Adele Archer's Blog, page 4

Sing!

[image error]Perhaps a year ago, I mentioned on this blog that I was considering joining a choir. It was a fairly wishy-washy plan that I probably wasn’t going to follow through on, but this week, the choir-thing reared its ugly head again. I was the lead singer in amateur bands a couple of times in my youth, I’ve always sung since I was a kid, but I have no experience of choirs. And my singing is very much limited to the privacy of my car, these days. Still, I’ve always considered myself as having a good voice – I’m no Aretha Franklin, but I can carry a tune better than the average man on the street (one who is tone deaf, at least). So joining a choir was always something etched on my mental ‘to-do’ list – pretty low down on the list, but it was there.

Anyway, at the weekend, my husband began nagging me about these choir aspirations – I think he only said it so that he and my eldest daughter could watch the programmes they like on Netflix once a week without my constant bitching, along the lines of, ‘can’t we watch a comedy? Isn’t life miserable enough without having to continually watch shows about serial killers?’. My husband denies this, and insists I need an outlet for my singing (an outlet that doesn’t involve me being in the house). He also spoke to a woman at work that had just joined a choir, and loved the experience. After her first rehearsal, he says she was ‘blown away‘ and ‘buzzing’. Well, I’d like to feel like that – yes please! So this week, partly to have something to write about (the things I’ll do for this blog), and to appease my husband, I joined an all-female choir.

[image error]Now, you know I’m not the kind of person who enjoys taking on new things; I don’t like change, I admit that. But I know it’s good to step outside your comfort zone sometimes. I was considering bribing a friend to come along, but decided against it, in case I wanted to back-out at the last minute. I reluctantly made my way to my first rehearsal at the local music centre and entered a room heaving with women of all ages – I’d guesstimate there were fifty of us – at least. The very friendly lady who runs the choir (who also happens to teach my youngest daughter drama) initially said, ‘I assume your daughter gets her lovely singing voice from you?’.  Oh…um. I didn’t know quite how to answer that (the answer is ‘yes’, I suppose, but I didn’t want to give her false hope that she had happened upon an amazing singer, when perhaps I’m just very average), so I kind of replied with a nervous laugh. I was then asked, ‘I don’t suppose you’re a top-sop, are you?’. I’m sorry, what now? Trying to wipe the increasingly gormless look off my face, the rusty cogs of my brain began to go into overdrive, and I worked out that must mean the highest in the range of all the female singing voices (top soprano). Even I knew the answer to that was, ‘um…no.’. The fact that I can sing (to a degree) has not made me an expert on vocal ranges, but I did know the difference between a soprano (high) and an alto (low), but unfortunately, all the stuff in the middle was a bit of a blur (luckily I’d been on Google earlier that day to help me make a snap judgement). Anyway, somehow I managed to find myself seated with the mezzo sopranos (one down from the sopranos, so sop-2s [confusing, innit?]). But I have a feeling this may have been a bit of a mistake.

[image error]We were given two songs that we need to learn before March 16th (when there’s some kind of choir competition, I think. I was a bit too stressed to listen properly, to be honest). These songs being; ‘Michelle’ by The Beatles, and ‘Oklahoma’ by Rodgers and Hammerstein. Easy enough, you may be saying to yourself. No-no, I assure you that you are quite wrong. Oh. My. God. The complex process of breaking these songs down into various minute little harmonies (and remembering them) is a very…well…it’s a complex process. I was extremely glad I hadn’t invited a friend just then; she would have slapped me very hard across the face for unwittingly putting her through this trial by fire. After an hour of singing, I thought my brain was going to melt. My biggest problem is that I can’t read music. Oh, the shame of it! Actually, I have a feeling I did semi-know how to sight-read music as a kid; I was one of three girls who played the recorder during all our school assemblies in primary school, and our hymn books were different to everybody else’s as we had the sheet music printed in ours (I was super proud of that). But I’ve got this sneaking suspicion I might have learned the tunes from memory. Still, I have a very good ear; I’m pretty savvy at guessing the way a harmony should go, I’m actually very good at harmonising, and my pitch is okay too. But nevertheless, l still can’t read music. Plus, my eyesight is shocking (I need glasses for distance, but not quite for reading…although I feel that is just around the corner), and I had to share sheet music with somebody else because I didn’t yet have my own. So reading teeny-tiny lyrics over her shoulder (and being baffled by the actual notes and the bars themselves, I felt I didn’t catch-on as quickly as I’d have liked; I felt a bit out of my depth.

I got back in my car with mixed feelings that night. Was I ‘blown away’ and ‘buzzing’? Hmmm, well, I barely slept that night, if that helps. But if you know me at all, you’ll know I’m a bit of a miserable beggar who is not easily pleased – so, not quite, rather my brain was completely saturated. Also, I guess I’m a bit of a perfectionist, and I don’t like being mediocre at anything. And I’m afraid I was mediocre that night. Whilst trying to sing mezzo and simultaneously struggling to listen closely to the alto-1s harmonies (the higher-pitched altos), I have a feeling I ought to have been singing in that range. I could kind of sing mezzo soprano, but I was at full stretch vocally, certainly singing falsetto a lot of the time (i.e. not your ‘chest’ voice, rather your ‘throat’ voice). And my throat was very sore on going to bed, so I don’t think that’s a good sign.

[image error]So, am I going to return to choir next week? Well, readers, I think you’ll be surprised to know the answer to that is ‘yes’. If only to give the alto-1 range a go! Plus, everyone was very welcoming and friendly. And my husband needs to watch his serial killer shows on Netflix, so I think I need to give this a fair crack of the whip. Google says you don’t have to limit yourself to certain vocal ranges, and with practice, you can sing almost anything (except top-sop, that ‘aint happening). But I really think it would be wise to start where my voice is comfortable – c’mon people, we don’t want throat nodules! I can only hope the altos don’t sing too low, or I’m absolutely screwed – it appears my vocal range isn’t as vast as I pretended whilst singing Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’ in the shower. And if, by some freak miracle, any local friends aren’t put off by this cautionary tale of my singing escapades, you are more than welcome to come with me next week…

You Don’t Know You’re Born!

[image error]

I was having a conversation with somebody the other day – I don’t remember who – about growing up in the 70s. I was born in 1971. And it’s only when you really think back, or your ailing memory is jogged by something, that you start to realise how much times have changed since you were a child. Many people think bygone childhoods were an idyllic time compared with the fast-paced lives our kids have to lead now; back then we had children playing out on bikes instead of being stuck at home on their phones or iPads, it was a healthier time before processed foods, and perhaps less stressful too. And yes, some aspects of the past – it wouldn’t be a bad idea to aspire to – or return to. But personally, I remember the 1970s as being a fairly sucky era in which to grow up – and I’m not just talking about the brown flares we were forced to wear or the orange floral wallpaper. These are my sketchy memories of things we had to put up with back in the day – ‘when I were a lass’; things my children couldn’t even imagine now.

When the Paraffin Man came around:

[image error]A 1950s paraffin van, I can’t find a 70s one…

I had forgotten all about this up until recently. When I was a girl, living in a block of flats in the East End of London, there used to be a chap who came around – perhaps once a week – with a small flatbed lorry with a large tank containing paraffin on the back. All the mums and dads would hurry frantically out of the flats with a plastic one-gallon container to buy paraffin for their heaters to warm their homes. Quick! Grab your purse! The Paraffin Man is here! Arrrghhhh!! I always quite liked the petrol-type smell of the stuff. I’ve researched this a little, and apparently you could buy economy or better-quality paraffin – the pricier stuff was supposed to smell better when it was in use. I don’t know if our particular Paraffin Man sold differing types of paraffin, but if he did, I can guarantee we would have bought the cheap stuff. I was pretty young then, and my memories of the Paraffin Man are vague, so if you’re a little older, please do feel free to fill in the gaps if you remember him more vividly.

