Adele Archer's Blog, page 11

Oh, you shouldn’t have…

I’ve been nominated! For realsies this time!

Hello! It’s my birthday! No, really – it is. I’ve written in a weird blue font and everything; man I’m feeling wacky today. I mean, who does that? Ha ha ha. Anyway, I’m 45 today! What did you buy me? Oh…oh, I see. Well, never mind. To make up for your insensitivity and forgetfulness, you can do me a teensy favour. You see, this little bloggette is really for my blog followers who don’t follow me on any other social media platform. I know, I can’t understand why either. Anyhoo, I’ve been nominated for the UK Blog Awards 2017 (by my blogging friend, Mike Raven – who also happens to be a nominee). Now, if you read my blog (and like it in any way, shape or form) would you please be kind enough to vote for me?

This is just the public vote round. The top 8 blogs with the highest amount of votes then get through to a judging panel. I’m highly unlikely to even make it through to that stage. There are hundreds of other blogs nominated with a bigger following than mine, but you have to be in it to win it – that’s what I always say (I never say this). It’s going to be a big ol’ popularity contest, and other entrants will get all their followers to vote for them, then get all their follower’s cousins, uncles and great aunts to vote for them too. Actually, feel free to get all your family and friends to vote for me, if you like (you didn’t hear that from me).

So, all you have to do is click on the link I will shortly provide for you, enter your email address (they only want this to ensure each email address is used to vote for one nominee one time, to stamp out the same voter repeatedly voting for the same person – i.e. cheating. You won’t be bombarded with emails). If you happen to have multiple email addresses, and you want to vote for me multiple times, that’s fine, don’t let me stop you (you didn’t hear that from me either). Please then select the category, Arts, Culture & Lifestyle, then submit. That is literally it. Bosh. You’ve voted (for me, preferably). And what’s more, you’ve made up for your huge gaff in forgetting to buy me a birthday present.

So whenever you’re ready, click…

HERE

Right, I’m off to eat a massive slab of cake. But thank you in advance for your lovely gift. You shouldn’t have (you should).

All the best,

Adele xxx

PS: You only have up until 10am on the 19th of December until votes close. So why not vote now, before you forget? Like you did with my birthday…

A picture of my blog so there can be no mistakes.

 

Lick of Paint

 

 

Evacuating the bedroom!

It’s that time of year again (read decade) when I foolishly decide to embark on a bit of decorating. This time, my bedroom was the lucky culprit. To be fair, I’ve lived in my house for 16 years, and my bedroom is the only room that has never had a makeover. So it was due. I’d recently told a friend that all I wanted was a beautiful bedroom, so that when I’m next sick, I’d have ‘somewhere nice to be ill’. You know, nice scenery if one was confined to bed. I’d forever call it ‘the boudoir’, drape myself across the bed with a wet flannel over my eyes, and be fed grapes by my children. Nothing unusual about that. So I thought I’d broach the subject with the hubster. It started out by me saying, ‘I wish I had a lovely bedroom for my Christmas present – y’know, somewhere I can retreat to.’ (I didn’t mention the being-ill-fantasy). And, oddly enough, he agreed. That was it; the wheels were set in motion. Normally he just ignores these requests whilst I talk to the back of his head when he’s at his computer, but not that day. He knew the bedroom was due too. My husband ordered the new wardrobes, the new bed, and the carpet – bosh, bosh, bosh. All scheduled to arrive in a very short time-frame. All I had to worry about was redecorating the room (you can’t really have new furniture and carpets without a new colour on the walls). So, with my eldest daughter’s offer of assistance, I readily agreed. It was just a lick of paint, right? Wrong.

Freshly painted room!

As is always the case when I start a DIY project, I’m initially very positive about my progress and stunning attention to detail. I painstakingly do the ‘cutting in’ on the wall edges, I deftly roller the walls with emulsion, I intricately paint the skirting boards with gloss. Then I’ll think, ‘Hmm, I’m pretty good at this painting lark. I ought to start a decorating company. People will flock to me because I’m a woman, who can be trusted not to do a bodge-job or rip people off…”. But that’s on day-one of my decorating reverie. By day-two, I am full of vicious rage; kicking pots of emulsion and gloss across the room. ‘F*** this! F*** that! F*** everybody! I hate you all!”

So, consequently, I have decided NOT to start a decorating company. After two days of being on my hands and knees with my nose pressed up against a dado-rail, trying to decipher where brilliant white ends and pebble shore begins, I didn’t ever want to see a pot of paint or a paintbrush again. Still, at least the painting malarkey is done, and if you don’t look too closely, the walls look great. Anyway, then came the really difficult part. The carpet.

When you agree to have a room re-carpeted, you forget that you’re agreeing to ensure the room is ENTIRELY EMPTY before the carpet fitter comes around. Where do you put it all? All your years of accumulated crap? In the west wing, perhaps? Emptying a room of its contents is easier said than done, well it is in my house, living with the husband I do. It’s safe to say he’s a bit of a hoarder. I once asked him if I could throw away a burst rugby ball, yet he ‘ummed and ahhed’ over it for ages, and said he might need it. This is the man who bought the box for a ‘Gladiator’ TV show board game from a boot-sale; not the game, the box. Just in case he ever came across the actual game itself at another boot-sale. Because the two items together ‘might be valuable’. That’s if he ever found the board game, mind you. This is what I have to work with, people. I keep watching these programmes on TV about hoarders who have houses so over-filled with crap, firemen have to tunnel their way in past walls of newspaper to rescue the occupant from their years of obsessive accumulation. I keep telling my husband that if I ever left, that would be him. Except they’d have to rescue him from beneath old games consoles, vinyl records, and toy robots. Anyway, that’s a WHOLE blog subject all of its own. And to be fair, as far as my bedroom was concerned, I wasn’t entirely blameless for the build-up of uselessness.

