Adele Archer's Blog, page 9

The New Normal

[image error]Until very recently, I had never attended any form of counselling in my life. I was rather proud of the fact; to get to my age and remain largely mentally intact was a real feat. Not that there’s anything wrong with therapy, of course. I would never decry its value. And in my role as a medical professional, I would recommend it to anybody who I felt needed it. But for me, divulging your innermost feelings and angst to a stranger was a complete no-no. For me to admit I must put my hand up and ask for help with something I ought to be able to deal with myself felt shameful (yes, to me it was shameful). But that was then, and this is now. And desperate times call for desperate measures.

As you know, my father died at the end of last year. And this opened up a big old can of worms; that ‘can’ being the death of my sister five years previously. Suddenly my five-year-old coping mechanisms stopped being effective. Suddenly, things that I could handle in the past seemed to be getting on top of me. But instead of hitting the antidepressants hard (not that I’m decrying their value either, I just didn’t want to mask my emotions with drugs), I was determined that burying my feelings deep, deep down was still definitely the way to go. But bereavement counselling kept being suggested, and reluctantly, one day I agreed. After months of negotiations, emails sent back and forth, being unable to make any of the appointments offered (which was partly down to me looking for excuses to get out of it), June came around and finally I found a time and day I could attend. Or had no choice but to.

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A lot of people will tell you therapy is great; it’s a chance to vent all your spleen. But I’ve never actually wanted to vent. Well, I have, but I do it in this blog. Up until now, you have been my therapy. And you didn’t even get paid to listen. Ha-ha-ha *maniacal laughter*. You see I can express my emotions in the written word – but rarely verbally. My vocabulary simply fails me when I try to talk about something emotive. Therefore, I’ve always been of the school of thought that if you don’t talk about a problem, then it didn’t really happen. Genius, right? But the thing is, bad things did happen, and compartmentalising those things – shutting them up in a box – just didn’t seem to be working quite so well anymore. Trivial instances were becoming big deals. That deeply buried angst was manifesting itself by affecting my physical health; grief was finding a way out. It was simply time to talk – way past time.

The bereavement therapist’s name was Paul. I don’t think I’m jeopardising his anonymity by saying that – there are a lot of therapists in this world. And some of them are called Paul. This one was too. I won’t tell you his surname…because I don’t know what it is. We started out by discussing why I was there, and instead of making a gag like I wanted to such as, ‘hang on, isn’t this KFC? I only wanted a boneless banquet. Sorry, I must have got the wrong door’, I told the truth. The deaths. The suffocating anxiety that is blighting my life. The knowledge that the worst thing in the world has happened and can therefore happen again. The unquietable worry when events are out of my control. Being anywhere but within my own comfort zone. All of it. And Paul was very good at asking the right questions, prompting unexplored thoughts, and listening intently.

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What I wasn’t so keen on were the long and awkward silences. I would construct what I felt were nicely worded and rounded sentences, phrasing an emotion in just the right way – for somebody as verbally strangulated as me – and sit back and wait for Paul to reply (or perhaps stand up and burst into applause at my eloquence, that would have been nice). But he would just sit and nod, and wait for me to say something more. But there wasn’t any more. Now, I’m the kind of person who can’t stand an empty silence, so this was torturous for me. I’m the kind of girl who will fill a stilted lull in conversation at all costs – with an inane question or a stupid joke. But inane questions and stupid jokes don’t belong in the world of bereavement therapy. And I’d already told him all there was to say; embellishing further seemed impossible. But this, I presume, is what counselling demands.

I’ve attended two of six sessions so far, and I think a notion I am going to have to dispel from my head is that therapy will solve all your problems. I guess that is why I’ve avoided going up until now; people died, and no amount of talking and crying will bring them back. But Paul says bereavement counselling is all about is ‘the journey to acceptance’. The journey to accepting what he calls ‘the new normal’. The old normal was a world with my sister in it. The old normal was a world where my father (who I didn’t respect very much, and I hadn’t spoken to in five years) was still around doing his thing – albeit having very little to do with me. But the new normal doesn’t contain those people. And I must acknowledge that. And as is the natural order of things, other people I care about will die, and I need to learn to come to terms with Lynn’s passing before that happens. So why can’t I? It’s been six years now. Paul says I am brave for putting my hand up and asking for help, being the ‘hard-as-nails’ person I was (my phrasing, which he repeated). But I don’t feel brave. I feel weak, if anything.

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Paul says I have been carrying one too many large stones, and the little pebbles on top have just tipped me over the edge. He and I have established that I am sad (obviously), and I am angry too. I’m mourning two deaths, I’m feeling guilt over my lack of forgiveness towards my father, I’m grieving for a family that has imploded – my sister who was the glue that held it together has gone – or maybe I’m grieving for a family that never really was. And perhaps my coping mechanisms are unhealthy (I suggested that, not Paul, he said I dealt with things the only way I knew how). I pretend the deaths never happened. I don’t think about the people who have gone. At all. I’m horribly good at it. I pretend those people never existed. Yes, never existed…I’m admitting that for the first time. It’s awful. It’s cowardly, because all of us wish to be remembered when we’ve gone. But that’s what I do, because it’s easier that way.

[image error]I can’t say I much enjoy bereavement therapy. It’s not something I look forward to on a Thursday afternoon. I’d far rather sit in a coffee shop and eat cake (that always makes me feel better). On counselling days, I must always ensure I’ve worn waterproof mascara. I always leave with a red nose (I’m not an attractive crier). I make sure I bring sunglasses to hide my puffy eyes from passers-by. And just hope I didn’t park my car stupidly far away from the office because, like I say, I look super-weird whenever a few tears have been shed. But I hope it will be worth it. I hope it will help me make this journey to acceptance, or at least send me on my way. I don’t like ‘the new normal’. I’d much rather have the old one back. But this is the normal that I have been given and there’s just no changing the way things are, so I may as well learn to roll with it, right?

 

How to be the Coolest Parent on Campus!

 

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The impressive grounds.

Hello! I’m here again! I know, I know, I’ve been largely absent for nearly a month (in blog terms), but I needed a bit of a break. In fact, for a few days there, I had a bit of a wobble; I considered giving up blogging entirely. You never know, I still might. You see I’ve been feeling creatively uninspired, and tired of the relentlessness of it all. Or perhaps I’ve just been waiting for something blog-worthy to happen. I know what you’re thinking; ‘there was a general election the other week…‘. But that was too emotive a subject to write about, I’m not a political writer (no matter how anti-Tory I am), and also…well…I just didn’t want to. But from my frivolous and shallow point of view, last weekend, I suddenly did feel inspired.

So, the other day, I took my eldest to a university open day. It’s the first visit of three places of further education my child is considering. I personally can’t believe somebody as immature and parentally irresponsible as me has got to the period in her life where she has a child of university-going age. I mean, I’m the kind of mother who misses all the emails about non-uniform day (consequently sending in her child to school in uniform). I’m the kind of mother who is reliant on other parents to tell me on a weekly basis what the kids’ current homework topic is. I’m the kind of mother who accidentally-on-purpose forgets to make a cake for the class cake sale. But here I am.

