George Carlin, you're my hero

"How come when it's us, it's abortion, but when it's a chicken, it's an omelette"

There's a new clinic in Ireland.
Well actually it's in Belfast.
And actually you can only avail of this up to the nine week stage.
Oh and actually you must be able to provide proof that to continue on with this pregnancy, that your mental or physical health is in danger.
And before I forget, if you live in the Republic of Ireland, you actually still technically have to travel to a different country to avail of the service.

     I could go on with the terms and conditions, but I won't. Abortion involves many different procedures from simply taking a pill to make the lining of your womb inhospitable to the egg, to surgical dilation and removal up to twenty-four weeks of pregnancy. It's not pleasant for anyone involved, and I cannot imagine what someone must be feeling when they make the decision to do this. Any female with a working uterus and fully functioning fallopian tubes can fall pregnant, not just people who are careless, people who go out solely looking for a shag, people who practise safe sex and those who don't, people who are doing it for the very first time on their fifteenth birthday or the fortieth time on their anniversary holiday, it can and does happen. There are of course ways and means to prevent an unwanted pregnancy, the pill, condoms, the coil, the implant, abstaining etc known preventatives  but still sometimes, every so often, the strongest swimmer will earn his stripes and get to the egg before his buddies do and boom: Preggersville: Population 2. Because at the end of the day, that's what pregnancy is, it's a woman and her body carrying a child.

     I cannot tell you what I would do in the situation where I found myself pregnant, because it has never happened to me. But as a woman, there has been a scare or two along the road, happening at different stages of my life and both having different reactions to the same situation. It happened first when I was nineteen and I was late. Not a couple of weeks late, but enough days had passed for me to begin to panic. We've all been there! For me, a termination was the only option. There wasn't a hope in hell I could ever have brought a child into this world. Having to tell my parents, having to let the extended family know, having to tell people at work, having to carry on with a pregnancy that I didn't want to have a child that I couldn't cope with, would have been too much for my nineteen year old self to deal with. I had already started making plans in my head to call my sister, tell her what happened, somehow raise the money to get rid of it and then carry on as is possible normal. The other scenario happened a while back, and this time instead of panicking, I actually coped OK with the thought of me, Laura Child Allergic, having a kid. I thought, yeah, I could do this, I've not got much money but if there were a child on the way I could start saving. I have a good job with a maternity leave clause, I'm old enough to kind of settle down and be a bit more responsible, I could actually maybe do it? I could have a baby? Lucky for me, nature stepped in and I wasn't pregnant. But despite all the precautions I had taken, it could have happened. And it does. And who knows, if I had been actually pregnant at nineteen and decided not to terminate it, but to have it, where I would be now or how my life would have ended up. But surely it's my choice right? It angers me that the country I am from, women still have to travel to the UK for this choice.

     So, really shouldn't there be that option for people like nineteen year old Laura who find themselves pregnant against (or precaution-less) the odds? Shouldn't there also be an option for the seventeen year old who was raped to be able to terminate the foetus that grew out of a frenzied sex attack? Shouldn't there be the option for any woman of any age who knows better than anyone else that her bringing this child into the world would be a bad mistake and wants to get rid of it? I'm not lobbying for abortion clinics to appear on every street corner, and I am disgusted with the people who use this service as a means of contraception. I'm looking for The Option. The Choice. A Woman's Right to Choose. Her right to make a decision for her body. Not a politician in a suit making it for her. Not someone who has never been in the throes of misery that an unwanted pregnancy can bring. Something this personal to a female should never be decided by someone else. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has said it better than I ever could. "The decision whether or not to bear a child is central to a woman's life, to her well being and dignity. When the government controls that decision for her, she is being treated as less than a full adult human responsible for her own choices". I agree wholeheartedly with her. It's not that I am pro-killing, I find it hard to kill a fly or a wasp, preferring to shoo them out of the house with a newspaper and an open window. You can choose to work or not to work. You can choose to go to college and university or not. You can choose which car you buy, which supermarket you shop in, or which airline you fly. So why, when the situation is a serious as whether or not you feel it's right to bring another person into this world, why does it create such a fuss. I choose Pro-Choice.

Coming out of the cleaning closet

I was watching television last night, thinking about how annoying adverts can be, when it struck me. There are ads featuring mums cleaning the house with help from the mysterious stranger who randomly pops up to give them handy tips for getting stains out of things. There's ads for sons and dads mucking about in the park or driving around in a swish BMW. There are ads for the whole family, seeing them out and about in their now unstained clothes getting out of their pristine new BMW while walking a dog. There are ads for couples looking for the best hotel room for that night. Where are the ads depicting gay families? It's not like there is a shortage of them is there? It's not like families with two mothers or two fathers don't also like getting stains out of clothes or driving around in new cars, so why are they not portrayed? 

     The ad that struck me as something that could really have broken a barrier, is the new Lynx ad, which shows men and women from around the world being suddenly drawn inexplicably to each other due to the (ahem) intoxicating smell of Lynx (now available in some putrid smell for women) ignoring the planet crashing down around them. How ground breaking would it have been, just in the midst of all this, without making a big deal, having the women drawn to each other every so often, or two of the men being attracted to each other. You know, just slip it in there, no fuss, no mess, just show it like it is?

     But they haven't. It seems to be that ad agencies pretty much around the world, are ignoring the huge amount of gay and lesbian couples and families that happen to live in the same world as the rest of us do, breathe the same air, eat the same food as us, and are exactly the same as us, they just happen to be attracted to the same sex. Why are they being cast aside? Surely Tom coming home from a hard days work and greeting Daniel who's cleaning the kitchen with this new fandango cleaning product with a kiss on the cheek, is just as accessible to people as seeing Tom coming home from a hard days work and greeting Susan who's cleaning the kitchen with this new fandango cleaning product with a kiss on the cheek? Do ad agencies and indeed the companies for whose products they ask these agencies to come up with marketing strategies for, not think that Tom and Daniel's home is just as important as Tom and Susan's? Do Claire and Rebecca's white shirts not need the same cleaning power of Vanish Oxi-Action as Rebecca and Stephen's shirts do? Do Karl and Stefan not want to invest in a new swish BMW with snazzy sound track and drive around a freakily deserted city? Or is that just for Stefan and Germaine to enjoy? Do Anna and Eva and their two children not deserve to be a bit too happy about the cleanliness and freshness of their toilet? Or is it strictly Anna, her husband Frank and their two children that should enjoy a gleaming loo?

     Of course not. Why should gay people enjoy these luxuries and delights? It's wrong! They're dirty! They're going against God! Against nature! And against cleaning product and new car laws. It's just plain wrong.

     Except it's not. Tom and Daniel, and Claire and Rebecca, and Karl and Stefan, and Anna and Eva are people. Just like me and you. With hair, teeth, eyebrows, eyes, mouth, chests, ribs, arms, legs, feet, bums, toes and fingers. They grow up, just like you and I did. They go to school, just like you and me. They go out, get drunk, vomit, eat a kebab, go to college, meet someone special, fall in love, want to get married, buy cleaning products, new cars, have children, get a dog, argue over the remote, the dishes, the hoovering etc. So why, when most of the human race is slowly coming around to the idea that just because you are gay, doesn't make you any different to any one else, why are these companies who's cleaning products, clothes, drinks, cars, shampoos are sold to gays, lesbians, straight people, transsexuals, cross-dressers, bi, old, young, little, large etc so slow to recognise that the families and relationships of this world are changing? That family no longer implies mum, dad and children. It implies, single mothers, single dads, grandparents in charge of children, step brothers and sisters, half brothers and sisters, two fathers, two mothers whatever! They need to recognise that the face of family can no longer by typified by what I outlined above, that it is changing rapidly, and they are falling behind for not keeping up. If I saw Tom and Daniel marvel at how clean Daniel got their floor due to some product, I wouldn't give a toss that it's Tom and Daniel, I would be more interested in my new fandango mop that does such a great job. 

     Which is why it has angered me that there is still such a debate as to having same sex marriages. Why oh why in this age of Aquarius and enlightenment,  is this a big deal? Two people fall in love, want to make the ultimate commitment to each other, get married and maybe have a family. I think that's lovely, really lovely and I say good luck to them. Isn't that really what most people want? Just to find someone to do this with, even if they don't bother getting married? Who are we to stand in the way of someone's happiness by condemning them for being dirty and it for being wrong? We are just people! Just like Anna and Eva are people! And why are One Million Mums lobbying NBC about a new show called The New Normal, in which a gay couple hire a surrogate to help them start a family? Apparently it's because it is desensitising their children. Which, when it comes to desensitising people of all ages to race, gender, sexuality, is surely a good thing?? I don't think children should be watching gratuitous sex and murder films, TV shows or computer games, but "subjecting" them to see people as people, and not type them in terms of gender etc is the way forward. 

