stood shivering in a borrowed full-length cardigan and sandals (my trusty canvas boots had been left elsewhere that day). As I glanced at my goose bumps, I couldn’t help wondering how girls who haven’t even consumed one Diamond White can wander about in mini-shorts and flip flops when it’s only a couple of degrees warmer than the legal minimum temperature for the British workplace. Just to recap, if the temperature dips below 14C in a factory setting, etc., everyone can presumably go home to toast themselves in front of their own radiator. There wasn’t a handy radiator at the seafront, much to my annoyance.

To my mind, we Brits should dress for the prevailing weather conditions and not just don sandals because it’s June, July or August or because the style editors at Marie Claire at Cosmopolitan told us so. Or perhaps I’m just becoming a middle-aged bore.

Upon returning to Spain for a child free “holiday” (if you call cleaning and painting a house ‘sin ninos’ a vacation), I decided to put myself to the “too boring for your own good” test at Lanjaron’s medieval market. Inspired by the svelte and beautiful belly dancer, Serena, who entertained the townspeople with her light-footed and well-coordinated wiggles and jiggles on the Saturday night, on the Sunday I decided to get into theme and wear harem-type pants and a cropped, sequinned halter top. This might not sound at all brave or challenging but, believe you me, my belly is a region that has remained under cover since – oooh – at least 2004, unless you count visiting the swimming pool (and I don’t count that). So I duly wandered outside with three inches of exposed stomach showing. I looked around furtively. Was anybody staring? Would the ‘belly police’ be called? I monitored passers-by and was vaguely worried that the only other belly-out females were size zero teenagers. Would my belly look bigger if I drank a smoothie containing bananas or ate a tapas containing pork (oink)? After warily consuming both, I positioned myself in the town square to watch the act, Al Caravan, featuring the undulating Serena. Would my one belly fold itself into two or more bellies when I sat down? I wagered that Serena’s belly would never do that. At least I didn’t hear anybody muttering “gorda” (fat) - what a relief! But perhaps they were distracted by the entertainment.

A woman and her belly can have a strange symbiotic relationship. Like bottoms, there’s often the (sometimes unvoiced) question: “does my belly look too big in this”. That question is a dangerous question if it actually spills forth from a female’s mouth. If you’re a male of the species, you’re required to make the ‘right’ noises (‘right’ meaning conciliatory, as opposed to the truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God!). Saying “yes, it looks huge in that – you even look pregnant” could unleash a Pandora’s box worth of deep-seated body hang-ups and may lead to your partner hating you / not wanting to sleep with you that night, if ever again. The correct approach to the belly question is to venture a non-inflammatory opinion such as: “I really liked your longer top with that outfit” or “it’s but a bit cool outside – I think a jacket is required”. If you know what’s good for you, it’s best to consign the concept of ‘Fat Fighters’ to where it belongs – the TV show, ‘Little Britain’.

I remember taking a holiday in Portugal with a group of friends back in the mid-90s. I’d over-indulged hideously on bread and vino and, strolling around our rented villa, I bumped into the Portuguese cleaning lady. She eyed me enthusiastically. “Ah bambina!” she shouted, rubbing my stomach with glee. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my friends creasing up in hysterics. I didn’t have the heart to tell her “no, it’s just gas”.

More sinful… when I was actually three months pregnant with my second child, I told a man who asked “are you pregnant again” the ‘lil white lie “no, it’s “just ham”. This embarrassing falsehood was later proven wrong, of course, and I had to make light of “my ham joke.” But at least he didn’t ask me “have you turned into a beached whale and/or an elephant”. That would have been embarrassing: and isn’t it interesting that the Spanish word for pregnant is “embarazada”, which appears to be a derivative of the same form.

Hell Fire Club Does What it Wilt Again

The Sunday before last (please excuse this late blog posting – it has been sitting on my hard drive), I headed to Camden Lock, a familiar haunt from my olde London days, for a meeting of the modern-day Hell Fire Club: a friendly society of men and women who operate under the motto of “Libertati Amicitiae Que Sacra” - Sacred to Liberty and Friendship - and, amongst other activities, discuss topics such as physics, esoteric matters and Jungian philosophy, as well as enjoying a drink or three.