And being the parentally irresponsible person I am, my main focus on this university open day (apart from getting my daughter to the appropriate lecture on the appropriate site on time – i.e. ‘Adele’s Taxi and Time-Keeping Service’), was to be the least frumpy mother there. Now, some might say that is an incredibly fatuous and possibly narcissistic endeavour. And they’d be right. But you see it’s always been a bit of an underlying ambition of mine to try to maintain my identity – as well as being somebody else’s mother. But if any of you should be finding yourself in my position in the near or distant future, I drew up a brief list, so that you can avoid my mistakes be the coolest parent on university open day:-

Planning

Many universities have multiple sites all over one town. The insensitive b*stards. My daughter and I had drawn up a very rigid list of what talk to attend when, and where.  So do programme your sat-nav with the relevant postcodes the night before. And even if it’s a town you are familiar with, do what the sat-nav tells you to do – unlike me – and find yourself in completely the wrong part of town. Oh, and expect there to be nowhere to park on campus, because there never bloody well is.

[image error] Don’t set your expectations too high

It’s not the MOST important thing, but the site on which your child studies ought to be aesthetically pleasing. But not every British university looks like Hogwarts (unless your little angel is going to Oxford or Cambridge, that is). You might just have to put aside your dreams of towering spires, intricately carved stone archways, and gargoyles and all that. But I must say I was hugely impressed with the first uni campus. It was set in the middle of the countryside with grounds designed by Capability Brown. It could easily have passed for National Trust. The second site was okay, but not quite so breath-taking; the building was a bit dilapidated, in my opinion (mind you, it was 4pm and I was tired and in a bit of a pissy mood by this time). However, this particular subject is moving to a new and more impressive site, but it could take some years, and my daughter may never experience that. Still, the next university visit promises to be at a very ‘Horwarty’ campus in a Cathedral town. So I’m looking forward to this one. Yay!

Parental attire

Like I say, it’s important to keep ‘frumpiness’ or ‘mumsiness’ at bay. Choosing your wardrobe for university open day can be a minefield. What you really don’t want is to be suited and booted in an outfit that screams, ‘somebody’s mother’. So avoid the twinset and pearls. And maybe keep the neck-scarves to a minimum. And fathers; don’t wear your ‘dad jeans’ with running shoes. I think I may have personally misjudged the tone a bit. I looked a little bit like I’d just rocked-up from the local skate-park in ¾ length jeans, shell-toe Adidas and a biker jacket. I mean, I’m only 45. But I wasn’t trying to make a social statement or anything, ‘hey, I’m down with the kidz!‘. That’s just the way I dress a lot of the time. But I think on our next university open day I might be a little more sombre; a little more collegiate, and go with my corduroy jacket and jeans. I may end up looking like one of the lecturers, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

[image error] Putting one’s hand up

Don’t. Do you want the lecture to go on any longer than it has to? Do you want to listen to the Dean’s monotone voice for more than half an hour? Do you want to be ‘that annoying woman who kept going on and on about her little cherub’, and being the instigator of heavy sighs and eye-rolling from the other parents?’ No, you don’t. To be honest, I did ask one question, but I felt it was necessary as the lecturer just wasn’t selling her subject to me as well as I’d hoped – she was a bit too fond of impressing us with her ‘professional background’. The question was, ‘what percentage of your graduates find themselves employment within the industry?’. The lecturer didn’t know the answer, unfortunately, but I think we can all agree that it was a pretty damn relevant question, resulting in no sighing or eye-rolling whatsoever. You’re welcome to use that question at will when your time comes.

Embarrassing one’s child

Yes, it’s your constitutional right as a parent. My daughter was none-too-happy about my excessive photograph-taking (the grounds were very impressive, I don’t see her problem), or me deftly trying to sneak in front of the movie-camera pointed at a green-screen so that I was superimposed in front of 10 Downing Street on the Film-making set. She was also slightly displeased about my constantly widened eyes when confronted with ‘young people’s fashion choices these days’ (I mean, I just think a fury beret and bright orange calf-length culottes with heavy black boots is a difficult look for anybody to pull off – even those hoping to go into the documentary-making industry).

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So, overall, I was very impressed with our first university open day. I think the only real drawback was that the site was a little too close to home, and a large part of your child going away to uni is getting some distance from family; asserting one’s  independence, exploring an alien town. I personally couldn’t get far enough away from my home when I left for nursing school, but my daughter is a homelier child than I was. I’m going to miss my daughter when she leaves us in one year’s time – more than I can say. My first child is leaving the nest and our lives will be far poorer without her. But it’s the bridge between childhood and adulthood that she must cross alone. And if you have kids, and if it hasn’t happened already, it will happen to you too. No matter how awesome a parent you are. And we are. Did you not read the list?

All of Me

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Now, let me just start by saying that this post is in no way a complaint. It’s just a ponderous discussion; a thought-provoking piece (supposedly) about why I do what I do. But I want you to know, all of you – writers and non-writers alike – that when you write a blog, you make a choice. And it’s a choice you can’t really unmake. Especially when you write the kind of blogs I do. Well, unless you stop blogging entirely. Anyway, as I’ve said before (many-many-many-many times), I began writing a blog because I’d written a book. And that’s what I’d read you were supposed to do. It’s a way of promoting yourself. It’s a way of giving your author-self a bit of a ‘personality’. It’s a way of showcasing your writings skills (or lack of) and giving people an idea if your books are something they would consider reading (or would rather die first). But of course, who can sustain a personal blog like that? Very few. My books are my books. Read them or don’t read them. They will always be there (unless Amazon kick me off), but this blog simply cannot be about that.

So, after a short while in the blogging game – I had to evolve. My blog just became a big ol’ random thing filled with my thoughts and philosophies; anecdotes and life-events I found amusing or worth discussion. If there is a niche that sums up the cascade of nonsense that I decide to put online, then put me in that box. That’s my niche. But overall, my blog has become a manifestation of me – the very best of me, and the very worst. Because that’s the only thing I know enough about to write about – on a weekly basis (ahem, y’know, more or less).

So, what I want to discuss today is this (and if you’re a blogger, I hope you will identify), when you write a personal blog, you have pretty much given away a facet of yourself. You have signed away the rights to that facet – it no longer belongs to you. Your life is an open book. YOU have made it an open book. That was the choice you made when you set up your blog account and wrote the things you wrote.

If you’re an author (non-autobiographical), you may identify with this too, but to a slightly lesser degree. The stuff you have put down on paper is a story; this story may be very revealing about your personal character, but it may not be. You can hide behind your stories. The narrative you’ve penned isn’t your life as such; there will very probably be flashes of your life captured in the pages, but a fair proportion was a life you invented. But blogging is more invasive than that. And I don’t think I realised this until I became a blogger.

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This can be seen in a couple of ways. People that know you in a personal or work capacity, well, they suddenly know you an awful lot better. Without a doubt, there is stuff I will write in a blog that I wouldn’t say out loud to friends, family, and colleagues. I couldn’t. I don’t have the verbal vocabulary or capacity – only a written one (I fink). And when you meet those friends and family and colleagues, and you’re aware they read your blog, you realise that something infinitesimal – yet tangible – in your relationship is different. You have voiced your inner – previously unheard – voice. And you can’t take it back. It’s a voice that we all have, but most people don’t ever allow it to see the light of day. Which is sensible.