Trooping around on the internet, I came across this video in support of same sex marriages. And that's all I have to say about that. Because the ad says it all really.

Adults of the revolution

     Try for a moment, to imagine yourself as a seventy-year old person. How do you envisage spending your retirement? In your own house, surrounded by your family and trinkets from your life that you know and love? In your villa in Spain with your partner or on your own? Or stuck in the alleyway of the Last Chance Saloon; the nursing home. With that in mind, imagine you have been diagnosed as suffering from dementia. Memories from your former life wiped away to the point where you find yourself forgetting why you are sitting in a certain chair, what you came into a room for, or who the person beside you is even though you have been speaking to them for an hour. Would you again, like to be in your own house, surrounded by your family and trinkets from your life that you know and love? Of course you would. Me too. But for many people suffering from dementia, even with the best intentions they end up in dull and clinical nursing homes, being prescribed a cocktail of medicine and drugs to keep them from "being difficult", having their daily life routine turned on its head to meet guidelines set in place by nursing home management. I know that these places would not be where I would want my parents to end up if we were not able to take care of them, and for myself personally, I would rather rot in my own house than enter into a soulless place like so many of these care homes are.

     However, there is an alternative, currently in practice in Holland, with a new one being rolled out in Switzerland and one on the books for opening in Germany. It really is a revolutionary place, currently being dubbed The Truman Show for dementia patients, and I for one, have been astounded by the amount of care, foresight, and thoughtfulness that has gone into turning one former care home of doom, into a model of how we would all like to end up when the time comes. To the naked eye, Hogewey  looks like a village you will find anywhere across Europe, with little grocery stores, cafés, restaurants, hairdressers and a cinema all located within easy reach of the apartment building where the residents of Hogewey live. But upon closer inspection, you will find that the check out person in the shop is actually specially trained to deal with dementia sufferers, the managers of the restaurants have degrees in mental health nursing, and so on. The residents, from all walks of life, are asked to fill in a survey to find out their likes and dislikes, their backgrounds, working lives, family lives, location of where they once lived, musical interests and are grouped into seven different categories judging by their answers. From there, instead of one central unit being the main living room for numerous residents of a home to congregate, the buildings have been divided up to share houses, accommodating an average of eight people, from generally the same backgrounds or religious beliefs. There are working class accommodation where by the staff are almost part of the family and can be found standing in the living room ironing the residents clothes while watching television with them. The upper class homes have servants, along the lines of Downton Abbey, whereby the staff are never seen, the silverware is always polished and the napkins neatly folded. They cater for people who have lived in the countryside all their lives, ditto people who are used to living in towns and cities. There is a pub, cookery clubs, wine tasting clubs, reading clubs, a local library, where perhaps if you were a bar man once upon a time, you can actually work behind the bar serving the other residents. It serves the purpose of people being looked after by health care professionals, yet are still able to keep hold of their former lives whereby they felt wanted and needed. 

     Why hasn't this been done before, is one of the many questions rolling around my head as I read more and more about Hogewey? Granted, you can expect to pay €5000 per month for this, but for the safety of knowing you or your family will be looked after without being smothered or left to rot in a magnolia painted room and staring at the walls. They have freedom to basically do what they want, but under the watch of people trained to look after them. In short, it seems an ideal solution for not only dementia sufferers, but for anyone reaching the care home age. Of course, with the UK and Ireland a Health and Safety regulated mess, could this ever work off the continent? I hope so. Hogewey's motto is Different til you Die, whereby they treat the individual rather than blanket treatment for anyone suffering from the debilitating disease of dementia. It's a place where they find out who the resident really is, and act accordingly to their needs. If I had my choice by the time that period rolls around for me, then Hogewey is where I would like to go, not some hospital-like home where you go by the homes routine, and not your own, eat food that you cook yourself, not something that magically arrives on your table as if from nowhere, where the stay chameleonise themselves to suit your needs and your lifestyle. 

     It's about time the elderly were treated with the respect they deserve, and with the dignity they should have. Think of any elderly person you know, be it your grandparents if you are lucky enough to have them, or a neighbour or a friend, and think about any of the stories they told you about their lives. Chances are, they had it tough for a long time, surviving wars and rations and poverty and high mortality rates, working hard for little money, striving to keep a family afloat. If any of us endured the hardships that most people over the age of seventy have gone through, you would want to see out your life in the way you are accustomed to. How thrilling does the prospect of a place like Hogewey seem, where you can live in a houseshare of like minded people, ones who enjoy a drink and a life, ones where people are quiet and keep to themselves, but still enjoy the company of others, or any other kind of lifestyle you can imagine. If, of course I am in no position but to go to a place like this, having no family around to look after me or being corpus mentos enough to take care of myself, then I will be booking myself a one way ticket to Hogewey. Different Til I Die: not just for the young uns. 

If I were a boy

Don't worry! There's no deep rooted feelings of transgenderism swirling about my brain, it's just a general musing. How much easier life would be to be a man sometimes. Think about it. I mean, everything from barely having to brush a finger through you hair in the morning, to not really giving a fudge about maternity leave, being on the other side of the gender tree seems a lot more appealing.
     Imagine getting up in the morning: shower, brush teeth, tighten up your tie, find matching (ish) socks, leave the house. How lovely would that be? If I were a boy\man, I would spring out of bed each day knowing that I only had to do the bare minimum of vanity maintenance before I left for work in the morning. You don't have to worry what your suit says about you, or do up a new tie each day (if you wear a suit and tie to work) or style and blow dry your hair each morning. You can not shave and still look perfectly presentable. You don't have to worry about your bag matching your coat, and your coat matching your shoes, and your shoes going with your bra (or something like that, I don't really know, I don't go in for all that in the morning) but you see what I am getting at yes? Try, as a woman, to get your head around a world that you didn't have to shave/wax your legs, underarms, bikini line, get your eyebrows under control, learn how to apply make up, know how you style your hair properly, have loads of make up/fake tan accoutrements, have shoes to match most occasions, buy a new outfit for every wedding you invited to, like children, suffer from period pains and periods in general, carry a baby, worry about being pregnant, get picked on for having small boobs, worry about the size of your arse, be afraid to walk home on your own after dark, getting a name for yourself if you sleep around, read chick lit, endure gossip magazines, worry about abortions, have cellulite, learn to walk normally in or even enjoy high heels. The list is endless!
     I wonder what I would look like as a boy/man? Would I be tall? Have the same kinky demented hair that I have? Still have brown eyes? Be hairy? Have permanent stubble? Big shoulders? Muscular arms? Good aim? Would I look like my brother? Drink beer? Be a skinny jeaned Kermit legged boy? Or a baggy trousered slightly shaggy kempt one? Would I be even lower maintenance than I already am? Or would I be back combed to buggery and guylinered from here to next Tuesday? Would I be funny, or boring, or intelligent? Would I shave my head just because I could? Would I grow a beard just for shits and giggles? Who knows!
     I like to think that I would live in jeans and t-shirts, would have medium length hair that required a bare minimum of grooming. My bathroom cabinet would not be chock full of things I don't really need, it would have aftershave, razor, tub of gel, some kind of moisturiser (man moisturiser of course) and condoms. My wardrobe would be as minimal as my bathroom toiletries, t-shirts, jeans, casual and smart, few shoes both casual and smart, few hats, few belts, few jackets. There, simple! As it is, and I don't really class myself as that much of an actual woman, I have an entire back door covered in hats and scarves, the bottom of the wardrobe is no longer visible due to some shoe population control issues, most of which I don't even wear or like. There is no more room for the twenty seven work and casual shirts I have hanging up, ditto for my belts, and the coat side of the wardrobe is at full capacity: no more room at the inn! The same with my chest of drawers, bursting to the seams with stuff! So much stuff that it nearly fell on top of me the other day when I was rooting through to find a pair of trousers, so heavy was one of the drawers with clothes. I don't need all this stuff, but would I really be any different if I were a guy? 
    That's just appearance, there are so many more things to wonder about if I suddenly woke up and were a guy. I would be able to switch my brain off whenever I was relaxing. Women's mental function always stays at five percent, even when we are sprawled on the couch doing nothing, there is always something tick tocking away in the backs of our minds.It could be anything from a wayward eyebrow hair that is annoying you (this happens me a lot) to a list of all you have to get through at work tomorrow, from thinking about where your white bra is to wear under your white top, to why that person on telly looks better than you do even though you look after yourself just as much as she does. This is just a generalisation, but we've all thought about it. Whereas as the lovely boys actually have the function to switch off completely and just enjoy the sprawl. Which is why we do (again, another generalisation) ask that question, what are you thinking about? Its not that we really want to hear what's going on inside your head, sometimes, it's that it never fails to amaze us that you actually could be thinking of nothing. Zilch.Nada. Emptiness! In our world, that doesn't happen. Even during sex, our minds aren't cleared to just fully enjoy the moment. There is always, perhaps deeply buried but ever present, or a lot closer to the surface, a thought of how unattractive your sex face is, or how your stomach isn't as flat as it could be and does your guy/girl notice it. Whereas ask a man what's going through his head when he is getting down and dirty, and they're just in the moment. Kind of infuriating isn't it?
     Can you try, as a female, to adopt the male approach to life? I'm not too sure, I think we are wired differently, no matter how much of a tomboy I think I am, there's still the weird woman gnawing away inside me dealing with shaving legs and matching clothes and having presentable hair and worrying about the fact that maybe I should start wearing make up and worrying about how others perceive me all the time. It's tough there, there are certain ways that a lady is expected to act, and that has been ingrained into my psyche for twenty-seven years, so to change the habit of a life time is quite a thing to attempt to do. But menfolk, go easy on us, I'm not saying it's not hard being a man either, but all it takes to ruin our day can be one misguided comment about our appearance or our reaction to something, and the good work unravels before our eyes. As a not so wise woman quoted in a script once: "every woman, whether shes 16 or 60, still has that awkward, insecure, self-conscious teenage girl inside of her"

