Adele Archer's Blog, page 8

Back to Bath: Walking in the Footsteps of Jane

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I’m not from around these parts. The West Country, I mean. As you may know, I originate from East London – that’s where I spent the first twenty years of my life. But for the last twenty-five, Bath and its surrounds have been my spiritual (and actual) home. London got too much for me. Even when I was young I knew I was a city girl with a country girl screaming to get out. Not that Bath is the country, but it seemed like it to a girl who’d grown up around concrete tower blocks, like me. I’ve been thinking about my adopted hometown a lot lately, not least because I’ve been re-reading all Jane Austen’s novels. Two of her novels are partly set in Bath – and all her novels mention Bath in some way. So that’s what I want to talk about today; Bath as Jane Austen would have known it in the Georgian period, and Bath as we know it today.

We in Bath are a bit obsessed with our Jane Austen heritage. Her family lived in Sydney Place, Green Park Buildings, and Gay Street for a few years. The Jane Austen museum is currently housed just a few doors along from where she lived on Gay Street. There’s a Jane Austen festival in Bath every September, where people come dressed in Regency costume and mince around the fancy parts of Bath on a promenade (I’ve always said I’d like to go one year, but I don’t have the kit). But Jane Austen evidently wasn’t terribly fond of Bath. She was wealthy, but always on the lower fringes of society, which I think made her somewhat bitter about Bath – because being in ‘the best circles’ was what Bath was all about.

“Anne did not share these feelings. She persisted in a very determined, though very silent disinclination for Bath.” Persuasion, by Jane Austen (had to find that passage myself, thanks for nothing, Google).

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Photo courtesy of fab photographer daughter, Erin.

On the surface, the Bath scene in Jane Austen’s day appears super-smashing. All us Austen fans view it with rose-tinted glasses, but on closer inspection, it all seems a bit…hectic. People flocked there for a ‘change of air’ (I never quite understand regency people’s obsession with breathing in different air – like inhaling and exhaling air in one place is going to be more beneficial for your health than breathing it in another). And all the older men seemed to go there because they were ‘gouty’ (no idea how being in Bath would help). Reading ‘Persuasion’ and ‘Northanger Abbey’, I’m starting to wonder if anybody actually lived in Bath. It doesn’t seem that those of ‘good breading’ did, anyway. Ladies and gentlemen seemed to venture from London or their country estates to Bath purely for a season – to take in all its attractions and amusements. If you had lots of money, you would be driven to Bath in your carriage to take up lodgings for about six weeks or so. And Bath was absolutely choc-full of ‘lodgings’. The most sought-after Georgian houses being near the centre of town – the main fray – so that people could parade themselves up and down Milsom Street, perhaps nipping into the shops for a pair of gloves or a bit of ribbon or something (there’s simply nothing exciting to buy in Georgian England – you can’t get an iPad or anything). But most importantly, one must be seen amongst other ladies and gentlemen from the best families, not in ‘low company’ (ugh).

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Also by Erin.

In Regency times, the gentry loved nothing more than to attend The Pump Rooms on a daily basis. In the Pump Rooms these days, tourists just sit down to eat finger sandwiches and drink the disgusting spa water, which tastes like eggs. But from reading Austen’s books, I can’t quite see the lure of the place. People just stood about in their best clothes getting jostled, hoping to catch sight of somebody who was vaguely of their acquaintance (note: you couldn’t just go up and say ‘hello’ to somebody in those days – no, no, no – you had to be introduced before anybody could become your acquaintance). Many women came on the hunt for a wealthy husband. It was really just a bunch of fashionable people desperate to be seen with other fashionable people. In the evenings, they would attend a play or a recital or a ball. But even the balls sound hellish when Austen describes them. Again, people constantly looking about in horribly crowded rooms for somebody they might just recognise from home or from the season before; somebody who could provide them with amusement for a couple of hours. I’m starting to think rich Georgian people were just generally very bored. And once they were thoroughly bored of Bath, they would nip off to Brighton or London and spend another month or so pissing about doing nothing in particular there too.

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Also by Erin

As much as I and other Austen lovers look back with a fond eye on Regency England, the reality is, people like you and I would have had a crappy time of it. Working people did not fanny about ‘taking the air’, or calling on other rich people’s ‘lodgings’ in The Royal Crescent or The Circus – leaving their card and hoping for a dinner invitation. Nope, people like you and I waited hand-and-foot on the upper classes. In fact, I as a nurse, would not have been considered as respectable at all. In Persuasion Anne Elliot says whilst speaking of Nurse Rooke,

“Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to.” Anne Elliot, Persuasion, by Jane Austen (yep, had to leaf through for that passage too – I’m a saint).

Women of that class? If they are intelligent? You cheeky bint! As far as I can make out, even very wealthy people who had unfortunately made their money from trade (eeew, trade, yuk!) weren’t very well respected. No, inherited wealth was the only way to go. Which I think is why Austen couldn’t stomach Bath; because Bath was a heightened version of the prejudice people on the lower fringes of the gentry suffered in their everyday society. Imagine how the poor must have felt!

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So, what I’m alluding to is Bath is a better place now than it was in the Georgian period. Well, it is for scruffy urchins like me. Don’t get me wrong, I love nothing better than reading the works of Jane Austen – especially when she’s talking about areas I know so well, like Camden Place and Laura Place and Westgate Buildings. But Bath back then was crazy. And admittedly, even I don’t live in Bath anymore. It got a bit much for me (much like London did). Like Jane, I favour the country. But the great thing about Bath is that it’s really only a stones-throw away from the country. So, I moved some miles down the road where things were a little quieter. But I still consider Bath as home in some ways: It was my first escape from London. I trained to be a nurse in Bath. I made the best friends in the world in Bath. I met my husband in Bath. I gave birth to two children in Bath. I do pop into Bath very regularly the with the kids to hit the shops, or sit around cafés and coffee shops – y’know, take the air and all that; walking in the footsteps of Jane. You should totally visit – you could find some suitable lodgings. Then I’ll drop in my card to your footman or something, and you can invite me to dinner. Then we’ll catch a recital later, yeah?

PS: Read Erin’s blog and see some of her other pictures HERE.

A Day in the Life…

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Made this meme myself. You’re welcome.