When central heating wasn’t really a thing:

[image error]Mmmm, warm…

Well, since we had a paraffin heater, you won’t be surprised to know we didn’t have central heating during my first eleven years of life. I don’t know when central heating became so commonplace in the UK – but many 70s homes did not have it. I remember my eldest sister used to have a boyfriend called Tommy, and whenever she visited him at his family home, she would come back regaling amazing stories to her awestruck younger siblings. You see Tommy had central heating. And my eldest sister swore blind that you could walk around his house in the dead of winter in a t-shirt. We would sit there with eyes as wide as saucers and think, ‘OMFG – a t-shirt?? In the dead of winter??’. And it was only when we moved to our second home in about 1982 (which was a new-build) that we too experienced the joys of central heating. Yes, people, we had radiators! Was that Tommy onto something, or what?! I lived and worked in New Zealand for a year between 1999 and 2000, and central heating wasn’t really a widespread thing over there at the time (it may well be now, I’ve no idea), but I do know I would irritate my NZ nursing colleagues no end moaning about their lack of central heating; which was crazy since their winters were as cold as ours in the UK – if not colder! Nowadays, I keep my house toasty-warm – about 20 to 21 Degrees Celsius in waking hours, you couldn’t walk around in the dead of winter in a t-shirt (I’m not bloody made of money!); but you could wear a hoodie and some slippers, and you’d be comfortable. Still, if my kids could only understand how lucky they are to never really know what it is to be cold (ugh), but I guess they never will.

When you had to rent your TV:

[image error]I’m sure we had one like this…

Technology now has become a disposable commodity, but it came at a price when I was a child. Electronics in the 70s were clearly less affordable than they are now. And we, like many others, rented our TV from a company called Radio Rentals. I marvel at that now, because every time our TV breaks (please note: our TVs never get the chance to break, my husband just has to have the latest, slimmest model, with the best picture quality in all the land) it will always be cheaper to buy a new one. But a brand-new TV in my childhood was just not an option; I guess many like us could not afford a TV outright. So we rented some horrible monstrosity like the one pictured (usually housed in fake wood with loads of twiddly knobs on) on a monthly basis for the majority of my childhood. Weird, right?

When we only had three TV channels:

[image error]The BBC test card

While I’m on the subject of television, do you remember when we only had three channels to watch in the UK? I certainly do. BBC1, BBC2, and ITV. And those three channels weren’t even on for 24 hours a day – they shut down at the end of the evening. I remember sometimes being unwell in the night and switching on the test card just for a bit of company. Bear in mind I was a kid back then; and although I think there may have been a few very young children’s shows (Watch with Mother etc) mid-morning, there was nothing else for us until you got home from school – then the children’s TV finished up before the six o’clock news. And we didn’t get channel 4 until 1982! Of course, then came Channel 5, then Free-Sat and Sky, and finally we had a wealth of (mainly shite) channels to watch twenty-four hours a day. Funnily enough, although I may have been deprived of channels as a child, I barely watch live TV anymore. We watch movies or TV series on Netflix or Prime TV, if anything. We want our TV on demand; when we say so, when we feel like it – not just because it’s on (I never get to chat about reality TV shows like ‘Love Island’ on my lunch break as I just don’t do live TV, I don’t even watch it later). And even then, the TV is only on for a couple of hours in the evening. Apart from using it to play workout DVDs, which I do five days a week, I guess I just don’t need it.

I could go on and on; perhaps about the Rag and Bone Man (I barely remember him at all), or the Milk Man (although the Milk Man is making a bit of a resurgence lately), or when you had to fry your own chips in a chip pan and a chip basket because oven chips were not a thing (incidentally, I once put out a chip pan fire as a young girl with a damp tea towel, like you do), or when you had to go to the launderette because you didn’t have your own washing machine – but I’ve gone on enough. Yes, we’ve come a long way since the 70s, but I don’t feel resentful about all the things we didn’t have; we didn’t know any better. We had the best, most cutting-edge, technology there was – at the time. We didn’t know what the future would hold, so we didn’t feel cheated. Actually, I did feel cheated having to go to the scabby launderette once a week. Even then I knew that sucked. Maybe it’s just the class I’m from, maybe not every 70s child lived a life quite like that, but those are my memories. But kids nowadays, really, they don’t know they’re born. My children would be absolutely horrified to spend a single day living my childhood. But thirty or forty years from now, we will all be laughing about our crappy iPhones and the super-basic laptops that we had. Ha-ha-ha, how on earth did we manage?

#mygrownupchristmaslist

[image error]All I want for Christmas is…

Ask me what I want for Christmas. Go on, ask. Well, the answer is – I don’t know. Beyond some bed socks and a new pair of pyjamas (t-shirty top, flannel bottoms, please), my wants are simple and few. It’s probably the same for most people my age. If you have a job, and you want something, you buy it yourself; putting it on a list and hoping upon hope you unwrap it on Christmas Day seems a bit risky. It may no longer be in stock, people may misjudge your size, and it certainly won’t be in the Black Friday Sale anymore! My twelve-year-old is SOOOOOOOOO excited about the Big Day that she can barely contain herself. I asked her why she was quite so fervent about it (she was literally shaking at the very mention of next Tuesday, I’m not kidding). And although she thoughtfully listed all the finer (and less mercenary) points about the festive season; family gathered together, Christmas dinner with all the trimmings, hanging around in pyjamas for extended periods of time – she finally admitted that ‘presents’ were really top of her list. But when does all that childish gift-excitement leave us? I guess the onset of adulthood will do it. So I thought, loosely following a theme that’s been on Twitter lately, I’d write a short list of random things that a grown-up like me really wants – things that you won’t find under the tree…

For my husband to put the cushions back on the bed:

[image error]Well, I can dream. And I’m not talking about pillows, I’m talking about cushions. Okay, some (men) may say that there are too many cushions on my bed (mainly fawn-coloured faux-fur ones with a matching faux-fur throw). Some may even say that my room is starting to resemble f***ing Narnia. But our bed would be a dull and uninspiring piece of furniture without this adornment. But I know my husband doesn’t care for all that frippery. Still, please, husband; on your day off (when you get up WAAAAYYYYY after I have left for work), please make the bed. And when you’ve done that, please put all the cushions and the throw back on too. It feels pointless me doing it when I get home at five o’clock in the evening (yet I still do it) just to take them all off again four-and-a-half hours later when I go to bed. I don’t ask for much this Christmas, but I do ask for that.

The end of Christmas cards (please)!:

[image error]Thoughtful cards from thoughtful people

This won’t be a popular ‘gift’ (though it is seasonal), but I just…sort of…well…I wish Christmas cards were no longer a thing. I know! I know exactly what you’re going to say,…’lar-lee-lar…keeping in contact….lar-lee-lar…old people…lar-lee-lar…other stuff about tradition’. We actually wrote at least thirty cards this year, we may even have sent some of them on time, but I busted a gut to do it. And I will continue to bust a gut to do i for years to comet; for family members who are far away, and for distant friends you never get to see anymore. Yet it’s a tradition that I secretly (not terribly secret anymore) wish would die out. Is that wrong of me? Come on, we’re on the internet now, people. Can’t you do without a bit of cardboard sent in the post from me? Are you going to keep it and cherish it? No. Are you going to recycle it the minute you get a chance? Yes. Was it really worth me sending it at 67 pence a pop first-class or 58 pence second-class? Um…no? And while I’m at it, can we talk about ‘Thank You’ notes…? Perhaps we shouldn’t, I may already have alienated my entire readership over the Christmas card thing. But the next present on my wish-list is certain to kill off the last few stragglers.

A second referendum (pretty please)?:

[image error]Oh my God! How dare I lull you into a false sense of security with a tongue-in-cheek blog about Christmas cards and faux-fur cushions, and then in the next breath have the audacity to talk politics – and even worse – the ‘B’ word?! You know me, I play my political cards close to my chest, and I actually think politics can be a pretty divisive thing amongst people who generally like each other – but just don’t necessarily have the same political opinions (which is why I tend to keep it off my site). But it appears there ain’t gonna’ be no deal, and I think it’s time we admitted we need a second vote (I highly doubt we will get one, but it’s my Christmas list, and I’ll bloody well ask for what I bloody well want).