Top o' the mornin' to ye

     It cannot be defined by my drinking capacity or my never ending thirst for divilment in all shapes and forms. It's not the way I speak or the way I take life a little less serious than some people. It's not even in my hatred of the rain or my suspicion of good sunny weather. It just is what it is, and I am what I am,  and what I am is Irish. It's a daily occurrence, being Irish, I wake up in the morning and hey presto, I'm Irish. I open my mouth, and my Irish accent and my Irish slang come toppling out. My outlook on life is Irish. I carry it around with me everywhere I go, it's on my passport, it's not an annual one day event, its a 24/7 365 days a year job. Which is why, I find that sometimes, St Patrick's Day, can grate on me just a tiny little bit.

     It feels so forced by times, it feels like we have to be in the best mood ever, drink ourselves into a stupor, be loud and obnoxious, curse and swear and generally make a nuisance of ourselves. Don't get me wrong, we're not all like this. But the same small group of people that have made sure all English football fans who go to away matches abroad are seen as football hooligans, seem to have their Irish counterparts that come crawling out of the woodwork for this the most holy of holy days.
     For me, there is nothing worse than a donkey attituded drunken Irish person wrecking heads left, right and centre. When it's someone of a different nationality, you smile indulgently and shake your head and feel happy that at least s/he is from a different country and won't shame your nation. But when you see what kind of annoyance they are being and when you hear the accent, the Leinster nasal twang, the Munster overpronunciation of R, or the West's insistence of adding a H sound to anything containing the letter S, you cringe, hiding behind your drink or lowering the tone of your voice so people don't associate you with The Donkey. Well at least I do. See, I don't have any donkey friends, I know plenty of them, but try to avoid them at all costs because my life is just too short. You know The Donkey: the one that has to be louder than everyone else, the one that has to be "funnier" than his friends, the one who has to make lewd and crude remarks about all members of the female race as they scurry by for fear of being trapped with The Donkey, the one who drinks far too much because as we all know, the drunker you are, the more "craic" you are.
     I digress however, bringing The Donkey to your attention is not what I came here for. I came to write about how instead of those types of people being a representation of our lovely country, how about we look back at the past and see what has made us, Us. Irish. Like all countries, we have a history, a bloody history, but still a history to be proud of. We have survived slavery, genocide, famines big and small, emigration in droves, our language and religion taken away, invasions from all corners of Europe and beyond, and for a small country such as Ireland, that is a lot to take. Another nation might have fallen to the outsiders and might have had their spirits broken by the invaders. But that, that right there, is what makes me exceedingly proud to be Irish. Despite the hammerings from other nations to our country and our being, we never lost our culture, we never lost our love of our traditional arts like music and story telling, we still have a respect of the countryside and of nature which harks back to our Pagan ancestors, we still have round towers that protected the communities from invasions, we still have the Hill of Tara stretching back to the High Kings of Ireland time, we still have the undefeated spirit that stood up and did it's very best to keep our country intact, and like it or not, these things have in fact shaped who we are today. We all have a twinkle in our eyes, we all have a lilting accent that makes men and women around the world get slightly flustered by the sound of our voices, we have a wit that is uniquely our own, we have a charm and we have a way of fitting in to situations where others might falter. Despite it all, we still have it. 
     There is still a sense of community at home, and it is something I do miss in London. Most of my friends here are Irish. We haven't actively sought each other out, it honestly has just kind of happened, so in a way, the community spirit we have all brought with us has continued. At home, neighbours, particularly in towns and the countryside, all know each other, and have possibly grown up with each other, they still help each other out, we say hello to people on the street even when we don't know them. Despite the fact that the country was torn apart by greed and the implosion of the Celtic Tiger, we are still a nation that helps others, even when we need the help ourselves. The Trócaire boxes are still full and sent to Africa every year, even in times when people didn't and still don't have much money. When you come into an Irish person's house, you will not leave until at least a tea, a coffee, a ham sandwich, a bun, a shot of whiskey, and another sandwich have been thrust upon you and consumed. There might be nothing in the fridge, but when a visitor comes, people make something out of nothing.
     Dev once said "there is a small nation that stood alone not for one year or two, but for several hundred years against aggression; that endured spoliation's, famines, massacres in endless succession; that was clubbed many times into insensibility, but that each time on returning consciousness took up the fight anew; a small nation that could never be got to accept defeat and has never surrendered her soul" That is how I would like us to be represented around the world. And for every Donkey that goes to a different country and shames Mammy, I think there are ten more who has the words and summing up of our identity that Dev so eloquently said, behind them, and shows the world our true colours. That is what we should be proud of, and what we should celebrate, the warrior spirit that never really went away, the soul of Ireland that is still to be found in the people at home and the diaspora, but maybe just got a little muddied along the way. The recession, though hideous in its affect on Ireland, could well be the thing we needed to bring us back to where we came from and how we should be. We got carried away in the now notorious Good Times and I think we sometimes forgot what we were. Clichéd as it sounds, we might be poor in money, but we are rich beyond our wildest dreams in so many other ways.
     

Just a coffee please

     As soon as the phrase leaves your mouth, you can see the barrista's mental tin opener begin to fire up and soon the can of worms are writhing around on the counter. Have any other four words ever opened a more drawn out conversation like these have? Gone are the days (some lament, others embrace) where this question would be answered with a simple 'Sure, milk and sugar?' and off they pop to make you your coffee. Now its Gestapo style questioning before they will even fully acknowledge your order.

'For here or takeaway' 
'Erm...takeaway please'
'Short, tall or grande?'
'Erm...medium?'
'Tall. Mocha, au lait, espresso, latte, cappuccino, macchiato, flat white, Americano? '
'Normal filter coffee thanks'
'Americano. Would you like to make it bigger for 50p?'
'If I wanted it bigger surely I would have picked big eh?'
'What'?
'No thanks.'
'Would you like something to accompany your coffee today'
'No thanks, it's 8.30 in the morning, I could do with eating breakfast before I start on almond biscotti and a giant pound coin of chocolate thanks'
'Sorry?'
'No thank you'