Secondly, people who don’t really know you and have never physically met you (‘internet people’ who chose to read your blog), suddenly know you terribly well. Or at least, they know that fairly damn sizeable facet which you have chosen to give away. If you enjoy a life of anonymity, then blogging isn’t for you, because you lose that pretty quickly. And that’s fine, I signed up for that. I thoroughly enjoy the communication with strangers from all over the world (some of whom I truly believe have become friends). I love it when people can relate to something that you felt sure nobody else was thinking or worrying about. Ninety-nine percent of this interaction is positive and fun. What I’m not so crazy about is the slightly suspect ‘one percent’ of attention (trust me, I say this without conceit, it’s just a fact). And if you’re a female writer, you’ll probably relate to this – maybe male writers will too. I’m an author/blogger. This isn’t a dating site – I don’t remember signing up for ‘Tinder’. But sometimes, when you give too much of yourself away, you run that risk. And not everybody out there is interested in you merely for your words.

Blogging is a tiny bit like being famous (I would imagine…probably), but being a complete nobody at the exact same time. And there is certainly no big house and fancy car that come attached to it. You gave away that secret part of you for free. Mind you, I still come across the odd person who has known me personally for years, yet has no idea that I write. At all. Which leads me to believe I must be the worst person in the world at self-promotion *sigh*.

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But it’s all good. And let me reiterate, this post isn’t a complaint. There is a pay off, but it’s not a monetary one. Like a blogger friend of mine, Mike Senczyszak, wrote about recently, when you write a book or a blog, you have left a part of yourself behind for future generations. When you die, you cannot be entirely forgotten, because you made a mark. Let’s face it, it may be a pretty bloody small one, I haven’t got that big an audience. I won’t be on the local west country news or anything – unless I die in a particularly silly way. Nevertheless, it’s a mark. I think, deep down, no matter how shy and retiring we are, we all want to leave some kind of footprint. Being a recluse is fine and all, I’d be a pretty damn good one, but we’d all like our voice to be heard. Trust me, I have every intention of sticking around until I’m eighty to make your lives as miserable as humanly possible, but if I must go now (or before my three score years and ten), then I’ve done what I set out to do. You heard my voice. You may not have liked the sound of my voice – the whiny, bleety, whingey, irritating voice that it was, but you read this blog, so you must have heard it.

 

Illegally Blonde

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I’ve been writing a few more pensive and ponderous blogs of late. Y’know, spouting off about my potted philosophies on life. But I felt we were all in need of a more frivolous post this week – or at least, I certainly was. And what could be more frivolous than ‘hair’? Nothing, that’s what.

Now, I’m not especially good at change. But sometimes, change is necessary. So after a lifetime of being a brunette, I decided it was time to go blonde. I got a few nice comments with regards to the blonde wigs I was sporting in a recent post about taking up amateur dramatics. But that’s not why I did this. The reason behind it is a terrible truth; yes, grey hair. When you dye your hair fairly dark – which I did – those pesky greys come through in a very visible way, at a seemingly very rapid rate. And I’d been assured that when you’re blonde, that relentless, perpetual grey working its evil way out of your head would be visibly more forgiving between dyes. I had always been intending to wait until I was fifty before I did this, but I decided – that date being five years away – life was too short

So, now I’m blonde – kind of. It’s a work in progress as my hair was very dark. It’s currently highlighted with a view to getting blonder as the months go on. It’s less of a shock to a lifelong brunette like me to do this gradually. But it has still been a shock to the system. When I initially got home from the hairdressers, my husband’s first words were (I kid you not), ‘ugh’, and then, ‘it’s very liney’, and followed up by my personal favourite, ‘it’s going to take a long time for me to get used to this’. Which, of course was exactly the reaction I was hoping for. In my opinion, the colour’s alright – I haven’t seen one photo of me as a recent blonde that I particularly like, but perhaps I will as I get used to the change and as I get blonder. That’s why I’ve not posted many photos on any social media – or on this blog. And I won’t be changing my author head-shots anytime soon either – not until I’m sure blonde is truly the way to go.

What has surprised me most, is that even though it’s a fairly drastic change, not everyone has noticed.

I’ve always said people are very unobservant. I haven’t had a single haircut that people have remarked on in about six years. When you have curly hair, that tends to be the case. Some people at work have noticed the new colour, sure, but just as many have said a) nothing b) ‘there’s something different about you…’ or c) ‘have you straightened your hair?’. I’ve always maintained I could walk around with an axe buried in my skull and people would say (at best), ‘you’re looking a bit peaky, Adele.‘ I class myself as very observant – especially regarding hair. But perhaps not so much in other areas. Because I didn’t spot that a work colleague had had lip-filler for about four days, and we always sit and eat lunch together. But that’s different, she could have had an allergic reaction to a bee sting and I was just trying to be polite (I’m joking, it looked pretty good, and not too obvious, which was why I didn’t notice initially).

[image error]What I have noticed about being blonde is how dry my hair has become. It feels a little like ‘doll hair’. After I have shampooed and conditioned it (I’m talking a lot of conditioner) and diffuse-dried it, I am actually having to put Moroccan argan oil in it just for some much-needed moisture. My daughter, who is a teenager constantly battling oily hair – because…well, she’s a teenager – is absolutely appalled that I am desperately adding oil to my hair whilst she is desperately trying to wash it out. Luckily, my hair is cut very short, so hopefully I should be able to keep on top of this dryness issue.

They do say as you get older, your skin tone changes, and dark hair invariably looks terribly unnatural. So, I really do feel this is the best course of action for me. I remember my mother used to dye her hair very dark well into her sixties – maybe even seventies, and it wasn’t a good look. I mean, we’re talking ‘Elvis’, and not in a good way. So, I’ve decided to do something about this whilst in mid-forties. The worst thing about going blonde is that I can no longer DIY. I mean, I could, but I wouldn’t – the risk of hair-breakage is too high. So I must now spend a good few hours (and pounds) at the hairdressers, possibly every two months for the rest of my life. I only used to dye my own hair because I needed to dye it so often. But as I said to my husband (who, being the miser that he is, brought up the mounting cost), I don’t have many vices. I don’t smoke, I hardly ever drink, I don’t excessively buy clothes or shoes or handbags. So my hair is going to be my only vice. I’ve always spent a fair amount on hair-care; regular cuts, that is. And I never buy shitty supermarket/chemist shampoo and conditioner either – only salon stuff. We’re talking approx ££20.00 a bottle. That’s not because I’m a snob, my hair looks like crap when I buy cheap shampoo and conditioner. There’s a well-known brand out there (which I can’t name because of possible litigation reasons, but it begins with ‘p’ and and in ‘antene’), that when I once mistakenly used it, made my hair look like wire-wool. It was so bad I literally thought at one point that I might have to cut it all off.

You may be thinking, ‘this is a very lightweight post, isn’t it? All about going blonde? Is Adele on something this week?’. But you see, this could be the beginning of something pretty big. This could be character-building or life-changing stuff. No, seriously, I’ve always believed that hair maketh the man – or woman. If and when I am fully blonde, I might change in personality entirely. I might be a bit more bubbly and outgoing (I mean, it’s unlikely, but I might). I might be the personification of confidence – which would be great, because I’m certainly not now. And if it’s true that blondes really do have more fun, well, maybe it’s time I had some.

 

Smell the Roses

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Yes, I know I look stupid, but it was really cold…

 

I’ve recently come back from a lovely trip to Scotland. Apart from a brief visit to Edinburgh when I was in my early twenties (which I don’t remember much about – other than Edinburgh was very pretty and I drank too much), I don’t class myself as being an aficionado of Scotland at all. Y’know, it’s a bit…far away. It takes nine hours to drive there from where I live. But my husband convinced me it would be a good destination for our Easter family holiday (he actually wanted to go because there was a disc golf competition going on in which he wanted to compete – don’t ask), but I insisted we fly, and once he agreed – I was sold!