For diets not to age you quite so badly:

[image error]Chicken neck…

I don’t mind growing old – I don’t. It’s a part of life. And I solemnly swear never to have any ‘work done’ to my face just to slow the advance of time (cosmetic procedures to your face are always a mistake, in my humble opinion – yes, I am very opinionated today) – you’ve got my promise in writing here, folks! But as I’ve said (many, many, many times before) I’ve been on a low-carb diet for the last six months, and lost approximately a stone in weight in doing so. Yay me. But it has its drawbacks. I have a friend who says (when you consider whether or not to go on a diet), ‘you sacrifice your arse or your face’. And what she means by that is, if you want to get rid of your big arse, go on a diet. If you want to look pert and youthful, don’t go on a diet. Why-oh-why must you lose weight off your face?? I didn’t think mine was especially fat in the first place. And I also wish people would stop looking at me with a sad shake of their head and saying, ‘you need to stop now’. What they don’t quite understand is there’s nothing to stop. Trust me, I still eat like a pig, and I’m bang in the middle of my BMI; I just eat the right things and understand macro-nutrients better. All I want is my (evidently) once-chubby face back…

To finally discover the point of toner (for your face, not your printer, I already know that):

[image error]I’ve done the three-step facial care routine for as long as I can remember. I’ve even stepped-up the routine a bit in the last year or two; now using far more expensive products (see aged diet-face above). I know what cleanser does – it cleans the crap off your face. I know what moisturiser does – it replaces the moisture you eradicated when you cleaned the crap off your face. But it’s the middle-man I never understood; step two. What is ‘toner’ for, exactly? Since I don’t really understand toner, and won’t splash out cash on something I don’t really believe in, I still buy a cheapish one. This is what it says on the back of the bottle:-

‘Facial toner features a special blend of skin toning goodness to help keep skin toned and refreshed; this blend includes ingredients like Pro Vitamin B5, Chamomile, Witch Hazel and Allantoin. This facial toner for sensitive skin is ideal to use after your cleanser and before your moisturiser morning and night to help remove those last traces of dirt and make up from your skin.’

 

Bit vague, isn’t it? So it’s just getting rid of the final crap off your face before your moisturiser? Didn’t your cleanser already do that? What I want for Christmas is a precise and scientific definition of its action, and why I really need to continue buying it. That’s all.

Oh, and finally, I would like an end to war and poverty, and all that. Hmmm, wait a cotton-pickin’ minute…that turned out to be just another negative list of things that vaguely get on my nerves (not that I ever write posts like that…)! But you see I’m just not that fussed about opening a tonne of presents on Christmas day. We in the western world have more than we need already. And I’d really rather we didn’t buy each other gifts ‘just for the sake of it’. Having said that, I am sure the presents kindly bought for me on the day will be lovely (my loved-ones know me well enough by now. [A: I don’t like being cold, and B:…nope, being cold is the biggest offender. Any present that staves-off cold will be good]). Oh, and more use of brackets within brackets, we just don’t do enough of that. But I’m just saying that there’s nothing I really need (other than the items mentioned on my list above). And one more thing; you, all I want for Christmas is you – to keep reading this blog, even though I don’t write often enough. Maybe catch up next week (I promise not to mention the ‘B’ word again)?

London, Baby!

[image error]There are a couple of American writer-friends of mine who have kindly advised me that I’m pretty nifty at writing ‘slice of life’ blogs. There are probably other writers who say would advise me I’m not that nifty at any kind of writing, but I choose not to listen to them. Lately, I always start these blogs with an obligatory apology about not having written for a while. So take it as red that that’s what I’m doing now. It’s not that nothing goes on in my life anymore; I just find I have less time and inclination to write about those events. And I thought I’d take the advice of those writer-friends that like to hear about the trivial things that go on in my life (even if only they should read this – I’ve had smaller audiences before).

Last weekend was my birthday (woop-woop). I was going to write about that, but then I thought turning forty-seven wasn’t that special a milestone – so I didn’t (but when I’m fifty…man, you may or may not being hearing about it…). But what we did do to celebrate was spend the weekend in London – the city of my birth (and my home for the first twenty years of my life). A couple of years back, I was in Berlin, and then subsequently in Glasgow, and I remember thinking how fabulous the architecture was. But I always remarked that you couldn’t beat London for that, and I realised how long it had been since I had gone back – and virtually never as a tourist. So I felt it time that we went as a family; my husband, kids, and I – to see it from a visitor’s perspective.

[image error]

To be fair, we actually stayed in an Air B&B apartment in Croydon – but it’s on the outskirts and only twenty minutes journey by train to central London – so it made a great base. I said we wanted to be tourists, not overly-flamboyant with our money. Being a Londoner has taught me to be savvy if nothing else. On arrival, we briefly settled into our new home for the weekend. Then we were off out again to catch a train to London Victoria to see ‘Hamilton’ the musical. Let’s face it, part being a tourist usually means taking in a show. And what a show it was. A lot of people give me a bit of a nonplussed look when I talk about Hamilton (and I’ve only known about its existence for the last couple of years, to be honest). It’s an odd blend of American history, politics, and hip-hop. I know, that sounds super-weird, but the songs are amazing – it’s certainly the best musical theatre I’ve ever seen, and has reignited my ambition to be in an amateur musical before I’m fifty. Only a couple of years left to make that a reality, then.

[image error]Driving in London is a thankless and pointless task. The nice lady at Croydon ticket office assured us that an Oyster Card wasn’t really what we wanted (only being in London for the weekend). I was glad of that since Oyster Cards were introduced sometime after I left London, and being that I don’t like things I don’t understand, it was a relief to be told we were better off without one. So we purchased our one-day travel cards and decided to max those babies out. On our train journey, we witnessed the aftermath of a man having an epileptic seizure in our carriage, and then our train had to sit outside the station at Clapham Junction for ages because of a fatality there. Yikes, it all goes on in London – but the London Transport Police on our carriage attending to the seizure were lovely! We had a very friendly chat with them about the best places to go shopping.

[image error]After all the shenanigans, we spent that day in the Kensington area doing the museum circuit; The Natural History Museum, The Victoria and Albert, The Science Museum. After this, we somehow managed to find our way to Harrods department store – everything is nearer than you think in London. Although, the health apps on our phones advised us we had walked over six miles – y’know, when I say walked, I mean that ‘slow shuffle of death’ like the one you do around IKEA, which is a killer on the hips and knees…and your feet. But still, it was another awesome day.

[image error]The third day (my birthday, no less), after a fry-up expertly cooked by my husband (with carbs – like I say…birthday!) and presents (a new Kindle and case – hoorah!) was dedicated to reliving my misspent youth. When I was a girl, my friends and I would buy a one-day travel card and catch a train from Bethnal Green, in the East End, up to the West End – virtually every Saturday. And I wanted to show my kids the nonsense we got up to (I might write an in-depth blog about that…). We started out at Embankment, walked to Westminster to see the virtually obscured Big Ben (it’s fully encased in scaffolding at the moment…which is a shame) and Parliament. Then it was on to Piccadilly Circus, then Regent Street to visit Hamley’s toy store (seven floors of overpriced toys in an unbelievably hot environment), then trendy Carnaby Street and Soho, and onto Oxford Circus and Oxford Street (which I truly believe was the busiest street on earth at that moment). Then it was back on the train to Covent Garden to watch the street performers, and finally an exhausted stagger (after seven miles of walking) to China Town to wolf down a not-so-great Chinese (there were long queues out of every other restaurant door, but not ours – there turned out to be a reason for that). Then out came the travel card for its final journey of the evening (and the weekend) back to Croydon for a swift drink in the local pub, and home to bed.

The next day, unfortunately, was our day of departure. But it wasn’t all bad. We managed to drop in at a Christmas family gathering in the Beaconsfield area, visited my husband’s Granny’s grave, and met up with the relatives for a lovely Sunday pub lunch.

[image error]So that was the end of my London experience as an outsider. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and would like to spend a week doing much the same thing someday – there’s so much more to see. I’m proud of my London heritage – it made me what I am, it gave me my dry sense of humour, it gave me this messed-up accent that (even if I should) I wouldn’t want to change for the world. I could never live in London again; I’ve changed too much and I simply couldn’t hack the fast pace – country bumpkin that I have become. But for a short excursion, it rivals any major city on the planet (I’m biased, but I actually think it may be the best).

 

NB: Thanks to Ennie How for all the fab photos. I took about four, a) because I couldn’t be arsed to take my phone out of my pocket – my hands were cold, and b) because I don’t like living my life behind a lens. I’ll never make it as a photographer.

