Author: Chiromancer

Thinks she should give up self improvement in pursuit of vices.

H is for…Hero

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In my world, every now and then, the wheels come off the truck.  Never mind changing the tyres…it usually involves the sort of experiences that make you want to hibernate under the duvet until the world ends and we all end up as flesh eating Zombies. Given last week’s events, becoming one of the undead is looking like a favourable option.  But I digress…

I wanted to dedicate this blog to heroes.  It came to me as I was running down the fairway along the beach.  Running is usually a good source of inspiration for the blog, so I was surprised that heroes popped into my head…Well, it may have had something to do with the tall ship moored in Sandwich Bay…You know, swashbuckling pirates and fantasies of Johnny Depp!  But I digress…

As the running gave way to wheezing, I started wondering what had happened to all of the heroes. Where are they? Those square-jawed, muscle-bound men who rescue damsels in distress and still manage to make it back to the office!   Men who combine witty repartee with rippling physique. And yes, for those of you who know me well…they must have their own hair and teeth!  Though at this point in the run…anyone with a stretcher and a champagne drip would have sufficed!

Perhaps I have been asleep in my own tower for far too long… it’s quiet, but I keep finding legumes under the mattress. Still, I digress… When I look around and wimpy, weedy, iffy men have suddenly assumed primacy…well, in the UK anyway – that is the only explanation for Simon Amstell and that twit boy in plaid who presents T4… So, I’ve decided it’s time to do a Bonnie Tyler.  It’s a hero with hearts and flowers or nothing for this particular princess.

G is for…Gratitude

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This blog has been a long time in the making. 5 and a bit years to to be exact.  I’ve often wondered whether I should write about this experience, but I have a number of friends who are going through the same thing, so it’s about time this particular confession saw the light.

July 7th, 2005. Exactly a year after I’d moved into the house from hell. A sunny day.  It was also the day I had a panic attack and couldn’t get on the train to work. If you know me, you know this is not my normal mode of being. Fearless – Yes. Frightened – Often, but I hide it well. Cowed – Never, especially not in 6 inch heels and a suit! But if you had seen me sitting on the station bench that day, hyper-ventilating, shaking and trying not to cry or step in front of the train (crying and spoiling my make-up would be worse, you understand), anyone would be forgiven for thinking I’d finally given in.

July 7th, 2005.  Exactly two years since someone I loved, left. A sunny day. The day of the London bombings.  When I finally made it into the City and into a walk-in clinic, I sat waiting for a doctor and watched the carnage unfold on the flat-screen in the waiting room. All I could think about…while the helicopters circled Cannon Street and the discordant siren call of police cars and ambulances pierced the usual hum of a big city, was that my problems were minor compared to those people who lost loved ones or now bear permanent scars from the random acts of deranged fundamentalists.
 
My doctor diagnosed depression and prescribed medication.  I diagnosed an immense gratitude for the fact that I was still alive. A feeling that grew as I walked through the silent streets in the evening aftermath of the day’s events.  And my prescription – which I still follow today, even though the pills got flushed down the loo after 6 months – was to find three things to be grateful for at the beginning and end of each day.  Instead of lying in bed wondering if I actually wanted to carry on, I’d be glad about the birdsong, the way the sunlight twinkled on my wall, and the fact that my cat loved me more than anyone else in the world – despite my flaws as a human.  Nothing stays the same, even bad things… I’m really lucky and I have so much to be grateful about…I live by the coast, have a brand new nephew, and people who I love deeply.  Life is short.  Embrace the good things.

Depression affects 1 in 10 people, and one in 50 people will suffer severe depression. It affects not only those with depression, but also their families and friends. Help is available here:  http://www.samaritans.org/

F is for…Friendship

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L.P. Hartley said “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” This week I packed  passport, memories, a few dollar bills. With my heart in my hand, I headed to the Midwest for a school reunion. My own pilgrimage to the past. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.

Driving down roads flanked by seas of sweet corn, sitting in evening shade illuminated by fireflies, warmed by laughter and red wine (though not necessarily in that order), I had time to consider the friendships forged during the year I spent as an exchange student in Indiana. 

The boys who teased me mercilessly, the girls who shared the pain of unrequited love over ice-cream at Ivanhoe’s. Pizza and Proms, Baseball and Bruins, Keg parties…kisses, Cheerleaders and Candy Canes.  It really was the best of times.  But time passes. Twenty five years later I wondered if the friendships made would still be as strong?

They were. I’ve realised that like a good wine, good friendships improve with age.  Recollection mellows. Shared experience warms the heart and makes cheeks glow.  My past may be a foreign country, but my friends are the reason I will visit again.