[image error]Before I go on, I’ll say that Scotland was well worth the trip; Glasgow was a city grand enough to compete with any European city I’ve ever been to, and the Isle of Mull was breathtakingly beautiful. And quiet. With no phone reception. Or internet. Anyway, we had a great time. Well, at least, now that I’m back, I think we did. That’s what I’ve chosen to write about this week – how I’m not terribly good at appreciating the things in the ‘here and now’. Most events that I consider to have made me happy, I’ve needed to reflect upon them for a bit before I could make that decision. So, this post isn’t really a travel blog, as such; it’s more of a blog which aims to discuss why I have this complete inability to stop and smell the roses. Plus, a few pictures of Scotland thrown in for good measure.

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Picture a landscape; lush and rolling green hills in the distance, the sound of a calming and babbling brook nearby, standing in a glade about to enter a forest – still and dark and peaceful within. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?  I see beautiful pictures like these all the time, usually whilst I’m browsing the internet in my run-of-the-mill, humdrum life, after a hard day’s slog at work when everything went wrong. And I stop and think to myself (just like everybody else does, just like you’re supposed to), ‘gosh, I wish I was there right now’. And on occasion, if you play your cards right, sometimes you are there. You’re standing right in amongst that scenery you dreamed about. And do you know what? I simply won’t appreciate it. I won’t appreciate it because my mind is already focusing on ‘the next thing’; the next thing on my itinerary, the next place I have to be, the next train or plane I have to catch, the next ETA deadline.

I hate that about me. That I haven’t got a gene which is happy with what I’ve currently got right there in front of me. I just can’t live in the moment. And I’m like that about everything. If I’m eating a lovely meal at a restaurant, or a dinner I’ve slaved over for hours, I can’t sit down and enjoy that very meal. I’m thinking about the next meal that I have to plan. I barely even taste the food because of it. ‘Hmm, but what will I have for breakfast…?’ When I was the mother of new babies; yes, they were cute and adorable and smelt wonderful and I loved them to bits, but I was looking forward to the time when they’d grow up a bit so I could get a decent night’s sleep.

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Why do I have this inability feel and experience happiness in the moment? Why is it always a reflective happiness? I’m great at looking back at how wonderful things were in the past; how I had it so good, what a great time I had back then. But at that time, I probably wasn’t having a ‘great time’ at all. I was almost certainly worrying about something else. Scotland was a prime example. On the journey there, I was anxious about catching the flight to Glasgow – what if we didn’t make it to the airport on time? Once we’d successfully caught the flight (and had a few nice days in Glasgow), I was stressing over catching the two ferries over to the Isle of Mull (I was actually irritated about the amount of times my husband was climbing out of the car to take pictures of the breath-taking highland mountains, in case we missed our ferry [mind you, he did spend an excessive amount of time taking photos – and we did nearly miss the last ferry]). And when our week’s break was over, I was stressing all the way home about catching the two return ferries and whether we would make the flight back to Bristol or not. Oh, and I was worrying about the cats too.

Partially, I realise this is might just be the affects of anxiety; a condition which I’ve been suffering with fairly recently (but that’s another story – a story I might write about in the future. But I’m waiting for a certain life event to take place first, y’now, to add a bit of colour. Watch this space). But I’ve always had this inability to feel (in the present) – always.

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Right now, whilst I’m writing this blog, I’m sort of enjoying writing it because I like writing and spilling my guts to you all. But I’m worrying that there aren’t enough jokes in it, or you’ll be thinking that I’m turning into an incessantly whiny b*tch. And when I’ve finished penning this blog and edited it, I won’t be able to sit back and feel pleased, since the blog-clock will just reset and I’ll be worrying about the next blog I have to write. I’m also worrying about some content writing I need to be getting on with for a company blog this week – I’ll be stressing about where I’ll find the time to crowbar that in too. My mind is always looking forwards; to the next task or scheduled event, and I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick to the back teeth of overthinking every little goddamn thing. My life is just a series of tasks, and it’s my job to tick them all off the list one by one – tick, tick, tick. There’s no sense of satisfaction, no sense of pride, no pat on the back for a job well done; just a continual and perpetual list of things to do, hurdles to jump over, and stepping stones to traverse. But a holiday should be a break from all that, right?

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So, now I’m awaiting my next holiday – another chance to have a break from real life – in August. And this time, I’m determined. I’m determined to enjoy it. Not in the future as an afterthought, not as a reflection in a blog post, but I’m determined to enjoy it THEN AND THERE. I’m going to sit back and enjoy the scenery; the impressive architecture, the different and flavourful food, the laughs and fun we’ll have along the way. I’m highly unlikely to miss the flight, and the cats will be fine (have you seen the intricacies of my pet feeding instruction list?). It’s a holiday, that’s why we go to the trouble of doing these things. We save up and book off the time and get excited. We go to experience something different from the mundane cyclical nature of life; to take a breather from it all. And this time, I’m going to really let myself experience it. Either that, or I won’t. But I’m going to give it a damn good try.

NB: If you want to SEE a little footage of my holiday to Scotland, my talented blogger/vlogger daughter, ‘Ennie How’, has created a cool YouTube video about what we did and saw. It’s pretty funny, and you get to see me haplessly falling into a stream and singing the ‘Rainbow‘ theme tune. So I’d advise you go and watch it, because who wouldn’t want to see that? If you’re interested, please click HERE.

Let’s be F.R.I.E.N.D.S

 

 

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Am I a cynic or is this a bit ‘bleugh’?

This is a subject that I’ve been thinking about (and largely feeling a bit guilty about) for a long time. But a recent glut of inspirational photos on social media about friends and their virtues and how time and distance cannot deteriorate friendships has begun to grate on my nerves. Enough that it prompted me to write a post about it. Sometimes, real life friendships aren’t as effortless as all that. Because sometimes, people have complicated lives. Sometimes, people are a bit lazy. And sometimes, people are, well…not fictitious characters on a sitcom.

Did you ever watch ‘Friends’ in the 90s? Don’t lie. I bet you did. Even if you’re not from that era, you will have watched the reruns. It was a popular TV show. The writing was very good – it was amusing, and it stood the test of time. But I remember watching it the first time around. I remember being obsessed with it. And I didn’t just like it for the witty characters and ‘possible’ romantic relationships woven throughout the show’s ten seasons (hurry up and get it together, Ross and Rachel!). It was the fact that this was a group of companions who were so close, they were more akin to family. I recall how I used to secretly envy this group of six fictional people. How wonderful it must be to have a hand-made clan in your life; sitting around coffee shops all day with your best buds in the whole world.

Looking back, I don’t know why I was envious of this TV ‘gang’. I’ve actually experienced group-friendships (or something like it) a few times in my life. I’ve had sets of friends who I’ve been so close to, we virtually lived in each other’s pockets. And at the time, it’s wonderful. You feel, oh I don’t know, just terribly lucky. Lucky to have been chosen as part of that little gang. Because suddenly you’re a tribe, and you belong. But the thing is, no matter how close those friendships are, no matter how certain you are that bonds that strong can never be broken, that close-knit unit never seems to last. Well, not for me, anyway.