Today, in the absence of anything more interesting to write about, I thought I might just tell you about my day. Not today Saturday – as I’m posting this – because right now I’m probably just sitting around in my pyjamas, thinking about cleaning the cats’ litter trays. I’m choosing Wednesday just passed – as that was my day off and was the most dramatic and variable of my week. Well, I say dramatic… Anyway, usually on Wednesdays (since I am on my writing hiatus) I am to be found loafing around on my sofa, drinking coffee and trying to find a decent series or movie on Netflix. The Wednesday before was cool as I came across ‘Die Hard’ which I haven’t seen in years and years. And it really got me in the Christmas spirit, ‘yippee-ki-yay-motherf*cker!’. But this Wednesday, I had long ago pencilled in to meet my sister for Christmas shopping and lunch in Bristol (forget the Christmas shopping, it’s really all about the lunch). I probably only see my sister twice a year, so we always try to stick to our pre-Christmas meet up. And I had chosen this particular Wednesday because within a few days the ‘Christmas Markets’ will be in full swing (you know, those crappy little temporary wooden sheds that sell roasted chestnuts and useless presents [usually made out of wool, or something that needed to be whittled] that nobody really wants, and clogs up town with coachloads of tourists who travel for miles just to hang around some pathetic wooden huts!). I do despise the Christmas Markets, but I don’t know if I’ve successfully got that across.

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Before setting off, I thought I’d pop to the post office to send off a humongous parcel (a doll’s house I had just sold on eBay). I’d already pre-paid the postage online, so I was feeling pretty cocky. In I sauntered with my parcel that was only marginally smaller than me, when before I’d even reached the counter, the woman serving smugly stated, ‘we don’t take parcels that big’. And I sighed and assured her, ‘yes you do. You are listed on the Parcel Force website as a drop-off site.’ Then I proceeded to show her the email on my phone which proved this fact, which she didn’t like very much. In fact, I’m pretty certain they don’t like me very much at my post office. It’s actually a petrol station that has a post office section. And they seem to want to pick and choose what post-officey activities they are prepared to take on. But I never let them get away with it. I say, if you’re a post office, you’re a post office. Hence why they don’t particularly like me very much. Heigh-ho. My parcel was gone and out of my hands, so I didn’t care. I sauntered back out to the car park (parcel-free) and started the car. And that was when I knew that the day was not going to pass without difficulties.

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Seamlessly disguised number plate.

As soon as the engine came to life, the car began revving spontaneously without my foot on the gas – at about three-and-a-half thousand revs. My car has been knocking around for years, it just keeps on going and going – but it has its little foibles. I whimpered, my heart sinking (car problems are very stressful) and proceeded to drive the car out of the petrol-station-come-post-office forecourt. Driving around for a short while, the car revving like mad even when sitting idle at traffic lights (it sounded like I was some boy-racer looking for a in vain for a race), I realised my car was never going to make it to Bristol. And since it was very early, I headed towards the garage to see if they would take pity on me and fix my car (even though it wasn’t booked in).

I think my mechanic, Andrew, is probably one of the grumpiest men on earth. I’m not too proud to tell that you I’m a little bit afraid of him. I’m quite certain he’s a good and honest mechanic, but whenever I pull up in my old Ford, he always looks like he might just kill himself – or me. I don’t think it’s the sight of me personally, I think Andrew has just had enough of life in general. Anyway, I explained the problem, Andrew had a little tinker with the engine, but couldn’t make it stop revving. So I knew right then and there I wouldn’t be driving to Bristol. The car was going to have to stay in the garage for the day and he’d see if he could fit it in between his other bookings. I asked in my most helpless female voice if he might happen to have a courtesy car spare, but Andrew just looked blankly back at me like I was completely insane. So, that was a ‘no’ then. The loan cars are like gold dust at my garage. Anyway, it was my day off, so being car-less wasn’t the end of the world, and I told him I was off to Bristol. Andrew kindly offered to give me a lift to the station (you see, he’s got a good heart, he just hates his life). So we set of in the most low-slung car I’ve ever had the displeasure of riding in – it felt like I could have done with being hoisted in and out. I’m no spring chicken, y’know. I really was only a couple of inches above the road. On the short journey, I asked how business was – like you do. Empty silences in a car with a man you barely know are never fun, and I’m pretty good at small talk. Andrew told me business was awful, and how he dreaded coming to work. He advised me how small businesses are pummelled by the amount they must pay out, and if you want to run an honest car repair business (which he does), you make no money. Which was depressing. Anyway, we bid farewell at the station and he mumbled some vague instructions about me ringing at the end of the day to see how the car was doing. I agreed, climbed out of the car in the most ungainly fashion possible, and waved goodbye.

[image error]The train-ride to Bristol was uneventful. It was so crammed with people I had to stand for the entire journey, but that’s to be expected early in the morning. And once my sister knew I was coming by train, she kindly offered to pick me up from the station. Result! It’s a twenty-minute walk from Bristol Temple Meads into town! I’m no spring chicken, y’know! But it was lovely to see my sister. The evil huts of the Christmas Markets were just being set up, but not selling their tat, so our day was not marred. Unsurprisingly, we did very little Christmas shopping (I think we only bought two presents each, and they were for our own children). We largely spent the day in two separate coffee shops and the rest of it in a restaurant for lunch. But you can’t really chat whilst shopping, I say – but you can whilst eating. And at least we avoided the throngs of people expected next week at the sh*tty sheds (aka the Christmas Markets). Did I mention my dislike of the Christmas Markets…?

Anyhoo, that was a day in the life of moi – just a little snapshot really. Not a particularly interesting snapshot, perhaps, but a snapshot nonetheless. And the car was fine, you’ll be pleased to know. Some hose had become disconnected and air was getting into the engine…or something…or some-such, I don’t know. I don’t listen. But the good news was that it only cost £35. Hoorah! See, I told you Andrew was an honest man – grumpy, but honest.

Two Hours I’ll Never Get Back

 

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This picture depicts time being wasted.

I’m not a movie buff, I can state that quite categorically. However, I don’t dislike films as such; I like films as much as the next man. So long as the next man is fastidiously fussy about what movies they will deign to watch. I certainly can’t just mindlessly watch a movie – just because it’s there. If it’s something that I’ve already seen and enjoyed, I’m in (there’s nothing better than pre-vetted movies) But for anything new and unheard of, I will need to have researched the film thoroughly first; ensured it fits within the narrow genres that are acceptable to me, check its rating on IMDB or Rotten Tomatoes, make sure it contains actors that I’ve heard of and admire. If not, I’m not interested. So, like I say, I’m no movie buff.