One June Evening in 1996

[image error]

This wasn’t the post I was going to write. I was going to write something quirky and random – the usual. But I was lying in bed unable to sleep the other night. And you know how it is when you can’t sleep. You eventually start to look back over your life history, like you do; just general things that have happened during the course of your existence. All the things that barely ever cross your mind day-to-day because you’re so consumed with your current concerns, but those are the things that consume your thoughts in the pitch darkness at three o’clock in the morning. Lying there wide awake, my mind had oddly cast itself back to the night of 8th June 1996. It is a night that I possibly may have forgotten all about, were it not for the fact that that particular evening ended in the murder of a young woman.

On the evening of Saturday 8th June (probably the early hours of Sunday 9th) in 1996, 25-year-old hospital clerical worker, Melanie Hall, left Cadillacs nightclub in Bath after quarrelling with her boyfriend. She left the club alone, without her partner and friends, and was never seen alive again.

[image error]Coincidentally, the 8th June 1996 was also the chosen date of my friend Sarah’s hen-night. Sarah and I had very recently graduated from nursing college in the city of Bath, and were still living and working at the very hospital we’d trained at. I would have been about 24, and I reckon that I was probably a nurse on a gastroenterology ward at the time, living in a flat-share with some other nurse-pals. Sarah was one of my best friends back then, but today I do not know Sarah at all – not even on social media. That’s sad of course, but it isn’t relevant to this story. Sarah was to be married to her longstanding boyfriend, Ade. So I and a bunch of her female relatives and nursing-buddies were invited for a night out on the town.

My memory has become sketchy over the last 22 years, but parts of that evening are still rather vivid, in what now seem insignificant ways; yet some of the events (even if petty and irrelevant to you) stick in my mind. I remember turning up at Sarah’s new house she’d bought with her fiancé with a couple of my flatmates (who we’d also been nursing classmates with). I was wearing a brand-new blue summer dress that I was feeling pretty damn chuffed about myself in. Unfortunately, Sarah had purchased that very same dress that very same morning, so she (as the bride-to-be) won out. Even though we were at her house and it would have been far easier for her to change into something from her wardrobe, as mine was miles away. I’m not retaining any bitterness about it anymore (I am), but since I wasn’t going to be the blushing bride, Sarah insisted I wear one of her other dresses. I didn’t like it; it was a weird rusty, chequed thing that simply wasn’t right for me, and didn’t match my shoes. Oh, and it was too small (Sarah had the stature of Grace Kelly…and I was more of a stocky Russian shot-putter). So right from the very start, I was out of kilter that night – out of sorts, if you will.

In fact, the evening was strange from start to finish. I remember we went to a restaurant – but which restaurant has been completely obliterated from my memory. However, I do remember that Sarah’s soon-to-be sister-in-law had an allergic reaction to something; we felt at the time there must have been unseen nuts in her meal because she had a known nut-allergy, and her tongue began to swell and her breathing became difficult. Anyway, she had to be taken off to hospital (I can’t remember who took her, but it wasn’t Sarah and it certainly wasn’t me). The rest of us thoughtlessly carried on with our festivities and headed off to a local nightclub in town, where we spent the majority of the night. We may have briefly gone to a pub or two in the interim, I just don’t know now that I’m 46 and so many years have gone by.

[image error]At that time, the nightclub was called Cadillacs (a terrible name for a nightclub; it makes it sound cheesy and cheap – which it was – which was why we liked it). I don’t think it’s even a club anymore. I vividly remember its terracotta walls, the black bar and woodwork, and sweat dripping from the ceiling when everybody was dancing and it got too hot. It was a meat-market, really, but we weren’t on the pull – not on a hen-night. Unbeknownst to us, in that same nightclub that same night, was a girl named Melanie Hall. Like I say, I didn’t know poor Melanie existed on that night of the 8th June 1996 – I found out later; sadly, we all did. I keep saying this, and although I’ve forgotten so many details, much of that evening has remained with me (probably because of how it ended). And although nothing terrible happened to me that night, I had a fair bit of my own shit going on. Firstly, I was in that dress, which was a constant source of annoyance – it wasn’t mine and it wasn’t me. Secondly, at different periods of that long evening, I spotted not one but TWO ex-boyfriends in the same club that same night. I hadn’t had many boyfriends by the age of 24, so that was super-weird. One of them didn’t even live in the city of Bath anymore – so he certainly shouldn’t have been there. One ex after the other, I coolly eyed them (whilst looking my absolute worst in my awful borrowed dress – what are the chances?!), and breezed on by; refusing to acknowledge either of them – and they didn’t acknowledge me. I don’t believe in having exes as friends; if you could still be friends you wouldn’t be exes. Oh, and less importantly, I remember some random stranger stating audibly to his friend that I looked like Julia Roberts after having been hit by a hammer (I know he was talking about me because everybody said I looked like Julia Roberts in those days), so that pissed me off too. It’s funny the pointless little things you remember.

Melanie Hall worked in the same hospital in which we all worked as nurses. But none of us knew Melanie. I understand she worked in Medical Records, but nurses and clerical staff don’t really cross paths. Perhaps we unknowingly did in the hospital corridors or canteen. Maybe. Melanie was born in the town where I now live, and she was only a year older than me. And although we didn’t know it, our paths may have crossed just for a brief moment that night in Cadillacs nightclub. My friends and I were there for hours, so I possibly waited beside her for a drink at the bar, I possibly mingled in her vicinity in my ill-fitting dress, my friend Louise possibly threw some shapes whilst standing near her on the dancefloor when ‘Dancing Queen’ came on, my friend Jo possibly jostled her out of the way whilst dancing completely pissed (Jo was always jostling people out of the way whilst dancing completely pissed). We will never know – we did not know Melanie, and she did not know us. But my happy-go-lucky friends and I – we all managed to make it home safely to our beds that night. Sadly, Melanie Hall did not.

[image error]

That’s all I can remember from that night. Days later we heard about the missing girl on the local news. It was a huge story; that kind of thing didn’t happen in Bath. It even made ‘Crimewatch’. We all knew right from the start she was dead; she had no reason to purposefully disappear. At some point I telephoned the police to inform them, that although I didn’t know and hadn’t seen Melanie, I had been there that night. I’ve no idea if the police would ever have been able to make contact with me if I hadn’t called them. But a day or two later the police came over to interview me briefly; I told them the little I knew, and named every other person in the club that was known to me – including the two ex-boyfriends. And that was that.

Melanie Hall’s whereabouts were a mystery for years. Until thirteen years later her remains were found near Thornbury on 7th October 2009. The inquest said she probably died from blunt force trauma to her skull – she had been tied up with blue rope and her body buried. Many men have been detained and questioned over the years, but none have ever been charged with her murder. Her killer to this date has never been found – this murder remains unsolved. I often wonder what happened to Melanie that night. Who did she meet whilst trying to get home from the nightclub? Was it somebody she knew? Was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time when some evil stranger spotted her on the streets of Bath?

[image error]

I don’t know why I’m telling you this story now. Like I say, I couldn’t sleep the other night, and that evening of 22 years ago flooded my head with random, disjointed memories. Maybe I am writing this because I tout myself as a storyteller, and it’s a story I’ve never put down in writing before (I hope I’ve been vaguely accurate; it was so long ago). Maybe I just want my young daughters to know that, although horrific things like this hardly ever happen (especially not on the quaint streets of Bath), they can happen. And it happened that night; whilst we were out revelling without a care in the world, so it’s always best to be careful when you’re a girl – never separate from your mates. It makes me terribly sad that, what should probably be reflected upon as a fun evening from the past, is now tainted with such a dreadful history. I’m sorry I never knew Melanie. I bet she was nice. I’m sorry she didn’t live long enough to meet Mr Right, have a family, and grow old like I did. I write this post with none of my usual flippancy, and hope that the pettiness of my unflattering dress, the two weird exes, and unfavourable comments about my likeness to Julia Roberts aren’t thought heartless. They are just incidental memories. A horrible thing happened to that girl, and we will never know who did it – or why. What I most hope is that her parents and family and friends have managed to find some kind of peace over the years – if that’s possible.