New carpet and weird child…

I came across stacks of coursework and literature from study days of years gone by; stuff regarding healthcare work that I have NO INVOLVEMENT IN WHATSOEVER anymore. And never will again, I’ll wager. Not now that I’m going to become a professional painter/decorator, anyway. Oh wait…I decided against that career-change, didn’t I? Anyway, I cannot imagine what I was thinking. That ‘I may need this one day’ gene is a dangerous thing. I mean, where do you draw the line? After a while, I decided to be ruthless. However, I found a shoe box of old letters which made me pull up short. Are you supposed to keep old letters? From everybody? People don’t even write letters anymore. Okay, maybe keep old love letters from your husband (I promise you, husband, I kept those). But what about somebody you knew as a kid who moved to America and then wrote you one solitary letter as a pen-pal before giving up on the ‘keeping in touch’ lark? And if you do keep all those letters, WHERE do you keep them? Honestly. I was torn between ‘Memory Lane’ and ‘I-Don’t-Give-a-Sh** Road’. Torn, I tell you. So eventually, we cleared the room, the carpet-fitters came, and after about forty minutes and their pockets £70 heavier, they left. The carpet did indeed look lovely. It was just a shame that the fitters had bashed half the white paint off my newly decorated skirting boards *furiously kicks another pot of gloss across the room*.

 

Don’t know why we chose such big wardrobes for just one dress…

Next came the furniture. All flat-packed stuff from your favourite Swedish furniture seller and mine. Since I and my daughter had done the bulk of the decorating, I’d hoped to have buggar-all to do with the building of any of it. But of course, that was a fantasy. Most of the building was a two-man job; not me merely holding things in place – but actually screwing stuff together. I know! First of all, the experience seemed acceptable enough. I even toyed with the idea of starting a company which collected and built other people’s flat-packed furniture for them. But after about an hour…you guessed it… ‘F*** this! F*** that! I hate everybody!’. We spent four hours on the bed base alone. No joke. When we reached the last box, which we assumed to be ready-threaded bed slats (all pre-made, just to roll out over the bed), we had a nasty surprise. We had to individually thread each one of a g’million slats through a peace of webbing, and force it into a rubber slots on each end – than Allen key the b***ard thing together. But although hard work, the building wasn’t so bad. The Fleurgenshmoffenschmut wardbrobes and the JJJJorgenbaaarrtenladen bed (or whatever they were called), although technically challenging at times, fit together just how they were supposed to. Then I went to work and left my husband to build a sh**-load of drawers.

Hooray! Can finally sleep in a bed again!

So, the room isn’t exactly finished, and I can’t show you a before and after picture as such – because it’s still a work in progress. But the bedroom is definitely coming together and we’re on the final leg. All the pain has been worth it. This hellish nightmare will not long be over. All bar putting back the tonnes of crap that I’ve previously pulled out – that could take until Christmas in itself. But it will be great, lying in my new bed, staring at my new, unblemished walls and super-shiny wardrobes, as I cough my guts up with my upcoming bout of flu. I can just feel it. The stars are aligning, people, they’re aligning.

PS: Thanks to my eldest daughter who did more than her fair share of wall-painting (now she can’t sue me).

PPS: Thank you, husband, for all your hard work, your building skills are second-to-none.

PPPS: I don’t really want flu or any other type of illness, honest. I had my flu jab and everything. I enjoy being healthy.

I’ve Got the Music in Me

I was listening to the radio the other day, and I realised my eldest brother and sister have a lot to answer for. I come from a family of six children, and I don’t know if it’s the same in all families, but the eldest in mine, pretty much dictated what we listened to musically. At the time, being a child, I found this all a bit prescriptive. Ann and Ian (my eldest siblings) decreed that we play cool, worthy music around the house. I grew up in the 70s and 80s, and fitting in with your school peers was all-important (as it is now). You had to watch the right TV shows and listen to the right music. Which our family didn’t. So Ali (my littlest sister) and I used to sneak out of the house with our meagre pocket money to buy cassettes or vinyl chart music of the time; things like Madonna and George Michael and Aha. Things that Ann and Ian would have been appalled about back then. Like all kids, I guess we felt the need to rebel.

It’s only now that I’m a grown up that I can actually see what Ann and Ian were trying to instil in us. And it turns out they were quite right. Although I loved it (and as a guilty pleasure, still do sometimes) it’s not that 80s throw-away, chart music that I would go to if I was in need of some music therapy. It’s the music that Ann and Ian played on the turntable, that’s what has seeped into my subconscious and shaped my upbringing. There has always been a lot of fantastic American music in my life, but it was British music that made me what I am; music like this: –

Supertramp:

Supertramp were a British prog-rock band that incorporated pop and other influences into their music. That’s why they were so good, I believe; the mixed influences incorporated into their tracks. It’s only now that I’m in my forties that I really appreciate this band. Their attention to melody was second to none. I absolutely loved Roger Hodgson’s voice – able to hit notes that even I might struggle with. What’s more, he looked a little bit like Jesus (and what little kid couldn’t find that appealing?). They made dozens of amazing records, but ‘Give a Little Bit’ is my favourite. It had to be a song sung by Roger, of course. Whenever I hear it in the car, I’m always cheered up…yes, even a right misery like me.