I’m not sure why I’ve become this way. I know I have a short attention span, and I do detest wasting time. So, I think it’s the length of time that one agrees to sit down to be ‘entertained’ by a movie that bothers me. The average movie is two hours long – sometimes they’re even three! That’s a long time to be sitting still and committing to a thing! And yet I will happily sit down for two or more hours on my phone, mindlessly trawling through the internet: Facebook (photos, dull and ill-informed news items), Instragram (is it too soon to upload another selfie…?), a spot of eBay (list that skirt that’s gotten too tight), MyFitnessPal (log that cake which made the skirt too tight), back to Facebook (same photos, same ill-informed news stories as before), skip back to eBay (how much is my skirt selling for since I checked five minutes ago?), again and again and again and again…  (as an aside, I hate that I’m prepared to do that. It’s such a waste of precious time; looking through all the shite other bored people have posted. I seriously might just wipe these apps off my phone). So, wouldn’t it be far more beneficial, and possibly educational, to sit down and watch a movie in that time instead?

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Honestly, I don’t watch Cindy Crawford for fun.

I’d hazard a guess that my husband doesn’t particularly like this trait of mine. He loves movies. He’ll (within reason) sit down and watch anything. In fact, he and some friends often go to the local ODEON on a Monday night to something they call ‘Screen Unseen’. Basically, you get to watch a movie for a reduced rate, but you have no idea what it’s going to be until the movie begins. THAT is my idea of hell. I don’t even like to be coerced into watching a film not of my choosing at home, let alone going out and paying for the privilege (albeit at a reduced rate) and seeing something completely unknown and un-vetted! He attempted to encourage me to go last week, apparently there are clues given out in the proceeding days to give you a hint of what it might be. There were suggestions that it might be the new ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ movie (now, I’d have loved to have seen that; I love anything period, I love a bit of Agatha Christie, and it has Kenneth Branagh and Johnny Depp in it too! Perfect!!). But that movie being screened was highly unlikely, since ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ hadn’t even had its premiere yet, and ‘Screen Unseen’ only shows films after their premiere. Therefore, I refused. And I’m so glad I did. It turns out, the movie was so appallingly bad, my husband and his four friends were forced to walk out long before the ending, and go to the pub instead (it was called ‘The Florida Project’ if you’re interested in avoiding it like the plague). I rest my case. ‘Screen Unseen’ is a thoroughly bad idea – for people like me.

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Discovered this last week. Awesome

 

But remember, I would have been prepared to watch ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ – if I could have been certain that was the movie I was getting. And that’s just my point. I don’t dislike films – I just like to watch what I want to watch. We have millions of DVDs in my house (no exaggeration), but I have a personal little stack of my own that would measure about nine inches long if lined up in a row. And those few are the only ones I will willingly watch without argument. In fact, there won’t be an argument because they are mostly period/costume dramas, and nobody else in the house would want to watch them but me. Every now and then my husband will cajole me into agreeing to sitting through some film that I am very reluctant to see, and he will be quite right, it turns out to be a good movie (damn him!). But more often than not, I end up disliking it intensely – which just makes me even less likely to trust his judgement in the future.

[image error]Look, I make no apologies for it; I like what I like. And when I stop and think about it, I like a lot of genres. I enjoy period dramas, I like rom-coms (only good ones, nothing crappy, mind), I like super hero/comic book/action movies, I like old black and white movies (or ones they’ve ‘technicoloured’ in), I like comedies, I like Lord-of-the-Rings-style fantasy movies, I like the odd Sci-Fi. I am capable of liking so much – if it’s well made. And if I’ve seen that movie before and I already know what I’m letting myself in for, then so much the better. What I don’t like is horror, or anything too violent or disturbing – no gratuitously gory killing for killing’s sake. I don’t want to see things that stay with you and give you nightmares for a week. No! I’m of a sensitive disposition. And I’m not too fond of documentary-style movies either – real life may be interesting, but I want to get away from it. To me, movies ought to be about entertainment and escapism – not making you feel worse then when you entered the cinema. Life is too short to waste it sitting down to stare at a screen, wishing you were somewhere else. Like I say, it’s two hours I’ll never get back – sometimes even three! I know, THREE! And if you’re prepared to fall in line with my way of thinking, then I’ll make room for you on the sofa. You bring the popcorn (since I provided the faultless movie choice…and the sofa).

 

Five Things Never to Admit to Anyone. Ever.

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This is a dangerous post. This post could have repercussions; lose me valued friends and readers. This post would be better dismissed as one of my ‘not so intelligent’ ideas. Yet once that something is in my head, it’s very hard to dislodge it, so it often ends up being written about. Like in this instance. So, rightly or wrongly, this blog must be born. It’s out of my hands now – and the wrath is in yours. I apologise in advance if my shameful opinions offend you, but sometimes you must tentatively put your hand up and confess what you truly believe in – no matter what the cost.

 

I’ve never seen Dirty Dancing (and I don’t want to):

Dirty Dancing came out in 19[image error]87 and I would have been 16. It was huge at that time. The charts were filled with ‘The Time of My Life’ and ‘Hungry Eyes’ etc. I know people who have seen it scores of times; it’s that feel-good movie people turn to again and again…to feel good, I guess. But I’m afraid DD just passed me by. I’ve never seen it. I never went out of my way to see it. I’ve never had occasion to see it. Did they ever put in on TV? Because I’ve never seen it. And what’s more, I don’t really want to. I can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’m told the plot revolves around Frances (Baby) who spends the summer with her family at a holiday resort, and falls in love with the dance instructor, Johnny. Which I suppose might be alright for the premise of a movie – I mean, I have been known to like the odd chick-flick. But I’ve got a vague memory of seeing the trailer back in the day, and thinking ‘Baby’ was a bit too needy for my liking. Okay, I know what you’re thinking, I’ve never seen it and I have absolutely no right to judge. It may be your most favourite movie of all time – which is why this is not something I admit to very readily. Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and watch it someday – just so I can give an informed opinion whilst in an argument (and there’s bound to be an argument). But I won’t like it – I just know it.

Poetry: What’s that about…?:

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I’m really uncomfortable about confessing to this one. Since becoming a writer (or pretending to be), I’ve met a lot of poets – at least, I have ‘virtually’. We’re all on the writing scene together; we all frequent the same social media circuit. They’re a lovely, supportive bunch of people. It’s just I’ve never really understood poetry. Obviously, I must have written a poem once or twice in my life, but it would have been at school, and certainly because I was forced to. Maybe it’s the stanzas and the couplets and the tercets and the quatrains and the cinqains – the rhythm of the thing. I just don’t understand all the rules…or have the desire to. But I’ll be the first to admit that I have no flair for poetry, and I think that’s because I never really grasped its purpose. When I read poetry, I’m largely unmoved. This may well be due to the fact that I’m highly unintelligent, and a person with a more lofty education than mine would probably just ‘get’ it. Actually, I’m going to completely contradict myself now. There was one poem I liked, but it’s the same poem everybody likes (I’m very unoriginal): “Warning: When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple” by Jenny Joseph. It was voted the UK’s favourite poem in 1996. And maybe it’s because it’s simplistic and doesn’t try to be too clever, and encompasses a lot of humour. So, that completely disproves my theory, then. Maybe poetry has its place; you just have to find the right poetry for you.