     Cold hard cash is exchanged and something unintelligible is roared at the person standing flustered beside what looks like a time machine while I am not so politely told to move to the other counter to wait and before I can even say thank you, they are off shining a torture light into some other poor souls eyes. Is this what coffee shops are like up and down the country and at home? Why do we pay people to ask us ridiculous questions and basically treat us like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe, it's akin to paying a dominatrix to come and stomp all over our backs with stilettos. The questions that require silly answers with words we would never use anywhere else such as short flat white extra frothy grande skinny soy frappuccino, the up-selling of confectionery that makes me think I don't know my own mind, it's all beginning to grate on me a wee bit.
     I don't use coffee shops/houses/dens/planets as I find them all just a teeny bit pretentious and I have no time for pretension. If I wanted to be asked a series of questions in a rude and shouty manner, I would go royally piss off someone like my mum, or my boss, except I would have had to have killed someone or have stolen something huge for either of them to react in such a manner towards me.
     The noise! Oh god the NOISE of coffee shops! The person shouting to the barista, the barista doing some Saw IV style nastiness to milk, the piped music, the nervous chatter of the people in the queue, the over analysis of everything of the people who have gotten their fix and are sitting down, does it not get to you? If I were a caffeine addict the way that most frequenters of coffee houses seem to be, this kind of atmosphere would not be conducive to calming my caffeine starved morning addled brain. In fact, it might just make the anger and jitters rise to the surface and have me scream obscenities at all and sundry in the shop, only for it to be drowned out by the sound of the milk torture device. How there are not more massacres and sniper killings in coffee shops, I'll never know. Think schools are a hot bed of repression and angst? Try Starbucks on a Thursday morning.
     I am a tea drinker, nay, a tea addict, and have in fact being given a look of scorn by not only the person behind the counter when I went to order one, but also a tut of disapproval by some guy with a briefcase and a suit and a harassed face. I was not pleased, and normally, would have happily said something to Tutting man with briefcase, but this was early morning, so I'm sure coffee withdrawal was at an all time high with him, and the air was thick with coffee nerves that I didn't dare open my mouth. Glancing back at the line behind me, no one spoke, no one made eye contact, everyone was humming with a nervous energy and an almost shameful look on their faces that I was reminded of the dole queue when I was unemployed. Is this really normal?
     Recently, loveable old Uncle Starbucks have started a campaign whereby they ask your name to write it on the cup, rather than screeching out your order when the beverage is ready. The Pretentious Bells started ringing when I saw this ad, and it kind of made me gag just a little bit. 'Haven't you noticed how everything is a little, impersonal these days' the kindly voiced man on the ad tells me. Yes, yes I have as a matter of fact. It comes from the staff not making eye contact with me when I order. It comes from being made to feel idiotic when I don't want to use silly names for my coffee such as a grande skinny latte. It is in the impersonal feel of most franchised coffee houses that are really just about the dollar dollar bills y'all and nothing to do with wanting to maybe have a quick chat with you, even ask the 'how are you' question, even in a perfunctory manner. If I go into one of these places, I am perfectly OK with them yelling out my order rather than my name, it's the nature of the business and the mark of the beast, it is what it is. Don't try to lure me in on the promise that the staff will care or remember me in a giant coffee shop!
     There is one coffee shop that I do like, and when the mood strikes me, that's where I go. Why? Because even at it's busiest, and it does get extremely busy, the staff are polite and welcoming and willing to have a quick chat, it's because they don't use silly lingo to make you your tea or coffee and ask you to fill out a questionnaire when you want to order, it's from the waitress actually remembering me and giving me that packet of popcorn I loved so much the last time on the house. That's personal, that type of interaction with people and building a fleeting and mostly superficial relationship with the customer I want, and that cannot be faked, even with a slick marketing campaign.
     When will the coffee house mania end?
     How did it even start?
     Is the next step self service coffee houses along the lines of Tesco and Sainsburys? Now if that was the case, I think I might start using them. I will happily buy my tea, pick a seat and watch as the bedlam unfolds I might even buy some of that biscotti they were on about, I like a good munch when I am settling in to watch some chaos ensue. I'm off to make tea, anyone want one?

Custard Cream Biscuits and crisp apple streudels, Doughballs and SnowBalls and curried Pot Noodles

In the spirit of Lent, what with me working in a Catholic church environment, I have decided to jump on the bandwagon for the first time in about oh, eighteen years, and give up something for Lent. My vice? Or to narrow that down, my Lenten Vice? Junk food. Woman vs No Junk Food. Do you reckon HBO would take up the gauntlet of that show? Doubtful, so for now, I shall have to bring you this through the medium of the internet. Unpaid I may add.  Why that fat bastard gets to parade around the US eating fo - Anyway...
     If it were possible, I could happily live on junk food. Crisps, chocolate, jellies, chocolate covered stuff, croissants topped with almonds, savoury snacks whatever you care to list under junk food, I could and most probably have eaten it. A typical day, in fantasy junk food land, would be croissants with butter and blackcurrant jam in the morning, chocolate covered brazil nuts for snack, massive bag of cheese Doritos with dip for lunch, followed by Kinder Bueno (as this is fantasy land, it would be both the Bueno Negro and the Bueno Blanco varieties) with more crisps for afternoon snack and so on and so on, you can see where this is going. Put a big leafy, deliciously dressed salad in front of me, with an order of seabass and yeah, I would look at it and savour the smell and enjoy what I was seeing. Put a bowl of Sweet Chilli and Sour Cream Kettle Chips sans dressing beside my gourmet meal, and I would be flicking stolen glances at the crisps, in the manner of secretly checking out that other guy or girl when you are out and about with your partner. How easy is it to be sitting at your desk with a bag of chocolate nibbles, dipping in every time your left hand leaves the key board? That answer, if you work where I work, is very easy.
     Most offices have the sweetie press, bog standard, totally fine. Our office, has a weekly Sainsbury's shop delivered each week, complete with an amazing house keeper who keeps an eye on what we enjoy most and orders them for us by the bag load. I both love her and hate her in equal measures. On top of an upstairs sweetie press, we have the downstairs table in our meeting room, normally laden with chocolates, and nuts, and crisps and more chocolates. Throw in some lovely patrons of the office who like to bring us cakes and M&S biscuits and more boxes of chocolates, and you can imagine what we are dealing with here. What could be not much of an issue for a larger office, whereby the nibbles brought in can stretch to about thirty employees, is actually quite a major issue for us, as there are only seven of us, house keeper included. Enough for thirty, but consumed by seven.
       And even though it's only just a week into my forty day and forty night odyssey of going cold junk food turkey, it seems I am being harassed by sweets. The office is abound with all butter Shortbread biscuits, mini chocolate chip cookies (mini things are always so much more delicious) profiteroles with chunks of chocolate sauce drizzled generously over the pastry, Bailey's chocolates, snack sized Kit-Kats, a small cupboard full of crisps, it's wall to wall junk.  There seems to be chocolate appearing as if from no where. I go to make my porridge in the morning, opening the cereal press also opens the flood gates to the Narnia of Sweeties, they both cohabit the same building. Opening the fridge to get the milk, there are Ginsters microwaveable slices winking at me and glinting under the light of the fridge. Go to take tea break, turn your back for a moment and when you go to lift the mug to your lips, you will find that a Kit-Kat or a Terry's All Gold chocolate left haphazardly beside you.
     It's not even just in the office, but it is where I spend most of my time. Only this evening, standing in the supermarket looking for tea, I found myself in a familiar aisle, that of the one which contains all of my favourite things. To the left, jostling for space on the shelf were the entire family of Haribo, including Uncle Tangfastic, Granny StarMix and that cousin that you secretly fancy, Golden Bears. Gossiping up top were the Terry family, both milk and dark chocolate options looking down their fancy wrapped noses at the own brand chocolate covered raisins and peanuts. The crisps were there too, all onion rings and ridged Kettle Chips and Sensations and multi pack Doritos practically flinging themselves into my basket. Jelly Bean jellies committing Hari Kari to get a place in my shopping, Pringles...well they can stay there, maybe I should have given up Pringles for Lent. Fearing the worst, and knowing my penchant for all things junk, I knew I had to get out of there before I staged a sit in in the sweetie aisle. But to my horror, swinging away from the crisps giving off that crisp whiff, I turned only to come face to face with the delicious pastries on the opposite shelves. I ran my finger along the prices of each yummy sugared item, imagining what it would be like to sit and eat a donut when I get home. I only came in for tea!
     I will let you in on a secret though. I did break and eat some chocolate over the weekend. I am a homosapienette, and in being one, there will be a week of each month that certain hormonal fluctuations will result in both pain of epic proportions and an all consuming craving for sweets. I needed to have them, and due to what I was going through, I think I deserved it. So about 2am, drinking some tea, I ate the eight squared chocolate bar that was in my fridge. Did I feel guilty? Yes, yes I did. Ashamed almost, but then the endorphins that you get from scratching that annoying itch kicked in and I'm not sorry to say that the guilt left me. Still, a mere blip on the radar, akin to the electricity cutting out and waiting for the back up energy generator to start up. But sure whats a square of chocolate between friends.

No hips? Rear of the bus please.

   