Gerry Rafferty:

This Scottish singer-songwriter was a firm favourite in our house growing up. Most people will know him for ‘Baker Street’ and ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’, but there was so much more to him than that. It was his sense of tune, also, that gave him such a foothold in our house. I used to love his nasally voice and the way he was unable to pronounce the sound ‘thr’ and replaced it with ‘shr’. If there was anybody who actually influenced my singing voice, it was him. My brother once said I sounded like the female Gerry Rafferty. Or perhaps he didn’t actually mean it as a compliment; he simply meant that I also sang in a nasally way (which isn’t necessarily a good thing – and let’s face it, brothers don’t tend to pay you compliments). ‘Rick Rack’ is an old Gerry Rafferty track (written with Billy Connolly, no less, while they were in The Humblebums). But it’s the one the child in me remembers the late, great Rafferty for. I think I love it for its melancholy nature. I told you I was a misery.

Joe Jackson:

An English singer-songwriter who my late-sister Lynn was particularly fond of. This is the only one of the artists listed in this post that I ever got to see live. I could never understand why Joe Jackson wasn’t more popular than he was. Well, perhaps he was. But he wasn’t popular when I was at school; nobody had heard of him. Most people will know him for ‘Steppin’ Out’. He was an exceptionally gifted pianist, but to me, his biggest strength was to be found in his lyrics. Lyrically, Joe Jackson was unbeatable. ‘Sentimental Thing’ is my number one Joe Jackson track. Maybe I just like sad songs (because I’m a right misery), but I think I love it because it could literally bring you to tears. Especially if you listen carefully to the lyrics – which I believe people just don’t do often enough.

The Beatles:

Well, no music list would be complete without The Beatles, would it? You don’t need me to tell you a thing about them, because there’s nothing new I can say that you don’t already know. But growing up in my house, The Beatles were very regularly on the turntable. We all know that their main success came from their uncanny sense of tune, but also from their ability to adapt and evolve. There will never be a greater band than ‘The Beatles’; the legacy they have left behind is astonishing. Their body of work is just too extensive and too consistent to be topped. But my all-time favourite Beatles track has to be ‘Across the Universe’. Its gentle sense of melody and emotion-evoking vocals is unsurpassed.

There were other bands and artists that shaped me, but these were the big four. I used to sing and write songs once upon a time, not anymore, but I did. I prided myself mostly on my lyrics, perhaps because I was always an author at heart, or perhaps because of the clever lyricists that filled my ears in my formative years. And the music I have listed just shows you, the tracks you grow up with, they are the ones that shape you. I had my rebellious dalliance with the popular chart music of the time (not that all of it was unworthy, because some of it was great). And there are other, newer musical influences that have made a big difference to my life too. But these intelligent and talented artists listed; the ones that I was surrounded with during childhood, these are the ones that had the most profound effect on me. I’d say both musically and as a writer too. And I don’t hold them responsible in any way for me being a right misery.

NB: So what about you? Who were the singers and bands that could be heard regularly around your house as a kid? Did you loathe them or love them? If you loved them, what made that music stick with you for all these years? I’d love to hear your memories in the comment section below.

Food Bore

I’m saying nothing!

Look, I’m going to warn you right off the bat. I’m going to have to talk about diets again. Now wait! Before you shut your laptop with an irritated snap, let me just say I’m only going to mention diets in passing. This is not a blog post about diets. I repeat, THIS IS NOT A BLOG POST ABOUT DIETS. Everybody calm down. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to discuss food a little bit, just to set the scene. What kind of writer would I be if I didn’t? Because without ever consciously trying to, sadly…I have become a food bore…

I have been eating healthily on-and-off for five years now (sorry, this is the diet bit). It was a case of having to, really. Gastritis was making me unwell, and therefore, I needed to change the way I ate. My actual healthy-eating plan has kind of evolved over the years, as I’ve taken on board new research. But basically I eat approx. 1750 calories a day (more or less), have drastically reduced my sugar intake, and don’t eat many refined carbs. Then log the balance of my intake and output on Myfitnesspal. I do exercise three times a week, but I believe most of my success has come from my diet. I have pretty much remained at a stable weight that I’m happy with, and my gastritis (without medication) is under control. So I’ve come to the conclusion that when I eat sh*t, I feel like sh*t. Makes sense, really.

But I do have to put something out there right from the get-go. Just like everybody else, I slip up. I got too cocky a year ago and let a lot of weight creep back on because I thought I had the diet-thing licked. But I didn’t. Nobody ever has it licked. I will always have to watch what I eat. Always. When I go on holiday, the healthy eating goes out the window, and I pig-out on all kinds of crap. Then invariably pay for it later. If it’s a special occasion, I’ll eat a bit of birthday cake – or any other kind of celebratory cake. Then invariably pay for it later. I can tell you right now that I’ll be eating like a starving gannet who has never even seen food before when Christmas Day comes. I’ll be eating Quality Street for breakfast just like everybody else. But come Boxing Day, I’ll go back to the old tried-and-tested. Undoubtedly I’ll fall off the wagon now and then. I’ll mess up, and then I’ll mess up again. Still, I’ll get back on the healthy-eating horse (is there such a thing as a healthy-eating horse? Well, there is now), and do what I need to do. It works for me.

My typical work-lunch (honest).