I’m sorry, but I don’t really like wine… *gulp*:

[image error] I think I’m even less comfortable about admitting this. Wine is such a staple; an accepted part of our society that I’m really the odd one out when it comes to this beverage. Out to dinner with friends? Shall we order a couple of bottles of Prosecco for the table? Please, no! Need a quick gift idea? A bottle of red or white will always suffice (even I am guilty of this; I recently needed to buy somebody a gift and I discovered at the eleventh hour she was pregnant, so I couldn’t buy her a bloody bottle of wine – goddamn her!). I wish I did like wine, it would make my life easier. Nobody likes a non-wine-drinker. But you see it’s not just me being fussy or having unusual predilections: Wine actually makes me very sick. No other alcohol can make chunder the way wine invariably does. Having said that, I have been known to down the odd glass out of desperation. I once had to attend a kids’ school disco, and I risked drinking two glasses of white wine – just to kill the pain. And it did kill the pain. However, I felt pretty ill afterwards – and it wasn’t worth it. But if you’re interested, I do like gin – even if it does make me a bit aggressive. But that’s better than puking your guts up, right?

What was the big deal about Elvis?:

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There are two artistes/bands one must never, ever, ever disrespect. And those are Elvis and The Beatles (and The Beatles rule a thoroughly abide by, I LOVE The Beatles). But Elvis, though? Um… Elvis wasn’t played in my home (apart from on the radio), so I have no fond childhood memories. I didn’t particularly like his voice and I didn’t like his songs. If you were to ask me what my favourite Elvis track was, I simply couldn’t tell you. Don’t get me wrong, I know a lot of Elvis records, I just don’t particularly enjoy hearing them. I remember the day he died in 1977, I remember being very sad; it was a big deal. It sounds as though his later years were very unhappy and he was used and cheated by his managers, his untimely death came too soon. But I’ve just no artistic love for Elvis. I’m sorry, but there it is. Actually, I did like the live version he did of ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You’ where he’s in hysterics and he laughs all the way through it. That always makes me chuckle.

Nando’s: It’s just bland chicken…isn’t it?:

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I have frequented Nando’s a sum total of three times, so I think I am more or less qualified to have an opinion on this. It’s a Portuguese-style restaurant, originating in South Africa (like you do), and it now frequents many a British high-street. But is it me, or is Nando’s just…meh? Friends always seem to suggest going to Nando’s – ignoring my grimace of displeasure when it is announced as our chosen restaurant for the night. Nando’s, Nando’s, bloody-well Nando’s! On my first two visits to Nando’s I ate chicken; once a piece of chicken, and once a chicken burger. Chicken is what they are famous for. You don’t go to KFC and eat sausages. And I like chicken as much as the next man, but on both these occasions the chicken was overcooked and dry and insipid. On the third occasion I felt I had no choice but to eat the one item on the menu which was not made of chicken (a steak sandwich, I think) – which was a bit better, but chewy. Honestly, I’m VERY cosmopolitan when it comes to food; I like food from every nation – I even like a bit of spice, on occasion (not too often, overly-spicy food sadly upsets my stomach, however much I like it). But I do insist on flavour – something Nando’s doesn’t seem to care a great deal about.

Now look, put your flaming torches and pitchforks away. You can spend your life trying to fit in; trying to be appealing to every single person on earth. But it can’t be done. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. Sometimes you just need to stand up and be counted. Sometimes you must ‘fess up to your awkwardly different stance on those weighty issues. The beauty is in our differences – so we can still coexist, can’t we? Those are my opinions and they make me what I am. I’m sorry if my views are offensive and hurtful to you; a complete degradation of something that is very dear to your heart. But I can’t help the way I feel. And let’s face it, I’ve gone 45 years without Dirty Dancing in my life and have been largely very happy, so I’m not hurting anybody, right…?

NB: Oh, and to my friend Sally, I’m also sorry about Wuthering Heights, but it was horrible.

 

Free Book! Catch it while you can…

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Free? Wait…what…?

Now, this is not an actual blog post, so don’t get all exited, or anything. Not that I expect you were exited, you are most likely relieved. You get the morning off! Yay! Anyway, this is just a quick message to say that if you haven’t already read ‘International Relations’ (book 1 in the 3-book saga [where have you been?])…well, it’s only cotton-picking-FREE for a very limited period on Kindle! FREE! That’s gratis, people!

So grab this opportunity of a lifetime and catch it while you can! If you want to take advantage of this offer, click HERE.

However, this totally breathtaking and (frankly) life-changing* deal is only running this weekend. Once Saturday and Sunday are over (9th and 10th September), your time is up. After that, you’re totally screwed! Sorry.

If you want some incentive, this is one of my favourite reader reviews (click HERE). Not that you need incentive. It’s free. Don’t you like free stuff? I know I do. Anyway, see for yourself.

Thank you.

When Archer met Austen: A Review of Mansfield Park

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Before today, I have never written a book review blog. And after today, you will probably beg me never to write one again. But I thought it might be a bit of fun to turn my hand to this – in my own leaves-a-lot-to-be-desired style. This blog has always been loosely based around the comings and goings of my daily life, and I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately – since actually writing something seems to be off the menu. Anyway, let’s just say I felt inspired to write a book review. So there.

I’ve been reading an awful lot of self-published authors in the last few months, but I’m also re-reading some of the classics. Currently, I am making inroads into Jane Austen’s ‘Mansfield Park’. But I’ve read it before (and seen the TV adaptation), so I feel well qualified on the subject if you’re in the mood to challenge my views (which, like I say, are well qualified). It’s not one of Jane Austen’s most beloved books (and there’s a reason for that), but it has its merits and charm, I suppose…

Okay, so before I start, I realise some of you may never have read ‘Mansfield Park’, so below is a brief synopsis I stole off the internet – because I can’t be arsed to write my own books’ blurbs, let alone anyone else’s. Mind you, I’ve had to ‘fill it out’ a bit because it wasn’t a terribly thorough synopsis.