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Of course, I have many friends from the past that I’m still friends with now. But not in the same way. Time, distance, change in personal circumstances – they all take their toll on friendships. Life gets in the way. What particularly vexes me are those inspirational pictures that suggest that no matter how long it has been since you’ve seen old friends, you instantly pick up where you left off when you meet. I mean, that’s nice and all, but often it isn’t like that. If I haven’t seen somebody for a long time, at first it can be a bit awkward. A lot has changed. You have changed and they have changed. There may have been kids and jobs and partners and life traumas you have absolutely no idea about. You can’t just jump right back into that laugh-a-minute relationship you once had. Yes, after a while, you usually start to warm up a bit, and those old memories do come flooding back. Sometimes those old friendships do fall back into place and are re-established. But it isn’t always instantaneous to rekindle those links and ties. There are a lot of years to catch up on.

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Perhaps it’s just me – maybe I’m a horrible person (although I prefer to think of myself as a frank person). I’ve always said I’m difficult to know. And if I’m honest (and I don’t think this blog conveys it enough), just like the rest of my family, I suffer from shyness. Luckily, mine is not debilitating. It’s concealed under a tissue of quick-fire gags, but it’s just a cover for shyness, all the same. I don’t expect to be automatically likeable, I’m always surprised when people do click with me. Popularity doesn’t worry me anymore, I quite like who I am, but I’m not easy to understand (no, not in a cool and enigmatic way, just in an awkward one). So I respect the people who are prepared to put in the work to know me. Why they do it, I’ll never understand. Because I’m terrible at maintaining relationships – putting in the continuous effort that this requires. I come from a family of six children (maybe this is why I don’t try as hard as I should to maintain other relationships) and I’m not often in regular contact with my siblings either. I deeply regret that I didn’t call my late sister on a weekly basis – because now she’s gone and I can’t ever speak to her again. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but I don’t think I have. Still, family seem to forgive you for your inadequacies – maybe because you’re ‘blood’ and they have to. But friends don’t have to forgive your lack of input. And why should they?

Perhaps it’s something about us writers as a whole (sorry fellow writers, these may not be your opinions and sentiments, I can only voice my own). But writers spend half their lives (probably more) living in a fictional world. We often have one foot outside of our realities on a semi-permanent basis. Being a writer can make you a bad mother, a bad partner, a bad sister, a bad daughter – and a bad friend. Well, sometimes it can. It’s hard to step out of your fictional life and into the real one which is often harsher and crueller than the one you’ve created in your head. And maybe the problem is, us writers are never really alone or get the chance to feel lonely, we always have another existence to fall back on. And yet I’m still ‘a friend’ (mother/partner/sister/etc) of sorts. I’m just one that flits in and out of those roles perhaps more than I ought to.

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There are a tonne of TV shows like ‘Friends’; shows with idyllic group-friendships we all aspire to. I’m probably guilty of writing about this fantasy version of friendship too. Maybe we all romanticise it – because we wish it were so. Maybe it isn’t a fantasy for many people, but it doesn’t ever seem to be sustainable for me. The depressing fact is, life and the curve-balls it throws, it distracts me from the work that is required to maintain those fragile bonds. And they are fragile. ‘I’ll be there for you’? Well, I’ll really try – but I can’t promise. Sometimes my own crap will be drowning me at the time. Sometimes, I’ll be so exhausted I won’t have the energy. It doesn’t mean I don’t care or I’m not a real friend, I’m just an elusive one – at times. And I don’t expect you to always be there for me either. Real life isn’t like that.

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Had to throw this in as my fave inspirational quote of all time

This isn’t the first time I’ve talked about friendship and my complex relationship with it. I’m not exactly obsessed with the topic, but it interests me. Mostly, I’d just like to express regret for the old friendships I have let dwindle; for the people who I once knew many years ago – who I now only interact with on social media, but nothing more. Or the ones I have let slide completely. I didn’t mean for it to happen – but it just did. If I ever got the chance, I’d fix those bonds; to re-establish what we had – keeping in mind that I’m a different me and you’re a different you. But if you’re prepared to stick around despite that, and tolerate the inconsistent being that is me, then I’m a good friend to have. No, I am. Well, I’m a good laugh down the pub, at least. I might be in your life for years, maybe even forever. Drifting in and out. Not like a Rachel or a Monica, in all probability – but perhaps more like a Phoebe.

Fantastic Cats and How to Feed Them

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Okay, I confess it, I’m writing about cats again. But only because I simply have to. Or rather, because I’m trying to kill two birds with one stone. A) We’re on holiday in the Isle of Mull (Scotland) and I needed to write an instruction letter to my daughter’s friend about how to feed our cats. And B) I require a blog post. I haven’t posted in a while, and people might think I’ve packed the writing lark in. So I’m doing a bit of recycling – because I’m all about conserving energy. And this will do.

Hello Georgie!

Thank you so much for agreeing to come in daily and take care of our crazy cats, Slim (aka Big Girl/Biggie) and Kirby (aka Little Girl/Little Cat). I thought it best to leave a few instructions, but do whatever fits in with your day.

You will already have the back-door key attached to a lanyard, so let yourself in. We’ve left you a sum of cash in the envelope for all your hard work, and the Easter Egg is for you too! Happy Easter! Help yourself to tea and coffee and anything else from the fridge or cupboard. But there isn’t much. Unless you really like soup and tinned tomatoes. There is a stack of sugar-free chocolate, though (I’m the only one who eats it) but do feel free to partake if your chocolate egg begins to makes you want to barf.

The cat flap has only been in place for a few weeks. Kirby has mastered getting in and out without difficulty (tuxedo cats are very smart). Slim, not so much. She has become a bit of a house-cat of late, and doesn’t like to go out very often, or for very long. Or very far. But we are hoping that desperation will force her to use the cat flap. We are leaving the shed door open if all else fails, with a little bed inside. This is a risk, as I’m hoping every cat in the area doesn’t decide to use it as a latrine. If Slim gets left out, she can get back in on your next visit. Or she will have overcome her fear of ‘the ‘ole’ – as she probably calls it. I imagine.

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Food

Our cats don’t particularly like one another. Sad but true. Well, it’s Slim who despises Kirby, really. Even though she’s her mother. The maternal bond has evidently died a long time ago. I have a strong suspicion Slim has been trying to sell Kirby on eBay with a starting price of 99p – or ‘buy it now’ for £5.00 with free postage and packing. I don’t know how she intends to spend the money, she has no pockets – or concept of monetary value.

All cat food is in the white cupboard just to the left of the back door as you come in.

Anyway, Slim eats her food in front of the washing machine, and Kirby eats her food beneath the oven. And because the cats refuse to stand side-by side, I have provided you with two automated cat feeders. Each is placed beside each cat’s food bowls. Please stagger the opening of the feeders so that each cat can expect another two meals during the day (in addition to the meal you have placed in the ordinary food bowls). You can leave out cat biscuits (nibblets) at your discretion. I will leave the out automated cat feeder instruction leaflet, but you just set the number of hours in which you want each meal to open.

Just as an aside, Kirby tends to only eat the fish-flavoured sachets, while Slim will eat anything. Because she’s a pig. And Kirby loves the gravy best. In fact, don’t be surprised if she eats only gravy. That’s how she rolls. One sachet per cat-feeder compartment should be fine. If they’re not happy with that, they can go out and eat mice and birds. Who do they think they are? Princesses?