     Are you vampishly curvy, with a nipped in waist, large pendulum hips and a bust line to make the boys blush? Are you athletic, like Gisele, straight up and down with the merest whiff of a waist line? Or are you like most people, average? Neither curvy nor straight up and down, just normal. Bit of a waist here, throw in perhaps a little too large a hip there and a bust line you wish could be perkier but you just don't know how to do it? Well you know what, it's high time we put an end to this nonsense, it doesn't matter if you are fat, thin, curvy, athletic, slim, podgy, whatever you are and whatever shape, make and form you come in, stop caring about it!
     I for one, am sick of every second paper and magazine I pick up telling me that curves are back and how skinny girls can eat s*** because curves have triumphed over skinniness. I have just spotted an article in the Daily Mail (I know, I know, I'm sorry, don't hold it against me) which had a headline blaring "Bad luck Skinny Girls! Marilyn Monroe is crowned best beach body of all time". My mouse cursor hovering over the article, I was about to click on it, when something clicked in my head instead. This exercise of pitting body types against each other for global domination is all a bit KKK hunting down black people for reasons of superiority. OK, maybe not as extreme as people being killed and treated like second class citizens for being a different colour but it's up there folks, with the same hate tag line as racism has. Write an article lambasting someone for their race or colour, and you will and should rightly be pegged as a racist. Write an article about socking it to possibly naturally skinny women and you are credited as an actual journalist. What if I were a journalist, and decided that white skinned women are the best in the world, took a poll backing up my claim and then published an article in a widely read newspaper saying "Bad Luck Black/Hispanic/Latina/Asian girls! Whites are voted best yadda yadda yadda..." I would be strung up by the neck and so say all of us. How can people get away with this? And why do we let them?
     It infers that skinny people are deemed uglier or inferior to so called curvy people. How awful of a sentiment is that? If you had a child, would you teach it this twisted and warped view of the world and how we see people? Comparing this type of judgement to racism may seem harsh, but judging people like that and side-lining people who might not have Marilyn Monroe proportions is just plain wrong and shouldn't be encouraged. But it is, every single day when someone like you or me clicks on a link and reads it, or picks up a magazine and gives Heat their hard earned £1.95 to dissect what someone looks like on the beach. We, as humans, are programmed to judge on appearance, it's genetic and we are all designed to think that way. So true, we may not be able to change nature in that respect, but we can stop the daily barrage of being told that skinny equals bad and curves equals good, skinny to be admonished and curves to be celebrated. How about people equals bad and people equals good? Or, maybe judging on actions rather than say, oh I don't know, waist size?
     Some are fat, some are skinny, some are slim, some are plump, some are obese, some are anorexic, but at the heart of it all, some are always people, and that's how they should be treated, celebrated, maligned whatever you want to do with them. To tell a section of people that they're out of luck and only a certain section is superior because of how they look echoes dark racist times in the Deep South of 50's and 60's America. And while we may have moved on in terms of race, it seems the media world is never going to grow up and move on from trumping one section over another, lauding plus size models one day, and then giving them literary death sentences the next for having a "muffin top". How would you feel if you, as a naturally skinny person, you were told point blank that the way you look is bad luck, and that a particular group over there is prettier, more attractive to the opposite sex and more en vogue that you will ever be because they have curves and you Skinny Minny don't. Think about it. Think about it from the other side, if you were particularly plump say, or in fact just fat, how would you feel to see a headline that said "Bad luck Fatso" etc etc You would, you would feel awful. Why do we tolerate this bullying attitude of what a few people sitting at computers think the ideal and the norm should be? Why do we go one step further and maybe even believe their claims?
     I've always loved the celeb magazines, I freely admit it, but lately, in fact the last year or so, I have cut down, to the point of buying one every few months when I am in the mood for fish food for the brain. From seeing this article's headline, it has prompted me to not want to look at the Daily Mail website ever again. However, I cannot in all good conscious do that, the Femail.co.uk section of the Daily Mail provides me with much mirth making entertainment that it will continue to be part of my day. I won't however, be purchasing a Heat, Now, OK!, Hello! or any women aimed magazine for the rest of the year. I'm not going to entertain or acknowledge an article or publication that seems to hate women and objectify people on their looks and looks alone.I know I cannot radically overhaul the way I think as nature will out, but I'm going to do my best to stop judging people on how they look and first appearances. I wasn't alive in the Good Ol Racist days to take a stand against it, but I am alive and kicking in these sad times, so here's my contribution.


p.s. To read a far superior take on this issues, please follow this link to this amazing lady:

http://dazedandbemusedmusic.blogspot.com/2011/10/amy-winehouse-she-walks-away-sun-goes.html

Let's call her Lorraine

There was once a girl, lets call her Lorraine. Lorraine, was setting off on a voyage to the south of Ireland, to see her then boyfriends sister graduate from college. The graduation was on a Friday afternoon, and Lorraine was all set to head off on the Thursday beforehand, giving her time to land there, hang out with her boyo and his family, get a good nights sleep and then perhaps try to look amazing for the next day. But things never seem to go to plan, and what began as a fairly bog standard trip from Stansted airport to Ireland, went horribly wrong..Let's talk to Lorraine to see how the trip went:

Calamity Jane: Lorraine, describe the events leading up to the flight?
Lorraine: Well, which flight are you on about, there were many over the course of this epic adventure.

CJ: The, initial flight, lets say.
L: In the weeks leading up to the trip, I was very excited. And in fact, was jittery when I booked the flights, as I was eager to get home and see my then boyfriend. I remember booking my flights to come home for it, nervously checking that everything was in properly.

CJ: You say you left early that day to get to the airport on time, can you tell me more about that?
L: You're right, I left my office in Wimbledon at about 4pm that day, heading off to Liverpool street to get my Stansted Express train to the airport, and I left early so I could get there in good time.

CJ: Did you notice anything unusual that day, any air of what was to come...
L: To be honest, nothing really stands out, but I guess I should have figured all was not as it seemed when I boarded the wrong train, even though it said Platform Five for the Stansted Express, and it said Stansted Express in big writing across the carriage.

CJ: Go on...
L: When I looked around, I could see that everyone seemed to be in their work clothes. And when the train pulled into it's first stop, I realised that this wasn't the normal journey. On closer inspection, I saw that no one bar me had a suitcase, strange for a train designed specifically to bring people to the airport.

CJ: A sign of things to come perhaps?
L: Not really, at Tottenham Hale I jumped off, and lucky the next train to come in was the Express, and I snuck into the first class carriage and remained there inhaling silence and Brut aftershave from the stressed businessmen around me. What happens later, was maybe my Karma for sneaking on, who knows.

CJ: In your own time Lorraine, can you tell me what happened next?
L: The train journey was fine, my flight wasn't leaving Stansted until 19.30 that evening, and I made it to the terminal at 18.30, having had checked myself in earlier on in the day. I was giddy, and excited, and also nervous as I'm not an easy flyer. But I had a smile plastered on my face, and music blaring in my earphones, and had a lovely little chat about MeatLoaf to the boarding card inspector when I was queuing up.

*It is as this time I must tell you, that Lorraine goes silent, and looks down at the floor. A single tear rolls down her face as she remembers something obviously traumatic and stressful. 


L: Sorry, it's just every so often it hits me. The man scanned my boarding card, but then his face looked puzzled, almost pained. He...he looked at me and said, god I still remember those words, he said "Sorry Lorraine, but this ticket is booked for next Thursday. There's nothing more I can do" I'm ashamed to say I cried, the tears just sprang up out of nowhere. He told me to go to the Ryanair desk and see if there was anything they could do. But you know how it is, there's nothing that anyone can do in these situations, it's just life, you know? No more flights into Ireland that night, to any destination.

CJ: So what happened next, what did you do?
L: I despaired, I'm human what do you expect? But I phoned my boyfriend, and explained the situation to him. He was angry to say the least, but not with me, just at the situation. Wouldn't you be? I wasn't thinking straight, apparently mumbling about booking another flight and sleeping in the airport. But even though he was hundreds of miles away, he wasn't going to let me sleep on the floor of an airport, so he calmed me down and made me see sense. I booked another flight, this time early in the morning into Kerry airport, and booked myself a hotel room in a travel lodge down the road, on the proviso that there was a shuttle service to and from the hotel to the terminal. Happy days eh?

CJ: Ah yes, good old travel lodge's, they do come in handy don't they. Would you care to talk about your experience there on that night?
L: Yeah of course, it was fine you know? The receptionist was lovely, very welcoming which was nice, and very sympathetic after I had told her what happened. She booked me in for a wake up call and a space on the shuttle bus the following morning, so I went to my room happy. The original flight had cost me about £70. The next flight cost me about £180 and the room at the inn, ha ha, cost me another £100, so it was working out quite expensive. God, I remember I had a savings account before all this started! The room was fine, basic, small, smelt a bit like mildew, but it could have been worse, I was glad of a bed. And as a treat, I went out and foraged for some KFC so happily munched away and went to bed at the criminally early time of 9.30pm to prepare for the following day.

CJ: Mmmm, KFC. Sorry, so early start the next day?
L: Yeah, really early, about 5am start the next day, my flight was due to leave at 6.20am, so I was booked into the shuttle bus for 5.15am, so was happy to have bee woken up by the receptionist, and was following her instructions to find the shuttle bus to a t. Except I couldn't find it.

CJ: How do you mean...
L: I mean, I couldn't find it. It was dark outside, as it was October time, and the car park was full of cars and vans and trucks, it was a truckers paradise there. But I couldn't see the shuttle bus anywhere, and it was only 5.10am, so it couldn't have departed already.

CJ: So there you were, alone and vulnerable with a big bag on your back wandering around a car park on your own at 5am of a cold October morning.
L: In a word, yes. I phoned the hotel to see where the bus was, and she said it had left, how had I missed it? The next one wasn't coming until 5.30am and I feared that would be too late. But the receptionist told me to hang fire, that they would get me there. The minutes ticked past, but it wasn't getting any lighter or brighter outside. I thought to myself, that I couldn't, I wouldn't miss this flight. That I would make it on time. But when 5.30am came and went with no sign of the shuttle bus and me wandering around a car park on my own, I began to feel less hopeful, and most despairing. I called reception again, to see what exactly was happening, only to be told the bus had gone, and that I was to go to another part of the hotel to get the next one. But trying to find that part was like trying to find Bin Laden, I hadn't a clue!