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Mansfield Park

‘Fanny Price, born into a poor family, is sent away to live with wealthy uncle, Sir Thomas Bertrum, his wife and their four children, where she’ll be brought up for a proper introduction to society. She is treated unfavourably by her relatives, except for her cousin, Edmund, whom she grows fond of. However, Fanny’s life is thrown into disarray with the arrival of worldly (and slightly horrible) Mary Crawford and her brother, flirtatious Henry Crawford – who has dubious designs on Fanny. Meanwhile, her true love, Cousin Edmund (are you allowed to fancy your cousin?), courts Henry’s beautiful, clever (if a bit devious) sister, Mary – much to Fanny’s misery.’

First and foremost, I have to say it’s really difficult to come to terms with our lead protagonist’s name. I mean, it wasn’t Jane Austen’s fault – Fanny was once a real name in its own right in Georgian society. But Austen would be turning in her grave if she found out the murky depths into which the word has fallen – especially in England. Anyway, I won’t labour the point. The female lead is called Fanny; you just have to get over it. And I won’t tell you how this story turns out, exactly, although you can probably derive the ending. Boy meets girl, boy meets another prettier girl, boy (who is normally pleasant) turns out to be a bit shallow, boy finally realises first girl was much nicer than second girl (who was clearly a bloody mercenary character to anybody with half a brain). You know the drill. Look, it’s a Jane Austen novel, and everything turns out okay in the end. But I can’t help feeling that I’ve been left with a bitter taste in my mouth.

I want to like Fanny (Price), I really do. She’s our heroine; she is much put-upon and ill-treated, she’s a harmless character who deserves better. But I couldn’t help wanting to give the girl a shake and a bit of a slap, and tell her, ‘Get a grip, love!’, and, ‘Never play second-fiddle to anyone!’. Edmund, her true love since childhood, clearly behaves like a complete tit for a good three-quarters of the book, but when he finally comes around and see’s the light; see’s Mary Crawford for who she really is, see’s what the reader has seen from page one, you can’t help thinking, ‘Well, well, well, sonny-Jim. It’s too little too late, Edmund! Tell him to sling his hook, Fanny!’. But Fanny, who has always considered herself his inferior throughout the novel, who keeps going on about how Edmund ‘shaped her mind’, is just supposed to accept this belated turnaround in his behaviour? She’s expected to swallow her pride? All is forgiven, is it? Err…well, yes…apparently. But I can’t help thinking, where was her backbone…? I’ve never really been fond of this kind of story-line. I’ve never really been comfortable when the person you’re supposed to be rooting for has to play second-best right up until the last minute – when you and I would say, ‘screw that for a game of marbles.’

There are other things going on; a bit of seduction amongst Fanny’s cousins, improper relationships, broken engagements, even an undercurrent of the slave trade in Sir Thomas’ business in Antigua. But I’ll let you find all that out for yourself. It’s just I can’t help feeling this wasn’t one of Jane Austen’s best. We have become used to feisty, lively, intelligent, before-their-time female leads like Elizabeth Bennett and Emma Woodhouse – and Fanny just doesn’t live up to that high standard. She’s too down-at-heel (if you like strong female leads). But then, Austen couldn’t just keep rehashing the same headstrong lead heroines again and again. I get that. And times were different back then, I guess.

Anyway, on the whole, I enjoyed the book. I probably wouldn’t have read it twice (and seen the TV adaptation) if I didn’t. However, it may be more of a case that I just love Jane Austen, and (unfortunately for her and us) she didn’t live long enough to write as many books as we’d have liked – to sate our appetites. So we devour all the books we have available again and again – well, I do. I mean, ‘Emma’ and ‘Pride and Prejudice’ are untouchable. Say anything negative about those books and I’ll come around your house and fight you. Jane Austen can be proud of that; she can stop spinning in her grave about the ‘Fanny’ thing – two amazing books in such a short career ain’t bad. I’d be super chuffed with that track record. So, ‘Mansfield Park’ will irritate you slightly, yes, but it will hold your attention, and it all comes out in the wash – as my mother would say. And it’s way better than ‘Northanger Abbey’, which is rubbish. Yes, I said it, rubbish. Come around my house and fight me, if you must.

NB: Sorry, I’ve just realised I did tell you what happens at the end of ‘Mansfield Park’. This is why I don’t normally review books. But to be fair, this book is over 200 years old, so you’ve had plenty of time to avoid spoilers. Anyway, my bad.

 

Dressed to Impress

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I have a thing about clothing. What I mean is I have a thing about being attired appropriately for the appropriate occasion. No matter how much I’d like to believe in the ‘capsule wardrobe’ I don’t really feel such a thing exists. To be honest, I dress in a very similar fashion (excuse the pun) on a daily basis, and like all of us, I have favourite clothes that I wear to death. But I do believe in having a variety of outfits which are suitable for their requirements. And when those (self-imposed) garment and dress rules are flouted, well…I’m not happy.

Country Walking:

I’m starting with my biggest bugbear. I do a fair amount of country walking – much to the chagrin of my children. They may disagree with me, but it’s a cheap and healthy activity that the whole family can enjoy together. You get exercise, you see great scenery and you can have a nice chin-wag along the way. And as a fairly regular country walker, I have the kit that one requires to facilitate it. I’ve got my rucksack (well-balanced carrying tool), walking trousers (I do NOT like to walk in jeans if I can help it), and my raincoat, of course. I usually bring the raincoat no matter what, you can never know when it will rain in England – BBC weather app is a liar, and you can sit on it for an alfresco lunch too. My husband laughs at how much I carry around with me, but I never complain about the weight of my pack – I come prepared, and I don’t carry other people’s crap either. Bring your own rucksack. Then there are the all-hallowed shoes to consider: Heavy-duty walking shoes when the terrain is likely to be tough and the walk is expected to be a long one, lightweight walking shoes for more summery walks and for travel, and neoprene-lined wellington boots for very muddy weather but not for long distances. What drives me completely insane is when you’re not on home turf and somebody suggests a country walk out of the blue, with absolutely no notice – and I don’t happen to have my standard kit with me. Then things can turn nasty. ‘Do I look like I’m geared-up for a ****ing country walk to you? I’m wearing Converse! CONVERSE! No, that’s clearly not suitable bloody footwear for trekking in the country, you freak!’ If you want to avoid a stand-up row with me, make sure that country walks are not impromptu but are properly planned beforehand. Thank you.