Please top up the water bowls daily too. I don’t think either of the cats drink from these; they prefer disgusting, putrid puddles outside or drinking from the toilet bowl. But I like to show willing – knowing they have access to clean water if they need it. Which they won’t.

The cat food cupboard also contains treats. They very much like ‘Dreamies’ and ‘Meaty Sticks’. Particularly ‘Meaty Sticks’. You can give the cats treats as you see fit. Ask them about their conduct and behaviour first, though, to see if they deserve them.

 

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Litter Trays

There are two trays of wood-chip cat litter in the downstairs toilet. I was hoping with the arrival of the cat flap, that the cats would no longer use the litter and go outside. Wishful thinking. I guess I was expecting a bit too much of those pesky kitties to learn to use a chip-activated cat flap and to do their business outside in such a short space of time. I think they do sometimes wee and poo outside, but without CCTV surveillance footage, I can’t prove it.

When you come in once a day, if you’d be so kind as to chuck any poos down the loo with the pooper-scooper and flush away. The wood-chips need to be changed regularly (if you don’t mind). Just chuck the used woodchips in the green recycle bin outside and replace from the massive bag of woodchips in the downstairs loo.

Sleeping

Slim likes to sleep in a designated place for about two weeks, then she moves on (for security purposes). Currently Erin’s bedroom is flavour of the month. Kirby likes to sleep in the basket outside my bedroom (to be close to me, one would assume. Which is understandable). I am going to close my bedroom door so neither cat can get in. The carpet is very new and ridiculously pale, and I would rather not arrive home to poo or cat sick on the palest carpet known to man. I don’t know why we got that colour, really, it wasn’t sensible – having two predominantly black cats.

Anyway, I hope all that information is helpful. If you need any advice or assistance, feel free to call my mother-in-law. She is popping in on the days you can’t do, and will be pleased to help. Gareth and I might not have any mobile reception – being on the Isle of Mull. We may be cut off from civilization entirely. I don’t think they live in mud huts or anything, but I understand there isn’t a full-time doctor or nurse on the island, so we’d better not get sick. Therefore, we might not be that easy to contact.

So, thanks again, Georgie. You don’t know how much your help means to us. I love those kitties dearly, but they are also the bane of my life, and going on holiday comes with great stress because of them. But a bit of separation is good for everyone. Perhaps they’ll appreciate me a little better when I get home. Well, Slim won’t. She doesn’t give a rat’s if I live or die. If I was an automated feeder which would operate forever, she’d be happy.

Thanks Georgie, and Happy Easter! Xxx

Adele, G, Erin and Ibby

NB: and I hope you lot have had a Happy Easter too! Just think, after reading this, any of you will now be fully equipt to feed my cats – so expect a call this summer. Lucky you! Right, I’m on my way home as we speak to see the level of damage the cats have caused…

Exit Stage Left

 

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Me as Starbuck.

This coming Monday, I am taking my youngest child to her first drama class (since giving up gymnastics. Yay!). And I’m not sure why, but I’m apprehensive for her. I know she’s a little bit concerned about being ‘the new girl’ again – who wouldn’t be? But she’s such a lovely, bubbly character, I’m sure she’ll take no time to fit in. What’s more, she’s a great little actress and singer, so I feel sure this is the club for her. But this new venture for my daughter has led me to thinking, perhaps now I have a little more time on my hands (not much, I’m just not writing a book at the moment, I’m not exactly footloose and fancy free, y’know), the time may have come to get back into the theatrical life myself.

A couple of weekends ago, my family and I attended an amateur production of ‘Little Shop of Horrors’. I wasn’t truly excited about going, I have a bit of phobia about taking my kids to the theatre now, since the last time we did so, my daughter threw up all over me during ‘Hairspray’. But I’m so glad we did attend. The show was amazing; both the acting and singing was top notch. During the show, I was quietly thinking to myself, I could do this. But only quietly, mind you. And it wasn’t until my husband coincidentally mentioned later that day that I really ought to join a musical theatre group (it must be the singing in the shower) that I started to take the notion seriously. Yes, I’ve been bitten by the am-dram bug again.

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Me as Axl Rose.

This won’t be my first foray into the thespian life. I’ve always been able to act and sing fairly well since childhood (I’m not Judy Garland, but I’m alright), but never pushed myself. Apart from being chosen to play Mary in the Nativity Play in primary school (with a musical solo and everything, not just riding around on a fake donkey), I didn’t get chosen for the lead parts during school auditions. And I could never understand why. Perhaps I’m a bit biased (not perhaps, I am), but during these try-outs, I felt sure I was hands-down the best there. I did. However, evidently I was the only person in the room who thought so, because more often than not, the teachers would just stick me in the chorus line. I used to tell myself it was because I was too good and would make the rest of the cast look a bit average. But being the honest forty-five-year-old I now am, I now think, which idiot teacher wouldn’t pick a child for a leading character because they were ‘too good’? Rather, it was more likely that these people wouldn’t know talent if it spat in their face. Which I very much felt like doing at the time.

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Me as Britney.

Later on, when I was about eighteen or nineteen, I joined a theatre group which rehearsed somewhere in West London in the evenings. This class even gave me the push to try out for a drama school, which I did. But I didn’t get in (those people can’t have known talent if it spat in their faces either). But I suppose my drama group helped me to gain some certification in the craft of acting, and that was about it. There was an awful lot of travelling about at night on ‘the tube’ – coming from East London, as I did – and after a mugging incident (I kid you not [I was the muggee, not the mugger]), I decided to quit. The teachers, a married theatrical couple in their late-fifties, were really rather irritating anyway; some would say ‘up their own arses’. Actually, that was me. I would say that. Those people were everything I dislike about the theatre industry – ‘darling’ this and ‘sweetie’ that, even a sprinkling of ‘luvvy‘ on occasion. I don’t think I could have gone on much longer stifling my eye-rolling. So leaving the group was no big loss to my life.

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Me on an awkward train journey dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo (red is not my colour).

I’ve been a very busy girl ever since – gaining my nursing diploma, having a family, writing a few books and blogging, so I’ve never got back into acting. Until now. Well, I say now, but I’ve done literally nothing about this new idea that has come into my head. I’ve looked into a few local musical theatre groups (and non-musical, but I think I’d prefer if there was some singing involved). If I’m going to really commit this, it’s going to have to be very local, or I just won’t show up. I’m incredibly apathetic where my spare time is concerned. So I have to give myself a fighting chance of sticking this out (i.e., only having to wander down the road). And it’s going to have to fall on a night that isn’t taken up with my family’s endeavours too. There’s nothing much going on in the am-drams world that I’m especially interested in, as we speak. But in autumn, there are some auditions being held for a musical production in our town. I’ve long thought of joining this particular theatre group, but something else always got in the way. Life, children, sitting on the sofa, that kind of thing. And I’ve got to reiterate, writing the books has always been my top priority, so I’d put this ambition on a back-burner until recently.

The upcoming musical in question is called ‘Pirates of Men’s Pants’ (a reworking of Pirates of Penzance, presumably). If I’m honest, this sounds just a wee bit awful and doesn’t in the least bit inspire me to show up for try-outs. But these are just first impressions, of course. It may well be a wonderful production – and could possibly benefit from an glittering appearance from yours truly. Or they’ll just stick me in the chorus line – as per usual.

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Me as Mary Quant (just me in a series of silly wigs, really).