So that should be all fine and dandy, then? Yes? Hmm… Well, the problem is this; some people now have this perception of me as some kind of health freak (which I’m really not, I eat like this because I have to). And try as I might to keep my mouth shut about food, because I hate health freaks just as much as you do, I’ve unintentionally become a ‘food bore’. But you see, people force me to be a food bore. So it really isn’t my fault. The worst of my food bore tendencies come out at work, at lunch time (obvs). Every day at 12 o’clock, I sit down in the staff room with my salad and quietly set about eating it. And every day, another member of staff will invariably comment on the salad in some way or another – usually that it ‘looks healthy’, or something. It isn’t that healthy, in all honesty; there’s a fair bit of fat in it. But I don’t worry about good fats, I worry about sugar. I try to smile or say something innocuous, but it always comes out like some sodding lecture on nutrition. And then they question my eating habits a bit further, and then I proceed to do a full-on teaching session about food. And then somebody will go on to say that they lead a very active lifestyle but can’t seem to lose weight, and I can’t help myself and tell them it’s all about what you eat. You can’t outrun a bad diet. And then their eyes glaze over and the conversation dies. I’m so bloody boring!!! I even bore myself!!! Oh my God, why can’t I smile and nod and just shut up about food??

I have this one colleague who I sit and eat lunch with pretty much daily. She usually eats a lunch consisting of a sandwich and a packet of crisps. But on occasion, she fancies eating a nice pie. And why not? I’d love to eat a nice pie on occasion, but they make me feel very ill (can’t touch pastry), so I don’t. Anyway, on the days that my colleague fancies a nice pie, she will make sure she gets to the lunchroom before 12 and devours the entire pie as quickly as possible, so that I won’t see her eat it. I know this, because she admitted it one day when I asked why she didn’t appear to have any lunch. Isn’t that terrible? I must be such a condescending, ‘judgey’ food-fascist (or at least look like I am) that people are afraid to eat their food in front of me! I mean, we laughed about it, and my colleague has now taken to bringing in a salad nine times out of ten (and has consequently lost lots of weight). But I just really hope that wasn’t because of me…

So I guess I have to admit I’m fairly passionate about nutrition, but that doesn’t mean I have to rub that passion in people’s faces (believe me, I try SO HARD not to). I just have to learn to button my lip. If people want to pay £6 a week to be a member of ‘Weight Watchers’, yet eat a massive slab of cake on a daily basis and wonder why they don’t lose weight, that’s their lookout. If people want to focus solely on exercise, yet continually eat crap (and not lose weight – and wonder why), that’s their lookout. I could tell people where they’re going wrong, but it’s not for me to point out healthy eating mistakes. I make them myself. I honestly don’t mind what other people put in their bodies. It’s their body – not mine. I’m not a dietitian, so I really only need to concern myself with my own lifestyle choices (mine and my children’s. I’m a real food fascist at home. Not that anyone listens). Still, I promise not to lord it over friends or work colleagues. I’ll keep my big trap shut. You eat your lunch and I’ll eat mine. But if you ask me my opinion on food and weight loss…then just remember when your eyes go all glassy and you fall asleep at the table, you did ask my opinion. All I did was, well, give it…

The sort of boring thing I’d say…

Don’t Be a Stranger!

I was born and bred in London. You might say I was a real, honest-to-goodness, pearly-kings-and-queens-card-holding Cockney. I was born in Bethnal Green (Bethnal Green Hospital, to be precise). Apparently, to be a Cockney, one must be born within the sound of Bow Bells. Now I have no idea whether you can hear the sound of Bow Church Bells ringing in Bethnal Green. Bow Church is exactly 3.1 miles from Bethnal Green (so says Google Maps). Perhaps you can hear them on a very quiet Sunday morning. After a zombie apocalypse. But anyway, I choose to consider myself a Cockney. I’m a native of East London, so that’s good enough for me.

However, I left London twenty-four years ago, at the age of twenty. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to leave. I’ve always considered myself a country girl at heart, a country girl born in completely the wrong place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my roots and my heritage and my accent, I just don’t happen to want to live there. It’s too busy; there aren’t any fields or cows. Life is stressful enough as it is without all that bustle. To be honest, I virtually never go back. As the years go by, there are fewer and fewer reasons for me to visit. And East London isn’t exactly a picturesque place, so I keep my visits to a bare minimum.

Recently though, I had cause to head back to London on a brief day-trip. I’ve already mentioned why in a previous blog, so I’m not going to get into the whys and wherefores of that, but suffice to say, I found myself in London. I think it’s the first time I’ve been back in about 14 years (give or take). And what I want to talk about today is how I discovered I had become a complete stranger in my own hometown. Either everything in London has changed, or I have; changed so markedly, that I could never even consider going back on a permanent basis.

I won’t lie, I was a little anxious about my trip to London. I don’t have a good memory at the best of times, but for some reason, my brain had decided to throw out everything to do with Bethnal Green and Hackney (where I grew up). I decided not to drive. A) I didn’t trust my car to make it there and back. B) I have no idea how to navigate London roads. I learned to drive in Wiltshire, so I have no London ‘knowledge’ to speak of. I boarded my train to Waterloo in trepidation. For some reason, I decided to seat myself at a table of four instead of my usual two-seater seats I would normally choose (being my standoffish self). I think I must have wanted a bigger table to house my coffee and laptop. I’m glad I did sit there, though. At least three people seemed very keen in engaging me in minimal, yet camaraderie-filled conversation. So I was put at my ease, the rest of time being spent editing on my laptop. Ninety-percent of people use a laptop on trains these days, it seems. I would have felt left out without one. After a while, green and pleasant Wiltshire turned into ‘The Big Smoke’. I was home. Sort of.

On arrival at London Waterloo, the fun and games began. I had a continuously-running text conversation with my sister on the go, she knows London far better than I do. I thought I’d be adventurous and navigate my way from West to East London by bus (the London Underground system was far too complicated for my now country-bumpkin-like brain to contemplate). So from Waterloo, I was advised to catch a number 26 to Hackney.