CJ: How do you get out of a situation like this, what did you do?
L: I calmed down, remembering a Bear Grylls episode where he told people to not panic when faced with danger as that cloud's your judgement. So I took a deep breath, and looked around for any indication as to what I could do or where I could go.

CJ: Go on
L: Well, once I relaxed, I could see a sign pointing to the other reception area, at the other side of the hotel, so I went, and miraculously enough, I managed to make it, lumbering bag and all, for the 5.45am shuttle bus.

CJ: But that's not where it ends Lorraine is it?
L: No, no there is another part to this tale, one which I don't like talking about too much. Would you just excuse me for a moment so I can, you know do some deep breathing or whatever? Thanks.

*With that, Lorraine leaves the lounge and goes to the downstairs en-suite. Muffled sighs and cries and slaps to the face can be heard. I cut the tape recorder, and give her time. 


L: Finally getting to the airport, £2 lighter as well, I ran through security, only to be told by one of the men at the scanners that this flight had left. But I refused to believe, I had memorised the flight number, gate, and also the time of departure, so I knew he was wrong. I hadn't ran in a long time, so running to the furthest gate to catch my flight was a shock to the system to say the least, but I knew it would be worth it.

CJ: So you made it then...
L: Oh yes, I made it to the gate. Five minutes after it had closed. I could see the plane, reversing to begin it's taxi down the runway. I had missed the flight. And I had no choice but to do the ultimate walk of shame back through the throngs, tears streaming down my face. All I could do was cry and feel sorry for myself, but I had to hold it together and make the call, the call I really did not want to have to make. But I did it, attempting to make this OK, and to get to Kerry. He told me I was daft to even attempt another journey, but I was determined. I'm stubborn if nothing else, and once I get something into my head, there's not much that can get rid of it. So I sat myself down, tears still coming, at one of the internet desks in the departures hall, and booked myself on yet another flight. This time though, I couldn't process payment, it just wouldn't go through, and I had to phone my bank.

CJ: Was there a reason?
L: Yes, good security measures were in place, whereby my bank thought someone had stolen my card, what with all this hotel booking and flight booking happening. So I had to wait patiently while they unlocked my card and sympathised with me for what had happened. But there is a twist to this flight booking. There were no more flights into Cork, or Kerry from Stansted. So I had to do something I never thought possible...I had to book a flight from Heathrow to Cork at the cost of about £210, and somehow traverse across the city to the other side to get back to Ireland.

CJ: In morning traffic, across London...does this tale end well for our heroine?
L: Oddly yes, the gods of travel were smiling on me that morning, some repairs being carried out on the M25 meant the traffic flow was at an all time low, and that driving through would be a doddle. And it was! We got there for 8am, and my flight wasn't leaving until noon, so I really did have time to regroup and relax. But there's more. Of course there's more.

CJ: Do tell...
L: Well, queuing for security before I could get to the gate for my Aer Lingus flight, I got chatting to the security man. He was an affable chap, he seemed a bit down and out, so we swapped horror stories of why our days were going so terribly wrong! He was being laid off, so my sympathies laid with him. However, seeing my plight, he took pity on me and fast tracked me, carrying my bag himself across to the fast track lane, and beckoning me over. I thought, maybe this is the start of the good things today? Maybe this is where it all goes right!

CJ: I have a feeling it doesn't.
L: Oh how you know me CJ! I've never had the x-ray machines in any airport go off for something in my carry on luggage before, so you imagine my surprise when it started to beep. Nothing to worry about I thought, or else something very wrong to worry about! Still, kindly security guard motioned for me to relax, we'll sort it all out, got one of his fellow officers to come help him find what was making the thing beep. I had to empty out my entire bag, showing my clear plastic bag of 100ml or less items to make sure that wasn't what was setting the machines off. But there was nothing, honestly nothing they could find, and I could see it in Kindly Security Guards eyes that he wasn't sure about me now, or my sob story. But the queue was being backed up, and there was nothing there, so what could he do. Repacking my belongings, I said my goodbyes and was met with stony silence. Grabbing the handle of my bag, I swung it down from the table top, only for it to spew forth the contents of my bag all over the floor as I hadn't zipped it up properly.

CJ: Oh my word, the horror!
L: Tell me about it! Knickers, bras, tampons, toothbrush, whatever you can think of spilled everywhere, as I frantically waded about on the floor of Heathrow Airport furiously repacking my bag. Hoisting it up on the table, I zipped it all up, only to find a bottle of water lodged in a pocket it shouldn't have been. Turning to face the security guards, I beamed at them, and produced the water. They were quite relieved to say the least, as Kindly Security Guard told me that even though they had found nothing, they would have had to watch me all through the airport and until I boarded my flight in case I did something. The flight went off without a hitch, was happy to be on Aer Lingus, and arrived to Cork airport a while later, to be greeted by a jazz band as it was the start of the Cork Jazz Festival. Had to travel another two hours in the car (I was met at the airport by a not so happy chappy boyfriend as you can imagine!) but I got there. I got there. And that, CJ, is the tale of how a girl called ahem, Lorraine left Wimbledon at 4.30pm on a Thursday afternoon, and landed to Tralee Co Kerry, at 5pm the following day.

The names have been changed to protect Lorraine's true identity. She works as a PA, and is in charge of booking people's flights.
If you have been affected by this story, please seek help, as that's a bit strange. Lorraine received no payment for this story. 

If it's good enough for Madonna

Randy Jackson, the most un-black Black man on earth

Reinvent: 1. To make over completely
               2. To bring back into existence or use
               3. To do something again, from the beginning


Can anyone do it or is it just the stamp of celebrities desperate to keep up with the Jones' and in the press?. Do I really want to reinvent myself as in description one, or do I want to opt for description two, bring back the essence of myself from wherever I left it last. I think I'll opt for number two, bring it back rather than overhaul completely. It's not like I am that much of a nightmare that I need to totally dig up the basement, put a loft conversion in the attic, get rid of the old kitchen and put a skylight in the new bathroom extension. No, I need a good clean down, perhaps a sky light in the already there hallway to let some extra light in? And maybe a wardrobe makeover too, and by makeover I mean getting rid of the clothes I no longer fit into, and then not being able to afford to buy any more for another hundred years or so. 
     Most people will have their identity crisis either just as the New Years Comedown sets in, or in Spring Time when people are heralding a new season by cleaning and clearing everything in sight. Not me, no I prefer to do things at the end of Summer. Yes, I realise that next week, it will be November and officially winter, what with the weather happening at the moment,  I am being fooled into thinking it is late August. Look outside the window right now and tell me you are not feeling the same? The end of the summer fidgety feeling is something I read about recently, and it really rang true for me.I take stock of what I have been up to for the previous nine months and start to notice things that need to be fixed, changed or deleted entirely. And I have started already with my diet. Don't worry, I am not going to start banging on about the power of the edamame bean (they're disgusting by the by) or extolling the virtues of the Maple Syrup Diet (really...I mean REALLY???) but just things that have bugged me and things that I shouldn't really eat anymore, I have stopped eating them. Its only been a week, but I feel better and even a wee bit lighter. And dare I say, happier.
     I know this is probably an insult to feminists everywhere and would have Emily Pankhurst spinning in her grave to hear that this is how the female's of the future were viewing themselves, but yes, I have said it, when I am lighter, even marginally lighter and a bit healthier for not stuffing my face with junk, I do feel happier. But that is a story for another day. Looking down at myself, I would like to change everything, and I think I'm going to. I want my hair to be long, so I'm growing it. I want my face to be a little bit brighter but without resorting to chemicals, so I'm not smoking. I want my teeth to be all lovely and white, so I'm using quite expensive toothpaste. I want ab muscles and toned arms, so I'm hitting the gym etcetera etcetera But how far do you go before you start to lose sight of yourself, of your personality? Will I be able to rein in the overhaul to a manageable level and still retain Laura, or will I lose the run of myself, and once I start seeing a change in my physical appearance, will my mental equivalent change too?
     Of course, there are parts of my mentality that I would like, nay love to change. The fact that I say stupid things without thinking and then repent in leisure, the fact that I can be really slow on the uptake, the fact that I feel guilty for the smallest of things, even bad things that happen to other people and that have no link to me, my sensitivity that causes me to cry and stuff that a grown woman shouldn't cry about. There are a myriad of things, but then do I want to be rid of them, as if they do go, then will I still be me? Could this be part of the reason for celebrities to go off the rails at certain points along their career? 
     Think about it, no one is born a celebrity, bar maybe a few children thrust into the limelight while they are still in-utero,  so at one point or another, they had to be "civilians" like me and you (well maybe not me, coz I've always been fabulous dahlink) with body hang ups and fat days and greasy hair and dandruff and sitting on their friends floors crying over the boy who dicked them around and sneaking home drunk so their parents wouldn't catch them and of course, wearing hideous clothes that they thought looked cool. Did they consciously decide to overhaul themselves to make it to the top? Did they refine their personalities to fit in, thereby having an inner melting pot on the simmer all day everyday, only getting to release their true selves once they went home at night? Is this where celebrity eating disorders begin, making major body overhauls and not knowing where to stop. Read any aimed at women magazines each time there will be a weight controversy issue with someone being too small or being too big, and a pull out diet supplement. This would actually be enough to drive anyone to the loony bin, so I could have a point with the eating disorder comment. 
     Going off topic there for a bit, I got caught up in my own musings. What I am really trying to get at, is wanting to change but not change beyond all recognition. I have the most wonderful friends and family (even though we argue like cats and dogs and none of us are alike in anyway except for the dark hair) and for some strange reason they seem to like me and want me around, so I don't want to not be me any more, I just want to be a polished me. Going back to the interior design analogy from earlier, maybe I should just change the outside, make it cool, calm, prettier, more sell-able, but still keep the inside just as it is, a nice, cosy and familiar place where there's room for everyone and everyone is welcome.
     Don't worry, I haven't lost the plot, I'm sure by next week I will be bored and have been distracted by fluffy puppies and a new TV show. 