 

What I know about physics (my worst subject at school) and Jung could fit on to a postage stamp but I can relate easily to the concepts of twisted humour, pranks, debauchery and wenching, as practised by the original Society of Sir Francis of Wycombe – an intelligent group of influential ladies and gents who met at Medmenham Abbey or the caves at West Wycombe to partake in mock-religious ceremonies, drink excessively and discuss politics, philosophy and poetry, if desired.  I also like the club’s philosophy of “do what thou wilt” – roughly translated as “act as you choose but take responsibility for your own actions”. The Hellfire Club was ahead of its time in allowing women to participate: during the early to mid 1700s, females weren’t allowed in taverns. The club was intended more as a bastion of ironic humour than as a serious attack on religion and the establishment, although rumours about black masses and orgies abounded.

 

Reflecting on all the ancient tomfoolery and the potential for fresh amusement, my companion (a direct descendent of Sir Francis Dashwood) and I took our pews outside the Ice Wharf bar in Camden, the venue for the meet-up. It quickly struck me that the set of rather interesting people sitting around the table could be grouped into those who had genuine knowledge of esoteric and spiritual matters and those who were inclined towards general naughtiness. Some fell into both camps. As the vino and beer flowed, people dropped their guard. On one side of the table, a sensible discussion about metaphysics was taking place. On the other, a flow of hilarity about gangsters, squat parties, intoxication methods and how to shove a Christmas turkey through a self-serve supermarket till without it saying “unexpected item in the bagging area” was spilling forth. I was enthusiastically partaking in the second conversation while trying (and presumably failing) not to slur too many of my words.

 

By this stage in the game, and a bottle of rose cava later, I was starting to think I might be an unexpected item in the bagging area. I couldn’t decide if giggling about venison and champagne supper procured by “tea leaves” was entirely appropriate conduct but, on the other hand, I wasn’t going to get very far trying to discuss Jung or Tao. Slight concerns about my own ignorance and the potential for my head ending up on the table in a literal re-enactment of Sir Francis and his cohorts’ “women in wine” aside, it was a jolly occasion, terminated at a logical adjunct when various group members left to fetch books out of a car parked at Mornington Crescent.

 

For those who are interested in the Hell Fire Club, which operates as a non-profit organisation and doesn’t charge membership fees, although joiners have to meet certain criteria, a good starting place would be www.hellfireclubbooks.co.uk . Hell Fire could be coming to your area soon…

 

A tale of lost luggage: we flew from Malaga to Newcastle but our bag went to Leeds...

Many years ago, when jetting off on foreign holidays, I was totally paranoid about the airport losing my luggage and/or it being stolen by some dodgy miscreant in baggage reclaim. People in my party often seemed to lose their luggage. That wasn’t a good sign. So I would stick multiple address labels on to my hold baggage and worry endlessly that somebody would mistake my suitcase for a similar one. Upon arrival at the destination airport, I would drive my friends mad by elbowing everybody out of the way as I raced to the luggage carousel, where I would stand nervously at its mouth, biting my finger nails, making absolute sure that nobody could grab the precious case which contained my prized, umm, dresses and sandals and possibly a cheap bottle of plonk if it was a return flight.

 

OK, so my behaviour was two shillings short of a pound. And why would somebody want my worn sandals and swimwear anyway?

A decade and a few dozen flights later, my paranoia turned to apathy. Address labels long abandoned, I would chuck my bags on to the conveyor belt at check-in without a second thought for anything other than “will I get away with that extra 10kg of ‘free shipping’ without an excess charge”. When the flight landed, I’d wander over to baggage reclaim without a care in the world. I’ve even carelessly discarded the baggage receipts along with my boarding passes. And as for travel insurance, nah, that was for tourists and wimps.

 

However, as stated in my last blog entry, pride comes before a fall. Before a recent flight from Malaga to Newcastle, I was far too smug about my baggage: how well I’d selected a delightful “capsule wardrobe” that coordinated with itself and would please the likes of Gok or Trinny and Susanna, how I’d decided not to transport the damn kitchen sink for once in my life and then – oh, clever me – how I’d guessed the weight contained within my big, pink bag to within half a kilo of the 22kg allowed by budget carrier, Jet2.