First of all, I had a panic attack about the complexities of ‘Oyster Cards’ (pre-paid cards which allow you to travel all over London on trains and buses). Oyster Cards hadn’t existed in my day. And apparently buses don’t take real cash anymore. WTF?? Anyway, it transpired that you could use your debit card if it had the contactless function, so I could forget about the confusing Oyster Card. Thank God. Mind you, you don’t actually speak to the driver. And how the bus itself knew which part of London I was travelling to, thereby calculating how much my journey should cost, I’ve no idea. First of all, things seemed to be going swimmingly. I boarded the number 26 to Hackney as instructed by my sister. The closer we got to Central London, the more my past life came flooding back to me. A small smile even crept onto my face as the bus passed Bank Underground Station and then by Liverpool Street (I used to work there, I could even pick out my old office as the bus went by). I happily watched all the suited and booted office-workers, carrying their ‘Pret A Manger‘ lunches in paper bags (Pret A Manger appears to be the only lunch-selling establishment in London these days). I used to be one of those people. That was my old life. It was only when we hit Shoreditch that my memory began to go blank. So I rang my sister, as the text messages weren’t coming through fast enough for my liking.

Me: ‘Right, I’m on the 26. How do I know where to get off?’

Sister: ‘You know Westgate Street?’

Me: ‘No.’

Sister: ‘Do you remember our old opticians?’

Me: ‘No.’

Sister: ‘You know, at the beginning of Mare Street – the Town Hall?’

Me: ‘Um…maybe…?’

Sister: ‘Well don’t get off there. You’ve gone too far if you’re at the Town Hall.’

Me: (panicking) ‘Alright, so get off when I see the opticians…?’

Sister: ‘No, it isn’t an opticians anymore. Anyway, get off there, and catch a 253.’

Me: (panicking more so) ‘A 253 to where?’

Sister: ‘Homerton. Do you remember Homerton?’

Me: ‘No.’

Sister: ‘The bus terminates at Homerton, you’ll be fine.’ (It didn’t) ‘You’ll know you’re on the right bus if you go past Morning Lane. Do you remember Morning Lane?’

Me: ‘No.’

Sister: ‘Do you remember the big Tesco?’

Me: ‘No.’

Sister: ‘Do you remember -?’

Me: ‘No.’

And so it went on. Even though I was on home turf, I later told my husband that if you’d asked me to find my way on foot to my old childhood home where I’d lived from the age of eleven to twenty, I’m not sure I could have located it. Not only has the city landscape changed, I’ve banished all those memories, you see. They just weren’t necessary for me to keeping storing them anymore.

Anyway, I finally made it to my final destination after a two-and-a half hour train journey and one-and-a half hours of buses. However, I soon realised I had only given myself one hour to get all the way back to Waterloo for my return trip, and I was unlikely to make it in time to catch my train. I had actually downloaded the ‘Uber‘ app in the eventuality that I would run out of time. But it was just another thing I had never done before, just another variable that I didn’t want to factor in. So, having (completely false) pretensions of being fairly middle-class, I just got a common-or-garden taxi from Hackney to Waterloo, which was expensive. But I was long passed caring. I managed to catch my train on time too. And boy was I glad to get back to the greenery of home.

So that was my angst-provoking trip back to The Big Smoke. Trains, buses and taxis, just like a seasoned city dweller. What I will say is that it’s a falsehood to say all Londoners are miserable; everyone was terribly friendly to me. They must have felt sorry for the lost-looking country bumpkin on her trip from The Sticks (I’m kidding, my home isn’t that rural). Yes, I’m still proud of my Cockney roots, I believe London made me what I am – you can take the girl out of London, but you can’t take London out of the girl. But I just don’t happen to belong there anymore. I need a slower pace of life now. So, I can’t see me needing to go back again any time soon – perhaps barely ever. I did see some lovely landmarks whilst on my bus trip, however; Tower Bridge in the distance, St Paul’s Cathedral. I’d actually like to take my kids to visit their Capital City – just as tourists, mind. Because that’s what we are. But I think I’ll give East London a miss next time, it’s too taxing for a wannabe yokel like me.

Best Foot Forward!

Hazel working on someone else’s foot – not mine.

I was recently asked by school-mum-friend and qualified reflexologist, Hazel Powell, to come for a trial of reflexology. And in return, I would write an honest blog review. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Wow, Adele! You’re like the next Zoella! But about fifty years older…’. And you’d be right, apart from the fifty years older part. We’re talking twenty, tops. Anyway, I thought, great! But then I remembered a terrible drawback. No, I’m not ticklish, but I’ve always been told I have slightly freakish feet – well, my husband says so, anyway. Normally, you can’t trust a word he says, but he might have a point on this one. They’re a bit like Hobbit’s feet, but without the fur and the abnormal size (I’m an average UK size 6). They’re just kind of square. Like somebody chopped off the ends with an axe. You know those people with feet that probably descend from the Neanderthal era (like my husband), with the long second and third toe? Yeah, well I’m the polar opposite of that. My toes are almost all exactly the same length. Weird, right? I mean, not as weird as you Neanderthal-footed people. You ought to join a circus. But I accept I’m a bit strange. Now, I’m not about to put a photo of my foot on the internet; as much as I like a nice selfie, there are limits. It’s just I feel you need to see the problem for yourselves. But there’s no filter on all of Instagram that will make my foot look good. So I have kindly drawn you a little picture below to highlight my plight:-

Not-to-scale drawing of my foot, penned by me.