5 things I’m truly terrible at and it’s probably too late to start practising

[image error]

Is it just me, or was I badly brought up? Either way, I think it’s best to know your limitations; it’s easier on one’s fragile ego to just accept there are things you are painfully deficient at or in (whether it’s your own fault or your faulty upbringing). Of course, you should pat yourself on the back for the things you excel at too, but it’s no bad thing to be aware of your failings. And at the age of forty-six, I’ve become painfully aware of mine. I’ve chosen five of those deficiencies. I assure you, there are many, many, many more than five. But these are the situations in which I am unfailingly inept on a daily basis – and they’re all social situations. Surprise-surprise.

1: Introductions:

[image error]

I have berated myself over this so numerously, you’d think I’d have improved by now, but I haven’t. Let me set the scene: You are in the company of a friend or family member, attending some social gathering (or you can just be merely walking down the street – the scene doesn’t really matter). You bump into another friend. You have a random – if slightly awkward – chinwag about how long it’s been since you last met and how you must do it again sometime. Then you bid your goodbyes and unthinkingly wander off, only to stop jarringly in your stride five minutes later, realising you hadn’t introduced the first friend to the second friend. In fact, you had momentarily forgotten about the first person’s existence altogether in that brief reunion. Unforgivable, isn’t it? And as a morally upstanding and fairly well-raised British person, you’d think this social courtesy would be second nature to me. But as a matter of fact, it isn’t. I pretty much make this mistake every single bloody time. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t like to mix friendship groups. I always say that it spoils the dynamics you have with each person, as each friend is put on edge by not knowing the other friend (but really it’s because I’d be supposed to introduce everybody, and I’d inevitably forget).

2: Hosting a Good Party:

[image error]Mine is never this lit.

I’m a superb guest. Go on, invite me to anything, and I’ll be a hoot; a complete scream – if I know you well enough, and I’m in a good mood, and I’ve had enough to drink. But give me the job of host, and it all goes horribly, horribly wrong. I think I just don’t know how to do it. I blame my parents for this (well, I have to blame somebody that isn’t me). When I was a kid, we didn’t have dinner parties; we didn’t really have people over at all. So I never got to the bottom of the social complexities of hosting a gathering. I never quite know what my role is supposed to be. I can’t be a comedian or a clown (which is the usual go-to role), because I’m fairly certain I’m supposed to be too busy checking that everybody is enjoying themselves; that they are well-fed and watered (and have been properly introduced to everybody else – which I’ll have doubtlessly forgotten to do). At what intervals are you supposed to offer each guest an alcoholic beverage? How many times do you offer someone an alcoholic beverage before you become cloying and annoying? Is any empty glass your cue? Would they rather make their own? Can’t they just make their own? Is it time to start offering hot drinks now…? When will this be over…? And you can’t exactly just get drunk to calm your nerves, because you know your hosting duties will go right out of the window if you do. We once hired a hall for my husband’s fortieth birthday party. It was my friend’s birthday on the same night, so I’d arranged a ‘face-cake’ for both of them. But the whole evening (and the numerous responsibilities it placed on me) began to fill me with anxiety. So I got drunk. And I forgot about both birthday cakes. Then my friend (who’s birthday it was) left. And I had to go around her house the next day to shamefacedly give her the face-cake without the big audience she was supposed to have had. You see? It’s not good, is it? And as you’ve already seen, I’m also sh*ite at dinner parties and BBQs – you just ask my friends. It’s the main reason we don’t do much of the hosting in our social circle. Perhaps I should just offer up the house as a venue, put out food and drink, and tell everybody at the outset to help themselves. Because I won’t be able to.

3:  Gratitude:

[image error]

Again, do you think it would be fair to blame my parents for this? Because I just don’t know how to do ‘gratitude’. I’ll give you some context: I am given a very nice present. In fact, whether the present is nice or not is neither here nor there. I just don’t how to show that I’m grateful for that present. And usually I am grateful. I really do appreciate said present and the time and the thought that must have gone into choosing it. But I don’t know how to show it. So what I do instead is feign an incredibly over-acted attempt at gratitude – which is completely and obviously faked. Like I say, invariably I do like the gift, but I’m so concerned that I won’t be able to show that convincingly that I over-egg the ‘thanking’ process. And you can see the giver of said present’s eyebrows begin to arch, suspicious at your ridiculously ingratiating raptures of delight over the receipt of their gift. And its super annoying because I HATE ingratitude in others (you should see the contempt my husband is quite comfortable displaying on receipt of some of his unwanted gifts – it’s embarrassing). But I just do the complete reverse, which is probably worse. Honestly, I should just go and live in a cave.

4: Small Talk:

[image error]

Nope. This is a no-go, and I’m most certainly blaming the pezzers* for this. You could be one of my best friends in the entire world, but if I haven’t seen you for a while, or I meet you without expecting to see you, I’m definitely on dangerous ground. What am I supposed to say? ‘Um…how are you? What have you been up to lately? How’s the family? How’s work?’ (yes, yes, yes, and yes – you should probably say all those things, but because I’m crap at small talk, I can never summon up any of those phrases, and if I do they come across as staged and awkward). So there is usually a stilted and protracted silence instead. One of the worst scenarios is when you meet a friend you weren’t expecting to see at the Doctor’s Surgery, and you say (for want of a better idea), ‘what are you doing here?’. They’re at the Doctor’s Surgery. It’s none of your business and it’s probably confidential. And I work in healthcare so I should know better. But I don’t.  I’m shaking my head as I read this; I’ve done this more than once.

5: Cooking for more than 4 people (particularly when those extra people were not expected):

[image error]

I’m not a terribly imaginative cook (though I’m better now I eat less carbs, I have to be). Cooking for a family of four on a nightly basis was something that didn’t come naturally to me (luckily two of those family members started out as babies so I had time to learn). There are a bunch of recipes I’m quite comfortable with, so I cook those. But sometimes, we have visitors. And visitors means doubling, tripling, or even quadrupling your ingredients. ‘Simple Mathematics!’ I hear you cry. Shut up, you know-it-all, it just isn’t! Simply multiplying the ingredients to cater for a greater amount of people never seems to work. The meal just doesn’t taste the same – the seasoning is all wrong…or something. Whatever it is, that usually fail-safe dinner becomes a bit of a disaster. Your dinner guests glance at each other in silence, then at their plates, secretly judging you and deeming you a bad cook. But I’m not! It was just the multiplication of ingredients that f*cked it all up! I swear it usually tastes bloody amazing! And if those visitors were not expected at all, and I simply haven’t the right amount of ingredients available in the first place, then I go into complete meltdown. Some people have no issue with these sudden changes from the norm; they just have a rethink and calmly cook something else. But I’m just too rigid (or too slow) to adapt *sigh*.

[image error]

So, the question is, shall I just stop going outside altogether? I think it might be wise. I’m looking back at this list and thinking I might actually have some kind of diagnosable problem. I want to be a carefree social butterfly; the perfect, genial host – like some of my friends – but I’m not. Yes, I’m a self-confessed introvert (who’s pretty good at hiding it…I think), but that doesn’t answer for my complete lack of social grace. I’m English; I’m English and I hate rudeness and those that are inhospitable. Why am I not better at these things? Why can’t I improve, at least? I’m very much hoping for a stream of comments, shouting, ‘oh my God! I’m exactly the same!’, but I’m fearing the worst today. It might just be me. But if you ever do find me a bit rude or standoffish, remember that I’m painfully aware of it and I just don’t know how to fix it. And I know what you’re thinking, ‘I am NEVER going around Adele’s house again…’. But don’t write me off completely, I do have my good days. Just come on in and make yourself a cup of tea – because I will probably forget to ask you. And remember this as well, if I’ve allowed you in my house at all, I probably like you (unless you’ve just come around to read the electric meter, I don’t even know who you are).

NB: Sorry parents; I’m sure it’s all my own fault

*pezzers = parents (fairly new to my vernacular too).

We’ll Meet Again

[image error]

I know, it’s Friday. And I’m not trying to mess with your head, but I need to publish this blog today. Today is a time to say goodbye. They say, when you reach a certain age, you attend more funerals than you do weddings. Sadly, that certainly seems to be the case for me. I haven’t been to a wedding in years and years (could somebody I know please get married…and invite me? I could do with a reason to buy a nice dress). But funerals seem to be all too regular an occurrence. And today is no exception. I’m travelling across the country as we speak; on my way to another funeral.