 

On the day of the flight, my terrible toddler twosome (aptly nicknamed “Ronnie and Reggie”) and I duly arrived at Malaga Airport – a stressful experience at the best of times. I was thoroughly annoyed that Terminal 2 now shares its security zone with Terminal 3, forcing us to do a half-mile “Guiri* walk” from the Jet2 check-in to security then back to the gate. The British budget carriers have been consigned to the old terminal and, in my opinion, making certain passengers stroll so far is a little bit rude. However, judging by the proliferation of typical British tourists in the airport, I could see why the Spanish might find a Guiri walk so appealing...

 

Anyway, I digress. As the bag containing the belongings required for my family to spend a week in Newcastle and Scotland disappeared along the conveyor belt, my one concern was that I’d forgotten to include a bottle of delicious chilli sauce made by Allchillies.com . But perhaps I had a slight premonition of what was to come as, just after we boarded the plane and I was about to chuck the boarding passes into a handy sick-bag, I suddenly glanced at my baggage receipts and made a point of stashing them safely.

 

The flight progressed and R&R were hell-bent on looking for someone/something to terrorise. By this time, my “watching the Brits abroad” activities (i.e. concerning the other passengers) were in full swing. The tolerance level to lively infants looked variable. Out of devilment and irritation, I ran through the plane’s safety manual with the boys, using a mock-cheery tone of voice. “What are those people doing, Mummy,” said Ronnie? “Oooh,” I cooed. “The plane has crashed into the water, just like the plane that crashed into the Hudson River. The people are putting on their life jackets, sliding down the wings, forming a circle in the water and trying not to drown...” This went totally over Ronnie’s head but the unfriendly-looking passengers in the row behind were giving off negative vibes.

 

The flight dragged on. The snack trolley took 40mins to arrive at our seats, by which time Reggie – bored of trying to break his empty plastic food tray by climbing on top of it - had escaped into the aisle in the hope of raiding crisps or sweeties. Three hours is a long time for toddlers to keep still in a confined space, I kept telling myself. This was interspersed with “my mate Pam would kill me for forgetting their toys”. An equally bored Ronnie decided to check out the other passengers and stood up on his seat to survey them. The bloke sitting behind Ronnie piped up: “How would you like it if a child was standing on his seat and looking at you?”

 

“Oh sorreeee that my child is looking at you,” I retorted. “I challenge anyone to keep toddlers still in a space this size for three hours,” I voiced aloud, with a haughty tone. He piped down. I thought about adding “my son is used to Spain where people actually like children” but decided against it.

“Oscar, do not look at the man behind us,” I loudly repeated several times during the rest of the flight, just to ensure the man definitely heard. I then resumed my fascinating discourse about plane crashes.

 

But – aha – bad flight karma was about to get me. Although the boys had persistently mauled the passengers’ seats in front and behind us and my “Ronnie and Reggie” jokes hadn’t gone down as well as expected (ahem!), when the plane finally landed at Newcastle Airport, the unfortunate couple seated in front of us helped escort my errant children into baggage reclaim. And that’s where it all Started Going Horribly Wrong.

 

We stood at the carousel for Jet2 reclaim. Reggie’s buggy appeared but my large, pink, 22.5kg bag didn’t emerge. Dozens of people left with their cases. R&R, fed up with the airport experience and excited about seeing their grandparents who were waiting outside, constantly tried to stick their fingers down the side of the conveyor belt, oblivious that little digits could be chopped off if it started suddenly. Mummy became increasingly agitated with the boys’ finger-endangering behaviour. The luggage for an Easyjet flight from Barcelona emerged. All the passengers picked up their bags and left.

 

Eventually, we were left standing in an empty room beside an empty conveyor belt. The boys were still trying to stick their hands in dangerous places. It finally dawned on me with the stereotypical sinking feeling: the pink bag was not going to join us... not now and possibly never.