Anyway, enough of my foot-angst. What is reflexology, I hear you ask? Well, reflexology is a non-intrusive, safe and natural complementary therapy. It’s a pressure massage usually applied to the feet, but sometimes to the hands. Points on the body called ‘reflex points’ are stimulated, and it is believed that they correspond to different parts of the body. By working these reflex points, reflexology aims to bring about a feeling of well-being. Reflexology dates back to ancient Egypt, India and China (and if it was good enough for them, it’s good enough for me). It should not be used as an alternative to seeking medical advice, but should work alongside general medicine. There is not enough research evidence to judge its effectiveness, but it is thought reflexology may boost a sluggish circulation, and may be useful for treating stress, anxiety, back pain, migraine, poor digestion, irritable bowel syndrome, respiratory problems, asthma, headache, bladder problems, menopausal symptoms and period pain.

So, in preparation for my treatment, and as I was unable to change the anatomy of my freakish feet, I did a quick pedicure instead. I deftly painted my toenails (silver, no less), then set off for my reflexology appointment. Woohoo! It occurred to me on my drive over, that (other than the above paragraph which I mainly stole from Hazel’s pamphlet) I didn’t know a great deal about reflexology. I have a medical background, so knew a little of its benefits as a complimentary therapy. In nurse training, there was a male nurse on my course who was studying reflexology as a side-line, and did a practice session on one of my classmates. She fainted. Maybe she had low blood sugar or something, but she passed out for a few seconds. And I thought, ‘yeah, I got to get me some of that!’ But, sadly, I never did get my turn.

Hazel was very welcoming on arrival. She showed me into a lovely, purpose-built reflexology room in her home, and proceeded to go through a medical history document to discuss any possible predisposing conditions. Now I have few ailments; mostly stomach and gut. You really wanted to know that, didn’t you? Well, I can provide you with a full lowdown of all my digestive problems, but I’ll have to do that in another blog, because I could write a thousand words that alone. Still, I think it was important for Hazel to go over medical history, as it meant she could tailor the treatment specifically to me (and I would have completely forgotten to mention lots of possibly important information otherwise).

Take note of stomach area for later…

After Hazel had completed the medical history, the reflexology session began. The soothing music was switched on (is there anything more soothing than panpipes?), and my chair reclined. First of all, I wasn’t sure if I should be yammering on as much as I was. Then I decided my incessant talking was probably going to be detrimental to the experience, so I decided to shut up, and relax. It’s quite an odd feeling; certainly not a mere foot massage, no, although very relaxing. It’s quite clear there’s an art to this. Pressure is directed onto certain areas of the foot, apparently correlating to other parts of the body. Brushing movements were applied to other areas. I could have fallen asleep. Funnily enough, it was never uncomfortable…but for one part of the foot. On specific areas on both arches of both feet. And guess what part of the body that relates to in the reflexology map? Go on, guess. No, guess. Well, I’ve given you the answer above – so no points for you. It was the stomach. Hazel also said the bowel area (on my foot), wasn’t quite like other people’s either. And I’m not one bit surprised. See? I told you there was something wrong with me!

I have to say, it was a lovely, relaxing experience. One which I would certainly think about repeating. As an aside, I also appreciated Hazel placing a warm towel on each bare foot that wasn’t in use, because I have freezing-cold feet, due to rubbish circulation. Half the time, my feet are blue. So let’s recap; my feet are blue, and look like something out of ‘Lord of the Rings’. Attractive, I know. Luckily I hadn’t painted my toenails blue, or Hazel might have thought I was dead. Apart from feeling relaxed, I did experience a feeling of well-being for the rest of the day. Who knows, perhaps with further treatments, reflexology could help alleviate my digestive problems. I would highly recommend you give reflexology a try; not as a replacement for mainstream medicine, but maybe to work hand-in-hand with it. Or foot-in-foot (see what I did there?). And if you’re West Country way (Bath, Wiltshire and surrounds), I can’t recommend Hazel enough. She didn’t even mention my blue, Hobbit feet. Not even once. Now if that isn’t professionalism, I don’t know what is.

For more info, check out Hazel’s links:

Hazel’s Website Here

Hazel’s Facebook Page Here

NB: I am available for foot-modelling gigs at a very reasonable rate.

Further from Father

 

The only photo I know of with my entire family together.

I don’t know how to feel. I can lie to myself; I’ve been lying to myself for years. But I can’t lie to the blog. The blog demands the truth, you see. My father has just died. But I am not in any way deserving of your pity. I haven’t spoken to my father in five years – not since last Tuesday, when I went to visit him in hospital to say goodbye. After a two-and-a-half hour train journey to London, and one-and-a-half hours of bus journeys (I hate driving in London), I finally made it to his bedside. And even then, I’m fairly certain he didn’t know I was there. But I had to pay my respects; I held his hand in the brief time I had, kissed his forehead, stroked his curly hair (he always had a lovely, full head of curly hair – that’s where I get mine), and said goodbye for the last time. I knew it was going to be the last time. But you see, I still don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.

Almost from the day I was born, I have always had a difficult and strained relationship with my dad. I won’t speak ill of the dead; it isn’t right, because they can’t defend themselves. But it would be hypocritical of me to write this blog and extol his virtues; sing his praises. He was never an abusive man, but he was a selfish man. Like I say, we hadn’t spoken in five years. It was an easy decision to make, too; to cut him out of my life at the time. My sister had just died, and he refused to attend the funeral. He had his reasons; agoraphobia, mental illness issues – there was certainly no malice involved. But to me, that bereaved and bitter woman of five years ago, I just felt a man must attend his own daughter’s funeral. No question. But he didn’t, or he couldn’t. I don’t know which. Either way, that was the end of our father-daughter relationship – one that had never been very good in the first place.