Flying/Travel:

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When on my travels, I like to dress for comfort. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like to dress like a slob, but my clothes are loose-fitting. It’s especially important to have ease of movement when you’re flying. Feet can swell up, and you can be strapped into one of those little aeroplane seats for hours. So my attire would probably consist of a hoodie (in case I get cold), memory foam trainers and comfy trousers (those trousers can be jeans if I’m trying to wear my heaviest items, but they can’t be super-tight-oh-my-God-my-internal-organs-have-been-crushed skinny jeans. Obvs). What I can’t understand is when you see people dressing up in fancy clothes for a flight. I regularly observe them (even on economy flights) in clothes I would only consider wearing on a night out, and they’re in high heels too – I know, HEELS! I once knew a girl who was insistent on wearing only dresses for travel, and she also like to wear a floppy hat, oh, and heels. She looked like she was heading out for Ladies Day at Ascot. But in hindsight, she must have been proper-mental. What if your flight is delayed? You may end up sleeping on an airport floor all night! You’re going to be cooped up in a seat the width of a laptop for hours on end, and you might be required to do an emergency evacuation into the sea if your plane crashes! Dress for comfort (and possible emergencies) when travelling, people!

Casual:

Casual should be casual, in my opinion. I’m likely to be wearing jeans or cords or a casual skirt and tights on a run-of-the-mill day; teamed-up with daps or Chelsea boots. I totally cannot comprehend it when you see people shopping in Tesco’s wearing something that I’d only deign to wear in a nightclub. If your ‘casual’ is in reality ‘dressy’, how can you ever dress-up? You’ve got nowhere left to go (I mean that figuratively, not literally).

Smart- Casual/Business/Study Days:

Smart-casual is a vague clothing description. I once went on a business trip and I was pretty sure smart-casual was going to be the order of the day, so I even Googled the term to be completely certain as to the requirements (I leave nothing to chance):-

‘Smart casual  is an ambiguously-defined dress code that is generally a neat yet casual attire. Different localities, kinds of events, contexts, or cultures can have varying interpretations of the dress code and therefore the designation of certain clothing pieces as smart casual is disputed.’

Well thanks, Google, that’s bloody helpful – I don’t think. If you ask me (and I’m aware that you didn’t), smart-casual pretty much means you don’t wear jeans or anything else made out of denim. If it was summer, I’d be thinking about linen. If it was winter, I might want to consider cords. Or a casual dress (not too dressy; you want to look different if you end up going out in the evening). And I wouldn’t touch trainers or daps with a bargepole.

Dressy/Formal:

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This is another ambiguous one, and it really depends on where you’re going. If we’re talking weddings or a work’s Christmas meal, I’d want to be wearing a dress and heels. However, I HATE wearing heels, so I do it reluctantly. But it makes you look taller and improves the overall look of your dress. Sorry, that’s a sad fact of life. Still, the shoes can’t be any old heels. No, no, no; I mean no more than three inches and fairly chunky, to afford stability. I know people who go to dressy events with six-inch stiletto heels and need to spend the majority of the night walking around in bare feet because they just can’t wear those completely impractical shoes for any length of time. And what’s the bloody point of that? You’ve just destroyed the effect of your much-deliberated-over outfit! If you ask me (and I’m still aware that you didn’t), I recommend you only wear heels you can practicably dance in for a substantial amount of time. I’ll allow a dressy pair of flip-flops stored in your car if you’ve been on your feet all day (like at a wedding), but just as a back-up, mind!

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Because it’s the only way…

So, as you can well imagine there are a lot of clothes and shoes in my wardrobe. There must be to cover all these eventualities; not a silly amount, every item in my closet need to have purpose, but enough that all bases within the scope of my lifestyle are covered. Just give me plenty of notice about what we’re going to do and when, and I will have the perfect attire to accommodate it. And if I’m looking at you ‘funny’ in Tesco’s, you’ll know why. You could learn from me.

PS: I have many more clothing bugbears than those listed, but I ran out of space; like when sports clothing is worn for occasions other than sports, or when people wear technical clothing (aka walking trousers) down the pub (like my husband does…) *sigh*.

Colloquialisms :

Daps – Converse, shell-toe Adidas, skate shoes, that kind of thing

Trainers – sports shoes

Chipping off the Block

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Now look, I realise I’ve been a bit, well…y’know…absent lately. And this blog isn’t an apology or a list of excuses…well, maybe it is a list of excuses. But there are reasons for my elusiveness. I’ve needed a bit of a break. I think I deserved one. I’ve been writing seriously; always writing, earnestly writing for two-and-a-half years (not to mention the less earnest years before that) . So I gave myself a writing hiatus – a little holiday. I sat around and read books for a change, and watched costume dramas on Netflix to my heart’s content. I enjoyed it. But I guess that break has to come to an end sometime, doesn’t it? It’s just, I’m finding it hard to want to start all over again. That’s what it feels like, starting again. However, I maintain I do NOT have writer’s block. Well, maybe I ought to go and look up the definition of the term first before I get all vehement and arsey about it. Hang on, I’ll get back to you….*consults Google*…

Writer’s Block:

the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing.

“the novelist recovered from a two-year bout with writer’s block”

Oh…well, alright then, perhaps I do have writer’s block. I always felt it to be something people suffered with whilst already in the process of writing, and the ‘block’ came because of difficulties in narrative or character development. But obviously it can also mean the inability to get started – and I just can’t get started. At all. It’s a condition I have never suffered with in my entire life – until now. The only problem I ever had in the past was finding a way to steel the time to write. But up until this year, I always had a purpose. Now, I feel I don’t. You see, I’ve hit a bit of a wall as far as writing is concerned. There is no new book on the horizon – not even the ghost of one. And this blog has also suffered from my lack of creative inspiration. And I’m not sure why that is.

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Everything seemed to grind to a halt when I finished my trilogy. There was never any intention to stop writing entirely, but the trilogy was done and published – I’d finally achieved what I had originally set out to do. And do you know what? I secretly knew this would happen. I tried to keep my mind off the inevitable whilst still in the process of finishing the International Relations saga. I told myself when my mind was freed up from my last set of novels, new ideas would start flowing because the old project would be closed. But that just hasn’t transpired. I have merely been struck with an overwhelming feeling of, ‘I just don’t feel like it’. I have written a few blogs since, when something fuels my interest (mind you, this one took about a month to get around to completing [I know, it’s not even that good]). But unlike some more fortunate bloggers, I’m just not that great at writing about ‘nothing in particular’. I need an insightful (hopefully) or poignant (possibly) message in my head that I must convey, or I literally can’t do it. It’s a cross I have to bear.

Blog-wise, there are always ideas drifting around my mind, but I often feel a bit stifled by what I feel permitted to write about. I hate being creatively restricted, and yet I am. There are many things that I want to say, but don’t feel free to say. Perhaps I’m being too cryptic, but you can’t just write about anything you want. You just can’t. The trouble is, I’m a painfully honest blogger, as they go. I’ll spill my guts about anything – up to a point.