 

I wanted to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum like Reggie. I kept thinking about my lovely new sundress procured from a Spanish shop that has a name similar to “sewage”. And my favourite sandals, which could be in Amsterdam for all I knew. I started squawking and flapping like a deranged pigeon. I enlisted some helpful chaps to take R&R out to meet their grandparents and filled in a lost baggage form amid much screeching about “going to Scotland with no clothes and my bag isn’t insured against loss”. It dawned on me that I wasn’t covered for inconvenience either.

 

And what was the upshot of my smugness and lax behaviour re “I never lose my baggage”? I had to foot the bill for an entire set of holiday clothes for me and the boys - otherwise a family stay in a civilised Scottish resort hotel would have been attempted in a mini dress and some ill-fitting jeans while the boys would have worn swimming trunks daily. Thank heavens for charity shops where I managed to wangle an entire wardrobe strong on Karen Millen, Ted Baker and, um, Matalan and Primark, as well as some Next boys’ shorts for less than the price of one new Karen Millen coat. Just as I was completing my purchases, the Swissport baggage handling lady at Newcastle Airport phoned to say that my bag had turned up in Leeds but it couldn’t be couriered to me until early the next week, when we’d be in Scotland.

 

Before travelling again, I will bother to complete the form for the free travel insurance that comes with one of my credit cards. Travel insurance clearly isn’t just for paranoid package tourists. No siree! How pigheaded to think that lost bags won’t happen to me. Pride always comes before a fall. And, clearly, ranting on about plane crashes just for fun will send you or your bags to Coventry... or Leeds.

 

*Tourist who stands out like a sore thumb.

A tale of lost luggage: we flew from Malaga to Newcastle but our bag went to Leeds...

Many years ago, when jetting off on foreign holidays, I was totally paranoid about the airport losing my luggage and/or it being stolen by some dodgy miscreant in baggage reclaim. People in my party often seemed to lose their luggage. That wasn’t a good sign. So I would stick multiple address labels on to my hold baggage and worry endlessly that somebody would mistake my suitcase for a similar one. Upon arrival at the destination airport, I would drive my friends mad by elbowing everybody out of the way as I raced to the luggage carousel, where I would stand nervously at its mouth, biting my finger nails, making absolute sure that nobody could grab the precious case which contained my prized, umm, dresses and sandals and possibly a cheap bottle of plonk if it was a return flight.

 

OK, so my behaviour was two shillings short of a pound. And why would somebody want my worn sandals and swimwear anyway?

A decade and a few dozen flights later, my paranoia turned to apathy. Address labels long abandoned, I would chuck my bags on to the conveyor belt at check-in without a second thought for anything other than “will I get away with that extra 10kg of ‘free shipping’ without an excess charge”. When the flight landed, I’d wander over to baggage reclaim without a care in the world. I’ve even carelessly discarded the baggage receipts along with my boarding passes. And as for travel insurance, nah, that was for tourists and wimps.

 

However, as stated in my last blog entry, pride comes before a fall. Before a recent flight from Malaga to Newcastle, I was far too smug about my baggage: how well I’d selected a delightful “capsule wardrobe” that coordinated with itself and would please the likes of Gok or Trinny and Susanna, how I’d decided not to transport the damn kitchen sink for once in my life and then – oh, clever me – how I’d guessed the weight contained within my big, pink bag to within half a kilo of the 22kg allowed by budget carrier, Jet2.

 

On the day of the flight, my terrible toddler twosome (aptly nicknamed “Ronnie and Reggie”) and I duly arrived at Malaga Airport – a stressful experience at the best of times. I was thoroughly annoyed that Terminal 2 now shares its security zone with Terminal 3, forcing us to do a half-mile “Guiri* walk” from the Jet2 check-in to security then back to the gate. The British budget carriers have been consigned to the old terminal and, in my opinion, making certain passengers stroll so far is a little bit rude. However, judging by the proliferation of typical British tourists in the airport, I could see why the Spanish might find a Guiri walk so appealing...