I was talking to a friend and colleague the other day. Mike had written a speech for his daughter’s wedding this coming weekend (today). For some reason, Mike sometimes chooses to waste his time reading this blog, and he wanted my advice on the speech (I’m not sure why anybody should want my advice on such an important thing, but he did). So he read out his ‘father of the bride’s speech’ for my opinion; it was funny and touching in all the right places. I don’t think I’ve heard a better one. I know for a fact that his daughter will find it very emotional (particularly towards the end). I think he will find it emotional to read. I didn’t say so at the time, because I was feeling a little emosh’ myself, but my father didn’t come to my wedding. I got married just a few months after my sister’s death. I can’t honestly even remember if I invited him or not, but he wouldn’t have come anyway, because of the agoraphobia. Anyhow, there certainly wasn’t any ‘father-of-the-bride’s speech’ at my wedding; my lovely brother walked me down the aisle, and gave a beautiful speech instead. But if my dad had been able to write and read aloud a speech, like Mike will for his daughter, I’d have been immensely proud. His daughter is lucky to have him.

This is a very different blog to the one I was going to write a week ago. That blog was still very bitter; still aggrieved. That aggrieved child has been in me all this time, you see. I am slightly scarred as an adult because of my childhood, less and less so as the years go by, but the damage you do when raising a kid is irrevocable. But when I saw my dad in that hospital bed; eyes rolling into the back of his head, limbs flailing, clearly distressed, hollow cheekbones, all that bitterness was knocked out of me. I just felt very sad. He was a tortured soul in his life; a troubled man, with his own demons. And seeing that shell of a man who had once seemed so big, and such a huge barrier to all my future hopes when I was a kid, I stopped feeling resentment. Lying in that hospital bed, he was so weak and vulnerable; so close to death. That was a blog that didn’t need to be written. So I simply deleted it, because the anger has gone. I’m merely regretful now.

So as I sit here and cry now (I’m often crying when I write this blog, usually not from fits of laughter, unfortunately – although, I am one to laugh at my own jokes. Just ask my kids), I’m not crying for the relationship with my father that I had. I’m crying for the relationship I wish it was. If you have a dysfunctional relationship with your parent, you don’t even get to look back at the good times like normal people. People like us are only left with regret, and a strange, lost feeling you don’t quite know what to do with. So I’m not deserving of pity, no. But that doesn’t make it any less hard. You only get one set of parents, and he was my dad. The only one I had. And for all his flaws, and there were many, I say again – he never did anything out of maliciousness. He was a complicated man, who probably didn’t know any better. I hope my mother and siblings don’t think badly of me for writing this, but like I say, I may lie to myself – but never to the blog. So, goodbye, Daddy. I hope you’re in a better place now. I hope that place is free from whatever it was that frightened you so much, that you had to hide yourself away from the world. I hope that place brings you the peace that this world never could. xx

PS: One week I tell you I won’t be blogging very much, then there’s a deluge. Sorry.

PPS: Sorry Hazel for your delayed blog, it is still scheduled…

PPPS: Good luck with your speech today, Mike. Your daughter will love it!

 

In Review

In the old days, when you read a book, you simply read a book. That book either affected you in some way, or it didn’t. Either way, you merely read the book. Then you put it down and got on with your life. Not so these days. With the rise of eBooks and self-published authors, readers are increasingly encouraged to leave a review for the book they have just completed. That’s not something you’re born knowing how to do (well, you may have done something vaguely similar in English lessons at school, but that was a long time ago). Writing a review isn’t a terribly simple process. As a reader, I know – I’ve written a fair few book reviews myself.

Now, not only am I a reader, I’m also a self-published author. ‘You? Really? We had absolutely no idea!’ Well yes, I don’t like to bang on about it, it’s not something I EVER talk about – but it’s true, I am. So you see, reviews are more important to me than the average person. Numerous good reviews can be the difference between a potential reader buying your book or passing it by. However, the review process is cloaked in mystery and shrouded in intrigue. No, it is. There’s a very famous online retailer (which from hereon in I’m going to call ‘The Big A’ for espionage-type purposes) who can choose if and when to allow a review to be posted, or remain posted. And sometimes the reasons why your hard-earned reviews don’t show up just aren’t clear. ‘The Big A’ plays by its own rules. Some say, ‘the first rule of The Big A Review Club is, don’t talk about The Big A Review Club’. But me being me, that’s just a red rag to a bull.

I know people, friends of friends mainly, who insist they’ve left a review after reading my book. But that review simply isn’t there. And what can I do? It would be churlish to encourage somebody you barely know to write a review again, when it was hard enough for them to get around to writing it in the first place. My first review I ever received was there for about six months, and now that particular review has disappeared. Why? I’ve no bloody idea. But you don’t question ‘The Big A’. What’s more, ‘The Big A’ don’t group all your reviews together, they are only seen in the country of origin of the reviewer. And they don’t tell you when you get a new review, so you can’t go checking through every country without looking like a needy, saddo, desperardo loser. Which gets on my chimes a little bit.

Me pretending to write a review

Anyway, enough with the espionage. I’ve been lucky enough to receive some great reviews, be it on ‘Goodreads’ or ‘The Big A’. They’re extremely well-thought-out and eloquent; better reviews than I could have written. I put them all on two pages in my blog (HERE and HERE) as I’m so proud of them. Oh, and all over Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Google Plus. So if you write a review for me, you pretty much end up being all over the internet too. Soz. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s a shame if only I and a small few ever get to read them. I haven’t cherry-picked either, these are the ratings I currently know about. I just don’t think enough people leave reviews. But at the same time, I don’t take them lightly, knowing how hard they can be to write. You’ve got to pitch a book review just so; if you loved the book you must explain why without being too gushy, you’ve got to be honest and not sway the potential reader to read something you didn’t truthfully enjoy, but you can’t be too damning either. And then, if you’re me, you’ve got to find a way to make your review vaguely amusing. Obvs. Also, was the book deserving of five stars or four? Does five stars mean ‘life-changing’? Are three stars too few…? Agghh!! It’s a minefield.