Today I am attending the funeral of my husband’s Granny – we all called her ‘Great Granny’ since the kids were born. Her name was Gillian (that’s Gillian with a G-sound, and not a J-sound – it’s important you know that as she wouldn’t have liked it one bit if you’d made that mistake, and let’s face it, Gillian is much more individual-sounding than Gillian – sorry Gillians…with a J…), and I like to think I knew her well.

[image error]Gillian. Photo by Erin O’Neill

Gillian passed away recently after a very short illness. She was ninety-seven years old. And I know what some of you might be thinking. That’s a good innings. But the loss of someone you love always hurts; the people left behind still suffer immensely no matter how old that person was. We don’t have her in our lives anymore, and that’s hard to come to terms with. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a Great Granny (I’ve never had a granny or a great granny – which was why I was so fond of Gillian), but my children were. She was a very regular presence in our lives – just like a Grandmother, really. Right up until very recently, she was still catching the National Express bus up from Harrow to visit us all in the West Country.

Gillian lived an extremely full life, and was fit and active almost right up until the very end. For many years, the only thing that seemed to be failing health-wise was her eyesight – she was registered blind towards the end. I think this got Gillian down a fair bit. Not being able to see is obviously terribly frustrating when trying to carry out the basic functions of life. But she was also a voracious reader, and although you can (and she did) buy talking books – which where an absolute lifeline to her – I always think there is nothing quite like reading a book to yourself; creating the individual voices of the characters in your head – never out loud – just those talking voices in your mind. She must have missed that. No famous actor/narrator can quite match up. Not even Stephen Fry.

One of the reasons I wanted to write this piece is that I understand Gillian was a reader of this blog. She read it (or rather, her daughter, Biddy, read it to her – the font on this blog site is very small) on a Saturday morning – if there was blog to read. I don’t know why; this blog is very random at best, but it seemed to amuse her. It’s very upsetting to me that Gillian won’t be reading this particular post. It’s upsetting that I didn’t write more often whilst she was alive.

Biddy (my husband’s aunt, and also a regular reader of this blog – again, I don’t know why – ‘hello, Biddy!’) said something very poignant on Facebook after the death of her mother:

‘My wonderful mum died yesterday. She was a really amazing woman who was interested in everything and everyone.’

[image error]Family shot

Yes, that’s it; that was what I most liked about Gillian. She honestly was fascinated in people and their lives. When she spoke to you, she was genuinely interested in everything you had to say – not like some people (me), who often make conversation just to fill up an awkward silence, or listen without really listening (also me), because their mind is on other things. Gillian truly cared about what you had to say or what you had been up to. That is what I am going to miss most about her. Another thing I am going to miss is her very decided opinions. She knew her own mind and wasn’t afraid to say so. She didn’t like playing bingo like old ladies are supposed to, she wasn’t fussed with photographs given as presents (you can’t blame her, she couldn’t really see them), and she thought flowers were a waste of money because they last for five minutes (which is true). So we’re all donating to talking books instead of buying flowers for the funeral (here’s the link if you fancy donating to their ‘Just Giving’ page, HERE).

My daughters and I were asked to sing something at Gillian’s funeral. I decided to let the children sing without me for these two reasons:-

1: My voice is a bit overpowering, and I’d drown the poor children out with – what some might (cruelly) describe as – a foghorn.

2: I’ve been requested to do readings/speeches at the last two funerals I’ve attended, and on both occasions I mucked it up a bit by getting too emotional and bursting into tears up on stage. I remember my brother giving me a fairly innocuous poem to read at my father’s funeral. I rehearsed it in the car, and thought, ‘yep, this poem isn’t too emotive, I can barely understand it; I can do this – no probs’. But I couldn’t. The words seemed to hit me full-force mid-reading. I was an emotional wreck by the second verse. My sister had to scurry up to finish it for me. However, I have promised to be on hand and step-up if the girls get too upset and can’t perform their song today. Game-face, everyone, deep breaths now – you can do this.

[image error]Photo by Erin O’Neill

We’ve chosen Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’ for the kids to sing. We wanted something a little upbeat and life-affirming. Plus, Gillian played a very active role during the second world war (a radar operator in the WAAF…oh, wait, maybe that was classified…I now may have to kill you…sorry). There had been one suggestion of singing Ed Sheeran’s ‘Supermarket Flowers’ at the funeral. But I don’t think the toughest person alive would get through that without dissolving into a gibbering mess on the floor.

The hardest part about saying goodbye to Gillian is knowing that my children are now going to lose her remarkable presence in their lives (we all are). My daughters are very cut up over this, but I hope they will find comfort in the memory of her; the way she used to complain, ‘Oh no, Judy!’ in her very high-pitched voice when bickering with my mother-in-law (they did love to bicker), or the way she would sit and marvel at their stories and goings-on; always eager to hear more. Gillian, probably my oldest reader, you will be missed for so many reasons. But never forgotten.

Top of the Morning

 

[image error]

Hello! Remember me? I used to write a weekly blog roundabout these parts. I’m sorry; I needed to take a bit of a break from blog-land (apologies other bloggers too, I haven’t even been reading other people’s). I think I just got tired of the sound of my own voice (which, as longtime readers, is a sentiment that you will completely understand). If I’m entirely honest, I struggled to make a start on this post you’re reading now. But a chance remark from my daughter about how my mother-in-law’s sister (convoluted family tie enough for you?) about how she missed my Saturday morning blog spurred me into action. So, thank you, Biddy (you’re going to feature heavily in my next blog, I hope you don’t mind).

[image error]Windswept on the Wild Atlantic Way

Don’t worry, there is a point to this blog (I find it hard enough to write with a point, let alone without one). I’ve just returned from a ten-day trip to Ireland, actually. It was just the break I needed – not that it was a restful holiday or anything – we’ve been driving around and visiting relatives like mad things. My husband is half-Irish, and his father’s side of the family are situated around the County Kerry area of Southern Ireland. I’m quarter-Irish myself; on my paternal grandmother’s side, but I’m ashamed to say we have no connections with that part of the family; I honestly wouldn’t recognise them if I tripped over them in the street. Anyway, my father-in-law was also back in Ireland after a recent illness, so we decided to take our annual August holiday there. And it really was a chance for my husband to relive his childhood, as he spent two weeks of his school summer holidays there annually as a kid. I’m afraid to say we weren’t met by fantastic weather (it’s at least four or five degrees lower even than the UK), but that didn’t spoil our fun.

[image error]Torc Waterfall

I do love Ireland. The scenery is just enough at variance from England to know you’re somewhere entirely different. I love the space. I love the solitary little houses set apart on their own. The landscape is simply greener than England (probably due the excessive rain, and we get enough), and more undulating. On arrival in Kerry, the town of Tralee was all in a frenzy over the hurling final which was taking place about the time me were picking up our hire car (the staff at Europcar car rental had little interest in handing us over our keys in the excitement of listening to the match on the radio). For the uninitiated, hurling is a bit like hockey with a weird-shaped stick – but bears WAAAAAY more importance over there than hockey does in our country. Anyway, Limerick (who hadn’t won the final for over 40 years) beat Galway by a tiny margin. So flags were flying from houses and cars in every street. Perhaps even more importantly, at the same time, The Pope was making his first visit to Ireland since the 70s – and the country was all in a flutter about that too (you could even buy ‘Pope’ flags and t-shirts in supermarkets. You don’t get that in Tesco’s or Sainsbury’s). I can only wish I’d bought one. Oh, and then there was the ‘Rose of Tralee’ going on all week. It’s a bit like a beauty pageant or a ‘Miss World’ competition that has been running since the 50s, but covering all the counties of Ireland – and parts of UK, USA, and Australia too (for some reason). However, it professes not to be beauty contest – but let’s just say being attractive helps. Like my husband says, ‘you couldn’t be a right munter, could you?’ (I don’t know what that means either). We even went out at midnight to see the contestants on a parade in the streets just before the announcement of the winner (I would post a picture of her, but she didn’t look my way – so, y’know, her loss). And this was all followed by ‘midnight madness’ – which was actually just fireworks and unforgivable music played by a DJ, like ‘Cotton-Eye Joe’.