Private view…

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Tonight I was invited to a private view by a former client. A small and bespoke exhibition of ceramics and glass in the chichi part of Marylebone. Beautiful. Exclusive. Champagne and Canapes. Two of my most favourite pastimes.  As is customary for a girl about town, I walked into a room full of strangers. At least I had heels and matching underwear! I’m the shy and retiring type (yes, really!!) but I can usually do the business networking thing, so the evening was a cinch. Conversation flowed. Business cards were exchanged and… mine (being unusual) garnered particular comment.  All good.

Back on the highspeed home, I couldn’t help wondering about our own ‘private views’.  Those glimpses of ourselves that we allow other people. The thoughts we have in a solitary moment. The inexplicable joy we feel when no one is looking. The raw honesty that lives beneath our image in the morning mirror.  Since we aren’t Tracey Emin or Jeff Koontz these pictures of our psyche remain under the surface of our skin. In reality, most of us are not creating a persona to win the Turner prize.

These views are fleeting and rarely shared – only revealed to those we trust or love. Not the whole of us, but like an iceberg…a significant part of who we are. Sometimes nothing is stranger than being oneself. Perhaps if we invited others in, we would be surprised to find that what we conceal is most treasured.

D is for…Damned Lies.. (and Statistics)…

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OK, picture the scene…young nubile TV couple engaging in pillow play.  Yes readers, I mean pillow play. This is before the 9 pm watershed in the UK!  Suddenly, the voice-over says: ’77 per cent of women feel sexier when their underarms look good!’  Cue really loud guffaw from me.  Oh my god, how on earth did I even manage to exist before that statistic came into being!!!

Well, I don’t know about you, but that is total rubbish.  Every woman knows that it’s not deodorant or happy underarms that make you feel sexy… it’s far more likely to be the feral smell of a man’s armpits and the way they envelop you.  And frankly, when you have got to that stage in the pillow play…take it from me…if he can find the G-spot, I think you are grateful if he also knows where your underarms might be!

In these recessionary times, I’m still amazed at how much guff advertising there is on TV. Misleading pseudo-science masquerading as fact.  UK women all know who Nadine Baggot (aka Beauty Editor) is! Ha bloody ha! And by the way, the sample size of the previous statistic was around 2,000 – less than 0.00064 per cent of the 31 million women in the UK.  Not exactly significant from a statistical perspective!

Like most girls, I find fashion and beauty fun – Yes…Grazia magazine is one of my guilty pleasures along with the Economist and  90% Lindt Dark Chocolate Bars!  Still, I find it really offensive that the advertising industry, which is still mostly run by middle aged men, think that female consumers are gullible twits that will purchase any old crap as long as there are ‘statistics’ to back it up…

So here are a few of my own…based on personal empirical observations, of course! 

  • Chances of winning the UK lottery…Low. Approximately 54 -1 that you will win a prize, albeit not the millions.  For that you need a 1 in 13,983,816 chance.  That and the Gods smiling on you, instead of the usual smiting!
  • Realistic possibility that the £150 wrinkle cream you’ve bought will make you look younger without the need for botox or dermal fillers…Low – Medium. Depends on the Botox!
  • Statistical probability that the day you don’t shave your legs is the day you pull…Medium – High!  Seriously, this happens a lot.  Which is why I probably remain single because the shame of slightly unshaven legs prevents the lips locking in the first instance…
  •  Likelihood that the a$$hole in the white van, who is driving across both lanes of the M20 while gesticulating and speaking on his mobile phone is a) white b) middle aged and c) votes for the BNP…High! Chances he will get to see how many fingers I am holding up as I whizz by at 90 mph…Very high!

Ogilvy, the advertising genius who quipped – ‘the consumer is not a moron, she is your wife’ is often quoted.  But many of today’s admen leave out the rider which is…‘You insult her intelligence if you assume that a mere slogan and a few vapid adjectives will persuade her to buy anything’.  I wonder what he would make of the 100 per cent of women who find the ad from the agency which bears his name just as insulting.

C is for…Childhood

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Well, I’m going to use a c-word… I was thinking of  writing about ‘cod’, ‘Caracas’ and ‘comedy’ – all aspects of my life I’d like to blog about, but tonight a programme on TV really had me thinking hard about what it means to be a child. So yes, this blog has been a challenge because it’s raised some issues for me!

I am child-free by choice, but that doesn’t mean I am not grateful for my childhood.  In the grand scheme of things, I probably had a fairly ‘normal’ upbringing – loving parents and siblings, good relationships with friends and extended family. Pets…there were a few. We had cats, guppies and a rabbit called ‘Pookie’…And of course, the benefit of a good education and a safe environment in which to live. Sadly, that is not the case for many children across the world who face poverty, neglect and abuse.