Anyway, these are the plans. Not fixed plans in any way shape or form, but plans none the less. So come autumn, I may be writing a blog post about my excruciating, never-to-be-repeated, audition experience. It’ll be a good’n. I try to salvage something from every horrible event of my life by writing a blog about it – there’s always got to be a positive. Oh, if you’re local and you fancy coming along for moral support (and to audition too, of course), please let me know. You might just make the difference between me showing up, or me staying home and slobbing-out on the sofa instead. See you there? We can stand together in the chorus line on show night, bitching about the woman who stole our leading role. Now, where did I put my jazz shoes?

PS: I really ought to worry more about who actually reads this blog. I think most am-dram groups would probably blacklist me after this. But you know me, it’s all tongue in cheek. On the whole.

PPS: I do hope all future theatre productions involve wigs. As you see, I have a fair few of them, so I can happily provide my own.

Let’s Get Quizzical

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The time of year has come again for the annual and much celebrated ‘Pop Quiz’ held at my daughter’s primary school. Yay! I have a bit of a thing for quizzes; I like to exercise my knowledge (or lack of) against others whenever possible. And I particularly like pop quizzes as I’ve always had a bit of an aptitude for music trivia. I mean, I wouldn’t put myself up for Mastermind or anything, but I’m okay.

Every year, approximately eighteen to twenty teams of six come together to pit their wits against one another. They’re usually parents (and friends of those parents) of the school kids. It has been known to see teams with not one member familiar to us from the school playground. We sometimes wondered whether they were professional quiz-goers who toured the South West looking to win quizzes. I don’t know why, there certainly isn’t any monetary gain. But I guess we all do it for the accolade.

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If you knew me better than you cared to, you would notice I have the tendency to be a little bit competitive. At least I can be when I have a ghost of a chance. For instance, I wouldn’t be remotely competitive about a 25 yards race across the length of a swimming pool, and that’s because I’m a crap swimmer. But you should try playing against me at ‘Trivial Pursuit’ (you shouldn’t, you’d go right off me). And what’s worse, at this quiz, they only serve wine (I don’t drink wine), beer (I don’t drink beer), or gin and tonic mixers (I do drink gin and tonic, hoorah!). Unfortunately, gin makes me a tad on the aggressive side. Perhaps that’s why they call gin ‘mother’s ruin’, I don’t know. I ought to look it up, but I can’t be bothered – you’re welcome to. But ‘aggressive’ and ‘competitive’ can be an ugly mix.

I’ve been attending this quiz for nigh-on ten years and I haven’t missed a single year. Somewhere along the line, we have christened ourselves ‘The Quizlamic Extremists’. And much to my disgust, we have never won. But I guess it isn’t all about the winning (it is…ha-ha, I’m joking…I’m not). Our usual finishing position is third. We used to fight for that position with another regular team, ‘Lionel’s Itchy’. But now ‘Lionel’s Itchy’ have taken over the running of the quiz – and they do a sterling job of it too. Still, that first or second place continues to elude us – it appears to be something completely out of our reach. In recent years, the top two teams are always the same people, we try to be pragmatic and stoical and not hate them too much. But we do. The winners have been known to parade around the school hall at the end of the quiz, boastful and triumphant over the rest of us. B@stards (not that I’m bitter or anything).

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This year, we are a team member down. So a mere five of us will be left to do battle against the rest of the room. Our hip-hop and Bob Dylan expert will be missing and is going to be a great loss to us. But he has to be ‘out of town’ he says, ‘on business’ he says. Some invalid reason like that. All I know is, we need to sit down and discuss his poor sense of priorities one of these days. And if ever I question somebody new about their music knowledge to see if they’d like to fill the vacant spot on our team, they come over all flustered and swear blind they ‘know nothing about music’. Perhaps I put too much pressure on people…? I must reiterate, it’s not like we can feasibly win. But we must give it our all. And as far as replacement team members within the school goes, we seem to have burnt our bridges…

There have been fall-outs with former team members who weren’t invited onto the QEs in subsequent years.There has been minor bickering with other teams who’ve been caught using Google to find out all the answers. Sometimes things get heated. I don’t know why because it’s just a quiz; a school-run night with proceeds going to the school – a mere game. But such is the importance of this school quiz; it can sour friendships, it seems. Either that or it’s just a bit of a strange school. Or we’re too competitive. Or I am. I’m not sure anymore. But on the whole, it’s fun. Honest.

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If my brother or his wife lived closer, I’d ask one of them to fill the QE vacancy this year. Their music knowledge (not to mention general knowledge) is second to none. Mind you, if they were on our team, I would be absolutely surplus to requirement. Because we had the same upbringing, my brother has exactly the same music knowledge as me – plus a lot more on top. Once, we visited them where they live in a little village in Wales, attending their local pub’s quiz night. I think my husband and I averaged answering one or two questions each. I did have to overrule once and put my foot down that, ‘it was The Osmonds, not The Jacksons’ (I remember, I answered little else). Other than that, everything else was fielded by my brother and my sister-in-law. It was embarrassing, really. Our team won that night, of course, but the team would have won whether my husband and I were sitting at that table or not. Turns out, winning ‘aint that special if you have bugger-all to do with it.

I’m writing this in the days leading up to the quiz so I can’t tell you the outcome yet. I can tell you we won’t be the winners though, that’s a cert – I’ve long given up hope. I really ought to be getting myself clued-up up on music trivia as we speak, but there’s little point. Music trivia is vast; you either know it or you don’t – so it’s best to wing it. For some odd reason, there seems to be an annual question about Paolo Nutini – at least there was before ‘Lionel’s Itchy’ took over. I think the former quiz-master had a bit of a thing for him… So you see, there’s just no telling what the questions may be. It’s either your era or it isn’t.

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Overall, quiz-night is simply a nice night out with friends; exercising your general knowledge, a good opportunity to drink gin and be overly-competitive and a tad aggressive. And we keep showing up because this quiz is now a part of our local tradition and culture. Yes, culture. Next year though, my youngest child will go on to secondary school and I won’t have any kids at this primary school anymore. The year after that, all of the regular team members’ children will have moved on too. When that day comes, I suppose I will have to think about hanging up my quiz hat. It will be for the best. For now, though, the QEs solder on; fighting tooth and nail for the coveted position of third place (at the very best). And alas, I will probably have to spend yet another year watching the winning team conga around the room with an inflatable bottle of champagne. B@stards. Now, where did I put my G&T…?

PS: Last night the QEs came…*drumroll*….THIRD. Again. Gahh (I’m fairly pleased, really)!!!

PPS: There was an Irish dancing round last night (because it was St Patrick’s Day), and Danielle from our team absolutely nailed it. But didn’t win. I just want to point out that in Irish dancing, if done properly, you would have your arms fixed at your sides and would be poker-faced, as Danielle expertly displayed. Still, we’re not bitter or anything.