I have not been entirely redundant as far as writing goes. I have recently finished re-editing and re-formatting my trilogy – y’know, finally got around to doing things like putting those fun drop-capitals into the beginning of chapters in the paperbacks (I couldn’t make that work before – when it comes to formatting/uploading eBooks and paperbacks, you live and you learn). I felt the desire to go through the series one last time (it had better be the last time; I need this chapter [see what I did there?] to be over). I have changed so immeasurably as a writer over the last two-and-a-half years that the books had to change somewhat too to reflect that. But maybe I’ve partly been trying to avoid the next big step that I know must be made.

My husband has recently suggested we write a ‘made-for-TV’ screenplay together. Not that I know how to go about that. We’ve downloaded a screenwriting template, but the whole template strikes me as a bit clunky. And I just can’t see how your writing can really flow or be creative when writing within that restricted format. All that descriptive work required in a novel – suddenly virtually redundant. Can I really make that transition after decades of writing books? And writing as a team? Hmmm…I’ve literally no idea how that is supposed to work. I certainly need a kick up the arse, and maybe that kick may need to come from an external leg. But remember, I’ve been writing as a soul venture…well…forever. I don’t know how to write as a team. How do you decide who writes for which character? How do you relinquish control over the narrative and learn to share? Really, dear reader (if you happen to be a writer), have you ever written with another person? How does that pan-out logistically? And how can that ever compare to escaping up to your room, getting away from it all to write a book? Where does the escapism come in? It just sounds like…work.

To be fair, it isn’t as though I’ve actually sat down and attempted to write something new. I really haven’t even tried. Perhaps this is just that ‘difficult second album’ scenario. Perhaps if I did fire up the laptop and create a fresh, blank document, ideas would suddenly flow. But I don’t know what the aim is. I don’t know where to start or where I’m going. I haven’t even got a genre or any kind of story-arc or loose plan – maybe there’s a lead protagonist – but nothing else.

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Maybe I only ever had that one trilogy in me. I had one plan; that was the book I wanted to write, and now it’s done. Maybe it was just another thing to tick off the bucket list. Maybe ‘being a writer’ was never the real intention. And maybe the blog was just an extension of the book. Maybe without the book, the blog can’t exist either. I just don’t know anymore. Perhaps it’s for the best. When I was writing seriously, I was always a little bit absent in all the other areas of my life. I had one foot in those camps, but the other was always firmly placed in writing, and finishing that project. Nothing else had my full attention. Nothing. Perhaps if I stop this pretence of being an author, I can be a bit more present in reality. Escapism is great and all, but you can’t exist there. Let’s face it, my reality needs attention too.

All I can say for sure is that I need to try to write before I have decided that I won’t be doing this anymore. The kids are on school summer holidays right now; my day off (formally reserved for writing) is no longer my own, so I have little time to myself. My writing hiatus may have to continue for a few more weeks. But once they’re back at school, I will fire up that laptop. I will see if that blank page before me wants to be filled. And if it doesn’t, I shall let you know. If it does, however, I will also let you know. Trust me, I shall be shouting it from the rooftops.

NB: If writer’s block has ever hindered you, perhaps share in the comments below how you got over it. I could sure use some advice.

Outside the Box

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The family at Swansea beach

The other weekend, I was fortunate enough to meet up with my mother, sister, brother, and sister-in-law (plus kids, of course). It has become a yearly tradition whereby we all meet at a certain point on Swansea beach on my late-sister’s birthday. We sit on her bench (which bears her name on a plaque that is beginning to tarnish), eat unhealthy beige picnic food (no greenery allowed), and celebrate her life. It’s always enjoyable to see everybody again, and I don’t know why we only do it annually, really. But life and location get in the way of keeping in touch with your family sometimes – or what is left of it.

Anyway, this blog isn’t about the way families become fractured – although I do need to write about that sometime. My brother and sister-in-law had kindly rescued three boxes crammed full of exercise books from my late-father’s house before it is given back to the council from whence it came. These exercise books were full of stories (intended for film and TV) I had written in my late childhood/early teens – something I did during every spare moment to escape from my childhood existence. So, it’s a lot of books.

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This is all well and good, but I don’t know quite what to do with these damn boxes. The huge temptation is to stuff them up in the loft with all the other paraphernalia of life that you can’t quite get rid of, but you’d really rather not deal with right now. Like a rowing machine: You were proud of it once, but you now know you should drag it down from the loft and take it to the recycling centre because it was bloody rubbish and only exercised your arms – not legs – and nobody uses home-rowing-machines anymore, but you simply can’t bring yourself to make that drastic decision just yet.

As we were thinking about setting off, to make our departure from Swansea beach, and the boxes had been duly handed over and stowed in the back of our car, my husband brazenly tore open a box and pulled out the uppermost book. He then proceeded to read a paragraph to the entire family standing there. I could have punched him in the face. Well, not really (I’m a pacifist and I wasn’t that angry), but I was a little mortified. I actually had to tell him to stop. Those books were written by a bygone me of a bygone era. Those books need to be carefully looked through when I am entirely alone, preferably after a stiff drink. And then, probably, burned.

Actually, I don’t know if they should be destroyed or kept as a memento of the beginnings of my ‘sort-of’ writing career. My husband says the books should all be scanned and stored onto ‘the cloud’ *heavenly music ensues*(and then destroyed, to save space). Which is a sensible plan, really. But the practicalities and logistics of actually sitting down to scan those never-ending pages could drive one to drink. And let’s face it, we’ve been saying we’d scan all our old photos too – to save space, and then destroy them – for about ten years. But we never get around to it. And why do we never get around to it? Because, as with most chores, we can’t be arsed. And those monotonous hours spent scanning are hours you will never get back.

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Nevertheless, those three heavy boxes are still sitting in my hallway, nagging at me every time I pass by to go to the toilet. I’m just not sure why I can’t face them; what I’m afraid of. Well, I do know why. Those books are going to be a big old steaming pile of crap. Of course they are. I was very young. The trouble is, most kids who write are a bit arrogant (well, I was); they think they are hugely talented writers and soon will be famous throughout the land as a bestselling author – which, of course, never happens. I wasn’t at all talented. But I believe I had the raw materials; it was the beginning, the seeds of something that became better. A craft that I had yet to learn (and am still leaning, I ain’t no Leo Tolstoy yet [see the flagrant misuse of ‘no’ and ‘ain’t’? Tolstoy would never have made rookie mistakes like that]).