Ahhh...Lovely fags

John O'Leary said it better than I ever could, lovely, lovely fags. Why oh why is it so hard to stop smoking? I'm a reasonably intelligent person, I understand the dangers of smoking, but for some unknown reason this seems like the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my relatively short life.
     Let's be honest, cigarettes are awful, they really are. I've been a dedicated smoker for, ashamedly, over a decade, despite knowing the health risks and the financial hazard. There are no positives for smoking, there really aren't, and this is me saying this, Fag Ash Lau! Let's see, you smell, you get stained teeth, you pay a fortune to get these things and ironically spend another fortune buying perfumes and aftershave and teeth whitening products trying to counter act the effects. Your clothes reek, your hair reeks, your face looks ashen grey and unhealthy, your lungs don't thank you for smoking, you are inhaling poison straight into your body, your blood supply is being choked on a regular basis, your energy levels drop considerably, you get light headed and headachey, you get cravings for poison, and narky when you don't get to satisfy your addiction. Knowing all those things and more, why am I sitting her fantasising about smoking.
     The horrible thing is, ciggies go with tea, they go with a drink, they go with tea break, lunch times, after dinner, after sex, after bad news, after good news, at the end of your working day, reading, waiting etc and even though I can a logical and rational adult by times, not having a cigarette for the above activities is proving extremely difficult for my brain to reconcile. It's all I can do to not run to the shop across the road and buy my Marlborough Lights and sit out in my garden and smoke one and wait for the crushing guilt to consume me. I did run to the shop a while ago, just for something to do, and bought my self some biscuits and a magazine, neither of which I wanted but both of which I have made good inroads into. Why am I finding this so difficult?
    I know that there are people who have never smoked and are perfectly happy in their everyday lives and do something about their boredom instead of fidgeting and fixating on the nicotine fix. So why can't I? As I sit here and type, my cup of tea is looking accusingly at me, being unimpressed that it doesn't have a cigarette accompanying it, only peanut butter biscuits, it's in a huff with me for not bringing it on a journey from my living room to the garden. As non-smokers (or never smokers) people are quite happy to stay inside on these cold wintry evenings, so why I am driving myself mental to go out into the dark and cold and smoke...
     Having been an ex-smoker for all of nearly two days, I am already feeling the benefits of it, I really am. My hair doesn't smell, I don't look so grey of face, my teeth are less yellow (the inordinate amount of tea I drink helps the staining!) my energy levels are at warp speed, I was able to run at the gym on Monday, something I hadn't done since my, ahem, training for the London Marathon back in 2010, I also was not totally ready to sell my soul for more sleep this morning when I woke up, my skin is softer, the remnants of my tan from my holiday is back, I can cycle up Tooting High Street hill without wanting to just fall off my bike in exhaustion, I am happier. I am, I am, I am pretty feckin' miserable too!
     Seeing people on street corners waiting for buses, clients, or friends as they place the filter between their (chapped) lips is hard to take. Smelling that freshly lit cigarette makes me almost drool at the mouth. Walking behind someone who is smoking on the street turns me into a type of smoking Hannibal Lector following them at close range and sucking the smoke in through my mouth. If you are a smoker, just take a quick glance behind you every so often for fear of being stalked for your precious... I love not smoking, I love not being beholden to nicotine, I love smelling nice and not needing to smoke, I love having energy (some of you yes, I can hear you grumbling about my extra energy) and without smoking I am now like Tigger bouncing around the place. So why do I feel so despondent without them?
     I want to be outside inhaling the poison, feeling the smoke swirl in my mouth and down my neck, hitting my lungs and then coming back out after a deep inhale. I want to be outside smoking. I want to be outside with my tea reeking of fags. But then I don't, I really don't. I will feel bad for smoking, I will think that I've messed it all up and might as well go back to the shop and stock up. I want to taste the disgusting smoke flavour in my mouth, but on the other hand I want to retain my fresh mint breath! I want to be outside in the smoking area coz we all know on nights out, that's where all the fun is. But then I want to not have second hand cigarette smoke on me when we troop back into pub. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh it's tough. But why! Why is it so tough to choose between killing myself consciously inhalation after inhalation, and healthy clean and lovely smelling things? Why is my seldom used logical side arguing with my often used fanatical side over this? Why is it so hard to say no? Why do I try to make myself feel better by taking a look at a celebrity who is a known smoker and go look at her, she looks fine and she's on forty a day, not a wrinkle at her, when there are walking living advertisements for the dangers of smoking all around me. I don't want to be an addict any longer, and that's what I am, a smoking addict. I think about them all the time, I am actually driving myself simple with lust and longing for a smoke. Why can I not say no to foul smelling, evil, poisonous, expensive cigarettes! There are no pros for smoking, only cons. And there are no cons for not smoking, only pros. So why is this proving the toughest challenge I have ever faced?
     All I can do is try. And God loves a trier doesn't he?


p.s. Soon after this piece was finished,our hero Laura caved and went across the the road to the shop and bought some cigarettes. Last seen in her garden in Tooting with an oncoming smoking headache and a sheepish guilty look on her already guilty looking face.
     

Article recently published in Focus On Hocus

As fans of magic, I think most of us dream of being able to afford that trip to see David Copperfield preform in Las Vegas, or see Criss Angel’s worldwide tour as he brings his stunt filled show from city to city. The reality isn’t quite the same, with the price of tickets soaring and airplane costs ever increasing, it ensures that most people will never get to see some amazing magical events in real life. But with the advent of technological wonders like Sky+ and HDTV, these experiences can now be enjoyed in the comfort of your own home. Which let’s face it, can sometimes be better than being out and about.

My current magician de jour is Dynamo, he of the Magician Impossible series currently being show on digital TV. In his everyday life, he is a humble guy called Steven from Bradford, unassuming, polite, and very shy. But put a deck of cards in his hand, and he turns into Dynamo. If it were not for TV or word of internet mouth, I for one would never have heard of him. And how happy I am to have been able to see him broadcast into my sitting room on a weekly basis! Technology may be pushing us further apart as a global community, but it is bringing into our homes these masters of sleight of hand. The tricks Dynamo has been able to show us on his program, from show stopping walking on the Thames, to simple things like putting a mobile phone into a glass bottle, have been phenomenal. If it were not for TV bosses taking a chance on an extraordinary young man like this, millions of viewers, not just in the UK but worldwide would be missing out.

There has been a renewed interest in recent years for magicians appearing on TV, with shows such as MindFreak, Penn and Teller’s Fool Us, and even Derren Brown’s many events being showcased. Penn and Teller have even been broadcast this year on prime time Saturday night television, the perfect timeslot for bringing magic shows back to the masses. This show in particular, gave amateur magicians a platform to show their talents and try and fool the big men in magic, with the main prize being a show running in the home of tack and magic, Las Vegas. What an opportunity for budding enthusiasts, not only getting to go on national television and do their thing, but also attempting to fool two of the most recognisable faces in the magic entertainment industry. I hate to say it, but my first experience of Penn was on “Friends” when he was a door to door encyclopaedia salesman attempting to scrounge Joey’s last fifty. Sad and all as that was, it was the medium of television that brought him to my attention.