Note to Self

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In recent months, I’ve noticed a number of vloggers and bloggers writing or reading an open ‘Letter/Note to My Younger/Former Self’ (sometimes it’s future self [Captain Kirt, Rahul Singh])  It’s an exercise in writing a letter to your childhood/juvenile self; things you would like to tell the mini-you of a bygone era if you had the chance. Well, I thought I’d like to have a crack at that (plus, it’s a good, if flimsy, excuse to post some old photographs!). The only trouble was, I was somewhat ill-tempered when I wrote it. I’d just accidentally posted a blog that wasn’t even a fraction finished (my phone did it in my back pocket, actually) and had to go around thirty-thousand social media sites where it had also accidentally ‘shared’ to delete the bloody thing. Not to mention all the people that were emailed some piss-poor version of a blog that didn’t even have the decency to have photos in it…or much writing (sorry, if you were one of those people). That blog no longer exists. I may or may not write it again. Anyway, I was in a bloody foul mood – so this letter I penned is a tad on the maudlin side, and perhaps I’m a little harsh with childhood-me. Though, I always claim I write better when I’m angry or in complete rage (which I was). But then, perhaps you ought to be the judge of that.

“Dear Adele,

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I’m you. Well, I’m you when you’re forty-five years old. ‘Forty-five?’ I bet you’re saying, ‘that’s ancient!’. Well actually, it isn’t, you irritating little git. Now shut up for a minute and listen. You’re an arrogant sod. Come on, admit it, you are. It’s not your fault; you only ever turned out like that as a coping mechanism to handle your childhood circumstances. You come from meagre beginnings – it’s your way of surviving that; your way of living with the knowledge that there are so many things you will never have. So you bolster yourself up with faked conceit; an ideology that you ‘will be somebody’. And that conceit will come in handy sometimes. But the problem is this; this theory that you’re meant for better things – it won’t really do you a great deal of good. You believe the world owes you something because you’re ‘special’. However, I’m the older version of you, and it turns out that you never really were that special. No more than anybody is special. But right now, you assure yourself you have a God-given right to have ‘great’ things happen to you. And I’m afraid it doesn’t quite pan out that way.

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You’re not going to like it when I tell you what you actually end up doing for a living. You might even want to sit down. You become a registered nurse. I know, I know, it just happens. You literally ‘fall into it’. It comes about after the Metropolitan Police turn down your application (their loss). But don’t worry, it turns out to be a good thing. I promise you, being a nurse was good for you. It taught you a lot; it stood you in good stead. Plus, all the greatest people that come into your life come via nursing. So don’t knock it. AND it gets you out of London- that’s what you always wanted. You don’t end up living in ‘the sticks’ like you planned, but I’d say your lifestyle is…semi-rural. Okay, nursing is a far cry from all those heady dreams you had, but if you had the chance to change it, I’d urge you not to. Oh, and as far as your heady dreams go, there are a couple of things you need to know.

First off, you never do become a famous singer. Well, not before you’re forty-five anyway, you’ll have to ask an older version of you if you want information past that date. And after forty-five, it’s not that likely. Not unless you get through to ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ (it’s a TV show a bit like ‘New Faces’…oh, never mind). Now let’s face it, you just weren’t that good at singing. I mean, you were alright, but you were never really one for hard graft – the graft it would take to be successful at it. And (despite what you tell yourself) you’re a little bit too self-conscious. Oh, and you don’t become a famous actress either. You were too self-conscious for that too. Soz.

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This is why you never comb curly hair…

The good news is you do end up publishing a book. In fact, you publish three (that I know of). Now chill your boots, you don’t get a publishing deal. In my time, anybody can publish a book. It’s called self-publishing. These days, a lot of people bypass agents and publishers and do it all by themselves. You write a book and you upload it to the Internet (a global computer network providing a variety of information and communication facilities, consisting of interconnected networks using standardized communication protocols. I Googled that. Please don’t ask me what Google is. I’ll be here all day. I’m not going to explain ‘uploading’ either). Uploading your book to ‘Amazon’ (an online book seller, amongst other things) takes five minutes. Actually, it takes a bit longer than that. Filling out the tax section and bank details takes forever – you have to ring your bank and everything to get an IBAN and a SWIFT and a BACCS number. I know, it’s really, really boring. Don’t worry, the grown-up you ends up doing all of that. But once all that is sorted, the book-publishing lark is easy-peasy. But you and every other bugger does it. You’re a little fish in a big and over-saturated pond – of books. I’m afraid you’re never terribly successful (as far as this version of you knows), but oddly, people do seem to like what you do. What’s more, once you get past the pretentious teenager phase and find your true voice, YOU like and believe in what you do too. So that’s the important thing. You even end up writing a weekly ‘blog’ (it’s like an online diary that lots of people you know [and don’t know] read). People seem to like this blog as well. Who knew. Never give up. Never be dissuaded or discouraged by other people. Keep on writing. Ultimately – one way or another – it ends up being the thing that defines you.

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Lynn and I posing for England.

Now, there is something important I have to tell you. I’m afraid I can only hint at it because there’s only so much one person ought to know about their future. Not long before you turn forty, something really awful happens. There’s nothing you can do to change it, it just happens. Life is crap like that sometimes. But this thing – it changes you. It knocks the last of that arrogance right out of you. It changes your outlook on life; your glass is never quite as full as it was. You’re never quite the same. But you do survive it; you do find a kind of closure. Kind of. The only reason I’m telling you now is – I want you to cherish your family. Cherish your brother and sisters and your mother – try to even cherish your father, if you can (I know you hate him right now, but it’s not all his fault. He doesn’t know any better). Be kind to your loved-ones as you grow up. That’s all I’m allowed to say.

On a brighter note, you marry a very nice man. Don’t say ‘ugh!’. I know you hate boys right now, but one day you won’t and you end up meeting the right one for you when you’re twenty-six. Again, that probably sounds ancient to you, but it isn’t in the scheme of things. Oh, and you have two lovely children. Seriously, they’re lovely. Complete strangers come up to you in restaurants and tell you how polite and well-behaved they are. I know. They obviously don’t inherit that from you. Your family is your greatest achievement in life, that’s something the forty-five-year-old you needs to impress upon you. You’ll never be alone. You’re finally a part of a unit, and not a dysfunctional one this time. Be happy about that. Be proud of that. You’re not the best mother in the whole entire world, but I believe your children will remember you fondly. Oh, by the way, morning sickness is relentless and childbirth is a bitch. Soz. Can’t help you there.

[image error]So, little Adele. I’m sorry if you find this letter a little mixed in its optimism for a bright future. From where I’m sitting now, you fair okay. You don’t set the world on fire, but perhaps you create a little spark. I know you’ll just narrow your eyes and shake your curly-haired head and refuse to accept that outcome. And that’s okay. Your self-centredness isn’t an entirely bad thing. It sees you through the rough times. It stops you being trodden on. You don’t take a great deal of crap from anyone – and that’s good. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just temper that conceit with a little humility, if you can. It’s pretty much one big act anyway – I know, I’m you.

Oh, and by the way, when you write these ‘blog posts’ that I was talking about, always write them in a ‘word document’ before you let them anywhere near ‘Wordpress’. And don’t even think of writing the blog on your ‘iPhone’, then get distracted by a hungry and meowing cat, and stick the ‘live’ phone in your back pocket. I know, I know, you have no bloody clue what I’m talking about. But you will.

Take care and lay off the chocolate (keeping trim is a lifelong struggle for you. Again, soz).

Love,

xx Adele (the bigger one)”

What would you say in a letter to your child-self? Would you give yourself a few gentle warnings, or would you be happy to let things play out the way they did?

Oh, and another thing, if you’re the kind of person who likes to read real books, ‘Foreign Affairs’ (the third and final part of the ‘International Relations’ saga) is now out in PAPERBACK! If you would like a copy to prop open a heavy door, just click here.