My husband’s aunt and uncle (Eileen and Jim) had kindly offered to put us up for the duration of our trip. I admit I was a tad anxious about it as I had only met them once or twice – and probably not for over a decade. But my worries were instantly alleviated as Jim and Eileen were just so friendly and accommodating. I just hope we were good house-guests (we only broke two of their showers, so I think we’ll be invited again). In fact, my husband’s Irish family (aunts, uncles, cousins etc.) were all so gracious. We were invited over for dinner by three separate families. You couldn’t hope to meet more genuinely approachable and affable people. And my children were so pleased to acquaint themselves with new family members they didn’t know or didn’t remember.

[image error]A proper Charlie!

Like I say, we sure did some mileage during the trip. I really feel that we covered every inch of the county of Kerry. The coastline is simply beautiful (in recent years, it was christened The Wild Atlantic Way – very apt; never have I been so windswept). One day we ventured off on an hour-and-forty minute drive to Waterville to take part in a world record attempt – the largest number of Charlie Chaplins in one place. Chaplin used to come to Waterville every year for his holidays and his family still have strong links with the area. My youngest child dressed up as Charlie (it was the only outfit size we could find on eBay and we had to carry the bugger – bowler hat and all – in our already over-burgeoning suitcase). The current world record was set in Canada, and boasted well over six hundred Charlies. Unfortunately, Waterville was at least 400 Charlies short! But the weather was terrible and Waterville really is a bit off the beaten track. Ahh well, we made the local newspapers. My husband is particularly pleased as he is pictured proudly beside his drone.

[image error]Gareth, Ibby, and Drone

Don’t get me started about that bloody drone. My husband has always been a keen photographer (the superb title photo is his) and, more recently, a videographer. But the drone is a new member of his arsenal. And yet another reason for him to stop the car, fish out and calibrate the drone, and fly the b*stard thing for fifteen minutes over something that has caught his eye – until the battery runs out (thank goodness). I shouldn’t grumble, really. The drone really does produce some wonderful footage. And he’s only crashed it twice – causing damage that has cost merely hundreds of pounds to put right. So, that’s something. He’s also making an ‘Ireland Video’ as we speak – so I’ll only see the back of his head whilst she’s at the computer editing for the next week or two…

[image error]I’m so cold.

But all too soon that ten-day break came to an end; back to reality. I can’t say I feel in the least bit rested as we were busier than ever. But it was a break from the norm and that was much needed. I trust we won’t leave it so long before we visit Ireland again. It’s great to frequent a place that you have real connections with. And I’ve made new friends – family, really – that I wouldn’t have made on any normal trip. It’s just a shame they now feel so far away. But it’s just a short plane-ride away. Even if you do have to trek nearly three hours to sh*tty (and horribly organised) Stanstead airport to get there. Still, it was worth it.

PS: To all my husband’s lovely Irish family (even though I don’t think any of you know of the existence of this blog), thank you again for your kindness; you are more than welcome to visit us in the UK. Our home is yours.

PPS: The Irish are universally worried about Brexit and think it was a huge mistake. I can’t argue with that…

PPPS: I would even consider moving to Ireland but for the fact that you have to remove your own hubcaps and hoover your boot before your M.O.T. (yearly vehicle inspection) – that’s just a deal-breaker.

 

 

Children of a Lesser Adult

[image error]

My two daughters have turned 18 and 12 this month. It’s a fairly big milestone for both of them, and I thought as the month of July brought me my two gorgeous girls, it would be a nice time to pay homage to them. I’ve said this before in a previous blog a few years back, but my husband and I really did luck-out with our children. Sometimes, when the kids have gone to bed, we actually discuss it with awe-struck voices. How did this happen? We’re really not that great at parenting. Fate has been kind to us in that area. To be fair, they were horrible babies (sorry, children, you were right miseries!), but after that first year of immense suffering (mainly for me), it’s been plain sailing. Or at least it gets easier year-on-year. And I’ve never really known why that should be when I see so many caring, patient, and better parents around me tearing their hair out.

You see, I don’t have any life-hacks or magical pearls of wisdom to offer anybody. If you’re considering kids in the terms of ‘nature versus nurture’, then nature won out in our case. I literally did nothing (well, I did; I fed and clothed them – and loved them. But most people do that, and I got a fair bit wrong, too). Thankfully, my kids are just naturally nice people. And thank God for that, because I could not have coped with monsters. Really, I’m just not that tolerant.

Erin:

[image error]

My eldest has virtually always been sweet and calm in disposition – luckily for us; terrible teens never came. But along with that placid temprement came a rather anxious child – I was the parent with a screaming kid clinging to her leg as she tried to drop her off at nursery…and school. And although that anxiety hasn’t disappeared as I’d hoped, she’s still a happy, home-loving girl, who doesn’t cling to my leg anymore. When she reached her first birthday (once all the whinging and crying-all-bloody-night-long had stopped), I remember thinking, ‘I’d be happy if time stopped here, because she’s just perfect’. But I’m glad time didn’t. Because she’s become more and more perfect as the years go by. And at 18 years old, she’s got everything going for her. Seriously, I don’t think she knows it yet, but her future is so bright she’s going to need to wear shades. Not only is she hugely talented at photography/graphics/film-making/blogging (damn her), but she’s supremely witty, too. She has this ultra-dry and slightly wicked humour (I have literally no idea where she got that from). If you got to know Erin (and sadly, I’m not sure that terribly many people do – I’ll get on to that later), you would spend your day belling-laughing. She has the maddest, weirdest, most individual sense of humour. But if there was anything I’d change about my eldest (and there’s very little), I’d want her to stop hiding her light under a bushel. Sometimes I ask her if she acts in quite the same insane way around her friends as she does me, and I don’t think she does. I don’t think she lets a great deal of people see who she really is. However, you can often see flashes of the real Erin in her blog– because I of all people know it’s easier to be yourself ‘in writing’. But she would be the first to say she suffers from acute shyness. And maybe other people’s opinions of her matter far more than they ought to (but at 18, I think most of us would say the same of ourselves). Still, you know what? There’s nothing wrong with being an introvert. It’s a bona fide personality type just like any other – and possibly the best type. And like Erin once reminded me when she sent me a very telling meme on snapchat, ‘why the hell would you want to go big when you can go home?’. Well, you can’t argue with that logic.

Ibby (short for Isobel):

[image error]

There’s a six-year gap between my children, largely due to the fact that childbirth and the first year of that first child’s life is just so incredibly awful. But I suppose nature makes you forget or nobody would ever have more than one child. Erin would agree that Ibby is certainly the braver of the two girls. I suppose most second children are; they don’t have to do the trailblazing. One of the most notable things about Ibby is her obsessive nature. I think she has a touch of her father about her in that respect, because I obsess over nothing. Seriously, trying to be arsed about anything is very difficult for me. But when Ibby is interested in something, she is extremely passionate about it. For instance, her current obsession is nails (fingernails, not the metal variety that you hammer into walls, because that would be weird). Dear God, that child can chew your ear off about nails. There’s nothing she doesn’t know; she’s spent months researching them on the internet. She is always talking disparagingly about the state of my cuticles or about how little time and effort I put into the filing of mine. If you want your fingernails doing for a night out, believe me, ask Ibby – her work is nail-salon quality. She’s been like this before about other things – gymnastics was one. She taught herself gymnastics off the internet, too, and she was so good we had little choice but to put her into classes. But she soon tired of that, and we moved her onto drama classes because we felt it would suit her outgoing nature (and we knew she could sing). And man, I’m so glad we did. That kid has some dramatic flair. She’s such a talented singer and actress (seriously – I’m talking goose bumps up your back and neck when she’s on stage – and I’m sure I’m saying that as an impartial bystander). Like her elder sister, Ibby is extremely placid in nature. She’s very loyal and stolid, and stands up for what she believes in; stands up for her lucky school chums. If there was anything I could change about Ibby (and again, there is very little), sometimes I wish her interests didn’t flit about so frequently. I’d like to see her passionate about one or two things and concentrate on those – forever. Otherwise, it may make for a very expensive lifestyle when she’s a grown-up (a bit like the time her dad was obsessed with archery – for about four minutes – then promptly ditched the habit after buying all the kit). But really, there’s nothing not to like about Ibby. With her courage, she will go far.