 

Anyway, I digress. As the bag containing the belongings required for my family to spend a week in Newcastle and Scotland disappeared along the conveyor belt, my one concern was that I’d forgotten to include a bottle of delicious chilli sauce made by Allchillies.com . But perhaps I had a slight premonition of what was to come as, just after we boarded the plane and I was about to chuck the boarding passes into a handy sick-bag, I suddenly glanced at my baggage receipts and made a point of stashing them safely.

 

The flight progressed and R&R were hell-bent on looking for someone/something to terrorise. By this time, my “watching the Brits abroad” activities (i.e. concerning the other passengers) were in full swing. The tolerance level to lively infants looked variable. Out of devilment and irritation, I ran through the plane’s safety manual with the boys, using a mock-cheery tone of voice. “What are those people doing, Mummy,” said Ronnie? “Oooh,” I cooed. “The plane has crashed into the water, just like the plane that crashed into the Hudson River. The people are putting on their life jackets, sliding down the wings, forming a circle in the water and trying not to drown...” This went totally over Ronnie’s head but the unfriendly-looking passengers in the row behind were giving off negative vibes.

 

The flight dragged on. The snack trolley took 40mins to arrive at our seats, by which time Reggie – bored of trying to break his empty plastic food tray by climbing on top of it - had escaped into the aisle in the hope of raiding crisps or sweeties. Three hours is a long time for toddlers to keep still in a confined space, I kept telling myself. This was interspersed with “my mate Pam would kill me for forgetting their toys”. An equally bored Ronnie decided to check out the other passengers and stood up on his seat to survey them. The bloke sitting behind Ronnie piped up: “How would you like it if a child was standing on his seat and looking at you?”

 

“Oh sorreeee that my child is looking at you,” I retorted. “I challenge anyone to keep toddlers still in a space this size for three hours,” I voiced aloud, with a haughty tone. He piped down. I thought about adding “my son is used to Spain where people actually like children” but decided against it.

“Oscar, do not look at the man behind us,” I loudly repeated several times during the rest of the flight, just to ensure the man definitely heard. I then resumed my fascinating discourse about plane crashes.

 

But – aha – bad flight karma was about to get me. Although the boys had persistently mauled the passengers’ seats in front and behind us and my “Ronnie and Reggie” jokes hadn’t gone down as well as expected (ahem!), when the plane finally landed at Newcastle Airport, the unfortunate couple seated in front of us helped escort my errant children into baggage reclaim. And that’s where it all Started Going Horribly Wrong.

 

We stood at the carousel for Jet2 reclaim. Reggie’s buggy appeared but my large, pink, 22.5kg bag didn’t emerge. Dozens of people left with their cases. R&R, fed up with the airport experience and excited about seeing their grandparents who were waiting outside, constantly tried to stick their fingers down the side of the conveyor belt, oblivious that little digits could be chopped off if it started suddenly. Mummy became increasingly agitated with the boys’ finger-endangering behaviour. The luggage for an Easyjet flight from Barcelona emerged. All the passengers picked up their bags and left.

 

Eventually, we were left standing in an empty room beside an empty conveyor belt. The boys were still trying to stick their hands in dangerous places. It finally dawned on me with the stereotypical sinking feeling: the pink bag was not going to join us... not now and possibly never.

 

I wanted to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum like Reggie. I kept thinking about my lovely new sundress procured from a Spanish shop that has a name similar to “sewage”. And my favourite sandals, which could be in Amsterdam for all I knew. I started squawking and flapping like a deranged pigeon. I enlisted some helpful chaps to take R&R out to meet their grandparents and filled in a lost baggage form amid much screeching about “going to Scotland with no clothes and my bag isn’t insured against loss”. It dawned on me that I wasn’t covered for inconvenience either.

 

And what was the upshot of my smugness and lax behaviour re “I never lose my baggage”? I had to foot the bill for an entire set of holiday clothes for me and the boys - otherwise a family stay in a civilised Scottish resort hotel would have been attempted in a mini dress and some ill-fitting jeans while the boys would have worn swimming trunks daily. Thank heavens for charity shops where I managed to wangle an entire wardrobe strong on Karen Millen, Ted Baker and, um, Matalan and Primark, as well as some Next boys’ shorts for less than the price of one new Karen Millen coat. Just as I was completing my purchases, the Swissport baggage handling lady at Newcastle Airport phoned to say that my bag had turned up in Leeds but it couldn’t be couriered to me until early the next week, when we’d be in Scotland.