Poverty. According to UNICEF, 24,000 children die each day due to poverty. And they die quietly in some of the poorest villages on earth, far removed from the scrutiny and the conscience of the world. Being meek and weak in life makes these dying multitudes even more invisible in death.

Neglect.  It’s estimated that the number of children in the world  is roughly 2.2 billion. Of that number, almost 50 per cent (1 billlion) are living below the breadline. Worldwide, 2.2  million children die each year because they are not immunised, and 15 million children are orphaned due to HIV/Aids.  This is equivalent to the total number of children in countries such as the UK.

Abuse. Despite the fact that we live in a so-called civilised society (another c-word) children are still sexually exploited and damaged by the adults who bear a responsibility for nurturing them. Every year, 1.2 million children are trafficked into the sex trade. This cannot be right.  Like animals and elderly people, children very often do not have the resources or faculties to defend themselves. It cannot be right for children who are raped to think they are to blame. It cannot be right for children to be raped.

Every child and young person has rights, no matter who they are or where they live. As adults, it’s our responsibility to ensure that these rights are protected – whether we have children or not.

B is for Bedpost…

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I am the eldest sibling and therefore supposedly the ‘sensible’ one.  Yeah, and whoever made up that myth was clearly an only child!   When my middle sister went to university, I wrote her a long letter explaining that she would encounter several types of men – most of which came with a health warning.  I know…there are exceptions and she married one, but he didn’t go to uni, so bang goes that theory!

It wasn’t so much that I was trying to warn her off, more that with prior knowledge she would be better equipped to identify and neutralise nefarious types. A sensible approach. Now, I know loads of really lovely men – stand up guys, fantastic friends, great fathers, husbands and generally good boyfriend material.  But like I said, there are exceptions… After comparing notes with a group of girlfriends, I realise that even when you are a grown up, you may still need the sensible girl’s guide to a$$holes, so here it is, just in case…

Scenario #1. If… after a first date, they do not call, it is not because they are 17th century time-travellers who do not understand 21st century technology.  And no, they have not been in an accident and lost all memory of your phone number! They do not call, because they are a$$holes…and you…well, you are another notch on their bedpost.

Scenario #2. If… they say ‘I’d like to be in a relationship, but it’s complicated’…that is your cue to exit the building. Complicated usually means they are a) …married b) ….in rehab or c) …have more high-maintenance baggage than a Louis Vuitton store!  They are to be avoided…

Scenario #3. If…they text you incessantly at odd hours of the night but at no other time…it is not ‘grand passion’ – it is the drunken trawling of their Blackberry (aka the modern version of the little black book) and the arrogant certainty that you will be so desperate to have sex with them (well, you are single after all), that you will find this endearing.  It is not.

Scenario #4. If…they request spanking on the first night you actually do abandon sense and sleep with them, or if they profess a love for duct tape…(?)  fishing…(??) line or pole dancing…(???)  Do you really have to ask? They are deviant psychopaths and you should dial 999 immediately!

A is for Attraction…

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So far, it’s been a weird month…which probably explains why I haven’t blogged for a while. I won’t go into the gory details, but recent events – you know, the sort of things that make you go ‘huh?’ just before you step on the exploding death-square or pick the card that says ‘Do not pass go!’ – have made it a bit tricky to collect my thoughts, let alone commit them to cyberspace in an erudite fashion. Anyway…so far, so blah! Rather than mope, I’ve decided to blog about a subject for each letter of the alphabet, starting with A. Reasons will become obvious, later…

Truth is, I’ve recently found myself with a surfeit of younger men in my life who all share the same first initial. Even stranger, they share the same first name… Yup, this is the parallel world I now live in!  Call me superstitious, but I think the universe is trying to tell me something, and it doesn’t spell C-o-u-g-a-r!  I realise that you might think I got lucky, but these boys seem to be cropping up everywhere – at work, in my uni class, via friends. If I didn’t know better, I would think this was a bad repeat of Matrix out-takes…

Still, It got me thinking whether I have a type – ‘younger’ fits the bill for reasons I won’t elaborate on in a public forum – but it also made me wonder what intangible qualities draw us to people, places and things. What is the essence of attraction? How is it that we know in an instant whether we like someone? And what makes some people obsess about art or trains or stamps? Why can a perfume or a pair of heels make you salivate? And what draws our souls to return to places and spaces that we feel fill our spirit and make us whole?