Television may be the root of a lot of problems, ones which I won’t go into now, but without it, us in the mainstream may never have heard of Dynamo. Criss Angel and his entourage family wouldn’t have had much of career, and Derren Brown wouldn’t be dandying across our screens on a Friday night. The added bonus of things like Sky+ and YouTube, enables people like me who are utterly astounded by the tricks being shown to rewind over and over and over again, and figure out how exactly they manage to do what they do. These programs, inviting the big name stars of magic to come and share our evenings with us, will hopefully continue to bring joy and wonderment with them for years to come. When hard times fall, there is a yearning for nostalgia and light entertainment. And they are just some of the things these shows provide. They hark back to the TV magicians of old who were about personality and performing as well as magic, and to tricks of the mind and feats so jaw dropping, that they evoke almost a childlike amazement from grown adults.And all for the price of a channel subscription and a TV license. Now that’s magic.

So you have your ticket that you've blown your monthly rent on. You have your tent that smells like a combination of deodorant, old alcohol and grass. You have your outfits. Your essentials include wellies, dry shampoo, crate of beer/cider, chairs, crisps, toothbrush etc and you are eeeeeeeeking with the excitement of it all. But when you stop and actually think about it, I mean really think about it, are festivals really all they are cracked up to be?
     Sorry for making you even question the national debt of a developing world country you spent on your precious three-day festival ticket, but I want you to open your mind to this one. How many other occasions in life would you willingly spend that amount of money to sit in a glorified field in the rain with 80,000 people with mud and queues and overpriced food listening to some questionable music? Lets face it, like most things in life,you have very high expectations of festivals. For the weeks leading up to the festival weekend, the papers, the websites, the news feeds, the Tweets are going spare with updates and changes and stages etc You cross off, mentally or physically, the artists that you want to see, going over in your head how you can see one band, but squeeze in that poetry reading that's happening half an hour before the band end. But this almost never happens, if you, like me and most other people, are into a variety of different things that are happening that weekend, your artists and interests will be spread far and wide. Too far and too wide for you to actually get in on the proper action. For when the first band you want to see are really getting their set going and getting everyone into it, that two man play you read the review about is happening in the forest part behind the portaloo's, and your favourite baked potato place is only open for another hour. The quandary! With that in mind, you've learned your lesson for the following day. Pick and choose a few that are evenly spaced out so that you can get up and properly attired for the day ahead. Packing your bag with your cans or bottles, you head off to the first choice. Only for them to be on at 2pm in the day. Which in fairness, feels a bit wrong to be dancing like you are having a fit in broad daylight. And lets face it, the sound isn't really that amazing. In fact, who the Hell put Sigur Ros on an outdoor festivals's line up anyway? They don't normally sound like this. But then when you are listening to them, its usually at home, in your own cocoon room with the dim light of a candle glowing. Not exactly going to light a fire in the bellies of those standing around in a hilly field on a Saturday afternoon. You had arranged to meet friends after this actually hadn't you?
    Oh good luck with that. Unless you had this planned with military precision, there's not a hope in Hell you will actually find them when you go looking. Your mobile phone won't work, and if there is a spark of reception going round, theirs probably won't have any. And your battery is just about to die. And its going to take you half an hour to get to them, which by that time they'll have given up on you and have moseyed on down to the dance arena.
     By that late afternoon, you are beginning to lag a bit, and want to eat something, just something simple like a rasher sandwich, or some toast or something. Can you find it? Nope. I can find you fresh guava juice pressed by the soles of virgin monkeys high up in the Tibetan Alps, but no actual white bread. Bad for the soul maaaaaaaaaaaan, why do you insist on eating bread full of bleach that kills children in developing countries! Because damnit it tastes nice, and after the Friday I had of wrecking myself down at the BodyTonic arena, I deserve a white bread sandwich. But you won't find it. You can find thai green curry in a recyclable box with ethically sourced chop sticks, but not a battered sausage. Who goes to a festival to eat properly? Who goes to eat at all! But still, you queue, and you pay over the odds for a, ahem, meal and head back into the mêlée. Thinking its time you had a snooze, you decide to venture back to the camp-site, making your ways past the circle of tools hammering on bongos since Thursday night. Why oh why is there always a circle of tools hammering on bongos at every festival. If you are a bongo player, would you cart yours down to a festival site? Really? Anyway, to Tent City!
     Drawing nearer to where your worldly possessions are left basically wrapped in a piece of fabric for almost 100,000 people to quite easily go and steal right under your nose, you get this whiff. Just a tainted smell of something in the wind...its musty, like old boots. And its earthy, like soil in your hands. And the merest hint of eau d'urine. Then it clicks. That's camp site. That's where you live until Monday. Whatever sun you woke up to that morning when you were nursing your twenty-four hour Friday binge is now baking the mud surrounding the tents, giving it that lovely country smell, in otherwise, of shite. Gingerly (or not, depends on your stamina, time of day, and alcohol intake) you step through the tents, inevitably falling over and onto one. Muffled curses come from the crypts and you dole out the apologies. Cans, bottles, cigarette butts, skins, fold up chairs, lonely wellies, crushed tents and bodies block your way. But finally, you see your temporary home and make a beeline for it. 'cept it's not actually your tent. It looks very much like it, but it was the only one on sale at Argos for under twenty quid so it's possible that someone else in the country bought the same one. Swinging your head side to side, you spot at least five more similar ones. You also spot at least five more people in the same meerkat stance looking around vaguely for a tent that they thought they recognised. Once you actually locate your tent, you realise that you are not going to get any sleep, as a) someone has already beaten you to it and is currently KO'd in your place b) someone has weed all over it and you cannot go near it c) someone has stolen it. Delightful. I once saw a tent in the car park of the Electric Picnic making a break for freedom at 8.30am on the Monday morning in a tumbleweed motion down the field. Was anyone bothered or running after it? Nah, twas Monday, saved them packing it away.
     Getting up from your peaceless slumber, you're ready to throw yourself back into the party, having properly arranged to meet your friends somewhere. But when you wake up, that nasty rain shower may have passed, but you were on a different planet when throwing yourself into your tent, that you left your shoes outside. They are now damp, squelching and a bit miserable to have to stand about it. By this time you're feeling just a little bit shit, the booze has worn off, your joy at being at a festival has dipped below the enjoyment line, your feet are cold, your tights have snagged, your hair is limp and you have ran out of cigarettes. What is a person to do! Pay a tenner for a souvenir metal box of ten ciggies? No, go and scab them off random other people, unless you have had the foresight to stock up and buy up all the Marlborough lights in your local shop. And as a smoker, you feel bad for scabbing. No one likes a scab, especially at a festival when the delights are hard to come by and are protected by people more fiercely than the treasures of the Sierra Madre.
     With the days entertainment officially over, people go en masse back to the campsite, where the after party's are in full swing. How people have the energy to keep the tunes blaring til six am is beyond me, but they do.More technical equipment than the main stage is somehow plugged into a randomers camper van and whether or not you want to, you are invited to the after party of the weekend, the soothing sounds of pounding techno blasting across the site, what fun!
     But you somehow get to sleep, in the midst of Jonny Took Too Many Pills yapping away to himself and the trees and the neighbouring tent holding some bongo playing competition and the person across from you getting to grips with a blow up doll, you drift off. Only to be woken at an ungodly hour to face the final hurdle. Emerging from your tent, you don't know what time it is, your phone died along with the other festival goers, no one really knows if they should start drinking now, or leave it til they feel its a respectable hour. Blinking in the morning sun, your eyes adjust themselves and you see things clearly in the campsite. For me, the third and final morning of a festival is what I imagine End of Days will be like. The great unwashed are roaming around with a hunger in their eyes and a fag in their hand, bodies are strewn in the pathways between the tents, tribal beats are emanating from somewhere in the far yonder, a tent is ablaze on the horizon, helicopters fly over head to take the hoi polloi away from this godforsaken place, faces streaked with dirt, people with butts hanging off their cheeks from where they fell asleep in the gazebo, a universal moan is coming from all around as people wake up in various states of come downs and hangovers, and the place reeks. But you rally around, you decide that your new best friend is the guy roaming around with the giant tea urn who might as well be riding around on a white horse saving people from the depths of despair by offering caffeine into their hands for an actual reasonable price. Today will be different, today will be a pure day, you might even get a massage, or a juice, or you might just tear the arse out of it and start as you mean to go on, by drinking that bottle of Buckfast you have managed to sneak in. To Hell with it, Buckfast Avenue is where it's at. You know how the day pans out, so I won't bore you with the details. Come midnight that night, the weekend draws to a close. You lament over your last can of the acts you didn't get to see, of the friends you arranged to meet but never got around to, the food you wanted to eat versus the food you actually ate, the money you spent on nothing, and long drive home, as no one really lives beside a festival site. Times like these, I am glad I don't drive, leaving the hard work to someone else, mu ha ha ha!
     In hindsight, best effing weekend EVER! I for one will be there next year, yeah I'll give you a shout, I'll be the one in the Trilby hat with the bottle of Buckfast and the green wellies, meet you in the woods yeah?