I guess I’m just waiting for a quiet, rainy day when everybody else is out of the house, and there is nothing on Netflix that I particularly want to watch. And my sock drawer is already tidy. Then, I suppose, I could tear open the boxes. I’d like to think I will just look back at the childhood me and laugh at all my silly mistakes; poor spelling, overuse of words like ‘incredulous’, cheesy plot-lines, all that jazz. But I just have the expectation that the experience will be a cringe-worthy one. Yet, I MUST remember I was a child. I did the best I could with the tools and words and articulation I had available at the time.

Anyway, I haven’t psyched myself up to look in those boxes just yet. I will let you know when I do. Maybe I will write out a few excerpts from those steaming old piles of crap as a separate blog post. And we can all have a laugh at them together. Actually, you’ll probably be the ones laughing, I will just be vaguely humiliated. *sigh*

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*Intense Shame*

 

PS: Uh-oh…I just opened a box. It appears I even drew pictures. I think I’d been watching too much ‘Romancing the Stone’ at the time. Dear God…

PPS: I have never read Tolstoy’s ‘Anna Karenina’, and I’m thinking I am highly unlikely to. I imagine it’s mad-depressing.

PPPS: This blog is dedicated to Aimee, who told me in the coffee room I wasn’t allowed to give up blogging. Alright, Aimee, I shall try – just for you.

Witness the Fitness

[image error]I don’t much care for running. ‘What? Are you clinically insane? Running is the only and best exercise there is on the planet!!’ I hear people scream as they are momentarily interrupted from posting today’s ‘map my run’ on Facebook. And yet, I don’t care for it. Running is dull. I used to do the whole running thing when it was trendy. I did the ‘work-your-way-up-from-couch-potato-to-3k’ regime the way everybody else did. I used to get up at four or five in the morning just to get my run in for the day. But I was never very good at it. I never got any better. I guess my stamina improved, because I could run a bit further, but not much further. And I never got any faster. In fact, I’d say I got slower. Over a series of years, my ‘Race for Life’ times became longer and longer as time went on. And I was always bloody injured! Shin splints, sore achilles, dodgy knees. So then my fitness would be lost whilst trying to recuperate. Running just didn’t interest me – and I didn’t really want to do it. No matter how much I tried to zone out and power on through, I just wanted that run to be over – to be doing something else.

Look, I’m not being disparaging about running. For some people, it is the only and best exercise they can do. It’s cheap, you can largely run whenever you want to, it can be a solitary occupation – or you can run with friends to add a bit of interest. But running isn’t for everybody. Six years ago, I decided it was not for me. For exercise to be a lifelong commitment (and exercise has to be just that if you want it to do you any good), you have to like it, or you simply aint’ gonna’ do it.

[image error]So, like I say, I decided to hang up my running shoes and do something else. But what else? What should that exercise be? Running was out, I’d probably kill myself let loose on a bike, and I couldn’t swim for toffee. But I’d always had a bit of a penchant for aerobics. Ever since the 90s, I’d owned all the Cindy Crawford videos, which I did sporadically. I had a thing for the Reebok Classics, and the funky leotards and brightly-coloured leg-warmers. I used to attend the odd class too – where my main aim was to be the best attired in the room. All the gear, absolutely no idea.

In 2011, six months before my 40th birthday, feeling frumpy and knowing I was well over my body mass index, I decided to re-purchase all my Cindy Crawford videos on DVD (my husband also tried to download and stream them for me, but there’s just no substitution for sticking something in a machine and instantly having Cindy on tap). And I religiously undertook those exercise routines (varying from 40 to 60 minutes long), three times a week. And do you know what? Six years later, I’m still doing them. Three times a week – unless I’m ill or injured (and I’m rarely injured), that is what you will find me doing every Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday morning. I actually enjoy it (me – enjoying regular exercise- who ‘da thunk it?).[image error]

The physical changes in me are immeasurable. I mean, I’m still a work in progress, perhaps I always will be – but I’m certainly on the right path to achieving the body I always wanted (y’know, for a forty-five-year old,). I have never wanted to be skinny. I have always wanted to be fit. I wanted the kind of body that the women athletes at the Olympics have; the female tennis players at Wimbledon. I’ve always wanted to look like that. I have abs now. I really do. With the amount of sit-ups I do per session, I bloody well deserve them. And my arms have real definition; actual muscles. Again, I lift dumbbells on a regular basis, so I’ve worked for them. My legs could be better; sometimes I think that’s just bad genetics, or maybe there’s no substitute for running to achieve great legs – but bugger that. I’ve just intensified my lunges by adding bigger weights or kettle-bells, and using a yoga band to add resistance to side leg raises – which seems to be helping. And my cardiovascular fitness could probably do with a bit more work. The other day I had to run for a train across three platforms carrying a heavy suitcase and I very nearly threw up. But I’m physically stronger than I’ve ever been. I’m not exactly buff, but I’m getting there.

Sometimes I think I’d like to attend some aerobics classes for a bit of company, or go to the gym to intensify the weight-training, but I find it so hard to find the time outside my busy life. And this is why the aerobics DVDs work for me. I get up early and they are done, it can be pissing-it-down outside, but that has no affect on me. And I’ve been reading up on strength training (did I mention that I lifted a sh*t-load of heavy dumbbells?) – it really is the way to go.

‘A regular strength training program helps you reduce body fat and burn calories more efficiently, which can result in healthy weight loss. Strength training helps preserve and enhance your muscle mass and bone mass, regardless of your age.’ Health Line 9 Jun 2016

[image error]Yep, when I’m an old lady, I will still be able to get up the stairs! If I do enough pelvic floor exercises, I might not even be incontinant either! Boo-ya! Okay, I’m currently a couple of kilograms over my ideal weight (a weight target I have met a trillion times before) but that’s because I’ve been hitting the birthday cake a bit hard this month – it’s July, everybody is born in July it seems. And exercise without healthy eating just isn’t enough (but that’s a whole different blog post…which I’ve already written). Do I look like a lady tennis player now? Well, no. My 20s and 30s were entirely misspent, I’ve had two kids, and I only started a fitness regime in earnest when I was 39. Damage was done. But I’m fairly happy with the way I am. I guess what I’m trying to get across here is that running is not the only fruit, running isn’t the new black. Or if it is, there are other shades of black out there too. If jogging is your bag and it works for you, then all power to you. Keep doing that. But if you don’t like running now, then you probably never will. Do something you enjoy, or it just won’t be sustainable. And if it isn’t sustainable, then there’s just no point.