 

Before travelling again, I will bother to complete the form for the free travel insurance that comes with one of my credit cards. Travel insurance clearly isn’t just for paranoid package tourists. No siree! How pigheaded to think that lost bags won’t happen to me. Pride always comes before a fall. And, clearly, ranting on about plane crashes just for fun will send you or your bags to Coventry... or Leeds.

 

*Tourist who stands out like a sore thumb.

A tale of tempting fate (or pride comes before a fall)

I’m not a religious person. I’m about as agnostic as a gal could be. Furthermore, I wouldn’t survive a reasoned debate about world religions because the necessary knowledge for such an undertaking falls into my many “ignorant zones”. However, I do believe in fate. And my own personal experience shows that you shouldn’t tempt fate because it will turn round and bite you in the bum, so to speak.

Last week, I visited a lovely lady who runs a chilli farm in Orgiva. She escorted me and the Terrible Toddler Twosome to her rather attractive outdoor swimming pool and emerged with a brand new double airbed, still in its box. Out came the airbed, out came a pump. We oohed and ahhed and coooed over the airbed. All hail the airbed! Isn’t it great! Isn’t it perfect! My companion swung the airbed into the pool so we could give it the much-anticipated ‘inaugural run’. But – lo and behold - it immediately snagged on a metal rod installed in the side of the pool and deflated. We had to admit: we’d been too smug about the airbed so fate taught us a lesson by deflating the darn thing.

The week beforehand, I went for a meal with the friend described in a previous blog entry: the one who accused me of constantly tempting fate on the road by being negative towards Spanish drivers. We ventured into my favourite local pizzeria where I’ve always been satisfied with the food. My friend started complaining: “I don’t like this restaurant – I reckon I’ll get bad food here.” I ordered Argentinean steak and my companion selected tuna steak. Guess what? My steak was delicious – a juicy, flavoursome treat. My companion’s tuna was, in comparison, fishy and raw. He complained to the chef who said “it’s supposed to come like that” and walked away (customer service Spain: another story). My companion was cross and I was smug about him “tempting fate by being negative about the restaurant”. Talk about turning the tables! Hah hah!

I remember, in the past, having two different road traffic accidents (one, a crash involving a vehicle parked on the hard shoulder and two, a rear-end shunt) while thinking exactly the same thought both times: “I’m enjoying this motorway drive and this music CD is really good”. How can that happen? Answer, because I was (a) being thoroughly smug and (b) thinking about how much I was enjoying the experience rather than keeping my eye on the road. Nowadays, I daren’t allow smug motoring thoughts to enter my consciousness: they must be banished immediately lest there be a third nasty RTA. A rear-end shunt may sound slightly comedic (!) but being towed 300 miles with your vehicle all mashed up, aware that you’ve given an elderly man whiplash and fearing points on your license is serious payback for laughing in the face of fate.

Fate can work the other way too. It laughs and plays with us and gives us positive or negative signs. Once, when I’d lost the buyer for my Brighton flat and was feeling despondent because I was about to lose my house purchase too (a collapsed chain), my cat at the time – Bumble – emerged from under my bed carrying a fiver in her mouth. She dropped the glorious and unusual feline find at my feet. “Aha, much better than a dead mouse,” I thought.  A few hours later, my estate agent phoned me. He wanted to bring a prospective new buyer to view my flat, which had not yet been officially relisted as for sale. The buyer immediately offered £5k more than the previous one. I couldn’t help thinking that the cat had brought a sign of divine providence and tempted fate in my favour.

Airy-fairy bollocks? Maybe. But we’ve all had ‘one of those days’ where things go exactly our way and ‘one of those other days’ where everything that can go wrong does go wrong. And, speaking personally, either being too negative about something or daring to be smug - even for a few minutes - almost always causes a disaster in my immediate environment. So, folks, let’s think positively and not blow our own trumpets: it’s not big and it certainly ain’t clever. As the old adage goes, ‘pride goeth before the fall’. It certainly does!