We are not all attracted to the same things, but I wonder…do each of us have a personal ‘A-list’ – a checklist of factors, characteristics or attributes that make the difference between love and loathing – whether the thing in question is animal, mineral or vegetable?  I guess, the bottom line is that attraction – like any other emotion – is deeply individual, sometimes cerebral, but almost always illogical.  What or who, does it for you…? Answers on a comment, pls…

Apathy…

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Apathy really is the enemy.  And as the UK election looms, I find myself becoming more and more outraged at the number of people who ‘don’t vote’ because they ‘just can’t be bothered’.  For me, this really is unacceptable.  Tonight, a BBC journalist was interviewing voters in the Pennines.  Cue young mother with child. ‘Oh’ she said, ‘I don’t vote…’  Well, I’m sorry missus, but why did you get permission to breed! If that sounds strong, it’s meant to be.  If you choose to be a parent, you owe your children a future. For me, that means you exercise your right to be a citizen – you vote!  Because if you don’t, you will get the politicians you deserve.  And frankly, if you haven’t voted then you have no right to complain when they claim your first born as cannon fodder for another illegal war or declare your left-handed children second class citizens and send them to live in a ghetto. If you think that is far fetched, just read an account of the Holocaust.

In the UK we really are spoilt by democracy (OK, you could debate ‘democracy’ as a term, but for now lets assume it’s the norm here).  Basically you can vote across the spectrum from Green to BNP and all creeds in between, which can’t be too shabby. Still, I think it has lulled us into a false sense of security.  It’s not the same in other countries. Saudi Arabia don’t have elections. In Burma, they held elections in 1990 – the first elections since 1960 – a gap of 30 years in which the military junta had ruled and still do.  The point is, we are privileged to be able to make a mark on a piece of ballot paper and make history by shaping governments. 

I come from a country where the majority of people were denied a vote until very recently, so are wildly excited when there is an election. And why not? Politics influences everything from health policy to pensions. It is deeply important!  I contrast this with the cynical view that many Brits take about politics –  OK, so the expenses scandal has discredited government as a whole – but that makes it even more important to vote for fresh thinking and new blood. If you want change, it’s vital to exercise your democratic right to make that change.

There is a part of me that thinks we should make voting compulsory in the UK, the way it is in Australia. I know, that sounds un-democratic, but there is a rider. If you think all political parties who are standing are just rubbish, I do support the notion that individuals can ‘opt out’ or deem their ballot ‘spoiled’ – but I think they should be compelled to do so. In the UK, it’s not just who forms the next government that is pivotal. Without a decisive victory for either Labour or the Conservatives, we really are in danger of losing our AAA credit rating – a hung parliament (which cannot be ruled out) would be an economic as well as social disaster for Britain. With a massive deficit from bailing out the banks, this is something we really cannot afford.  It’s not too late – if you haven’t yet registered to vote, you can do it online.  JFDI!!

Trigger finger…

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I used to be a real hot-head when I was in my twenties, but somehow I’ve managed to temper my temper and keep that short fuse well hidden as I’ve got older. This is probably also known as ‘becoming English‘ since I’ve lived in Blighty long enough for some of that British reserve to rub off.

Of course, my genes are totally against me – I have an Irish and Italian background so the lovers and the fighters are equally represented when I get very angry. Not to mention the stroppy South African contingent who tell it like it is and not how others like to hear it.  Perhaps this is why I’ve recently morphed into a sailor with Tourettes, replacing adjectives with expletives. Not terribly lady-like I know, but ever so satisfying to say when confronted by the idiocies of modern life…automated call systems, for instance.

Picture the scenario – you have a problem and need to speak to a human being.  You dial the number of the helpdesk that promises ‘extraordinary service’. You get…some disembodied tinny recording saying ‘press one for query X, press two for query Y…’ Then, you get a recorded message that says…’your call is important to us, please hold’.  By now 15 minutes have elapsed while you’ve waited for the cyber-operator to do its best to deter you from actually speaking to a  real person. God forbid!  More time goes by while you listen to Yamaha’s interpretation of rock classics and then you get a message saying…’we’re sorry, we can’t speak to you right now. If you’d like to leave your number, press one for…’

Instead of using my finger to dial a number, I’m beginning to think it would be simpler to use it to put a bullet in the head of the idiot management consultants who think automation is synonomous with customer service. Who hires these turkeys? Yep, stuff like this really brings out the anarchist in me, and I find I become prone to small acts of civil disobedience…

Next time you get one of those voice activated systems that asks you to ‘speak your postcode’  my advice is to just keep saying f$&K and B*£££r – you’ll get put through straight away!