[image error]

I know, I know; many mothers extol the virtues of their kids. But sometimes, those parents are a bit deluded. Not me, though. So, let’s be frank about this, what did we I do to end up with such wonderful children? I wish I could tell you – I would bottle it (or better yet, write a book about it – because seriously, I could do with a book idea). In many ways I think I’ve been a bit inadequate as a parent. I always did my best, but I’m sure I fell short many times, I’m quite sure I still do. What I do know is I very much like my kids, and they honestly like each other. You do hear some people say in a very candid moment that they ‘love’ their children, but they don’t’ like’ them – not at that current time, anyway. And I’ve never felt like that. If I’m honest, I don’t really get overly excited about child-free weekends away or anything because I feel like I’m being separated from my friends. And I do know your parent shouldn’t be ‘your friend’, as such – don’t worry, I am in charge (you should see me go off on one when they don’t wash up the hand blender now they’re going through their current smoothie craze). But as my children grow, we really are just becoming more and more like mates. I like them and they like me – and I hope they’ll always feel that way about their mother, even when she’s elderly and annoying, and could really do with carting off to a care home. My daughters are whip-smart, sassy, and witty people who are a credit to the universe. People that you, as an adult (even a lesser adult like me), would choose to surround yourself with. All I did was make them – biologically speaking. You’re welcome.

NB: And a big thank you to my husband who helped.

Food Bore (this time it’s personal) II

[image error]Typical Sunday breakfast! Yum!

When it comes to food, I have been a very, very boring person for a very, very long time. My interest in nutrition (or my struggle with my behaviour towards food) has escalated since I wrote ‘Food Bore’ in 2016. Team this up with my enthusiasm for fitness, and I am excessively dull. People lose the will to live when I talk about it…but I hope you won’t. I’m as surprised as you are that I’ve become this person. I remember in my 20s and 30s, lying indolently on a sofa chowing down on Mars bars, wishing that I could become one of those people who were addicted to exercise; fanatical about healthy food. I used to start a diet and exercise programme, get a bit fitter, lose a bit of weight, then inevitably fall off the wagon – just like everyone else. But since 2011, and from the age of 39, the health and fitness bug stuck. I know exactly what triggered it – a bereavement triggered it. My weight was the one thing in my life where I was completely in control of my own destiny (I was clearly in control of precious little else). But I think my one-track-mindedness has worsened with the onset of age. The older you get, the more real the battle with your weight becomes. I’m forty-six now, and year-on-year it gets harder to maintain the body I want to have.

[image error]I don’t eat much of sugar, but 2 squares of this daily. Without fail.

The trouble with me is, whenever I take my foot off the gas – even just momentarily – everything goes unbelievably (and very rapidly) downhill. Just this Easter, I put on two or three kilograms, I think. Hand on heart, it took me one week to do the damage (one too many Easter bunnies, hot-cross buns, roast lamb dinners). Still, the moment Easter was over, I was right back on it; excising three times a week, no more than 1,700 calories a day. But those efforts were only ‘maintenance‘ efforts. Okay, no more weight piled on, but those excess kilograms stuck. So I knew it was time to go hardcore again (gulp). I’d done it before on a few occasions and the method was 100% foolproof. 1,200 calories a day and the same exercise regime. A deficit of calories consumed compared to calories expended meant certain weight loss, right? Wrong. Three weeks of misery, three weeks of going to bed hungry, and nada.

[image error]Got to love a protein shake.

It was at this point that my ‘food bore’ tendencies became something else. I’m older now, and those tried and tested tricks just don’t work anymore. I did a tonne of reading around the subject, poured over health blogs and journals, and it was becoming painfully evident that my body was getting wise to this ‘starvation’ tactic. My metabolism was slowing down, doing it’s best to hang on to the excess fat in case another diet came along. Which meant I had no choice but to reexamine my values; reexamine the science. And nobody wants to do that.

I’m not going to lie to you, I love carbs. When I eat a meal, the carbs are my favourite part. The potato, the pasta, the rice, the bread (dear God, I love bread), that’s what I’m interested in. Now, that bit of protein/fat on the side (be it meat or whatever), that part of the plate is okay, but it’s the carb I’m craving. And the veg I can take or leave. I’ve never really cared for a steak…unless it came with chips. But as we’ve all known for a few years now (but have been desperately trying to ignore because we love carbohydrates more than life itself), fat doesn’t make you fat. Carbs do. If you’re still resistant to this earth-shattering idea, watch this ‘Ted Talk’ by a very knowledgeable Obesity Doctor – Sarah Hallberg. Everything she is saying is true, everything she is saying makes me want to kill myself, but nevertheless – it’s still true.

CLICK HERE IF YOU WANT TO BE HORRIBLY DEPRESSED

[image error]

Guess what? Your body doesn’t need carbs. It needs fat, it needs protein, but you can exist without carbs. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!! Okay, this Dr Hallberg is talking predominately about diabetes. And I don’t have diabetes. I don’t have pre-diabetes or pre-pre diabetes either. I’m still within healthy limits (weight, BMI, body fat etc). But never say never. There but for the grace of God go I (and you). Refined carbs (and the sugar they become) increase your blood levels of insulin, causing us to store excess fat. However, although this doctor clearly knows her stuff (damn her to Hades!), I just can’t give up an entire food group; I can’t cut carbohydrates out of my life (nobody can completely).

[image error]Work in progress shot (and possibly some filters…).

I’ve decided not to drive myself crazy over this. As with most things in life, I take on board the science and the facts, then I take a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and adapt it into something I can live with; something I can tolerate. So first I got me a carb-counting app (gotta’ love an app), and I’m doing a spot of carb-cycling instead. Now I’ve intensified my workouts and upped them to five days a week (mainly so I can eat potatoes more often), and on those five days I eat approx 100-150g of carbs (complex, high-fibre carbs; wholemeal or as unprocessed as possible) – so my body can refuel, and help build lean muscle. On the two days I don’t exercise (I’d workout every day, but I might drop dead) I go very reduced-carb at approx 50g a day (remember, low-carb doesn’t mean no-carb). Let me put into context how tough that is; an apple has 18g of carbs and a bowl of porridge (before milk) is 18g too – the milk is another 10. So you’re pretty much looking at eggs, lean meat, and cheese. God knows how vegetarians/vegans manage it. It’s early days, but I think my metabolism is better. The weight is finally beginning to shift (not that scales always give you the full picture), my clothes are beginning to fit better, and my waist/hip measurements have decreased. I know the regime is not as hardcore as it could be, but if this is the way I have to live for the rest of my life, it has to be sustainable. Being hungry sucks. And I don’t want to live a life without carbs. Hell, no.

So if you’re a carbohydrate-lover like me, I want to end this post on a bit of a positive note to cheer us all up a bit. I’ve always been confused as to why carbs have suddenly become the enemy when we’ve always eaten them. And I found this paragraph in a health journal, and it really highlights what I’ve always said (I may not have said it out loud, but I certainly thought it…):-

“Humans have been eating carbs for thousands of years, in some form or another. The obesity epidemic started around 1980, and the type 2 diabetes epidemic followed soon after. Blaming the new health problems on something that we’ve been eating for a very long time simply doesn’t make sense. Many populations have remained in excellent health while eating a high-carb diet. What they all had in common was that they ate real, unprocessed foods.”  Kris Gunnars BSc, 9th Jan 2018, healthline.com

[image error]No idea what I did on May 15th…

So you see it’s what we’ve done to our carbs that have made us sick and unhealthy. What we need to do is keep them unprocessed; unrefined – and not eat to excess. Now, do you feel a bit better? Because I do. And I need to think of the positives here. Sure, I’ve had a few lapses and blips, but I’ve never really fallen off the health and fitness bandwagon in 7 years. I’ve never really regained too much of the initial weight I lost in 2011, I’m just finding the maintenance harder as I get older. So hopefully, this new regime will work for me. I just need to ensure upcoming public holidays don’t derail me again (Christmas, Easter…Saturdays). And yes, admittedly, I may be more boring than ever when it comes to food (you just ask my long-suffering children and my co-workers, they will certainly attest to that), but there are worse obsessions to be inflicted with. And it’s better than Sudoku.

NB: You never know, I may become obsessed with writing books again one of these days. Possibly.