I sometimes read the reviews on other author’s books. My absolute favourites are those left for books in the erotic/adult genre. Raunchy books always have tonnes of ratings. They tend to have a catchy title like this, ‘HOT, HOT, HOT!’. If you follow those same authors on Instagram (which I do; some follow me, and it would be rude not to return the favour), some of these author’s fans leave messages like this,

Interview with a Vampire (no…no, not a vampire, with me)!

Hello! Just a quick message to say this is not a blog post but a signpost (see what I did there?) for you to read an interview with yours truly! Me, that is…

Write like nobody is reading (but hope to God they are)…

Apologies, apologies, apologies! I’ve been off the grid again lately as far as blogging is concerned. I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to apologise and make excuses for your lack of blog posts; you just pick up where you left off and write like you’ve never been away. But you know me; I never was one to do what I’m told. And I’m almost certain to be off the grid a little bit more. ‘Hooray!’ I hear you cry. Well, that’s rude. So here are my excuses (take a seat, this may take a while. About 900 words to be exact *deafening sound of lots of laptops shutting*). I’ve been editing the third and final book in my trilogy. I’d put off picking it up over the summer, because once I start writing, I find it immensely hard to stop. To the detriment of my home life and…well everything else, really. When I’m writing or editing, I find it hard to want to do anything but that. You want a hot meal? Oh for God’s sake, what’s wrong with a sandwich? You want a clean uniform? What’s that crumpled lump of material on the floor? Scotch mist? I don’t want to go out, I don’t want to see people, I only want to do this. We’ve had some beautiful, warm and sunny days (almost a thing of myth and legend) here in England, but I’m to be found stuck inside in a darkened room, curtains drawn, and laptop hot from overuse.

From my Instagram

I’m probably four-fifths of the way through a first edit. I think it’s a first edit, but it’s hard to be sure. I’m not exactly one to write a book from beginning to end and then go back and fix it. Before it’s even done, I go back and pop bits in, chop bits out – all the way along. In case I forget something. And then it’s just a big old mess. Although (if I say so myself), the story is fundamentally good; there have been massive structural errors to put right, the puzzle has been near-impossible to piece together, and the amount of research I’ve had to do is staggering. If the police ever searched my laptop and looked at my search history, there would be some stiff questions to ask me (don’t worry, I have no intention of murdering anybody as far as I know). But I’m trying not to criticise myself too much for these epic plot gaffs that I’m now having to correct. What is it they say? ‘Write like you’re drunk. Edit like you’re sober’? Well, I must have been completely bloody smashed when I wrote this book…

Still, although challenging, I’m actually enjoying it though; the editing process. When you finally manage to make the mixed-up ‘rubik’s cube’ of your book into matching-sided, cohesive-coloured entity – that’s very gratifying. It’s the same with a blog post for me, really – but on a much smaller scale. I wish I could be like this about other things – y’know, driven. I’m not, though. I could only put this much (possibly wasted) energy into writing. That being said, I’ve got this odd feeling that I might never do this again. I would ‘never say never’, but once this trilogy is over (there will NOT be a fourth), I’m not sure that I’ll be inspired to start all over again. Yes, I’ve always written off and on since I was a kid, but I feel like what I am trying to do is just tick one important thing off my bucket list (important to me, anyway). Here’s the deal: I once had a story in my head, I wanted to put it on down on paper. Then I thought I’d let other people read it too. And once the story has been told (once I’ve finished this final book and pressed ‘publish’), then that’s that job jobbed (as my mum would say). That box is ticked. And I don’t know what’s next on the list after that. I’m not sure if there’s another story even rattling around up there. I hope I’m wrong; I’d like to think writing is in my blood and will be a lifelong thing, but nothing is ever certain. Still, if I ever get sent to prison (probably due to my weird search history), then that’s what I’ll spend my entire time doing. Writing. If they let me have any paper.

Again, from my Instagram

Anyway, that’s where I’ve been and what I have been doing and am still doing. I miss being here chatting to you guys, but I only have so much creative energy, and right now, that energy is being focused on the book. I love the blog; I credit the blog for helping me find my overall groove – what works for me. And the title of this post is the way I found that groove. I do write like nobody is watching (then I have to edit like the entire world is [they’re not, though]). But I stopped worrying about how I should be writing and blogging, and just wrote in the way I wanted to write. Adele on speed – times one hundred. Damn the consequences.

I’ve perhaps been a little too self-deprecating in some recent posts. How I’ve never amounted to anything. How I’ve never achieved anything. All true statements. But sometimes you’ve got to look at the positives. I was discussing careers with my eldest daughter and how it is so hard to choose the right subjects when you don’t really know at sixteen-years-old what you’d actually like to be. So my daughter, who seems exceptionally driven for her age, asked me, ‘what did you want to be when you were sixteen?’. I told her I wanted to be a writer – even then. And lack of personal achievement and paid-writing aside, I suppose I am a writer. Of sorts. Well, perhaps a writer who only ever published one idea. What officially defines us as a writer? I don’t know. But right now, I write books. I publish them. People read them (a couple of people). I write blogs. I publish them. People read them (a couple of people). So officially, I kind of do what I set out to do – without the big cash rewards. But hey, it’s a start. So I’ll try to pop in when I can. ‘Boo!’ I hear you cry. Again, rude. If I’ve got something of worth or interesting to say (or something particularly stupid happens to me), I’ll be here to tell you all about it. I may deem it something of worth or interesting, you may not. You just never know which way it’s going to go.

NB: You should really follow me on Instagram…

 

The books so far…